Hard Landing

By Peter Menadue

Second book in the Gary Maddox Series:
Sydney private investigator Gary Maddox is asked to find a missing accountant. He doesn't expect any trouble. After all, the guy is just an bean counter. But he's dead wrong. Powerful men have dispatched a posse of thugs to kill the ledger looker. Gary is soon counting bodies and trying not to become a ugly statistic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Menadue
• Release date: Apr 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370010233

Peter Menadue

Peter Menadue grew up in Canberra, Australia. After a foray into journalism, during which he shared an elevator with Rupert Murdoch, he studied law at Sydney University and Oxford University. For the last 22 years, he has worked as a barrister at the Sydney Bar. He also writes courtroom novels under the pen name "Mark Dryden".

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Where's Arnott?

The voice sounded far away. Tony Tam's mind floated up towards consciousness and broke the surface. His ribs ached and each gasp produced blood.

What happened to him? He scurried around inside his brain searching for a memory and slammed into a big black wall. He forced his eyes open. A bright light made him squint. A bald-headed brute was leering down at him, waving a pistol. Holy shit. Now, he remembered: he came to feed the cat and two guys jumped out of nowhere and demanded to know where Patrick Arnott had gone. He said he didn't know and they beat the hell out of him. He lay on the floor.

Baldy said: Where's Arnott?

Tony tried to smile at the pistol, but his face hurt and he coughed up blood. Dunno, honest. Came to feed the cat. Let me go - please let me go.

Then, you're no fuckin' use to us.

The second guy, out of sight, said: Let's get rid of him.

They picked up Tony and carried him across the room. A cool breeze touched his face. Where were they going? He saw the balcony railing. Oh, shit. No, no. Fear shook him to life. He writhed and grabbed at the railing, and missed.

The world tipped upside down and he plunged towards the ground, clawing at the air. His mind went into overdrive. Ten storeys to fall. Only ten. There was a big swimming pool below the balcony. That should save him. But he recently voted with the other residents to have it emptied and cleaned. Oh fuck. He screamed, threw out his arms and landed face-first in the bottom of the pool.

CHAPTER ONE

A solicitor called Terry Fraser asked Gary Maddox to serve a Supreme Court bankruptcy petition on a guy called Leo Parker. I've already used a couple of process servers and he's given them the slip. That's why I need your help.

You mean, you now want the best in the business?

Terry rolled his eyes. If you say so.

Got an address?

Yeah. Terry recited an address in Ashfield which Gary wrote down.

What does he look like?

Don't know. The credit card company doesn't have a photo. But it knows he's 39.

Gary drove over to the address in Ashfield and knocked on the front door wearing an 'Australia Post' shirt and holding a large brown parcel stuffed with old newspapers.

A tall, chubby guy in his late thirties opened the door and looked suspicious.

Gary smiled. Hello. I'm from Australia Post. I have a delivery for Mr Leo Parker. Are you him?

A slight hesitation. No, definitely not.

Really? This is his address.

No, he used to live here. He moved out a couple of weeks ago.

Gary squinted at the man. "Really? Are you sure? I think you're Leo Parker."

No, I'm not.

Before Gary could stick out his foot, the man jumped back and slammed the door shut.

Damn. Gary felt bloody stupid standing there, holding the parcel, staring at the door. Then anger came to the rescue.

He opened the letter box and found several items of mail addressed to "Leonard Parker". He tore them open and found a letter from a printing company in Erskineville that confirmed the terms and conditions upon which Parker was now employed as a salesman.

The next evening, Gary sat in his car outside the printing firm and watched everyone leave. Just after six, Parker left with two other men. They marched around the corner to a small pub called the Lord Nelson. It was an old-style pub that only offered beer on tap, and salted nuts and chips to eat. The beer-stained carpet and dust-laden chandeliers made the gloomy lighting something of a blessing. A line of antique poker machines stood against the wall like aging hookers.

In the main bar, several old guys sat on stools at the counter, hunched over their beers like boundary riders at the end of a long day. They had run out of stories to tell and were waiting for the farce to end. A couple of Maoris were playing pool on an undulating and torn baize surface.

Gary slipped into a corner booth and watched Parker and his mates, sitting at a table, drinking hard and talking shit. They meticulously compared the tits of women at work. A secretary called Rosa seemed to have the finest orbs, although their authenticity was in doubt. Parker kept emitting a braying laugh that created lesions on Gary's brain.

After downing three schooners, Parker got to his feet and headed for the lavatory. Gary followed him and found it deserted, except for a closed cubicle door. He considered waiting for Parker to emerge, but why give the bastard another chance to escape? He shoved the door. The lock snapped and it swung open.

