The William S Club

  He stared out across the harbour, picking the distinctive tower of the Waterfront Suites out of the crowded skyline.

  Was Damon there? Anita? The remaining members of The William S Club?

  He became more convinced than ever before that his place was there, among his family, not hiding out in this second rate apartment.

  Gulping back the fiery liquor, he grabbed his wallet, walked outside and flagged down a taxi.

  ‘The Waterfront Suites,’ he said, feeling a rush of altruistic benevolence towards his dysfunctional family.

  Mark paused at the door beside hers, his electronic pass hovering over the slot. ‘I’ll meet you in twenty minutes then?’

  Charlotte stared at Mark, seeing him but not really seeing him. She should have been grateful that she had a new neighbour, that her room was not adjoining BJ’s as it had been since Venice but her thoughts could not move beyond the folded newspaper tucked beneath her arm.

  ‘Charlotte? Are you okay?’

  She nodded, not at all sure she was. Her legs were weak and the cement mixer inside her stomach had nothing to do with the Harvey men.

  ‘I’m fine. I just need a minute.’

  She couldn’t get through the door quick enough, slamming it shut behind her, spreading the broadsheet newspaper on the bed, her eyes poring over the text looking for new information.

  SYDNEY – The intensive manhunt continues for Paul Baker, a man wanted in connection with the execution style slaying of 25-year-old Dolan’s Bay woman, Joanne Parker.

  Baker is believed to have lured his victim to an old fashioned diner in Cronulla to find information on his estranged daughter, 25-year-old Victoria Baker, who was a childhood friend of Ms Parker.

  ‘He was asking about Vikki,’ said Mrs Pauline Parker, the victim’s grieving mother. ‘I had no idea he was her father.’

  Baker was released last month after serving 20 years of a 30 year sentence for corporate fraud, grand larceny, embezzlement, blackmail and obstruction of justice against his former employer, Harvey South Pacific Group.

  Victoria Baker became a ward of the State after Baker’s incarceration and the subsequent suicide of Helen Baker.

  Police believe the accused, whom they describe as being ‘armed and extremely dangerous’ is trying to make contact with his estranged daughter and are seeking any information on the whereabouts of either Paul or Victoria Baker.

  Continued on page 8…

  Charlotte flipped ahead, horrified at how much coverage she had received in the article.

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  There were three pictures above the text. Three pictures of her.

  The first picture was a black and white photograph of a child being carried out of a motel room by a uniformed policewoman. The second a photograph of two smiling teenage girls – Joanne and her – blowing the candles out on their joint eighteenth birthday cake.

  The third picture was supposed to be an artist’s impression of what the police believed Victoria Baker would look like today, as an adult – a frighteningly accurate depiction.

  The ghosts had caught up with her. There was only one way to escape.

  She pushed the paper away, her hands shaking as she powered up her laptop, typing in the web address for a last minute travel website.

  But if the newspaper article was a shock, it was nothing compared to the email that popped up on her screen. An email from Miranda. A message from beyond the grave.

  Hey Charl, need your help deciphering these docs on J.Harvey death. Attaching files for you to look through. Some troubling discrep

  Her friend never finished the message. Had she been writing it when Zac came for her?

  Attached to the email were a number of files. Coroner’s reports, police reports, eyewitness accounts.

  Charlotte opened them all, her eyes racing across the official documents as goose bumps erupted along her skin.

  ‘What did you find, Miranda?’

  If the documents were true, Jacqueline Harvey was really murdered. And if Miranda found out about it…

  Was she murdered because of what she found? Why would Zac murder her for trying to figure out the truth? Unless, of course, Zac was acting on someone else’s behalf.

  Charlotte forgot all about her own ghosts. She forwarded the email to Highgrove, asking him to follow up the information Miranda had found.

  She dumped the files onto a USB stick and then deleted them off her computer, slipping out of the room to make her rendezvous with Mark, excited for the first time since she had joined the Harvey’s press trip.

