Just Business (17 page)

Aisling went back there. She was in her late twenties when she did the big European trip and she couldn't resist the lure of Ireland. She went to Midleton and, after seeing the garage and visiting his grave, she found peace.

But Niamh didn't have her courage and never went back to face the demons. She didn't even go back when Aisling met a Corkman and had a large Irish wedding. She didn't even go back when her niece was born a few months ago.

Niamh turned on her side and tried to fall back asleep. Beside her Chris also turned, oblivious as ever.

Denis's caller was pissed off. Things were not going to plan. ‘We're getting too much resistance …'

‘I could have told you that,' Denis said smugly. ‘There's no way they'll take me back. I was a pain in the ass for them.'

The caller carried on as if he hadn't spoken. ‘We'll have to find another way to get you into the sites.'

‘I'm not breaking and entering – you hear that? I'm not a common criminal.' Denis raised his voice, forgetting about Lily. He heard the bed squeak as she got out. The floorboards creaked as she made her way to the landing and looked down to the hall below.

‘What's wrong? Who's that?' Her face was white and drawn; her bronchitis still hadn't cleared.

‘Nobody,' he snarled, crashing the phone down. ‘Go back to bed.'

Denis had a study of sorts at the back of the house. It was a long narrow sunroom with some shelving and a computer. He
logged onto the computer and dialled into the internet. His hot-mail didn't have any new messages. He spent the next half-hour typing, trying to do everything he could to get his job back. It was now clear that nothing would stand in the way of the caller and Denis would rather be reinstated than have to break into the remaining sites. When he was finished writing emails, he typed in the web address for Channel Nine. Up until now his threats about an interested journalist had been baseless. But with the latest developments it was time to make them real. He navigated through the website until he found the story-submission area. He filled in the electronic form and clicked the submit button.

The windows in the sunroom rattled with wind. They were old and loosely fitted. Denis shivered. He felt very exposed now that he knew what lengths the caller would go to get the job done.

Don McAlister was the first to see Denis's handiwork the next morning. Don was surprised to receive an email from Denis Greene. He was even more surprised when he read the message.

 

 

Don leaned over the partition and spoke to Jessica. ‘You'll never guess who has applied for the project manager's job …'

‘Denis Greene?' she replied without hesitation, shuddering as she thought of his grey greasy ponytail.

‘How did you know?' Don was disappointed not to be the bearer of groundbreaking news.

‘Because he has also applied for the sales person's role.'

Jessica read the arrogant message out loud for Don's benefit.

 

 

‘Is he an idiot?' Don asked, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘He's been retrenched, he's dead and buried. Doesn't he understand that he can't come back here doing another job?'

‘No,' Jessica said slowly, ‘he's not an idiot. He's very clever. He wants to be reinstated and applying for roles for which he has no skills match is just his way of bullying us …
Oh my God!
' she exclaimed midsentence, squinting as she stared at the screen.

‘What? What's wrong?' Don asked urgently.

‘He's copied Yoshi and
Nishikawa
on these applications. You have to admire his balls!'

Scott smiled to himself as he left the CBD building. The interview had gone well. It was a reputable company and a strategic role. He felt he was in with a good chance.

George Street was buzzing with lunchtime crowds and he let the buzz infect him. He missed the challenge of work and the pulse of the CBD. It was great spending this time with Jenny but it wasn't very stimulating.

He sat on a bench in Martin Place and called Niamh from his mobile. She picked up on the first ring.

‘Hi, it's Scott.'

‘Hello there.'

Scott visualised her at her desk, the phone to her ear, her head
tilted, a smile playing on her lips. She had a sexy voice, its Irish origins evident in the soft vowels and lyrical r's. In fact, everything about her was sexy. He had to stop this train of thought. Now!

‘I've just been for an interview. I'm ringing you in advance to let you know they may call you for a reference.'

‘It must have gone well then.' She sounded happy for him.

‘Yeah. It may be premature to say it's in the bag but I think I came across well.'

‘Great – can you excuse me a moment?' She put him on hold and he listened to a recording that pitched all of HDD's wonderful products.

She came back after a few minutes. ‘Sorry about that. Sharon needed an urgent signature … Where were we? Oh yes, can you tell me a little about the role so I can frame the reference to fit it?'

‘Yes, it's a recruitment manager,' he began, then stopped before saying, ‘Look, what are you doing for lunch?'

