Tyler’s mouth dropped open. ‘Who raped you?’
‘The dishonourable Mr Justice Niven. Mac dealt to him. That’s why he’s gone.’
‘And you’ve said nothing all this time? After all we’ve been through. Christ, Sash, I don’t understand.’ He thumped his fist on the railing of the deck.
‘I know, I know. I should have told you. I didn’t tell Mac before he went away either.’ Her eyes went back to the water. ‘I felt foolish, dirty – you name it. I didn’t know how to “process” that.’ She held fingers up as speech marks.
‘And you let me think we were falling apart? Hell, I’d have supported you. You know that.’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I know you would’ve. I had to work through my anger and I didn’t want yours as well. Call me selfish if you must. Then I told myself I wasn’t as traumatised as other women who are raped.’
‘He drugged you? How?’
‘I knew that had happened because I woke up in the bastard’s bed. He arrived at my table with champagne as Mac was leaving. He’d already slipped something into my drink.’
‘And…did he…hurt you?’
‘I was a bit tender, of course. But no, I wasn’t physically hurt – not even any bruises. I’ve been more bothered by the thought of what that pervert did when I was unconscious.’
Tyler’s tone changed from concern to anger. ‘Doesn’t mean the bastard should get away with it.’
She shook her head, disconsolate. ‘He was a bloody judge. There’s no way he’d have been charged on my uncorroborated complaint. Mac did him like a dinner. I think we should be satisfied with that.’
Tyler walked to the far end of the deck and stood staring at the horizon. The kookaburras had stopped laughing.
****
After checking in to return to Christchurch, they went down the elevator and passed through Brisbane’s airport security to access the ‘passengers only’ waiting areas and shops. Ben said, ‘Hey, can you hang onto this while I nip to the loo?’ He handed her his carry-on bag and Sasha wandered off to find a couple of spare seats. Her attention was caught by two figures hurrying past, heading for a gate.
Both Albertson and Fowler looked directly into her eyes. Then Albertson put a finger to his lips.
####
Acknowledgments
My first thanks go to my wife Ena, for her knowledge of matters medical, her attention to detail for her love and her patience with her status as a ‘temporary author’s widow’. Also many thanks are owed for the assistance and support I have had from Anna Rogers, who kept me focused on producing a quality manuscript and provided valuable editing skills. Paul Thompson, Editor-in-Chief of Fairfax Media, provided ongoing backing and encouragement, notwithstanding being confronted with a first draft that I once thought might have been publishable! My gratitude, also, to John Edilson of Christchurch, who helped with his knowledge of the types of fraud that have occurred in the banking and finance sector; and to Deidre Orchard, barrister and solicitor, for her knowledge of the criminal bar and her experience with the Crown Solicitor’s office in Christchurch; and to the countless number of people who offered encouragement at various stages through this enjoyable project.
Finally, thank you to you, my readers. I hope you’ve enjoyed this story. If so please tell others.
About the author
Mark McGinn was born in Christchurch, New Zealand, where he has lived all his life, now with a family. During a lengthy career working in the court system he had the privilege of witnessing some of New Zealand's finest barristers and jurists in action. Both that experience, and the psychological assessment and observation of people that are central to his business consultancy, have enriched and driven his writing. You can learn more about Mark from his NZ 'Linked in' profile.
https://lnkd.in/hr-9BP
Trust No one
Mark McGinn
Copyright © 2013 Mark McGinn
All rights reserved.
Prologue
When a black clothed figure entered the last resting place of Isabella Harris on a quiet Saturday night in November, the skeleton staff on duty took no notice. To Isabella, her visitor’s face was familiar.
As Isabella had told everyone who would listen, the rest home doctor said she was the fittest and strongest of the Garden View residents. That she had the heart and lungs of an ox. It was something she intended to boast to her son the next time he decided to visit. Despite being in a wheelchair, she’d fought off and defeated senile old predators with wandering hands. Made sure they came off second best. Their falls were hard, some resulting in fractures. ‘Give it back with interest,’ was her motto.