  She finally had a story and if Miranda was right, it was a bloody explosive one.

  The taxi pulled up in front of the Park Hyatt.

  ‘One hundred and five dollars,’ the driver said, sliding open a security window to receive the money.

  ‘What? That’s highway robbery.’

  Damon might not be used to taxis but he did know the trip from the airport should have taken twenty five minutes at most. Not an hour and ten minutes. The driver had taken the most circuitous route known to mankind through Sydney’s most congested traffic hotspots.

  ‘That’s the price,’ the man said, pointing to the meter as if it settled the argument.

  ‘Where’d you take me? Via your cousin’s place in Turkmenistan?’ Damon was being antagonistic – perhaps even a touch racist – but he hated that he’d fallen prey to the oldest taxi scam around.

  ‘I’m new to Australia. It is confusing city. I get lost,’ the man said, his English getting progressively worse as he made his impassioned plea.

  ‘Whatever.’ Damon fished through his wallet for local currency, too tired to argue. Normally he would have left a healthy tip but tonight he handed over the exact change, unwilling to give the thieving bastard another cent more on principle.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ the driver said, his broken English and fake accent miraculously disappearing along with the money, which he tucked inside his navy blue singlet.

  He wound down the window, aiming a long, low wolf-whistle at a blonde woman walking along Hickson Road. ‘Hey, gorgeous. You need a ride?’

  The woman ignored the invitation, infuriating the wannabe lothario. ‘I’ll let you ride my face for free?’

  Is this guy for real?

  Damon was about to pull him up on his unchivalrous behaviour but then the woman spun around, raising her middle finger in salute.

  Charlotte?

  He threw open the door, exiting the taxi in such a hurry, he forgot his bags, taking off at a jog after the women he had travelled half way around the world to rescue.

  But by the time he rounded the corner she was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Seven:

  ‘Get Burke. It’s time to bait our hook.’

  ‘Sure boss.’ Campagni stood up and moved towards the door, his hand disappearing into the front of his sports jacket where Bill knew he kept his pistol.

  But BJ was out of his chair in an instant, planting his hand in the middle of Campagni’s chest. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Stay the fuck away from her.’

  Bill admired his son’s courage, particularly considering Campagni had forty kilos and a good fifteen centimetres on him.

  If Campagni wasn’t such a trained attack dog it would have been interesting but he never did anything without specific orders.

  He looked towards Bill now, waiting for permission to react.

  Instead Bill rounded on his son, the anger of the last few weeks bubbling to the surface. ‘Don’t fuck with me, son. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Let me go, Dad. I’ll talk to her. Get her to understand why we need her help.’

  Bill laughed. ‘You think she’ll listen to you?’

  BJ nodded.

  ‘Have you fucked her yet?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  Bill laughed again. ‘That’s a no then. Didn’t think so.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You’ve got you
r head so far up her ass, I can’t tell where you end and she begins. Face it. She’s not interested. Get over it and stop being a pathetic whiner.’

  ‘We’re taking things slow…’

  ‘Slow? Ha! I’ve seen faster moving turtles. She didn’t take thing slow with your brother. She spread her legs faster than butter on hot toast, moaning like a whore on ecstasy.’ Bill was prodding a sleeping bear with a big stick but it was about time this pussy-whipped version of his son disappeared and the real BJ returned.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ BJ screamed, taking a swing. Bill ducked beneath the careless punch, following it up with an uppercut straight to his son’s jaw.

  ‘You want to fight me? Bring it on, bitch.’

  BJ rubbed his chin, his blue eyes roiling pits of hatred. ‘Why are you being such an ass? You wanted me to get close to her. That’s what I’ve been doing.’

  ‘Close? She’s closer to that pathetic loser she arrived with than to you. He’s probably closer to getting in her pants too. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re in bed now.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to grow a set. Be a man not a fucking mouse. If you want something, take it. Piss, or get off the fucking pot.’