‘Nothing – is that an invitation?' Her voice was receptive.

‘I guess it is,' he laughed. ‘It would be easier to tell you about the role face to face. Plus it's a glorious day and Deb is taking care of Jenny for the afternoon.'

‘All excellent reasons. Where can I meet you?'

‘I'm sitting on a bench right in the centre of Martin Place.'

‘I'll see you in ten minutes.'

Scott hung up. Niamh would be here in a few minutes and a sense of anticipation tightened his chest. He deserved some nice food and some decent conversation before returning to Jenny's baby world. But that was all this should be, some adult timeout. Niamh was married; he mustn't lose sight of that.

Niamh saw Scott before he saw her. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, his forearms deeply tanned, the streaks in his hair bright under the sun. He radiated a feeling of summer. Something inside Niamh fluttered, a feeling that was alien after the bleakness of the last few weeks. But she still recognised it as the same feeling she had when she stood close to him in Forbes and danced with him at the Christmas party.

He saw her and stood up, a smile breaking on his face.

She smiled back at him. She felt totally unlike her ordinary self but decided she liked the feeling. ‘Where are you taking me for this lunch?'

‘I don't know. Do you fancy something suave and sophisticated or cheap and nasty?'

‘Considering your state of employment, cheap and nasty,' she joked.

He didn't take offence and laughed with her. ‘Look,' he said, ‘we're quite close to Hyde Park. How about we grab a sandwich and sit on the grass?'

‘Sounds like a great idea.'

The park was full of city workers, grabbing their piece of summer during the all too short break from the office. Niamh kicked off her shoes so that her toes could curl into the soft green grass.

‘I'm sorry that we still haven't responded to your lawyer. Lucinda's been extremely busy …'

‘Don't tell me she still hasn't hired a personal assistant?' Scott knew all about Lucinda and the lack of willing secretaries to take her on. He had been working on the position when he left.

‘I'm afraid not.'

They shared a knowing smile about the perfectly good candidates that had been scared off by Lucinda's arrogance.

‘Well, you'd better tell me about this job so I can do my bit to make sure you get it,' Niamh said and over the next few minutes Scott gave some background information on the company and the position.

‘It sounds like a great opportunity,' she remarked.

‘Yes, I'm quite excited about it. And the job is here in the city centre – imagine, I might be able to bring you for a posh lunch like this again.'

She laughed, thinking she'd rather be here in the sun than in any posh restaurant.

‘How are things at home?' he asked when they had finished eating.

She felt herself go cold inside.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep the mark. I was trying to be a friend.'

‘Are we friends?' she asked, her voice quiet.

He met her eyes. ‘I hope so.'

There's nothing wrong with confiding in a friend
, she thought.

But it still took her a few minutes to take the leap, to summon up the courage and find the right words.

‘My marriage is crumbling around me. I know it's not going to last and I'm sure Chris knows too. But we're in this limbo where neither of us seems willing to make the hard decision …'

He slid his dark sunglasses up onto his head and his blue, blue eyes were suddenly looking right through her. ‘I understand how hard it is, I really do … But some day you'll both reach a conclusion and you'll move forward.'

She studied his face, the strong line of his jaw, the confidence
in his eyes. He was tough, he could handle the failure of a divorce. She was different, more like her dad.

‘Scott … my parents divorced when I was a child … I was ten.'

‘I'm sorry … that must have hurt you a lot.'

‘It hurt my dad … he hung himself,' she said, her voice breaking with tears as she bared her soul in the middle of the busy park.

‘Oh, Niamh!'

He folded her into his arms, holding her tight against him. Those same arms had got her through the whole Christmas holiday but they were for real now, not in her imagination. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. She could smell the now familiar scent of his aftershave. She wanted to stay there forever.

She reluctantly pulled back, wiped the tears from her eyes and gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘I needed a hug like that. I'm sorry if I stayed there too long.'

He smiled back. ‘Nothing is too long.'

Now the punchline of the story was out, Niamh felt compelled to tell him the rest. ‘It was Ireland in the early eighties. Midleton was a small place then. The whole town was agog that Monica Curran – a woman with two young children – had left her husband for Tom Kenny. The disapproval wore Mum and Tom down and they bailed out. We flew to Sydney and, sure enough, when we landed we were free from the scandal. Only trouble was we left my poor dad behind to face it all …'

She felt fresh tears and guilt welling up. She concentrated on the parade of workers coming and going through the arching trees until she had her emotions sufficiently under control to be able to continue.