The door made no noise when the black uniformed figure pushed it open. Isabella looked peaceful at first but hopes that she was already asleep were quickly dashed. The old woman rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, the three pillows under her head giving her an early view of her visitor. A fleeting look of recognition, smiles given and reciprocated, then a look of confusion and horror on Isabella’s face.
As expected, she fought to the end. As expected, her efforts at preservation were valiant. But they were no match for the determination and downward force that inexorably took the life from her body.
Chapter 1
Sasha Stace QC watched as Sir Lance Donnelly, with his pale face and curly, dyed black hair, called the meeting of the Radley Rest Home Community Trust to order. It was his first time back in the chair at Garden View after a three-month self-imposed exile. His trembling hands picked up a manila folder from the tired and dusty coffee table in front of him.
Sasha and her five colleagues were in the long rectangular residents’ TV lounge, sitting on furniture that afforded varying states of discomfort. She pulled her chair closer to where Larissa Uren sat, noticing as she did that her friend seemed to have had a hard night out. Her complaint about the adequacy of the boardroom, uttered through a mouth full of mints, was as threadbare as the carpet under their feet. Sasha responded with her trademark closed mouth smile, shooting a look of encouragement and sympathy at the chairman.
In Donnelly’s absence, his deputy James Billington, the trust’s official legal adviser, had been in the chair. Sasha glanced at him, wondering how he felt about relinquishing the job, wondering whether he still harboured a desire for her he’d made plain over twenty years ago.
As Donnelly called for order, Billington finished pouring coffee for himself and Detective Inspector Neville Inskip. Herbert Tinkle, the trust’s diminutive accountant and financial adviser, flicked through sheets of paper, an anxious look on his face.
Churchill, the home’s long-haired tomcat, strutted over the brown, orange and yellow floral carpet toward his fabric-covered chair, now occupied by Tinkle. After carving more tram lines deep into the near invisible varnish, he coughed up a fur ball and, with his tail high and rectum exposed to the intruders, left with maximum disdain.
Donnelly held a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the morning sun that silhouetted Tinkle. Everybody seemed to have missed his first diffident call to order. He tapped his coffee mug with a teaspoon. ‘Bit of hush, please, folks.’
Billington and Inskip grabbed an assortment of Arnotts off a plate, which Billington then held in Sasha’s direction. She shook her head and gave him the smile.
For as long as she’d known him, James Billington, now fifty-three, had been, in his own eyes, the centre of the world. In a distant moment of misjudgement she’d agreed to go out with him, but it was a transient relationship that stopped short of sex. The subsequent years hadn’t been kind to him – thin curly white hair surrounding a bald patch, noticeable weight gain, a rich topography of rivers and valleys around his eyes. Then, as now, there were the malodorous and pungent cheroots.
The years hadn’t been all that kind to Sasha either, but there had been little effect on her physical appearance, about which she was more than careful. Her genes had been kind, making her tall a
nd willowy, and as yet she had little need to enhance her blonde shoulder-length hair from a bottle. But recent emotional challenges had taken their toll.
Tinkle saw Donnelly’s gesture and jumped up, pulling together the brown curtains and ignoring Larissa’s protest of, ‘Must we sit in the dark?’ He’d been invited onto the trust by Neville Inskip after leaving his financial management role with the New South Wales police.
‘Lawyers eh?’ said Donnelly, forcing a grin. ‘Is there anything we won’t object to?’
Sasha and Billington smiled. Larissa, the third lawyer on the trust, glared.
‘Right, let’s crack on. First things first. Family members all OK?’ Donnelly looked at Sasha.
She was about to respond when she noticed that everyone’s gaze had been drawn to a gurney that was being wheeled towards the administration entrance by a grim-faced man and woman dressed in dark clothing.