Parker sat on the loo, pants around his ankles, wearing a rapt expression, as if there was an apparition of the Virgin Mary, bathed in a celestial white light, on the back of the toilet door. That expression quickly disappeared and he looked like a fire alarm had gone off.

Gary said: Sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Leo Parker. Is he in here?

Who the fuck're you? Get out.

Parker started to rise and Gary shoved him back down.

Gary said: Don't bother getting up. Surely, you remember me.

Recognition slapped Parker across the face. Umm, ah, no, I've never seen you before.

Really? I knocked on your front door yesterday. You slammed it in my face.

Parker scowled like a man trapped in a toilet stall with his pants around his ankles. Dunno what you're talking about. Whaddaya want?

You know exactly what I want. I want to serve court papers on you.

What fuckin' court papers?

A bankruptcy petition; a credit card company wants your shirt.

Dunno what you're talking about. Don't even own a credit card. You've got the wrong guy.

Bullshit. You're Leo Parker, right?

No, I'm … umm … Dennis Nelson, yes Dennis Nelson.

Any relation to the pub they were in? Gary sighed. A jacket hung behind the door. He felt inside it and took out a wallet. Ignoring the guy's protests, he fished out the driver's licence of Leonard Bruce Parker. It had a photo of the man on the loo.

Gary slipped the licence back inside the wallet and returned the wallet to the jacket. Why does your driver's licence say you're Leonard Parker?

Parker scowled again. OK, I'm Leo Parker. So fuckin' what?

Gary opened his jacket, extracted the petition and held it out. I now serve you with this petition.

I'm not gonna take it, Parker said and crossed his arms defiantly.

Doesn't matter. I've just got to put it down in front of you.

As Gary bent down, Parker grabbed the petition, slipped it between his legs into the toilet bowl and looked triumphant.

Gary wanted to use the toilet seat as a collar. Listen, shithead - may I call you that? - you've been served, so it doesn't matter what you do with the petition. But, just for your information, I'm going to give you another one. You drop it in the toilet and you'll follow it, understand? I don't care what you find down there.

Gary opened his jacket, took out a copy of the petition and stuffed it into Parker's shirt pocket. Parker looked sullen, but didn't touch it.

Gary took out his smartphone and pointed it at Parker.

What the fuck're you doing?

Smile for the camera. Gary photographed a glum-looking Parker with the petition in his top pocket. Good. Carry on with what you were doing, and don't forget to wash your hands.

CHAPTER TWO

After Gary quit the police force, he established Bloodhound Investigations in a single room above a fish-and-chip shop in Bondi. His long-term goal was to rent a two-room suite and hire a secretary to do all the admin work. Sometimes, he even fantasised about setting up branch offices and staffing them with hand-picked operatives who swaggered around in bespoke suits and obeyed a fancy-worded Code of Conduct that hung in their offices.

Three years later, he was still in the same room, smelling fish-and-chips all day - he could even tell when the frying oil was changed - and doing all the admin work in a haphazard way. He had grown to hate the name of the firm - what was he thinking? - but wouldn't pay a sign-writer to peel it off the front door and put up a new one. His margin was that thin.

The next morning, in the mailbox at the bottom of the stairs, he found a letter from his accountant. At his desk, he opened it and saw it contained a Tax Assessment for the previous year. He skipped through the mumbo jumbo about him not paying enough provision tax during the year, blah, blah, blah, and saw he had to pay the Tax Office $15,550 within two months. Jesus Christ. He only had about $1,000 in the bank.

His accountant was a small Chinese woman called Samantha Lee who had a hole-in-the-wall office around the corner. He phoned her and asked if she had seen the assessment.

Yes, they sent me a copy.

Is it correct?

Of course. I would have told you if it wasn’t.

It seems a lot.

I claimed all the deductions I could. But you still had some assessable income. You owe the tax.

Gary used Samantha because she seemed quite honest and straightforward, for an accountant. Now he feared she was too honest. Wasn't she supposed to make his tax liabilities disappear? Maybe he should look around for a dodgier accountant.

He said: I've spent all the money - or most of it.

You shouldn't have done that.

I live like a pauper. You should see the apartment I rent.

A harsh giggle. No thanks. Maybe you can borrow the money?

You mean, go into debt to pay another debt.

Lots of my clients do.

The only people who'd give me a loan charge 20 per cent a month and smash your knee-caps if you don't repay them. Will the Tax Office give me a discount?

An even harsher giggle. It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid.

What about a deferral?

You've got to have a terminal illness or something like that. Do you have one?

Not yet. Shit, I can't pay $15,550 in two months' time.

You must have debtors you can chase. Start hassling people until you're paid. I hope you're not too proud to collect debts.

Of course not, he lied.

Good.

But most of my debtors don't have any money.

