The William S Club, Page 2

  William Sydney Harvey the first – Damon’s great grandfather.

  Damon had no memory of the man. He died when Damon was still a baby.

  William Sydney Harvey the second. The man sitting across the table from Damon and the current patriarch of the family business.

  William Sydney Harvey the third – Damon’s father. Known to his friends (at least, he would be if he had any) as Bill.

  And William Sydney Harvey the fourth. BJ, short for Bill Junior. Damon’s older brother by a whole minute and a half.

  They were a small club but they wielded all the power in the family structure.

  His mother, Jacqueline, did her best to be both mother and father to her other children but when her car went over a cliff, Damon had to step into the role of surrogate parent to his younger siblings, Anita, Jodie and Carl.

  Any relationship between the two sides could be described as rancorous but that was being rather generous.

  Non-existent was a better word.

  There was a total lack of communication.

  Then out of the blue came the call to set up a press trip.

  It had been nothing but headaches ever since.

  Damon had spent hours on the phone to irate editors. All of them ranted, cajoled and then begged. No one was happy with the demands but all capitulated in the end.

  Money bought that kind of acceptance, however reluctantly given.

  Wooden chair legs scratched along the marble floor, dragging Damon out of his reverie.

  His grandfather pulled a heavy brass key from around his neck.

  For as long as Damon could remember that key had hung there, a visual reminder of a lifetime of secrets.

  ‘I want to know the moment she boards the plane.’

  He nodded. Not like he had any other choice.

  Fresh rain pelted the double glazed windows as the key clicked in the lock, echoing across the spartan dining room.

  The house had become more mausoleum than home.

  Behind the wooden door lay a metal door. The kind used by bank vaults.

  It protected a flight of stairs that led to the basement.

  Not that Damon had ever been down there.

  The basement was forbidden to all but The William S Club.

  As a child, Damon spent hours pondering what lay behind that door.

  Now he didn’t care.

  Let them have their secrets. Just leave me the hell alone.

  ‘We will join you at some stage. Probably Australia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t announce it yet. Just drop a couple of hints. Maybe suggest an exclusive interview to a lucky journalist.’

  ‘An interview with whom?’

  The old man shrugged, his once-navy eyes sparkling with malevolence. ‘One of us – maybe all of us. Who knows? We’ll see how things progress.’

  William had not made a public appearance in years, Bill had no interest in media jaunts and BJ was too busy partying to bother doing any hard work in the company. Why the sudden interest?

  Chapter Three:

  He made her wait half an hour.

  Time that could have been better spent catching up on lost sleep.

  With each passing minute, Charlotte’s quick anger bubbled closer to the surface. Highgrove had mastered the fine art of pissing her off.

  The scent of strong coffee hung in the air like forbidden fruit, masking the ever-present stench of stale cigarette smoke.

  She stared at the coffee machine, wondering what he’d do if she helped herself.

  Behind the door, she could hear Highgrove shouting.

  Who is he bullying now?

  Stepping closer, she craned her ear to the door. She wasn’t eavesdropping. She was being a good investigative journalist.

  It was her job to be curious. It’s what he paid her for.

  Still, when the double glass doors behind her thudded closed, she jerked away, unable to hide the guilty expression.

  ‘Oh, thank God it’s just you.’

  Lucy was Highgrove’s long-suffering secretary. The petite brunette’s hands shook as she dropped her mobile phone on her desk, her face flushed and not from the cold.

  So she was the unfortunate recipient of Highgrove’s anger. Poor thing.

  ‘Lucy.’ Highgrove’s voice bellowed out the intercom, causing both women to jump.

  ‘Coming sir.’

  A moment later Lucy returned; arms stacked high with multi-coloured files, which spilled like rubble over her neat desk.

  ‘He’ll see you now.’

  A key turned in a ramshackle front door in the inner city suburb of Redfern, Sydney.

  Two tiny bedrooms and one microscopic bathroom branched away from the main room that served as kitchen, dining and lounge.

  It wasn’t much but for the moment it was home.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, it’s fucking hot in here,’ Tank said, pouring boiling water onto instant coffee.

  ‘Then why drink that shit?’ Paul Baker reached inside a rusted refrigerator, grabbing out a can of VB. ‘The mercury’s pushing forty outside. Beer weather, not coffee.’

  It had been thirteen days since he had tasted free air again. Pulling the tab on the top, he sculled half before coming up for air. ‘God I missed this in jail.’

  ‘More than pussy?’ Tank pushed the cracked mug aside and reached for a beer instead.

  ‘Put it this way – I’ve had more beer since getting out.’

  ‘You’re not a faggot are ya? Those rooms are pretty close together.’

  ‘If I was that way inclined – which I’m not - you’re too bloody ugly anyway.’

  Tank cracked his ham sized knuckles, not sure how to respond. His moniker referred to body size, not brain matter.

  A moment later, his face split into a toothy grin. ‘You’re fucking lucky I remember you from inside. Besides, I’d kill you if you did try anything.’

