Chapter 4
Friday November, 18, 1988
Harry de Groot
Perusing La Persouse
Early Friday morning, I drove past another property in the Ruslen portfolio, which operated as a brothel called, ‘Light Fingers’, on my way to meet up with a Professor Sprout, at his poky office in Kingsford. This bloke was the go-to expert, when it came to finding out about tax evasion, fraud and money laundering; he often appeared on the radio, bemoaning our laws and the fact that our systems were too lax, in regard to tracing offshore accounts and complex financial transactions, related to crime and corruption. I was simply hoping that he could give me a few pointers, with this tricky Ruslen case.
After that, I had an appointment with the Taxation Office in the city, and then, I would drop into the Sydney Water Board, which also recorded the purchase prices of many properties, and often had copies of floor plans. An old neighbourhood friend, Kerry, worked there, in the payments sections and she would give me access to a visual display unit.
I had stumbled across using the Water Board as a source of information, by accident one day, as I was visiting Kerry at work and she was processing water bills. Now, I often used this means to gain information about a property, as it is low key, under the radar, and so far, no one from the Water Board had even asked who I was, and what I was doing there.
What I was trying to do, was see if I could follow Rusden’s money trail, to find how much dirty dough he was actually washing through his real estate renovations. I already had a list of some of the tradesmen that he was dealing with, which was helpful, as it was these people that were the main facilitators of his schemes, as they were the ones who transformed the derelict buildings, paid for by dirty money, into capital gains, free of any payment records. But then, there were the lawyers, real estate agents and accountants, who were also involved, but they inevitably were hard nuts’ to crack, and very canny about where they kept any suspicious paper work. I would be keeping away from them for the time being, as I didn’t want to alert Ruslen that he was under investigation.
In reality, it was going to be almost impossible to blow Ruslen’s schemes apart, unless we could get someone to sing, and when everyone was happily making money, that was unlikely. The renovation industry has been operating a huge underground cash based system for a hell of a long time and there is a lot of money to be made by everyone concerned. And, as the professor said, the laws, systems of transparency and our ability to trace financial transactions were simply a long way behind the canny schemes being cooked up by criminals.
‘Lovely to see you!’ Kerry shrieked, as I walked into the huge foyer of the Water Board. I kissed her lightly, on her tanned cheek, and then, we looked at each other for some long seconds, as we tried to see the child that we remembered, in the body of the 32 year old adult. I grinned. ‘You will always be 8 years old to me, Kezza. That’s how I think of you, riding that purple dragster of yours, flat out down our street’. She laughed. ‘I picture you in my mind as being 16, always. God you were fine!’
‘What do you mean by ‘were’,’ I replied with mock outrage. I wasn’t upset, though, I knew what Kezza meant; there was an undeniable beauty in being 16 years old: not yet an adult, and yet, not a child. An age when you think that you will live forever. I didn’t know back then, that, one day, I would grow old…If I was lucky. And I didn’t think to value my youth, which now, seemed so fleeting that I could scarcely remember it, in any great detail. Also, I had little sense of self-reflection in those days.
I turned my scurrying mind back to business and we headed toward the visual display unit and sat down.
I already had a list of properties that Ruslen had flipped; that is, bought in a rundown state, renovated with dirty money and sold at a profit. I wanted to see was if these properties had really inflated sales prices, as this could provide some evidence of money laundering.
As I scanned the information on each property that Ruslen had bought and sold in the last four years, I could see that millions of dollars could have been laundered this way, by Ruslen and his associates. I then got Kerry to bring up the water rate details of Ruslen’s mansion, Palais Royale. As we both stared at the plan of the megalithic piece of architecture, located right on the harbour at Rose Bay, we were stunned by the vast subterranean regions of the house.
I pointed to the plan on the screen ‘Look at the size of that basement entertainment area and kitchen.’ I whistled, causing the heads of some of the Water Board workers to pop up momentarily. ‘And who needs a freezer room of that size? That’s bigger than my bedroom’.
‘Isn’t this guy single? Kerry asked, looking just as stunned as I felt.
‘Yep, he is single, but he always has plenty of girls about him’.
‘Well, I can’t see how he could possibly use all that space. I could use some of that space, though, with two kids and living in a Marrickville semi.’
‘How are those two monkeys’ of yours going?’ I asked, remembering that I had baptised one of Kerry’s kids.
‘Yeah, good, but they are always asking when you are coming to visit’.
I felt guilty suddenly and vowed that I would visit those two boys soon and take them down to McNeilly Park to kick a ball around. Kerry’s husband, Brett, had multiple sclerosis and would probably be in a wheelchair soon, if his illness didn’t go into remission.
I looked back again at the plan of Ruslen’s house. ‘Could you get me a copy of that plan? And, what about if I come over tomorrow night and bring dinner?’
‘There’s no way I’d say no to that offer, and yes, I’ll make you a copy and I’ll enlarge it’, Kerry replied.
She walked off, then quickly turned around, and walked back toward me.
‘Thank you, Harry’, she said softly, her eyes melting, as only brown eyes can.
‘No, thank you, Kezza,’ I replied really meaning it. Kerry had been a good friend for many years: she knew me, all about me, and yet, she still wanted to be my friend.
Getting out of the city, I drove along Oxford Street and out past the Moore Park Show Ground. I was heading to La Perouse, which is located about 14 kilometres southeast of the city centre, where I was to meet a contact who said he ‘might’ offer some information about Peter Ruslen. I wasn’t getting my hopes up, as most of these informers turn out to be con artists, who were trying to lever some advantage, or information, which would only benefit themselves
I brought the car to a halt in the car park, which sat next to the sea, and I stepped out. The wind whipped my hair over my eyes and punched my ears, as if to deafen me, as I crunched my way across the gravel.
I looked about as I trudged along, at the glittering, choppy water, the expanse of blue sky above and an odd feeling seemed to bloom within me: a momentary a sense of freedom. Then the feeling that I had job to do, quickly returned me to my usual self.
This bloke I was to meet in about 10 minutes had called himself, ‘Tyler’. So I headed toward the footbridge, which would take me over to Bare Island.
The odd name, ‘Bare Island’, came from Captain Cook’s description of it, as ‘a small bare island’. In 1877, a fort was built there. But it was decommissioned in 1902, and then, operated as an aged care home at one stage. Now the island is mostly visited by tourists. There are reefs all around the island too, and it is a great place to go diving, and to see all the fantastic sea creatures, but at certain times of the year, watch out for the grey nurse sharks.
I should also mention that the name of the suburb, La Perouse, is in honour of the French navigator of the same name. La Perouse sailed into Botany Bay eight days after Captain Arthur Phillip and the First Fleet of convicts arrived there. He later left for France, with his two ships, but they never arrived home, and were never seen of, again.