Here’S to You

By Alf Collier

Heres to You describes the activities of Percy ODonnell while seeking evidence of car rebirthing scheme as he joins forces with Graham the crime king. He pokes his nose into all aspects of Grahams dealings.

The figurehead of the enterprise, Tommy Graham, has recently joined a newly formed cartel to distribute drugs with Richard Gant and David Gibson (both criminals). When the manager of his warehouse (Jim Riley), suffers brutal murder, Graham suspects he is the target.

Richard Gant is the mind behind the cartel. His legitimate security company obscures a shadowy past and his death (along with Gibsons) adds to the growing concern Graham feels for his life.

Another figure lurks in the background nurturing a grudge.

Police, baffled by events as Detective Sergeant Rhys Hamilton follows the clues, discover duplicate murders as they hunt the unidentified killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503500006

Alf Collier

Alf Collier was born in New Zealand, lived eleven years in Papua New Guinea, and is currently a resident in the Far North of Queensland. The author has two children and four grandchildren.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THEY WERE WAITING for him.

As he stepped from his car, he could see the gun in her hand. A woman who had lived a tough life held it in a steady grasp. Her eyes glowed flint and her expression conveyed contempt, but he didn’t recall he had ever seen her before. She was scrawny and careworn and he wondered at her obvious disdain for him.

She didn’t give the commands. Behind her stood another degenerate from an equally unpleasant existence. The face brandished a supercilious smirk, but his eyes had muddied in fury. He was another unknown.

Jim eyed the couple warily. He didn’t know what had provoked the pair to action, but he was sure he’d never met either of them. Still, he had seen recognition light the man’s eyes, so it seemed apparent they knew him.

He thought back to the call he received as he prepared to leave his home. He made little sense of the message but garnered something about a fire and knew he had to check on the building if for no other reason than to appease his boss. The call interrupted his plans for the night and his irritation soared.

As he swung into the gateway, he saw the flames. Then he saw them.

His mind was trying to figure what was happening here, but the gun distracted him and he felt tingles of apprehension forming beneath his skin like pins and needles all over his body. He tried to remain calm, but he was alone with a pair of lunatics. He didn’t feel brave.

When the man spoke, malevolence needled his words.

‘Give her the keys,’ he said.

Jim considered refusing the order, but the woman jerked the gun in a get-a-move-on gesture. The sneer directed his way suggested she hoped he wouldn’t obey.

He experienced a flicker of fear as it travelled the surface of his skin. He had yet to ascertain the meaning of the encounter, but he doubted this was the right moment to query their presence.

Grabbing keys from a pocket in which he had automatically housed them, he held the bunch in the open palm of his hand. He kept his eyes on the woman and ignored the other person.

‘Throw them to her feet,’ the man said in a surly tone.

He moved at an oblique angle to stand beside the woman and his glare focused on the keys. With a muted thunk, the bunch settled in the dirt between the pair.

Neither of them attempted to retrieve them. Jim made no further move.

Mesmerized by the gun pointed at him, he missed the haste of his attacker. He cursed in alarm when the tubular object struck. He saw only the last of a flowing trajectory as its solidity battered his forehead. He reeled with shock.

A knife slashed at his hip as he plunged to the ground. Its path didn’t register at once, but as his eyes closed, he saw his thigh covered in blood. But it was too late. The baseball bat had been an effective weapon.

He didn’t know how much time had passed.

Instinct insisted he remain still. He tried to think but his head was devoid of memory. He sensed he wasn’t alone, but he had no idea where he was or what he was doing here.

Awareness of his suffering returned with infinite graduality. He felt incredibly feeble and he struggled to understand how that had come about. He understood he was no longer standing beside his car, but he didn’t know where he was at this moment.

Trying to reposition himself, his muscles responded with sluggish inertia. He didn’t seem able to move.

Pain wracked at his forehead. Excruciating suffering screamed from further down his torso. A bubble of blackness centred in his vision and blocked most of his surroundings from sight.

