When Yesterday Comes Calling: Harry Nichols: Investigative Journalist, #1

By D M Macdonald

What do you do when the sins of your long dead ancestors rise up in your face in the here and now?

When Harry Nichols and Anna Felby crushed her family's toxic business, they thought their lives would get back on track. Her farm, his film. Ordinary. Normal.

 

So why is Harry dodging assassins in Kashmir? Sure he has enemies. Investigators always do. But why now? And in Kashmir?
But his feet barely hit the ground back home before he's dodging wannabe assassins again. Same question. Why? What malignant actor has he upset this much? The only thing new thing in his and Anna's lives is that some weird European connections of Anna's long dead grandfather have appeared from nowhere?

They seem to want something from Anna. She never knew her grandfather but wonders if it's something the old crook did? But what? What do her distant relatives know that she doesn't?

One thing is sure, they want Harry under a tombstone.

Harry's rocky relationship with the difficult woman he loves is tested as he realises that he and Anna can only survive if they work together. As the body count mounts they begin to find out how the old man set her up to be prey for a bunch of vicious criminals that call themselves family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D M Macdonald
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201731618

Book preview

1

There was no sound, just a movement of air when there shouldn't have been. I opened an eye just in time to see a flash as something slashed towards my throat. I grabbed at the shadow behind it. It was an arm, and I used its own momentum to throw it as far as I could. It crashed into the wall first, then to the floor. But since I was still hanging onto it, I did too.

I felt yesterday's stitches rip as we crashed into a medical trolley. It joined us on the floor in an ear shattering cacophony. I yelled at the top of my voice as my assailant thrashed his way out from under me and the trolley and legged it towards the door. He was just in time to meet the doctor and his assistant racing in.

As he dodged the grabbing hands I yelled, `Grab the bastard!'

But it was too late. Ari, our doctor, was a slow-moving man and his assistant was bailed up behind him. By the time they disentangled themselves, my wannabe assassin was gone.

Ari looked at me, his head on the side. ‘Well, well, Harry, more trouble? My handiwork still okay?' He grinned. 

Ari Hazam, our doctor, was a happy soul, wide of girth and given to telling tasteless medical jokes, never noticing that he was usually the only one laughing.

I felt my side. My hand came away red and wet. `Ah…don't think so, Ari.'

`Shit,' he said. `You really have to stop meeting these nasty people; it's bad for my reputation. When I sew someone up, they're supposed to stay sewed up. Let's look.'

He pushed me back onto the bed, stirring up a bruise I didn't know I had but which was almost certainly the result of having crashed into the trolley. I winced. Ari was unapologetic. Unless a bone was broken, it wasn't serious.

`In case you have any more visitors tonight, I think I'll just stick you together with elastoplast and do the main act in the morning. Okay?'

`You're the doc.' I smiled. 

I'd known Ari since the early days of the project. He was a highly experienced doctor with years of working in remote areas where normal medical services were sparse. He was veteran of many expeditions like this and improvisation was the name of the game.

When he'd gone, I lay back. The original wound was stinging but luckily it was just a slice across my ribs. It was meant to penetrate them. Once again the quick reflexes from a youth dodging solid back men on the footy field served me well. But I shivered. This was the second attempt to kill me in two days.

That was why I was in cabin six, the medical unit in the first place. That made it more chilling. It meant the assassin knew I'd survived the first attempt and where I was as a result. The hospital unit and the one Ari shared with his assistant were in the middle of the compound. Not as easy to find as a lone man walking in the dark. I even blamed myself for it.

With the high political tensions in the country, I thought it was probably just someone with a grudge. And that maybe I was asking for it. That walking alone around the perimeter of the campsite at dusk every evening was inviting trouble. The attack was crude too. A simple slash and run. The sort of thing an opportunist might attempt.

I didn't think that anymore. The second attack meant I was a target. But why? And for whom? The locals might be annoyed at having a crew like ours invading their territory, but murder was a bit extreme. My brain spun as I tossed ideas around. Everyone who noticed me at all knew I walked alone late at night. Most knew about the first attack and it was common knowledge that I was in the medical unit. That meant there was a wide choice of people who could have set me up. Because someone did.

And they didn't have to speak the lingo. It was easy enough to show someone a drawing, a diagram, no interpreter needed. But why were they after me, a journalist? All I do is write. We were in Kashmir to film a special that I wrote about the human side of a tragedy perpetrated by a company called R.S. Holdings. But the script barely touched on the whole story behind that scandal. What there was had hit the airwaves more than six months ago and had already faded from the public mind. The legal consequences of R.S. Holding's malfeasance were in the hands of the authorities. Not mine. Except for Greg Forsyth, the team leader, neither the locals nor the team knew much about my involvement with that.