  ‘Fine, I will.’ BJ slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Harsh,’ Campagni said when they were alone again. ‘You think it will work?’

  Bill poured himself another scotch, taking a generous gulp of the peaty liquid. ‘I hope so. Something needs to wake him up or I may as well cut him loose.’

  The double oak doors burst open and his secretary came scurrying in.

  ‘I’m so sorry Mr Harvey. I tried to stop him. I told him you were in a meeting but he insisted on seeing you right away.’

  ‘Hello Dad.’

  Bill wasn’t often surprised but his youngest son was the very last person he had expected. ‘Carl? What the hell are you doing here?’

  Charlotte’s wedge-heeled sandals slapped a staccato beat on the brick path as she ducked and weaved through a mass of human souls, hurrying towards her destination; the jutting sails of Sydney’s most famous landmark.

  It was late. Almost midnight. Why were there so many people about? She’d expected a few stragglers – the late night revellers - but not half of Sydney.

  Then it hit her.

  Not only was January the hottest month on the mercury, it was the hottest month for festivals, regattas and gala events. It was party month, the month to see and be seen, starting in the days leading up to Christmas, with the start of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race and Australia’s biggest New Year’s Eve party, and continuing right through until the celebrations that marked Australia Day.

  Tonight marked the start of the Sydney Festival and the crowds had swollen to almost plague proportions, choking the cafes, bars and restaurants around the iconic Opera House.

  Passing the busy ferry terminals at Circular Quay, she glanced over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t being followed.

  It was just a glimpse; a face in the crowd that stood out like a butcher at a vegetarian dinner.

  But the more she looked over her shoulder, the more convinced she became that her father was following her.

  No. It can’t be. It’s illogical. The odds of seeing him here...

  Charlotte knew what the odds were. About a million to one. Logic didn’t stop her heart doing an impromptu performance of Riverdance inside her chest.

  Adding to her general sense of unease was the knowledge that she stood out like a pimple on a beauty queen. Anyone who read a newspaper knew who she was. She was the girl whose criminal father was wanted for murder. Any minute now she’d hear police sirens as they came for her.

  By the time she saw Mark waving her over to a table at The Guylian Belgium Chocolate Cafe, Charlotte was a paranoid mess.

  ‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  He pulled a chair out for her but Charlotte waved aside his question. She didn’t know him well enough to expose her secrets. ‘Do you mind if we swap?’ Mark’s chair offered a better view of the steps leading up to the cafe and, given her recent scare, she’d rather not have her back to the crowd.

  ‘Sure.’ He handed her a menu. ‘Thought we could grab a coffee while we talk even if it is a bit hard to hear over this noise. Is it always this busy?’

  Charlotte mumbled something about the festival but when she saw the newspaper folded on the table, her heart demanded a cease-work.

  He knows.

  ‘Is that...’ She flipped the paper, an audible sigh escaping her lips as she saw The Times masthead.

  ‘Pathetic isn’t it? I come half way around the world and still wind up reading the same damned newspaper.’

  ‘Better than the shit they sell here.’

  ‘Are you from Sydney?’

  ‘No.’ The lie came too easily off her tongue.

  ‘Where are you from then?’

  ‘Look, no offence but this isn’t a date. We don’t need to swap life stories. Can we just get down to business?’

  ‘Sure.’ He spread a stack of papers across the table. ‘What do you know about William Harvey?’

  ‘Which one? There’s about four of them.’

  ‘Touché. Which one indeed?’

  ‘Okay. The first William Sydney Harvey was born in 1915 – date unspecified. He was twenty six when he bought his first property during the bombing of London. By the end of the war, he had made a number of other ‘miraculous’ investments and was rolling in cash. William had one child – a son. The second William Sydney, born 5 May 1948. The father died in 1974, leaving his son everything. Am I on track so far?’