His mind flashed through a shroud of mist to an ambiguous moment of violence and blackout, but nothing returned to full memory. He rested to conserve his energy and tried to reconstruct the circumstances of his peril, but unheralded terror took him to the brink of catalepsy and he couldn’t fathom what was making him afraid.

Clearing his brain of fug was his priority.

Voices penetrated his thoughts as though they emanated from a very distant abyss and dismembered words passed between other people. He tried to speak to them, but his throat was dry and there was difficulty getting his voice box to respond.

Nor could he comprehend the words.

As he tried to focus on his situation, he felt the door beside him open and an unfamiliar presence join him. He felt the figure fumble in the space between them, but he made no sense of the movement.

A sudden rocking of the car caused a million nerve ends to convulse in torment and the next thing he comprehended was the horrendous impression of forward momentum. Forward and down. His descent accompanied by thunderous clamour.

In retrospect, he knew the car door had slammed shut and he remained trapped.

Torturous throbbing suffused his body. Panic escalated when he was unable to move from his position. The upheaval around him sent his brain appalling messages he tried to decipher without success.

Suddenly, he knew he was about to die. He had no mechanism to change his destiny. His demise written in stone. The couple were killers. They had come to kill him.

A scream that collected every particle of fear from the hidden recesses of his being tore from his soul and became an addendum to the sound of destruction. The combined noise echoed through the valley. The sound of impending death.

He fell into the merciful apathy of unconsciousness.

1

‘SO, BEVAN, WE’VE given you a few days to consider the proposition. What do you think?’ Max Williams asked.

The man radiated suppressed impatience, noticeable in the timbre of his voice when faced with extraneous frippery. He demonstrated tetchiness by drumming a staccato beat with his fingers on the top of his desk, a rhythmical throb being the only sound heard in the room for several minutes.

‘I’d like to think about it some more,’ Finnimore said. ‘We all know there’s an awful lot to think about with this situation.’

Senior Sergeant Bevan Finnimore, one of three men gathered in the office, was there to make a decision left unanswered at a previous meeting. He felt uncomfortable beneath the implied pressure from his superiors. It wasn’t a new emotion. He had felt it keenly the last time they had met.

‘Tell us what’s on your mind, Bevan,’ Williams invited. ‘Good God, man! How can we resolve this if we don’t know what you’re thinking?’

‘That’s part of the problem,’ Finnimore answered. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Well tell us what you are thinking about. Maybe Standish and I can alleviate some of your concerns and we’ll all be able to get on with the job.’

Williams was the senior ranking officer in the room. He exhibited an impressive figure behind a functional wooden desk in his sanctuary. Much like the forthright disposition of its lodger, the aura in the office confirmed brusque expediency that Williams preferred in conducting affairs. His desk was barren of clutter other than the requisite computer, a manila file, and an earthenware urn full of miscellanea.

‘There’s a lot you haven’t told me, can’t tell me. And I understand that,’ Finnimore continued in a mellifluous tone. ‘But while I appreciate you don’t want to reveal every detail until I say yea or nay, I don’t think I’ve been given enough information to make a rational decision. I, well, I don’t know, it’s left too many variables. I need … I have to make a decision reflecting my standpoint.’

He stopped talking as he realized the mess he had made of explaining. In the silence, he considered how best to phrase what he wanted to say next. With an overt sigh, he gave a guarded smile to take the edge off his words.

‘You’ve already said it and I have to agree wholeheartedly. This is not what I do,’ he offered. ‘You know that I’m a desk man. I read the shonky paperwork, find discrepancies, and solve the riddles shysters try to hide. I follow paper trails. I’m not out there arguing with the guys about the rights and wrongs of the situation.’

‘Yes,’ Standish said. ‘And at the moment, that’s all to do with cars, isn’t it?’