That's no way to run a business. I can give you some management advice if you want.

How much will that cost?

Only a couple of thousand.

Only? Jesus. No thanks.

Well, if you don't pay the Tax Office, it will bankrupt you.

It can't do that. I’ve always paid my tax, until now.

Doesn't matter; it's absolutely heartless. But, don't worry, bankruptcy's not so bad these days: no big stigma and you can keep a big slice of your income. So, little would change.

The police force usually only cancelled a Private Inquiry License if a private detective was convicted of a mass murder. So, if he went bankrupt, he could keep working. Still, he held the quaint belief that a man - a real man - paid his debts, even to the Government. Bankruptcy's not an option.

Really? Then, you'd better find the money.

I will, even if I've got to rob a bank.

I didn't hear that.

He hung up and spent the next hour morosely typing up letters of demand to outstanding debtors. They owed him about $10,000, but he'd be lucky to recover half that. Good grief. What a way to run a business.

He was desperate to get out of the office. Fortunately, he had arranged to have coffee with Terry Fraser, the solicitor who hired him to serve the bankruptcy petition on Leo Parker. They often met at a local coffee shop called Angelo's to gossip and moan about their lives.

He left his office and strolled along the pavement towards the coffee shop. A gang of Scandinavian backpackers flip-flopped past him on their way to the beach, where they would baste themselves with lotions and imitate roasting turkeys. Bondi was a natural habitat of female fashion models. An insectoid pair strode past with their chins up, counting looks, living in the eternal present.

A Federal election campaign was underway and lots of election posters were affixed to windows and power-poles. The leader of the opposition Conservative Party, Angus Trewaley, represented the electorate of La Perouse, which included Bondi. His handsome visage, wearing a game-show smile, stared out of most posters, begging for votes.

Angelo's was a black-walled café usually packed with patrons from all four corners of the world. When Gary walked in, he saw officeless professionals, jobless professionals, aspiring artists, yummie mummies, well-heeled overseas tourists and scruffy back-packers who hadn't slept for days.

Terry had commandeered a metal table in the far corner and was jabbering into his mobile phone. Gary first met Terry while working undercover on the Drug Squad. Back then, Terry was a big swinging dick in the Armed Robbery Squad nicknamed "the Sheriff". He was famous for standing in the middle of the main street of Parramatta and trading shots with several armed robbers as they left a bank. He emptied a whole clip without hitting any robbers or innocent bystanders. Despite that, several pedestrians filmed him with their smartphones, posted the clips on You Tube and turned him into a living legend. But for that, he would have been charged with endangering members of the public and transferred to a police station beyond the black stump.

Terry loved being a cop. However, as he explained to Gary, I was risking my life for a shitty wage. I had two ex-wives and three kids to support. It was time to grow up. I knew lawyers who could barely read or write who were making a fortune; I wanted my slice of the action.

He finished a long-abandoned law degree and put up his shingle in Bondi. Clients loved his can-do manner, which disguised a shaky grasp of the law, and flocked to him. He once told Gary. I bottle confidence and sell it to my clients. They want to hear that I'll use the law to beat their enemies to death.

What happens when you don't?

A shrug. I blame the judge.

Does that work?

A grin. Like a charm.

He was so successful that he now employed half a dozen solicitors who worked like galley slaves to make him rich. However, the faster the money came in, the faster it went out. Terry seemed hooked on debt and the stress it brought. He purchased a huge mansion in Vaucluse and a big yacht that he paid a professional skipper to drive around the harbour. His third wife had a horrific shopping addiction that she refused to acknowledge. Only an SAS team could take away her credit cards. Terry recently confessed to Gary: When I was a cop, I worried about getting shot. Now, I worry about cash flow all the time. That's a hell of a lot more stressful.

Gary sat across from Terry, who kept talking into his mobile phone. Terry was now in his mid-fifties, with silver hair and a sizeable paunch. The heavy crease in his forehead looked like it was there for good. The caller obviously wanted him to draw up a new Will for her. After two minutes, he hung up and looked at Gary. Sorry about that. The poor woman's in a hospital, knocking on Death's door. She wants to cut her kids out of her Will and give the lot to animal charities.

What did the kids do wrong?

She overheard them discussing how they'll spend their inheritances.

She shouldn't have been spying. Can she cut them out of the Will?

Of course. But they'll sue her estate for support. A big smile. And guess who'll act for the estate. Sometimes, lawyers just can't lose.

I've noticed.

Terry caught the eye of their usual waiter and held up two fingers to order their usual coffees. He turned back to Gary. How'd you go with Parker?

Mission accomplished. I'll send you an affidavit of service.

Good. Where'd you find him?

In a toilet cubicle.

You're kidding?