‘Aisling and I didn't want to come here at first – we didn't want to leave our dad. But we were gradually won over by the beach, our new friends. It all fell apart when we got the phone call. We felt so guilty. We felt we had betrayed him as much as Mum and Tom.'

Niamh stayed in the circle of Scott's arm until the crowds in the park began to thin out and she too had to return to work. She found it hard to leave him. She could feel they were on the verge of something much more than friendship. On a precipice. Could she jump over without looking back at Chris?

Sharon was waiting for her back at the office; there were yet more letters that required her signature. It was only when Sharon left that she noticed another blue envelope sitting on the top of her in-tray. She stared at it with foreboding. The previous message was never far from her thoughts. She seesawed between seeing it as a joke and a threat. This envelope might help her decide which it was. She took a steadying breath before ripping it open.

 

It was Yoshi's last day in Tokyo. Ginza was brimming with sophisticated department stores, all stocking the most expensive brand names. Though overcrowded, it was the perfect place to find a suitable gift for his girlfriend.

He stopped to cross the street. The traffic sped past, all new models. An old woman was also waiting at the pedestrian crossing. She was wearing a kimono, turquoise blue silk. He guessed that she was a geisha on her way to an appointment at one of the elite restaurants in the area. The geisha in Tokyo were harder to recognise than the traditional geiko in Kyoto.

Yoshi found himself staring at the old woman in her youthful kimono. She was foreign to him, as were the swarming crowds and the density of his home city. Had he been away from Tokyo for too long?

Yoshi wasn't used to buying gifts for women. Over the years there had been a few casual relationships, but they had never stretched through birthdays or Christmas. Commitment wasn't
something he avoided, it had just happened that way. When he had lived in Tokyo there were many women who made it obvious they were interested in him. But Yoshi knew that their interest was sparked by the desire to have an established businessman for their husband. Now he was glad that he hadn't settled. This lady was special. They had dated for only two weeks before he had to leave for this trip. In that time they had seen each other almost every day. They had shared breakfast, lunch and dinners. They had done romantic things like walking on the beach and swimming together in the pool of his rented house. They had done mundane things like buying groceries and watching television. They had talked and talked and talked. When they weren't together he found himself calling her late at night. Just to hear her voice. Just to have an aimless discussion about nothing much at all. It felt like a lifetime, yet it was only a few weeks. It felt wonderful.

He went into one of the department stores. Perfume, scarves and handbags were presented for sale against a backdrop of tasteful Christmas decorations that hadn't yet been taken down. What could he possibly buy? If the lady was Japanese it might have been easier. There were kimonos in the store, expensive kimonos with stunning colours. It would be an elegant but extravagant gift. However, his girlfriend was a westerner. She was practical and her taste was far from extravagant. He approached an assistant and asked for help.

He came back out into the teeming crowds, his purchase gift-wrapped and safe inside his pocket. He caught a taxi and picked up his bags from his parents' house on the way to the airport. His mother was unhappy that he was not staying for longer. He could have explained what was drawing him back to Sydney but he chose not to.

He didn't sleep much on the overnight flight. His visit to
Tokyo hadn't been very satisfactory from either a personal or business perspective. On the personal side, he had found himself thinking treasonous thoughts about his home city. And on the business side, well, he was unsettled by what Nishikawa Shacho had revealed at dinner last night. They had gone to Kyoto to eat, the vice-president's favourite geisha joining them at the exclusive restaurant. She sat next to Nishikawa Shacho at the table, Yoshi sat opposite. The mood was tense and the exquisite food didn't do anything to lighten it. The email from Denis Greene earlier that day had panicked Nishikawa Shacho. He was unaccustomed to being involved, even indirectly, in employee disputes. He was also deeply concerned about Malcolm Young's ability to lead the Australian subsidiary to a profitable result for the year. Dinner was over and they were having some tea when Nishikawa Shacho dropped a bombshell.

‘Murasaki San, I want to get rid of Malcolm Young. In fact, I would like
you
to become the CEO for the Australian subsidiary.'

Yoshi hadn't foreseen such an astounding job offer coming his way. The geisha's face was impassive, as if she'd known in advance.