Regardless of his diffident demeanour, the junior officer was aware he was the pivotal feature of this meeting. Atypically, his manner transmitted a stubborn indifference to the conversation. He directed a squint toward his audience, but he received static reaction and he returned to reaffirming his lack of expertise.

‘Yes, it is about cars, but I repeat, I work from behind a desk, not out in the middle of gangster land.’

‘Is there anything specific you’re not comfortable with? Something we don’t know about. How can we help you feel more relaxed with this?’

Standish had a reputation for no patience with perceived dramatics. He had even less regard for internal politics. He exacted single-mindedness from staff but in response gave unwavering support to those in his command. His expression demonstrated frustration as he grappled to accommodate Finnimore’s reticence.

Finnimore wanted to disappear into thin air. An inner voice insisted he’d failed to do so when he had the opportunity and it was now too late. His judgment of current body language suggested walking away was no longer a viable option.

He rose from his place and moved away from the desk. A voice messed with his head, jumble superseded clarity.

‘It’s way out of the ballpark. I haven’t any experience for this kind of work and I definitely have not trained for anything like it. And believe me, I have a few concerns about that situation, but’, he continued with his course of persuasion, ‘let me ask you this question. Would you have accepted your current post without experience or training?’

‘The situations are entirely different,’ Williams snapped.

‘You want something from me that I’m not sure I can deliver,’ Finnimore said. ‘I know the powers that be are pressuring you to respond to a problem, but I get the feeling I’m not here to make a choice. I feel I’m being coerced into something I don’t think I can handle.’

A bubble of annoyance burst in Finnimore’s head. He rose from his chair and walked the few steps that took him to a window. He stopped abruptly, as though encountering the barrier was a startling incident. He laboured to construct his thoughts and to disregard what lay beyond the window.

Through the venetian blinds, he gazed at a slatted view of the sky.

His hands remained pocketed as he brooded his arguments. A frown rutted his brow, he looked older than his thirty-two years. Although clad in casual attire, his presentation was immaculate in his consistently nonchalant style when he arrived. After an hour in justifiable debate, his hair was tousled. He ran fingers through it enough times to create tufts that stood in contrast against the rest of his precision.

He turned to face the men sitting at the desk.

‘There are things that bother me,’ he began.

‘Things? What things?’ Williams asked in the pause.

‘Don’t you think anyone you approached would want to know as much as possible about what they’re getting into? I know on a basic level what you’re looking for, but I’m not getting the whole story.’

Standish crossed his arms and leaned on the desk, waiting. He regarded the figure at the window with irritation.

‘Look,’ Finnimore said, turning to face them. ‘I understand what you want. That’s not the problem. I don’t get how you decided I’d be able to do anything like this or why you asked me. But there are other things as well. Personal safety. What guarantees do I have that I’m not throwing myself into the lion’s den?’

Steely eyes regarded him through an unfathomable gaze. Standish wrestled with the crux of the issue until at last, resolution flashed in his eyes. He sat forward, fixed a gaze on Finnimore, and softened the hard lines around his mouth.

‘Some of that is unknown at the moment,’ he said candidly.

‘Look,’ Williams said as he threw a pen he had been toying with onto the desk. ‘We don’t know of any real potential for danger. And as far as we know, certainly not from any of them.’

Finnimore froze. He watched their faces as he used his instinctive ability to read into the message words they hadn’t spoken. He considered the carefully guarded statement.

‘What you’re saying here is there could be from some outside source?’

Irony glimmered behind a smile. He harboured suspicions at their reticence to discuss matters openly. He splayed hands palm up in query, but his questions met with unwavering stares and he turned back to the window.

‘There is, of course, some question of a … shall we say, a compromised situation, if you were to get caught.’ Williams broke the ensuing silence. ‘If things went arse-up, it might mean your name bandied about out there. In the criminal world. Is that what worries you? Could something like that make waves for you in court battles?’