Billington said, ‘Speaking of family, Lance, looks like my Aunty June has just moved up a peg on the ladder of entry.’
The gurney lurched suddenly. ‘Know what that’s like.’ Inskip caught Sasha’s eye as he spoke. ‘The wobbly wheel. You expect to get one thing, but all of a sudden, the wobbles kick in and you get something else.’
Larissa, aware of the tension between her on again, off again live-in partner and her legal mentor, said, ‘Do you have to be so bloody crass, Neville?’
Sasha glanced away from the bald, pear-shaped head and shadowed jaw. She suspected that Inskip, in his forties and with two marriages in ashes, shaved his head to intimidate. It was a look complemented by piercing blue eyes. He was on the trust board because his father was at Garden View, the youngest of all the residents. Inskip fancied himself as an entrepreneur, unencumbered by the order and discipline of the police.
Donnelly said, ‘Can we show our respects, please?’ It was more a command than a request.
The board members stood in silence until the body was placed in the hearse.
‘Do we know who the deceased is?’ Donnelly asked.
Billington answered. ‘Isabella Harris. Been with us three years. Caregiver found her this morning. Doc reckons she died peacefully in her sleep.’ There was no hint of sympathy or concern in his response.
‘I have to say,’ said Donnelly with gravity, ‘that the winter death rate continuing into summer is something we all need to be concerned about. Particularly when we contrast our trust homes with others.’
‘Let’s be honest, Lance,’ said Inskip. ‘I’m not being nasty, but they all come here to die. We can’t be too surprised when the inevitable happens.’
‘Besides which,’ Tinkle added, ‘the way our funding is structured, it’s somewhat advantageous that there’s a turnover of residents.’
Sasha brought her hand to her head. Larissa looked at her feet.
Donnelly crossed his arms. ‘I’m confident you didn’t intend that to come out like it sounded, Herbert.’
Inskip and Billington grinned as Tinkle raised his heels to the cross bar between the legs of his chair and hugged his knees. ‘I certainly meant no offence, Sir... Lance. I’m just saying…’
‘Where were we?’ Donnelly interrupted. ‘Ah, Sasha. Your mother?’
‘Two years tomorrow since Natalie came here. I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed.’ Sasha picked up her coffee cup. ‘She’s physically well, but the Alzheimer’s has got a lot worse. My biggest challenge is working out how to deal with some of the more interesting stories I hear.’ Her comment drew some mumbled agreement. ‘I’ll check in with Doc Fraser before I leave.’
All eyes then went to Inskip. ‘My father continues to defy medical science. Docs gave the old bastard up for dead two years ago, despite his age.’ The others smiled sympathetically and Inskip gave a wan smile in return. ‘You guys know how it is, one day at a time. No one’s making too many long-term plans.’ Looking at Sasha again, ‘These days, no one can be sure of anything.’
Sasha wanted to say, ‘Still, can’t be easy for you, Neville?’ but she’d never known his father, or her own. John Stace had died of a heart attack aged only thirty-seven, shortly after prosecuting a difficult case.
Donnelly said, ‘Moving on. I take it, Herbert, we’re making improvements in our occupancy. It’d be nice to have the waiting list of some of our competitors.’
Tinkle dived into the papers on his lap, his face suggesting he was miffed by having a question sprung on him. He fished unsuccessfully in his pockets for reading glasses. Inskip let his chin drop and gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.
‘Not to worry, Herbert,’ said Donnelly. ‘Perhaps James can give us his report first.’
Before Billington could get very far, however, Larissa butted in with something she’d heard – physical altercations between caregivers and residents.
Donnelly threw his head back. ‘Not again,’ he said. ‘No wonder we’re only bloody half full.’
‘Keep your hair on, everyone,’ urged Billington, as if still in the chairman’s role. ‘There’s an unsubstantiated allegation that one of the residents was cajoled into the shower last week. She insisted she’d showered but the staff knew it’d been several days. We can’t have old folk lying around stinking the place out, can we?’ He looked at Donnelly. ‘’Cause sure as hell, that won’t help our occupancy.’