  Baker had more on his mind than beer or pussy but he wasn’t about to share his concerns with Tank.

  Prison was a strange place.

  Nobody made friends on the inside – not in the real sense of the word.

  You made acquaintances. Lots of them. As many as you could find.

  Especially if you wanted to stay alive.

  If you were lucky, you could count on some when you got out.

  Like Tank.

  Not only had he protected Paul on the inside, he’d come through for him when everyone else treated him like a pariah, even renting him a room.

  If room was what you could call it.

  The two metre box was barely bigger than a cell.

  But at least it didn’t have bars.

  Tank stretched out across a brown velvet settee with the remote. ‘Any plans for New Year’s?’

  ‘Nah. How about you?’

  ‘Watching the cricket first but might head off to a party later. You want to come?’

  ‘Think I’m gonna chill.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck chilling in this heat.’ Tank laughed at his own witticism, repositioning the fan with his toe so the air blew across sinewy legs and a barrelled chest – both covered with tattoos. ‘Ah, this is the life.’

  Baker shut the bedroom door.

  It was stifling in here and Tank had the only fan.

  Flopping back on the single bed, he stared at the roof, white paint flaking off like dried skin.

  Through the paper-thin walls, he could hear the couple next door, performing their nightly soap opera – first screaming followed by breaking objects and finally, the boisterous sounds of make up sex.

  It was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  From the moment Baker got out of prison he had one goal.

  With each passing day, his task became ever more insurmountable.

  How hard can it be to find one person?

  He fell into a restless sleep, his muscles and limbs thrashing about in spasms as the nightmares came for him.

  Burke’s quiet wrath emanated from her p
ores like sweat on a summer’s day.

  Not that Highgrove blamed her. He was pretty pissed off himself.

  Taking a coward’s stance, he stared at the iMac screen, refusing to meet her eyes – eyes he knew would be burning like smouldering coals.

  Her file was open and for the last half an hour, he had read through her work, confident she could actually do the job.

  But then competency had never been the issue.

  Highgrove respected Charlotte’s work. Respected her forthright journalistic style even if he made every effort to make sure she never knew he did.

  Yet skill aside, something bothered him about this assignment.

  Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  After forty-three years in the trade, you developed a sixth sense.

  Right now, his was screaming like warning klaxons.

  The coffee was cold – again - but he swallowed the black liquid anyway.

  His eyes fell on the envelope, waving like a red flag to a bull.

  Inhaling the almost extinguished cigarette into his lungs, he puffed an opaque billow of smoke into the air around their heads. A smoke screen was just what he needed.

  ‘Passport in order?’

  No point prolonging the inevitable.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Plane leaves in an hour. Tickets and briefing notes are in the envelope.’

  He nudged the offensive package across the table, happy to be rid of it.

  ‘May I ask where I’m going? How long I’ll be gone?’ Her voice invited battle.

  Today Highgrove didn’t have it in him to fight. He squeezed his tired eyes closed, feeling the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders. ‘It’s in the envelope. Close the door on your way out.’

  She slammed the door closed, her last act of defiance, letting the crashing wood mask a string of obscenities.

  An anaemic sun struggled to break through a gunmetal sky but at least the rain, which had all but drowned the city over the last week, had relented, drawing back into slate clouds to build up for the next deluge.

  Cloying aviation fuel hung pungent in the air, burning Damon’s eyes and nostrils, churning his stomach like buttermilk at a dairy farm.

  To the left was an enormous aluminium aircraft hangar, to the right, a Boeing 747 with the family crest painted on its tail fin; the ground crew prepping it for take off.

  Damon entered the hangar.

  The facilities inside were pretty basic; a bank of grubby plastic chairs, a toilet that looked like it might be harbouring the early strains of bubonic plague and a kitchenette; a grease splattered coffee pot bubbling away on a stove.

  ‘They’re not used to your kind in here,’ Karen said.

  Karen had been Damon’s PA for the last four years. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

  ‘At least they’ve got coffee,’ he said, eyeing the suspect brew, trying to find a positive in his new job description.

  ‘You want some of that?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  In less than twenty four hours Damon had been demoted from Director of Communications to glorified babysitter.

  It was hard not to feel bitter but he was going to try to find as many positives as he could.

  Karen poured the sludgy brew into a stained coffee mug, handing it to Damon.

  ‘At least it’s hot.’

  ‘Here, I might have a Danish pastry left over from breakfast.’

  Things were looking up already.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver. You didn’t happen to see a newspaper around anywhere did you?’

  ‘Two in your briefcase. Way ahead of you.’

  A tattooed mechanic climbed out of the broken hull of a plane, switching the dial on the tinny radio to a radio station specialising in 60s tunes.

  Damon grabbed the newspapers, a sheaf of papers falling to the floor as he did.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your itinerary and those journalist bios you asked for.’

  He scanned the itinerary first.

  Damon had organised hundreds of press conferences and media trips over the years. It was common to wine and dine the media. A bit of liquor and some free gifts were effective ways to generate positive publicity.