He caught Finnimore in the midst of a trance-like state trying to justify his refusal to take on the assignment.

‘I should think my name is already out there,’ Finnimore said wryly.

‘Ah. The court appearances then. Well, it’s not a problem, is it?’ Williams asserted shortly. ‘You won’t be giving them your name, will you?’

‘Next you’ll want me to talk like a yobbo. Maybe even go out there in some disguise or other.’ He turned to face them again. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew his throwaway line had hit the mark. ‘It just gets worse!’ he exploded without thinking.

He threw his hands in the air in a gesture of helplessness.

‘And tell me how long this operation is supposed to take?’ he asked.

‘There is no time limit, really,’ Williams said. ‘As long as it takes.’

As he spoke, Williams settled back in his chair with the air of the victor. His casual response irked Finnimore. He opened his mouth, but Standish overrode him.

‘It’s the sort of thing we have to play by ear a bit,’ he said.

The meaningful glare directed at Finnimore chastened him to submission and he let the protestation die. He absorbed the aura of triumph emanating from Williams, quelling a rising fountain of rebellion.

‘Well, I’m sorry to say’, said Finnimore with finality, ‘that I don’t think I can commit to a job where I don’t know whether anyone can guarantee my safety. And I don’t know how long I’ll be running around with the knowledge some senseless half-wit is probably going to put a knife in my back when I least expect it.’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘Another thing I don’t like is not taking into account my lack of experience in this sort of operation. You seem to have conveniently forgotten that.’

Standish gave a small nod. He rose to his feet and turned his shoulders one way then the other to smooth the kinks from sitting.

‘We haven’t forgotten anything, Bevan,’ he said resignedly. ‘This is a subject you know better than any other cop in town. Yes, we accept you may not have the experience to do everything we’re asking, but you are our first choice for more than one reason.’

Nobody moved. Once more, the room grew quiet.

Williams surrendered a subdued sigh. He stopped his metronomic tapping to move his frame decisively to an upright position. With elbows firmly planted on the desk, he observed his hands with feigned interest as he interlaced his fingers.

‘What would it take for you to decide to come on board?’ he asked flatly. ‘And how much time would you need to make that decision?’

Finnimore’s preoccupation was evident and his deportment was less assured than was usual. He exhaled with intentional force and turned his head with an irritable grimace—his eloquence of manner expressing the full gamut of his vexation.

‘Why do you want me to do this job? You know, I really want to know why me in particular?’ Bevan asked succinctly. ‘I want to know what it is you want me to do and why you think I can do it.’

He turned his attention to the window.

The view swept panoramically across the harbour. The growing number of high-rise configurations in an increasingly populated rural metropolis was beginning to obscure areas of seafront from the scene. It wouldn’t be long before the lofty edifices of steel and mortar erased chromatic glints on waves and blocked the bustle on the waterfront.

A lengthy period of quiet followed.

Williams waited through the pause, forgoing his habitual thrumming of fingers, but with expectancy oozing from face and body.

‘No matter what you think, Finnimore, we know you are the best man for the job,’ Williams said simply.

Finnimore let his shoulders relax. He went to stand behind his vacated chair.

His mind attempted to differentiate the complexities. None of their arguments made real sense. With an air of uncertainty, he thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, looking at a random spot on the wall above the desk.

Bevan Finnimore remained convinced they had chosen the wrong man for this job.

As his mouth opened and a sound escaped, he realized he found it difficult to control the timbre of his voice and halted to recapture strength before continuing. He gave a shake of his head. Frustrated by lack of communication, a surge of anger surfaced. He held his breath and it faded as fast as it appeared.

‘I can’t make a decision just like that,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that without knowing everything. My answer to your request for assistance is an unqualified no.’

Bevan Finnimore requested permission to withdraw from the meeting.

Being cautious was all very well, as far as they were concerned, but he wasn’t going to walk blindly into a situation he could end up being a casualty. In fact, he wasn’t walking into the situation at all. Nothing was going to persuade him to make any commitment to this offer.