Yoshi swallowed his exclamation of surprise and bowed his head in respect. ‘I am deeply honoured you have considered me for such a prestigious role.'

The vice-president sipped his tea, letting a few moments lapse before dropping a second bombshell. ‘I'm concerned, Yoshi. The company's share price is low. Our competitors are ready to swoop, buy us out.'

Yoshi was thrown further off track, glancing at the geisha again, uncomfortable that Nishikawa Shacho was being so frank in her presence.

The vice-president continued to speak, oblivious to the fact he was saying things that should only be said in front of the most senior officers of the company. ‘We can't make a loss this year, Yoshi. We must make a profit, even if it is only a small one. That is what we have committed to the analysts and we must deliver on it. If they find out how close we are to negative earnings they will recommend to the shareholders to divest; the share price will drop further, then our competitors will make a bid on the company. None of us will have jobs then – do you understand me? Do you understand the situation we're in?'

Yoshi felt as though he was being offered a poisoned chalice. Of course he didn't say what he was thinking out loud. ‘I understand. May I please have some time to reflect on it?'

The vice-president looked surprised but nodded all the same. Yoshi left soon afterwards so his boss could fully enjoy the company of the geisha he had travelled more than three hours to see.

The plane landed on schedule and Yoshi was tired but very happy to be back in Sydney. The queues at passport control were long and painfully slow. His suitcase was amongst the last to appear on the carousel and then a customs officer decided to rummage through its contents.

Finally, he was through all the red tape. Pulling his suitcase behind him, he hurried into the arrivals area. Someone was waving and smiling and running towards him: Helen. He was both surprised and touched. He threw his usual reticence about public displays of affection to one side and kissed her, hugged her tight, and kissed her again.

He gave her the gift in the car. She didn't wear much jewellery
and he'd taken a gamble with the black pearl necklace. There was genuine pleasure as she held it up to her neck and adjusted the rear-view mirror so she could see.

‘Thank you, Yoshi. It's beautiful.'

‘So are you.' It was an unoriginal thing to say but she was indeed beautiful: her kindness, her sense of fun, her depth, her intelligence. Quite simply, his heart hadn't been in Tokyo while she was so far away in Sydney. The trip had been worthwhile only in that it clarified his intentions about their future together.

‘How has HDD been surviving without me?' he asked.

‘Let's not talk about work,' she said and started the car.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,' Niamh apologised with a smile. ‘It's been one of those mornings.'

Keith Longmore had grey hair, a ginger beard and a relentless handshake. ‘That's all right. Your assistant got me this coffee and I was quite content enjoying the view.'

Niamh wished that Sharon had thought to get her a coffee too. Short for time, she got straight to the point.

‘We have an ex-employee we're concerned about. We want you to find out what you can.' She handed the detective a file containing Denis's home address and identification photo. Then she explained about the parts on ‘loan' and the strong second-hand market. ‘If you need to know more technical details about the parts and what they do, then I can arrange for Bruce to speak to you … He was meant to be here this morning, but he got called away.'

Keith looked through the paperwork and asked a few questions. Then he shook her hand and promised to be in contact soon.

As soon as he was gone, Niamh picked up her phone. Her call went directly through to Paul Jacobsen; there was no fielding by a secretary.

‘Paul, it's Niamh Lynch. Happy new year.'

‘And happy new year to you also,' he responded smoothly.

‘I've given due consideration to Steve's request to keep Denis on our payroll and I have decided that it is not an option for us.'

Paul's response was not what she was expecting. ‘Steve Jones is no longer working on the matter.'

‘Why?'

‘I'm not at liberty to say.'

‘Where does that leave us?' Niamh asked, wondering if the hot-headed engineer had fired his barrister.

‘It changes nothing. You are refusing to reinstate my client and I will be seeking a hearing with the Industrial Relations Commission.'

‘Very well,' Niamh replied. ‘In the meantime, you should know that your client has contacted various people within the company applying for vacant positions, notwithstanding our previous communication that we have no vacancies that are suitable to his experience. In order to limit unnecessary involvement of additional personnel within the company, please ensure all future job applications are directed to me.'

The ensuing silence indicated that this was the first Paul knew of it. ‘I'm sorry, Niamh. I will ask Denis,
once again
, to use the proper channels.'

‘Thank you.'