‘Pay peanuts and you know what you get,’ Inskip said.
Tinkle spoke up. ‘To be fair, we do pay market rates, Neville.’
‘Not a great market for clearing bodily fluids, messy sheets and nappies from dawn till dusk,’ said Inskip, grinning. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.’
‘That’s enough, Neville,’ said Donnelly. ‘If you can’t make a contribution that’s helpful or relevant, best to say nothing.’ He reached for his coffee. Everyone heard the cup rattling in the saucer and Donnelly flushed.
The report concluded with bad news about the call bell system and the money wasted on repairs. It was too much for Donnelly, who was gripping the sides of his chair. ‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ Red-faced, he almost yelled, ‘What the hell have you people been doing while I’ve been away?’
No one said anything. The air was heavy with gloom.
After long seconds, Billington said, ‘I don’t think anyone in this room is at fault, Lance, old chap. Things aren’t great but there’s nothing here we can’t recover from.’
‘We need to do that pretty bloody quick I’d say,’ said Donnelly, again reaching unsteadily for his drink.
Inskip scraped fingernails over his stubble. ‘I agree. We can’t risk being under supervision when we tender for Fitzgerald Heights. Bloody kiss of death.’ Keeping a wary eye on Sasha, he continued, ‘Let’s face it, Lance. These are all operational issues. We all know old George Coben is drifting into retirement. We need a CEO who’s on top of his game. This place needs a bloody good shake-up, and quite frankly, he’s not up to it.’
‘What are you suggesting, Neville?’ Sasha asked.
‘We put him out to stud, so to speak. You needn’t raise your eyebrows like that, Sasha. It’s done all the time.’ Inskip crossed his arms. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Donnelly, face still red, stood up. ‘I’m going to get him in here.’
As he approached the door, Sasha said, ‘Hang on, Lance. If you confront him over these issues without any prior warning…’
‘He’s the bloody CEO, Sasha. Neville’s got a point. Who’s accountable if he’s not?’
‘I’m not saying he’s not a…’ Sasha stopped as Donnelly stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Larissa, looking at Inskip, said in a hushed tone, ‘I wonder if he’s come back too soon?’
Inskip shrugged. ‘He’s obviously got issues but he’s a grown man.’
‘It’s more than a health scare,’ said Billington, his face anxious. We’re both being sued in a property development that’s gone pear shaped.’ He leant forward and took a chocolate biscuit. ‘Dissat
isfied clients who claim they’ve had poor advice. They’re holding our feet over a fire for what’s proven to be a combination of bad luck, local shire ineptitude and shoddy workmanship.’
Donnelly returned. ‘No one knows where he is. One of the staff thinks he might have gone to see Mrs Harris’s family.’
‘I understand she has a son out west,’ Billington said.
Donnelly grunted. ‘Well, we’ve got to do something. We can’t leave this mess to next month. Do we agree to pursue a termination of George’s employment on terms he and we are happy with? Sasha, it’d be nice to have a woman’s touch in this clean-up. Can you help? No disrespect to you, Larissa, of course.’
Larissa shrugged.
‘I’ll do what I can. It’s just…’ Sasha paused.
‘What?’ Donnelly was clearly still agitated.
‘Well, even if we got him to leave with a golden handshake, a new CEO wouldn’t prevent us being placed under supervision. In fact, terminating George’ contract might increase the risk.’ Sasha paused, noticing nodding heads. ‘I’m thinking it might be less expensive if we buy in some expertise to help George.’ She looked at everyone except Inskip. ‘If the others agree, I could talk to you, Lance, about how we progress this before the next meeting.’
Donnelly recorded the meeting’s agreement and faced Tinkle. ‘The P & L, please, Herbert.’
Tinkle smiled. It was his moment at last.
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