2

CONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS on an adjacent site dominated sound in the room. The closure of external doors allowed the gentle hum of an air conditioner to placate the clamour from the outside world. At relatively inexpensive cost, the room provided privacy and the neutrality needed for a semi-clandestine meeting.

None of the participants cared to enlighten the public of its topic.

Two dissimilar men awaited the third attendee with dwindling patience. The hotel suite had a limited view, and after taking in the scenery, neither wanted a second look.

Anticipation permeated the chamber. Surreptitious peeks to each wrist demonstrated the passage of valuable minutes. Silence engendered on oppressive humours. Both men suffered a delay in daily activities where time held importance, by the non-appearance of the third man.

Growing impatience bred unspoken personalized threats to abandon the project in the forefront of both minds, at least with this particular colleague.

‘So where the fuck is he?’ Tommy Graham demanded.

Graham’s excessive girth lacked stature to balance volume—his body more suited to the profession of sumo wrestler. With the munificence of enhanced vitality, he felt he might fit into their world with more ease than he normally experienced while in public. His bulk sprawled extravagantly on a sofa set low to the ground and he remained seated because the effort required to change his position was far too taxing for him.

He was also aware of the advantage in having a widespread view of the room.

‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’ Gant soothed.

Gant disliked the use of foul language, but it was his opinion, and for the most part, he kept it to himself. He acknowledged the world had fallen apart since his youth, along with most of the old values he had learned as a youngster. Richard Gant determined to maintain his standards for the duration of his life.

He found no comfort into resorting to oaths.

In fairness, Graham managed to keep oaths limited when they shared time but he most often failed, as he had on this occasion, when he was frustrated. However, underlying his compliance, Graham knew he was what he was and called a spade a spade. His upbringing had regulated his word choices.

His companion was a walking dictionary by comparison.

‘That little fucker better get here soon,’ Graham muttered.

‘I’m sure he will.’

An air of quasi-respectability manifested because they had grown comfortable in their role over the years. Disparity in characteristic was as evident as it was in their perspective although beneath the surface, dissatisfaction with life in general was a shared trait.

The men had single-handedly created successful empires. To each of them, time was a valuable commodity. Even when not in direct competition, business radials invited the possibility of reciprocal interests such as the only topic on today’s agenda, but the delay was proving tedious.

Gant was possessed of a lean figure with salt-and-pepper neatly groomed hair, hard grey eyes that he partially obscured with black-framed spectacles. He observed courtly manners that gave a bystander the impression of old world charm. His mantle of peace was persuasive as a calming unguent in times of highly impassioned disorder, but there was more substance to the man than the average person noticed.

A delay in start bothered him. Tardiness squandered time and he hadn’t a lot to spare. He stifled an embryonic annoyance.

As if in response to demand, the door swung open with a grandiose flourish to admit their guest. The newcomer gave no greeting as he entered the room. His Italian lineage handed him strikingly handsome looks and the intense blue eyes of his mother. Along with his generous height, he had inherited dark hair that fell over his collar but had it styled to a fashionable cut.

Usually, he dressed with the flair of the streets, taking self-satisfaction in his ability to blend with the homeless down-and-outs of the city. Today his ensemble suggested understated flippancy. It was a deliberate reminder he was of a different generation.

David Gibson ignored the presence of his hosts. His eyes shot across furnishings and swept the general area. He stepped past them to move restlessly about the room. Finding an ashtray, he pulled the pack from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. He flicked a lighter and, as he replaced it, stared through the glass doors leading to the balcony for a long moment. He inhaled before turning his attention to the others.

‘So are we talking here? Or what?’ he asked snidely.

‘Yes. We’re almost ready to begin,’ Gant said. He threw a warning glance to the sofa as Graham started to react. ‘Now that you are here.’