As I drifted off, I wondered what the reward for killing me was. It wouldn't have to be much. These were very poor people, and life was cheap here. It was galling to think that I might be murdered for less than a dollar.

The crashing of metal startled me awake. A single ray of sunlight speared into my eyes as I squinted at Ari's large shadow bent over the instrument cabinet. I sat up slowly, finding new sore bits with every small movement.

`That slow reaction wouldn't have saved you if I'd been another killer.' He flashed a knife and a huge syringe. `What about a bit of surgery, then?' He grinned. `Spareribs, anyone?' 

He sewed me up again and we trekked across to the restaurant for breakfast. Word of the attack had got around because everyone cheered when I walked in. That they immediately turned back to their breakfast showed me that no one considered it as important as I did. Assassination attempts were not common when making a documentary film, but most of this crew had been around long enough to have seen almost everything. 

I sat down next to Greg, a grizzled man of fifty plus who really had seen everything, including the murder of a crew member on one expedition. My episode was nothing to Greg Forsyth. He'd been here for months checking out locations, officials, transport, and all the infrastructure we would need to make a documentary in this difficult place. That included soothing the locals.

`Looks like someone isn't happy with us, eh, Harry? Any idea why?'

`Not with me anyway, and no idea. Did you pay them enough? Somebody cranky about the R.S. investigations? Like no more easy money? Revenge? For the babies, I mean. Who knows?'

`If it was one attack I'd go along with that, mate, but two? And why you? The locals can't know you shut down the money bags. Like they've got relatives in Melbourne.'

`Maybe they have. We're a very multicultural country these days, Greg.'

`Yeah. Well, keep your head down and I'll have a chat with the head honcho.'

I didn't think that was such a great idea either since he'd probably lined his pockets as well. Anyway I reckoned if he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. But we were due to head up into the highlands before ten that morning anyway, so we'd have to wait until we got back to check it out.

I shrugged, grinned and went to collect some eggs and bacon from the cook who'd been signalling to me. He was an urbane fellow who smiled and bowed but who'd steal the buttons off your shirt while you talked to him, almost certainly had nothing to do with this. Like the Mayor, if he wanted me dead, I'd be dead.

But first things first. The traitor in our midst. A local or one of the Australians? As the crew were ultra-busy, I decided not to ask everyone what they may or may not have seen. Instead I chose to rely on a technique I used over many years. While I ate, I kept an eye on all my colleagues. 

I prided myself on noticing small cues. Little things that might point to bigger things. Apart from saving my life a few times I reckoned it made me good at digging out stuff that people didn't want me to know. It had paid off. At thirty-two I was doing well as an investigative journalist. 

It was simple really. A slight shift of the arse, a quick look at something you shouldn't have looked at, a tiny hesitation, a slightly longer pause than expected. Any of these alone might or might not tell a story, more than one almost always did. Not necessarily bad things, but always something. 

In the mess this morning I noticed only one. A young bloke called David Bale, a cameraman, new to the team but with a stellar reputation as a cinematographer. He'd been staring at me, then looked away slightly too suddenly when I caught his eye. 

I'd only spoken to the guy a few times but during the journey to Kashmir I'd heard all about him. Everyone was in raptures at having this bloke on the team. He was only twenty-eight but he'd worked in movies, including an A list feature in the US, the holy grail for cinematographers. According to him, he'd been taken there by a big-time producer and had exceeded his expectations. It seemed he had a great future.

In fact, I was surprised that this exalted individual would stoop to working on such a pedestrian effort as this one. I'd meant to find out and right now I had good reason to wonder. I wouldn't follow up on my hunch yet but from now on I'd keep a very close eye on David Bale.

After breakfast I double checked his bona fides. It wouldn't be the first time someone had padded or even fabricated their CV. While the rest of the crew finished packing up, I headed back to the hospital cabin and took out my computer. Now was all I had. Once we were on location high in the mountains it would be just too hard even if we had the signals. And I particularly didn't want anyone to know. Especially Mr Bale.

As one of the producers I had access to all the applications for the members of the expedition. Now I intended to check that the Mr Bale who ducked my look in the mess was the same Mr Bale who'd applied for the job back in Melbourne. 

Next I had to check that the Mr. Bale who had the big-time career in the US was the same Mr. Bale who was here in Kashmir. I had no reason other than that glance to believe anything dodgy about David Bale, but I didn't intend to take any chances. Hunches were hunches for a reason.

2

Our team was here to make a film about the human cost of corporate greed. An exposure not only of R.S. Holdings' devastating drug but of other companies that had histories of using the poverty of their subjects and the corruption of the local authorities to ignore even the pretence of decency.