Niamh put down the phone having got what she needed out of the call. The Industrial Relations Commission was confirmed as the next step. That was good. It would slow the pace and give Keith time to investigate the missing parts.

Sharon materialised in front of her desk, holding a much-needed coffee and half a chocolate muffin.

‘Have I ever told you that you are the very best assistant in the world?' Niamh said gratefully.

‘Yes, but not often enough.'

Willem balanced himself on the chair before pushing in the air-conditioning vent. His suspicion was confirmed: the voices were immediately louder and clearer.

‘We're going with Plan B … we may need to deal with Niamh … she could ruin everything …'

Willem's heart thumped. What was Plan B? Or Plan A, for that matter. What did they mean by ‘dealing' with Niamh? Did they intend to hurt her?

He needed something with more height. Coming down off the chair, he pushed his desk underneath the vent. He was standing on the desk, ready to hoist himself up into the ceiling, when Bruce walked in.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

‘Can you hear anything?' Willem asked, looking up into the airconditioning vent.

Bruce listened. ‘No.'

The voices had lulled. Bruce was looking at Willem for an explanation.

‘The vent isn't working,' Willem improvised, thinking it was not a good idea to say he was hearing voices. ‘It's so hot in here I decided to have a look at it myself.'

‘You should call Facilities. It's their job to deal with all building maintenance.' Bruce was stating the obvious but Willem could tell that he approved the urge to fix the problem. They were of the same stock, kindred engineers. They spent their life fixing things.

‘I've checked through the numbers for AIZ Bank. With margins like these, I'm not sure we should go ahead with the bid for the contract renewal,' Bruce said, sitting down at the displaced desk while Willem was still standing on it.

‘You did ask for the worst-case scenario,' Willem reminded him, coming down and pulling a seat up to sit opposite his boss. They both ignored the open vent for the time being.

‘There is a possible upside,' Willem suggested carefully. ‘At the moment the numbers only include the equipment under maintenance contract. AIZ Bank has significant repairs that are out of contract and handled on a time and materials basis. The margins would look better if we could include that business.'

‘They use another provider for that,' Bruce pointed out.

‘Maybe it's time to convince them to use only us,' said Willem. ‘We have the infrastructure already in place – it would be cost effective for us both.'

Bruce nodded. He was gaining a solid respect for his head engineer. ‘I need you to work on more numbers including those time and material repairs.'

‘I'll start on it straight away.'

‘Who's that?' Bruce asked suddenly, looking around before his eyes veered upwards to the open vent.

‘Voices.' Willem took a risk. He waited for Bruce to tell him he was crazy.

‘Well, I can hear that. Where are they coming from?' Bruce stood up, his eyes fixed on the vent.

‘I don't know. It's been annoying me for a while,' Willem admitted, feeling dizzy with relief that they weren't in his mind. He wasn't having an attack. He could tell his psychologist that he didn't need more Zyprexa.

Bruce couldn't resist the opportunity to get his hands dirty.
His jacket was off within seconds. He climbed onto the desk and heaved himself up inside the vent. He stuck his head out after a few moments to say, ‘I'm just going to follow the duct back along the ceiling,' and he was gone again.

Willem waited. Frustratingly, the voices ceased again. In the quiet he found himself panicking as he replayed the earlier threat to Niamh. He took a calming breath; it was important that he didn't let his paranoia take over. He would take his time to piece this together. He needed to ensure he had a full grasp of what was going on. Then, and only then, he would talk to Niamh.

Bruce came back and there was a thud as he landed on the desk. He had streaks of dust across his blue shirt but a satisfied look on his face. ‘Your duct shares an air supply with two of the executive offices.'

‘Whose offices? Willem asked, keeping his tone casual.

‘Helen Barnes and Lucinda Armstrong. The sonic lining is missing from the duct – you should get Facilities around to fix it.' Bruce's attempts to brush the dust from his shirt served only to smear it in further.

Keith Longmore was parked outside an ordinary-looking house in the western suburbs. He sat in his nondescript white Commodore for an hour, listening to the radio while his eyes remained glued on the house. Finally, a black late-model open-top Saab emerged from the garage. The driver wore a baseball hat, his greying ponytail fanning in the wind as he took off down the road. After ten minutes of fast driving, the man pulled up outside another ordinary western suburbs house and got out of the car. Keith had his first good look at Denis Greene. Tall and well built, he wore old work jeans and trainers. His face was worn and disgruntled.