He exhibited a frown as he spoke. He actually resented the intrusion of smoke in his environment. Gant had never smoked, and while he didn’t care whether others did, he preferred they keep the habit away from him. As far as he was concerned, he preferred smoking be exercised outdoors.

All the same, he decided against requesting Gibson to refrain from using the cigarettes during their meeting in hope of stimulating an amicable working relationship for the future. Diplomacy was a practised art and Gant was adept.

Graham studied his hands. His face a study in neutrality.

‘We’re just wasting time sitting here doing nothing. I’m ready,’ he growled. ‘Now the boy is here at last, let’s do it. I’ve got better things to do than sit all fuckin’ day.’

Tommy Graham had never desired affiliations. He was regretting his involvement in this. As he tried to overcome his resentment of the present situation, he remembered why he had avoided long-term relationships; it was because he hadn’t relished partners poking into his private affairs. He had watched friendships torn apart over the years when discord between otherwise close associates had caused solid joint ventures to weaken and fail.

He wondered if this was the right time to go against deep-rooted instincts. As usual, Gibson’s discourtesy irked him, but he managed to control rising exasperation and looked away. It didn’t stop the younger man.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Gibson snapped dismissively.

‘Okay. So if there’s nothing else to distract us, I think we can start. I think everyone has had time to think about the proposal?’ Gant said, looking at the others in turn.

Gibson slithered from his chair and ambled across the room. He slid the door to one side and stepped though the opening while letting his smoke dissipate in the outdoor air. He expected to antagonize the others as he peered over the railing. Getting no response, his attention waned in seconds and he arrived back at the doorway but remained outside.

Gant thought his nonchalance irritating, but no more than that. He caught Graham’s eye. Warning with a trace of resignation passed from Gant to Graham. They had known each other long enough to communicate without words.

‘It’s even-Stevens, yeah? Like a one third even split?’ Gibson queried.

‘Three-way split,’ Graham growled in his direction.

This seemed to be the crux of the matter for Gibson and he withdrew a step or two as he received the answer. His pose straightened and a single gold tooth highlighted his beam of contentment. He flipped his smoking butt over the rail.

Gant had discovered Gibson. He and Graham had discussed the enticing range of prospects this young man opened to them. One of them founded a base from which they could later exploit the Gibson family links—to their assured benefit. Tempting him to the partnership proved easier than they envisaged. He was filled with belligerence and arrogant to boot. He had the deep-seated belief he was superior to everyone else.

However, despite the complications, his compensatory characteristic was the family influence in Australian criminal circles—potential allies for the new cartel. Nonetheless, what proved acceptable in theory was harder to tolerate in reality. His conceit prickled at the older men like cactus thorns in a blanket.

‘Do we need to make this official?’ Gant asked.

His query was casual but necessary. The reaction was unexpected.

‘Whadda ya mean by that?’ Gibson, who, having re-entered the room, was aghast. He directed a fierce glare to each man in turn. ‘Why’da we have to be official?’

‘Do we need a certified document, a signed agreement?’ Graham snorted.

‘Or do we agree to all of this with a handshake?’ translated Gant.

‘In other words, what it all boils down to is’, Graham said through his frustration, ‘how much do you fuckin’ trust us?’

Gibson gave a shrug and curled his lip. He had reasons for nothing to go on record. He muttered beneath his breath as he turned to stare out through gauze curtains. He had no reason to hide the sneer settled on his face. He might be the least experienced in this situation, but unless he considered he was getting the raw end of the deal, he’d decided to leave it to the others to make decisions on administrative details.

Bottom line? Profit was his only interest.

Gibson made deals that reached agreement with use of the carrot and the whip. He offered money or fists. He never recorded his transactions. With negligible education, the more experienced family members delivered his schooling in situ.

He simply followed their lead. Nothing in writing meant there was no trail for more authoritative bodies to follow. He had learned that early in life.

‘Whatever. Don’t make no difference far as I can see,’ he said.