The film was the first part of a series based on years of investigations that had taken me all over the world to places like Guatemala, Guyana, Peru, Chad and Moldava. Places where the population had no defences if things went wrong and where local authorities were paid to look the other way. And against my objections I was the on-screen face as well as the writer. In fact, I was nervous that there might be bad actors who'd be thrilled to attach a face to the loss of their stolen golden goose, but the network had insisted. 

Maybe I was right. Maybe it was revenge.

R.S. Holding's CEO's face loomed in my mind as he screamed, `don't think this is over, Nichols. You're dead, ' when he was led away by the police.

But it was unlikely that such inept killers were sent by the local authorities. If they thought we were the cause of any of their woes, we'd have been over the side of a ravine long before now.

Most of the culprits had already been rounded up anyway. But if there was still somebody out for revenge, there were far more convenient ways and places for attacks by amateur assassins than in a remote part of Northern Kashmir. No. This had to be something else. Something I must have done had made somebody afraid enough to try to get me killed. What? Who knew? But by attacking me they'd made sure I wouldn't rest until I found out. Dumb.

Or did they think I already knew whatever it was? That would make sense. I wished I did know if only to save my hide. I would have to be very, very alert from now on. Mr Bale checked out. He was who he said he was. His references were from a Sydney producer, Milan Pavlovic. I didn't know him so I needed to find out what the A-list movie was and whether Bale's performance was as brilliant as this guy said it was. 

All I could find out about Pavlovic was that he was wealthy, very wealthy if you believed him. But something was odd. In an industry where you spread as much gossip and publicity about everything you'd ever done since your debut as a star at aged three, Pavlovic listed few actual achievements. 

Greg stuck his head through the door. `Moving out in thirty,' he said.

I needed more info. My antennae were up. A man who had probably hired someone to kill me was tied to someone who didn't ring quite true. In my experience not quite true usually meant dirty. And I wanted all the dirt and then some on Milan Pavlovic. Like who was Pavlovic involved with in the US?

Dirty money was always around in high-cost speculative businesses like the movie industry. Money laundering was a feature not an outlier. I wanted to know if Milan Pavlovic was part of that. I mentally scrolled through my contacts. Soon I'd be out of touch with the wider world for at least ten days.

I decided to send a message to good old Jerry Carney, the exec from a rival network. Six months ago I'd given him an exclusive which had filled the airwaves for days so he owed me big time. I also knew he'd have no scruples whatsoever in shafting my network. I wouldn't tell him why I wanted to know though.

Before I got onto him I checked out my computer to see if anyone, like maybe David Bale, had tried to look inside it. Not that there was much other than the project details. It was clean. I checked my watch. In ten minutes we would begin our climb high into some of the remotest inhabited parts of Kashmir. To the villages that J.S. Holdings had so savagely betrayed. From today on there'd be precious few comforts.

Filming in remote areas was always unpredictable. You had the politics of the country, the weather, terrain, language, local people, and authorities; all variables that could combine to go smoothly or could turn pear shaped in minutes without any warning whatsoever. Our logistics crew, who'd already been over the route didn't foresee any problems. They said the local people were grateful that someone was coming to tell the world what had happened to them.

I had a look at the maps of the terrain we'd be crossing. But I really couldn't tell whether or where there might be an opportunity for Bale to tip me over the side. Before we left I asked Greg if I could talk to the crew after he'd finished his pep talk about all the business and safety stuff. His eyebrows rose. I was about the least important person on the team right now. Nobody wanted to hear from me until after the background filming was finished, if then. And normally they wouldn't.

But today I had a mission. To stay alive. I wanted to make it singularly unattractive for Bale to even think about knocking me off. I planned to make it quite clear that if I went the project went. That a potentially award-winning documentary would be aborted instantly if anything happened to me. An ambitious young photographer who wanted to make it in a cutthroat industry needed to rack up awards.

Bale might just hold up his murderous intent in service to his ambition. At least until the main part of the enterprise was in the can. The way back down the mountains might be more treacherous.

Greg gave me some sideways looks as I settled into the truck and sat next to him. He knew a bit about my connection with R.S. Holdings so he was the only one I could talk to. I told him I didn't believe the attacks on me had anything to do with R.S. or the investigations into the tragedy they'd caused up here.

`Don't be daft, Harry,' he said. `What else could it be about? I mean you were instrumental in shafting the fucking company. They're bound to be mad at you.'

`Okay,' I said, `but why would they try to knock me off up here? Wouldn't it be easier to, I don't know, run me down or shoot me, or something, somewhere closer to home? I mean we're in the middle of fucking nowhere up here.'

`I guess. But there's not much chance of them getting caught here, is there?'

`There's not much chance of the shits getting here at all, Greg. I mean they have to have visas and all that kind of thing. You of all people know how hard that is to organise.'

`But they haven't come here. They've just told someone to do it.' 