  ‘Who was the mother?’

  ‘Um... I don’t know. They didn’t mention one.’

  ‘Forget the mother for now. Go on.’

  ‘William Junior had seven children with his wife, Grace. Eldest is William Harvey the third; aka Bill Harvey. Bill married Jacqueline and together they had five children. Their eldest – by about a minute – is the fourth William Sydney and he goes by the moniker, BJ – short for Bill Junior.’

  ‘Impressive memory but I’m afraid, no cigar. I read the press kit too. So the first William. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Dubbed the man that couldn’t be bombed. Has a dozen or more conspiracy stories about him but nothing has ever stuck.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Wikipedia. I know all this. Tell me something I don’t know.’

  His smug tone annoyed her and she started to wonder if she had misjudged him after all.

  Charlotte was tired. Too tired to play games. ‘It’s late. If you have something, tell me. If you don’t, I’m leaving.’ She pushed her chair away from the table, the metal legs squealing on the stone tiles.

  ‘Wait.’ Mark reached out to grab her arm. ‘I was just messing around. I’ll tell you.’ He turned over one of the papers. It was a birth certificate. ‘Did you know there were two William Harvey’s born on 5 May?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They were both born in the same hospital.’

  ‘Oh no. Alert the media. We have a scandal.’

  ‘At the exact same time.’

  Charlotte raised an eyebrow signalling she was interested but not wanting to dive right in.

  ‘Only one William has a birth certificate.’

  Her pulse quickened but only for a split second. After that, her natural scepticism kicked in.

  ‘They could have been poor. Did it cost anything to register a birth back then? Maybe they were illiterate. Maybe that William died at birth and they never bothered registering him. Coincidental, sure but hardly earth shattering.’

  ‘Read this.’ Mark pointed to the line that listed birth parents.

  She read it out loud. ‘Father – Stanley Harvey. Mother – Alice Harvey. Not the famous Harvey then. Where’s his birth certificate?’

  ‘Ding ding ding ding. Finally, the million dollar question.’

  ‘And the answer?’

  ‘Th
ere isn’t one.’

  ‘No answer?’

  ‘No birth certificate. I’ve checked all the records, even allowing for a mistake in date and hospital. Nothing.’

  Another spike in her pulse rate, as if her body was trying to tell her there was something to Mark’s research.

  ‘That is strange.’

  ‘You want to hear about the other William then? The legitimate one?’

  ‘Sure. I can see you’re just dying to tell me.’

  ‘William Sydney Harvey -’

  Charlotte grabbed the paper out of his hands, reading the birth name for herself. ‘He had the same middle name as well?’

  ‘Yep. Still think it’s a coincidence?’

  Charlotte stared at the birth certificate. ‘What do you know about Stanley and Alice Harvey?’

  ‘School teachers. Probably why their son did so well at school. Graduated top of his class. Won a full scholarship to University College in London where he got double degrees. Want to know what field he studied?’

  ‘Let me guess - property management?’

  ‘Doubting Thomas. Not, he earned degrees in both astro and quantum physics. Did so well he was the 1972 Rhodes Scholar. Went on to do his doctorate at Oxford.’

  ‘Ah, now I see the connection. One was a brilliant scientist, the other a mega wealthy spoiled little rich boy.’

  ‘Mock all you like but let me finish before we make the connection. Dr Harvey made the news himself a few times. Made one of the biggest leaps between the time space continuum in recorded history but was then shunned by the scientific community and forbidden from practising science. Something to do with ethics.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Disappeared in 1974.’

  ‘How do you know all this from one birth certificate?’

  ‘A friend of mine is mad about genealogy. I had her look into things for me.’

  ‘Did they ever find a body?’

  ‘Nope. Alice died a few years back, but Stanley is still living in the same village.’

  ‘And the original William Harvey, the patriarch? Did you trace his parents, his bloodline? He has to have family somewhere.’