They dispensed with the usual machinations of a business meeting; they had held several discussions over past weeks and the purpose in gathering today was to accept or reject the proposal, or if necessary, make cooperative adjustments to the outline.

Gant suggested they assume areas of responsibility according to personal aptitudes. Gibson looked up sharply as if determining whether there was an implied insinuation to his incompetence but didn’t interrupt. Gant calmly continued on to give a brief précis of Graham’s transport business.

‘So for example’, he said, ‘Tommy takes control of transport.’

‘I don’t; have a hassle with that. He’s got the trucks and that already. What about security?’ Gibson asked quickly. ‘He do that too?’

Gant then began a précis of his competence to provide security for the operation. His business, cloaked by a veil of legitimacy created when he formed the company, gave access to the type of men needed to maintain all aspects of protective muscle. Graham nodded his agreement with the assessment but remained unspeaking. Once more, Gibson had no dispute.

An interim of quiet passed. Gibson looked from one to the other of his cohorts, and when there was no response, he lit another cigarette. He waited for them to say it, and when they didn’t, he did.

‘So I get the sales,’ he said, showing a flash self-importance.

Gibson felt sudden impatience. He walked to the door and stood looking across the construction site. He’d made it quite clear he was in this for the money. All the rest was drivel, as far as he was concerned. He had few expectations other than he maintained his end of the deal to get his share of profit. However, he accepted division of responsibility after the agreement he would undertake the responsibility of distribution.

‘We probably need to talk about money,’ Gant said.

With a hesitant glance at the big man, Gant took a deep breath. This was where they expected the most resistance from Gibson.

Gant guardedly gave a summary of the proposed outlays. He intentionally used clear and concise terms for Gibson’s benefit, but it was an edited version, without all the facts he had at his disposal and enough so that other two in the meeting could understand the process.

The sitting capital, held in one nominated account, was for purchase of product and management costs. Initial funds, channelled to various locations, ensured no difficulties in the future through delays of payment or other unexpected snags. With banking laws in the selected countries taken into consideration, Gant anticipated few hiccups.

Each man would contribute an equal amount to the starting fund. Once they marketed the product, to ensure generation of further funds, surplus money transferred from the main account. Thereafter, equal shares diverted to the three personal accounts.

‘As to the personal accounts,’ he went on, ‘they’re open, but they’re not accessible until deposits have been made. The main account was operable as of last week,’ Gant said.

‘Whadda ya mean not accessible?’ Gibson interjected.

‘There’s limited funds in each account, nowhere near enough to draw on, David, we haven’t sold anything yet,’ Gant explained reasonably. ‘But when we do, the money will be there within hours of it being sent from here.’

‘Why’s it take so long?’ Gibson asked suspiciously. ‘Don’t ya just press a fuckin’ button and it gets there?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s just the way it’s set up. This is only pertinent until we make a first banking. After that, it’s plain sailing. The money goes through a few other banks before it hits your account. If it were directed straight into your account, there would be a trail, do you want that?’ Gant questioned mildly.

There was a subtle shake of his head before Gibson gestured for Gant to resume his review. Gant spoke from the table, referring occasionally to jottings for confirmation as he painted a deliberately simplistic picture from the initial deposit to accumulation in Gibson’s overseas account.

‘So whatcha saying is no one can trace it?’ Gibson asked.

He considered the implications. His suspicions of fraudulent practices by the older men appeared superfluous. He had only one question.

‘And I’m the only one who knows what’s in there?’

‘That’s really about the size of it,’ Gant told him reassuringly. He paused and looked down at his notes. ‘No matter what, this is a business deal and we need a bit of an idea how we are progressing. Maybe we could keep a secret ledger.’

‘Thought you said there wasn’t going to be records?’

Gibson expressed disgust to convey he didn’t like the idea of a written record. He was a cash man. His involvement of late was in the lower scale of distribution. He was a one-man show and kept everything he needed in his head.