`All I know is that slashing knives by amateurs isn't the way sophisticated international organisations like R.S. Holdings get rid of threats to their operations. And I reckon if the local authorities knew about me, and I don't know how they would, and wanted to kill me, it wouldn't be by amateur knife slashers and I wouldn't be here right now.'

He nodded. `True. But if it's not someone from R.S. who could it be?' Who else have you pissed off?

`I don't know and I sure as hell don't know why. But those guys with the knives didn't find me by chance.'

His eyes narrowed. `What are you saying, Harry? That someone in this crew is behind the attacks?'

I shrugged. I didn't want Bale to know I suspected him. To be on his guard. Greg was a lovely guy, and a fine organiser, but not at all devious. If he knew I was onto Bale he'd show it. No. Bale had to feel free to do what I believed he'd been paid or recruited to do. I needed proof and I needed to be able to pin his balls to the wall to tell me the who and why.

Greg peered at me in the gloom of the back of the truck as we left the smooth roads around Kargil and headed into the Kunlun Mountains to the North. I leaned back as we bounced along and closed my eyes casting around in my mind for anything that might make sense of the attacks. Any tiny clue.

It wasn't as if what R.S. Holdings did in Kashmir was the whole story. This was a multi episode exposé of how the chemical and pharmaceutical industries routinely used out of the way places in poor countries for their tests. Places where the local authorities and corrupt governments ignored international safeguards for pecuniary reward and had no fear of facing consequences.

My investigating team had worked for years stacking up data, including medical records and anecdotal evidence. So far we'd only brought down R.S. Holdings thanks to the stupidity of its management. This part of the series would put the human cost caused by them at least, on the record.

Was there something I'd missed? Was this about something I hadn't nailed yet or something new? Some other mob? Something worse than an epidemic of babies born with terrible brain deformities. Or hundreds dying of cancer as my sister had after exposure to an R.S. agricultural spray.

Retribution had only descended on R.S. Holdings six months ago, shutting down its core. Or so I thought. Was I wrong? While I wasn't at the public face of it all, they knew who I was. They knew I'd got deep inside the organisation. I didn't think I'd found anything worth killing for but maybe they did. Or was there more? Were they afraid I'd find something the proper investigators wouldn't?

The one good thing that had come out of the carnage leading up to the prosecution of R.S. was that I met Anna.

It was Geraldine Madden, TV star extraordinaire, Anna's aunt, whose death in Anna's vegetable garden had triggered the entire thing. It was Geraldine who'd really pulled the plug on R.S. Holdings. Geraldine had found out about the drug testing scandal that was destroying the brains of the babies of the local Kashmiri women. Geraldine had exposed the local authorities who had taken bribes to look the other way when R.S. told them to.

Even then it wasn't until her TV network's movie crew vanished off a road high in the mountains of Kashmir that she'd finally lost it. With her life threatened she fled to Anna's farm, where her own sister, Anna's cold, ruthless mother, killed her.

At that stage all I had was a cache of evidence meticulously collected my investigative team over four years. In the uproar following Geraldine's death Anna and I combined forces and found the evidence that linked Geraldine to R.S. And it was stuff Geraldine had stashed at Anna's house that put the final lid on the company. That combined with stupid attacks on Anna by the CEO which made matters worse for them. But then we stepped back and handed everything over to the law.

3

Ilay back, Anna's face looming in my mind. Apart from her physical beauty, which was striking, she was funny, irreverent, and mentally as strong as anyone I'd ever met. Far more than me. And I thought I was tough.

She'd endured so much from those bastards that she could have been forgiven for crumbling into a heap when she was attacked from all sides. But she didn't. She stood toe to toe with one of the most powerful business figures in the country and beat him. Roger Timpson, CEO of R.S. Holdings stood in the dock facing charges of conspiracy to murder, bribery, extortion and a raft of international crimes.

When her mother tried to kill her, she dealt with it and came through. She was the first woman in my life, apart from my sisters, that I really loved. I badly wanted to be part of her life but that didn't happen. She said she'd never known love so she couldn't offer any, even telling me at one stage to find it with somebody who did.

She'd stick with her animals, she said. `They give me all I need right now, and what I give them is all I have to give. I don't have enough for anything, let alone anyone else.'

I backed off. I hoped that someday she'd be able to see human beings as worthy of love as llamas, dogs, and horses and when she did, I'd be there. Until then I stayed as close as she'd let me and our affair, intermittent though it was, kept my hopes alive. Looking at the relationship from this distance I wondered if maybe we were more suited than I thought.

One of the problems with relationships in my life was that I was never still. I was always heading off after some distant story or campaign or other. There was a woman I thought I loved but her need for a stable home with kids and all the trimmings clashed with all that. I didn't grieve long.

My own unstable family life hadn't prepared me for suburbia any more than Anna's