year. Gary may do this kind of thing all the time.’
The first course arrived, followed shortly by a tall wine waiter with a swimmer’s build. She pulled the cork expertly, put it in a silver bowl for inspection, poured half a glass for judgment. I passed the vessel under my nose and nodded. She filled us up. We ate.
‘You wouldn’t swap sex for this risotto,’ Drew said, ‘although it would be a close-run thing.’ He wiped his mouth with a starched napkin. ‘But you don’t think Gary’s popped down the corner for smokes.’
‘No. Too many funny signs.’ I listed them.
Drew took a mouthful, savoured it, studied the ceiling. ‘For a lawyer,’ he said, ‘you’ve acquired some unusual powers of observation.’
‘There’s more.’ I told him about Gary being followed by a man, Gary meeting Jellicoe, Jellicoe’s murder.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you manage to get involved in this kind of shit? What does Gary do for a quid? Apart from borrowing it?’
‘According to his tax return, he’s a security consultant.’
‘His tax return. You’ve seen his tax return?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the flat?’
‘No.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Forget the question.’
‘I’ve had someone look at his clients. Private companies overseas, about a dozen of them. Companies owned by other companies. Registered in one place, owners registered somewhere else—Cook Islands, Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, British Virgin Islands. Andorra.’
I took out the two-page report from Simone Bendsten and passed it over. The waiter took our plates away.
‘Nice names,’ Drew said. ‘Klostermann Gardier, Viscacha Ltd, Scazon, Proconsul No 1. Some kind of tax dodge?’
‘Not by Gary. Declared an income of $345,000, paid tax on about $185,000. The tax people audited him, okayed all his deductions. Mostly business travel expenses, documented by American Express statements.’
‘So?’
‘Gary was a cop for five years. Drummed out, his ex-wife says. On the take. Then it’s a job in security for TransQuik. Cop fallback position, generally not the beginning of a glittering career. Wrong. Last year, he declares three hundred and fifty grand as a global security adviser. And there’s still a TransQuik connection. Worth $55,000.’
Drew read on, came to Simone’s link-up of Aviation SF with Fincham Air and the director of TransQuik.
‘Connection?’ he said. ‘The term tenuous was invented for describing connections like this.’
‘I rang TransQuik. Four people say, sorry, never heard of Gary Connors. Then a man calls from Sydney, says all the company knows about Gary Connors is that he worked for them as a security officer and left of his own volition a long time ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I took a chance. I asked how come an associated company was paying Gary large sums of money. Man said he didn’t know what I was talking about. End of conversation.’
Drew was wearing his watchful courtroom expression.
‘But not for long,’ I said. ‘An hour later, I get a call from a lawyer with Apsley Kerr Woodward in Sydney. She says she is instructed to tell me that TransQuik has no connection with Gary Connors or with Aviation SF.’
Drew raised his eyebrows.
‘I never mentioned Aviation SF. Somebody at TransQuik knows Aviation SF paid Gary.’
‘Ah,’ said Drew. ‘Well, maybe a little thicker than tenuous. But still. You want to walk carefully with TransQuik. Big end of town. All the towns. I take it you saw Linda tangling with Mr Steven Levesque the other night?’
Steven Levesque. The handsome man with the wayward hair and the genuine laugh. I nodded. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
Drew sighed, shook his head. ‘Levesque is TransQuik. Was, anyway. Levesque and the Killer Bees. Carson and Rupert and McColl. You should talk to my mate Tony Rinaldi. Remember Rinaldi? The fat bloke who used to sing?’
‘Yes. Quit the DPP’s office last year.’
‘Well, you don’t miss everything.’
‘Only the
The first course arrived, followed shortly by a tall wine waiter with a swimmer’s build. She pulled the cork expertly, put it in a silver bowl for inspection, poured half a glass for judgment. I passed the vessel under my nose and nodded. She filled us up. We ate.
‘You wouldn’t swap sex for this risotto,’ Drew said, ‘although it would be a close-run thing.’ He wiped his mouth with a starched napkin. ‘But you don’t think Gary’s popped down the corner for smokes.’
‘No. Too many funny signs.’ I listed them.
Drew took a mouthful, savoured it, studied the ceiling. ‘For a lawyer,’ he said, ‘you’ve acquired some unusual powers of observation.’
‘There’s more.’ I told him about Gary being followed by a man, Gary meeting Jellicoe, Jellicoe’s murder.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you manage to get involved in this kind of shit? What does Gary do for a quid? Apart from borrowing it?’
‘According to his tax return, he’s a security consultant.’
‘His tax return. You’ve seen his tax return?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the flat?’
‘No.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Forget the question.’
‘I’ve had someone look at his clients. Private companies overseas, about a dozen of them. Companies owned by other companies. Registered in one place, owners registered somewhere else—Cook Islands, Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, British Virgin Islands. Andorra.’
I took out the two-page report from Simone Bendsten and passed it over. The waiter took our plates away.
‘Nice names,’ Drew said. ‘Klostermann Gardier, Viscacha Ltd, Scazon, Proconsul No 1. Some kind of tax dodge?’
‘Not by Gary. Declared an income of $345,000, paid tax on about $185,000. The tax people audited him, okayed all his deductions. Mostly business travel expenses, documented by American Express statements.’
‘So?’
‘Gary was a cop for five years. Drummed out, his ex-wife says. On the take. Then it’s a job in security for TransQuik. Cop fallback position, generally not the beginning of a glittering career. Wrong. Last year, he declares three hundred and fifty grand as a global security adviser. And there’s still a TransQuik connection. Worth $55,000.’
Drew read on, came to Simone’s link-up of Aviation SF with Fincham Air and the director of TransQuik.
‘Connection?’ he said. ‘The term tenuous was invented for describing connections like this.’
‘I rang TransQuik. Four people say, sorry, never heard of Gary Connors. Then a man calls from Sydney, says all the company knows about Gary Connors is that he worked for them as a security officer and left of his own volition a long time ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I took a chance. I asked how come an associated company was paying Gary large sums of money. Man said he didn’t know what I was talking about. End of conversation.’
Drew was wearing his watchful courtroom expression.
‘But not for long,’ I said. ‘An hour later, I get a call from a lawyer with Apsley Kerr Woodward in Sydney. She says she is instructed to tell me that TransQuik has no connection with Gary Connors or with Aviation SF.’
Drew raised his eyebrows.
‘I never mentioned Aviation SF. Somebody at TransQuik knows Aviation SF paid Gary.’
‘Ah,’ said Drew. ‘Well, maybe a little thicker than tenuous. But still. You want to walk carefully with TransQuik. Big end of town. All the towns. I take it you saw Linda tangling with Mr Steven Levesque the other night?’
Steven Levesque. The handsome man with the wayward hair and the genuine laugh. I nodded. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
Drew sighed, shook his head. ‘Levesque is TransQuik. Was, anyway. Levesque and the Killer Bees. Carson and Rupert and McColl. You should talk to my mate Tony Rinaldi. Remember Rinaldi? The fat bloke who used to sing?’
‘Yes. Quit the DPP’s office last year.’
‘Well, you don’t miss everything.’
‘Only the
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