This was a different matter. He understood that, but he didn’t want anyone learning his private business.

Gant offered several hypotheses to explain differences in this type of investment until understanding dawned in Gibson’s eyes. After a short delay while he considered the new concept, he gave a nod to show his assent.

‘Yeah, okay, I get what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But those pigs get their hands on that ledger and we’re fuckin’ finished. They got us by the balls with no way out. All right for big timers,’ he scowled. ‘For the little man like me, it’s back to the pen, man.’

‘Which is why none of us will have any records to be found,’ Gant told him.

He waved to include Tommy Graham in the statement as he reminded Gibson they’d been in the game for a long time. Neither of them had ever ‘been done’. He insisted the reason for their survival was their caution.

‘You know we have the experience,’ he chided. ‘It’s not only you who’d have a lot to lose if the police got hold of something like that ledger. We all stand to lose.’

‘And we’ve got a fuckin’ sight more to lose than you have,’ Graham snarled.

Gibson started to rise. Anger touched his face at the implied disparagement. Gant stepped in quickly to avert further argument.

‘Anyway, whatever records might exist, they won’t be with any of us, and they’ll stay hidden away completely.’

Gant smiled reassuringly to cover his thoughts. Neither of his partners knew he had retained the accountant. The man would keep records saying exactly what Gant wanted them to say.

‘We finished now?’ Gibson asked.

‘Sorry not yet,’ Gant apologized. He directed his thoughts to the present business. ‘We’ve still got a few things to cover.’

Graham wondered whether Gibson was going to cut it in the big league. He looked jittery. He hadn’t stopped smoking since he arrived. He pondered the probability of there being more to this restlessness than just impatience.

He half believed the dealer used his own product; a watchful eye on Gibson was essential. There was talk the family set Gibson adrift to operate on his own. Rumours he created a cartload of problems until certain family members tired of bailing him out had a place in the world of gossip. David seldom mentioned his relatives.

By mid-afternoon, they had sorted everything as far as possible. Few of the agreements were resolved easily, but they all managed to attain an outwardly amicable atmosphere through the last hour. Each was aware of the usual preliminary issues needing attention, but they all agreed the problems were not challenging.

Gibson was first to leave. His agitation had increased markedly as the time passed, and while he was attentive to proceedings, he had started sending innumerable texts and the responses were a constant reminder he had other things on his mind.

Watching his departure, Graham had a speculative gleam in his eye. He turned to face Gant, who was busy amassing small piles of papers, but saw none of the concern he expected to see.

‘You reckon he’s fuckin’ usin’?’ Graham posed the question.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Gant cautiously. He had misgivings for any future dealings with Gibson, but they based on lack of civility rather than personal habits.

‘I didn’t think about it much before,’ Graham said unpleasantly. ‘Not about using. We can’t afford to have him going off like fuckin’ loose cannon. He goes off the rails and we’re in the shit.’

‘I’m hearing what you say. And I think I’m beginning to understand why the family distanced themselves,’ Gant conceded and gave a slow nod. ‘We probably need him on a tight rein. Anyway. On to other matters. I hear Jimmy’s going down,’ Gant said as he rose from his chair. ‘Fifteen years is the talk.’

‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ Graham said. ‘Hopkins was too slack about who he had working for him. What have they got on him?’

‘Insurance fraud,’ Gant said. ‘At least, that’s what I hear. And that’s just to start with, apparently. The cops have got a whole lot of charges pending, from what I hear.’

‘He was pushing it,’ Graham said wisely.

‘Word is, from Jimmy himself, the cops have got some new clever Dick in there,’ Gant said thoughtfully. ‘He might have had something to do with Jim’s case getting prosecuted. From what I hear, the bloke is a pretty smart sort of cookie. The cops’d need someone with a few brains to sort that lot out.’

‘The cops have someone with a brain?’ Graham snorted in derision. ‘Know anything more about this brainy cop?’