  Sure, it was a cheap trick but everyone did it.

  Typical of The William S Club. They had taken something marginally ethical and kicked it into overdrive, resulting in three weeks of pure partying, kicking off with a massive celebrity filled bash in Paris for New Year’s Eve.

  The party then moved to Nice, Venice, Portofino, Dubai, Hong Kong, Phuket, Bali and Sydney, staying in the crème de la crème of Harvey properties along the way.

  It was the media equivalent of an all-inclusive Contiki Tour.

  He flicked through the bios.

  Most of the journos Damon had dealt with over the years were plain Janes and average Joes; an eclectic mix of young and old, obese and slim, pretty and pretty darn ugly.

  The William S Club had dredged the media world for the only group of journalists who’d be just as at home on the cover of their publications. They were all model wannabes.

  What the hell did The William S Club have up their collective sleeves?

  Baker opened his eyes.

  Night had fallen and sweat pooled beneath him, soaking his head and clothes.

  A television blared – another one of Tank’s B-grade horror movies.

  Outside came the pop, pop, pop of fireworks punctuating the night sky.

  The neighbourhood had kicked it up a notch, celebrating the start of a new year with an assortment of barbeques, drunken parties and extra loud make up sex from the couple next door.

  Baker closed his eyes. He had nothing to celebrate. Not until he found Victoria.

  Immediately his memory began reaching for the floating filaments of his dream.

  The first thing he heard was the screaming and then images floated through his brain like an amateur filmstrip.

  He groaned, the dream so real it became a physical pain.

  He had entered the world of his own private horror movie.

  Scene one was always the same. News footage.

  A body, burned and blackened, the smouldering wreckage of a twisted car a short distance away.

  The victim was Scott Critchlow and Baker bore the full responsibility for his death.

  Scene two began rolling.

  More news footage.

  Yellow tape stretched around a grungy, derelict motel room - mould growing on the ceiling like mushrooms in a field, tattered bedspreads covering two single beds. An empty pill container discarded on the floor, the tablets strewn across a bed, stuck in vomit…

  A slender body, locked in a rigor mortis death dance, beautiful face contorted in pain, blonde hair stuck to a once pink cheek. Gasping for air. Terrified brown eyes, a singular voice wavering over the top of everything else, one word, reverberating through it all.

  ‘Daddy.’

  Baker jerked awake, his heart hammering a disco in his chest. His whole body cold and clammy.

  Inside his stomach, his muscles retched and the bile roiled.

  ‘Victoria, where the hell are you?’

  Chapter Four:

  Charlotte emerged from the back of a black Mercedes Benz, still wearing her bright coat and accessories, lugging a battered, well-travelled lollypop pink suitcase out after her.

  Like a vivid rainbow after a violent storm, she injected vibrant colour into the grey city in much the same way the Indians had infused spice into the national cuisine.

  The chauffeur rushed around to her side, trying to wrestle the cumbersome case out of her hands.

  ‘Allow me, Miss.’

  ‘Leave it. I’m fine.’

  Don’t be a bitch. The poor man is just doing his job.

  Shamefaced, she held out the handle, a peace offering for her bitchiness.

  An elfin bottle-blonde hostess with tight buttocks and a curvy figure hugged in Chanel met her at
the top of the stairs. ‘You must be Ms Burke. Welcome aboard.’

  Charlotte moved towards a row of powder blue leather lounges where she was met by a second hostie.

  ‘They’re Versace,’ this one said, handing Charlotte a crystal Champagne flute. ‘You want some Bollinger?’

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. Was she supposed to be impressed? ‘Sure.’

  Bubbles tingled and popped inside her mouth.

  ‘Bread?’

  She bit into the crusty French bread. It was the perfect consistency – crunchy on the outside, doughy on the inside.

  Okay, maybe a little impressed.

  ‘Take a seat, Ms Burke. We’re ready to depart.’

  Clipping herself into the seatbelt, Charlotte glanced around at the other journalists.

  They were all in party mode; some even drinking Bollinger straight from the bottle, lapping up the luxuries like snails eating poisoned pellets.

  But like a defeated soldier surrendering to the victorious army Charlotte wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  The dying moments of Wagner’s Das Rheingold opera washed over him.

  William loved many composers but Wagner was a personal favourite.

  Better still, he loved listening to them on the original LPs.

  Call it eccentric but those new fangled CDs didn’t hold a candle to vinyl.

  There was much to do today, including more property to acquire.

  Funny how he had never lost the drive for it in all these long years.

  Once, a long time ago, he’d had other interests and passions, but somewhere along the way, they’d fallen by the wayside.

  A different life – a different man - to the one he had carefully constructed.

  The mobile phone in his lap beeped. The update he’d requested.

  All his guests were present and accounted for including his star pupil.

  He moved from a weathered recliner in his personal corner to an ultra-modern computer system he shared with his son and grandson.

  Only one object in the basement was more important.

  Bill entered the room, the metallic door hissing closed behind him.

  ‘You’re just in time. Our guests have arrived.’