Liars, page 14
‘Dev would fancy her chances of persuading Viv to sell. Viv’s always been keen on her. She used to be able to get him to do anything she wanted.’
‘But not the thing he wanted, I’d guess.’
‘Barbara!’
‘Well?’
‘Dead on.’
‘And Viv is still single, is he not?’
‘Always has been, as far as I know.’
Barb was silent for a few moments. ‘I’m not one to speak ill of people. On the other hand, we need to be frank. Viv is unusual. Not warm. Not great with people. Doesn’t look you in the eye. He joined my bridge club a couple of years ago. Whenever he lost he turned red and got huffy. We were all relieved when he left.’
‘Again, I’ve known Viv forever,’ said Seb, ‘so hard to think of him as a killer, especially of his brother, but he gets two-thirds of a house, so he has a motive.’ He paused, face creased in thought. ‘Also …’
‘What?’
‘Gary told me that Dev asked him to invest in the development, and that he was going to. I’m not sure how much, or how much he needs the development to happen, but …’
‘It’s another lead. See, this is why we’re better than those Homicide detectives. We know everyone.’ She tapped her nose. ‘Inside info.’
Seb couldn’t stop a smile.
‘I’ve been thinking about the three thousand cash Joe had,’ she continued. ‘He didn’t earn it, and no one would have given or lent him that amount after Viv told us not to. I can’t even imagine him stealing it from someone’s house, because no one keeps that much cash anymore.’
‘Could his mum have left it for him?’
‘She lived off the pension and spent every spare dollar on those terrible poker machines. I tried to tell her, but … well. Perhaps addiction runs in the family. I liked Joe,’ continued Barb, ‘but he had a dark side. He lived with a big drug habit for several years without having much gainful employment, so he must have done all sorts of things to get money. The only explanation I can think of for that three thousand dollars is that he discovered someone’s secret and blackmailed them. That’s why it’s cash. If you were being blackmailed, neither party would want an electronic record of the transaction. What do you think?’
‘It’s … possible.’
‘So we have the cash, the envelope and the handwriting on the envelope. Can you trace the serial numbers on the money?’
‘That only happens in movies. No.’
‘The envelope?’
‘We can look, but you can probably buy them at any newsagent.’
Out of her back pocket Barb pulled a plastic bag containing an envelope with ‘JOE’ written on the front in block capitals. ‘Handwriting analysis? That’s a thing, yes?’
‘I could only get it done if this was an official investigation, and this definitely isn’t. Wouldn’t help anyway. No one can analyse block capitals.’
‘Fingerprints?’ Barb tried.
‘Joe would have handled the envelope last, and blurred any others. Barb, even if you’re right about this, is it really a motive for murder? I can imagine blackmail being a motive to kill someone before the money is paid, but not after.’
‘The person might have worried Joe would come back for more. Say they paid him three thousand dollars to keep quiet about something. What’s to stop him asking for another three thousand in six months’ time? And again, six months later. The person might think the only way they can be sure it’s over is to kill him.’
Seb shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Barb returned the envelope to her pocket. ‘How are you going with Karen?’
‘She had court charges coming up and was trying to trade some information to get a more lenient sentence.’
‘That sounds interesting. What information?’
‘Don’t know yet. It might be totally unconnected to her death, but …’
‘… it might not be.’ Barb clapped her hands. ‘We’re finishing each other’s sentences! Like a real team. I saw one of those Marvel films. Way too loud, but they do that.’
Again, Seb failed to repress a smile. ‘I was looking at Karen’s Homicide file. Now they’ve closed the case, any cop can look at it, in case it’s relevant to another investigation. Everything I expected was in there, except there was no mention of Karen providing this info to police.’
‘Would you expect there to be?’
‘Only if the info she provided was valuable. If it was, there’s some online system that would have automatically alerted Homicide when they opened a file on her. I’ll follow it up.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe Joe’s and Karen’s deaths are connected, both part of some big iceberg we can only see the tip of. But maybe they’re …’
‘… not. We did it again!’ Barb exclaimed.
‘Actually, I was going to say, “entirely separate”.’
‘Same meaning. You do that. I’ll interview Dev and try to find out how important the Bullford Point development is to her. I’ll say it’s for the newsletter. A chance for her to put the positive side of her development. Can you find out more about how her company is going? How important this is for them?’
‘Yep.’
‘Plus there’s Joe’s podcast. It’s all on his computer. And he had a notebook too. I’ll check them out.’
CHAPTER 26
EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO DEV KERALA, 27 OCTOBER 2024
Hi Dev,
I’m writing a little article for our local Bullford Point newsletter about your proposed development. Can I interview you for it?
Barb
EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO BARB YOUNG, 27 OCTOBER 2024
Hi,
Would love to but things are at a complicated stage now, plus am super busy sorry.
Dev
EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO DEV KERALA, 27 OCTOBER 2024
Hi Dev,
No problem. I’ll be talking to some of those opposing your development, so thought I should offer you the opportunity to put the other side. Our newsletter goes into every shop, letterbox and bus stop in and around Bullford Point so I’m sure you’ll see a copy.
Barb
EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO BARB YOUNG, 27 OCTOBER 2024
Hi Barb,
How’s tomorrow 4.30 at my office?
Dev
CHAPTER 27
Seb stared at the phone on his desk, rubbing his hands together, going over his prepared lies and half-truths. All for the greater good, he told himself. He dialled.
‘Senior Sergeant Perkins. Inspector Drummond’s office,’ said a calm, efficient, middle-aged male voice.
Seb explained who he was. ‘I’m following up on an accused, Karen Kemp, who was referred to the inspector’s office after she offered to supply information, to try to get a police “Help” letter for her sentencing on theft matters.’
‘Yes. And …?’
Two little words, and Seb already felt on the defensive. ‘Well, I’m trying to find out a bit more about it.’
‘As you may be aware, dealing with those who provide information is a sensitive business. To protect them, and our investigations, we generally disclose very little.’
Seb tried to gather himself. ‘Understand, sir. Karen was murdered, three and a half weeks ago. The case has been solved, but I’m eager to know if the information she passed on may be relevant to my area, Bullford Point, as she was living there when she made the offer. I’m aware that she claimed she could identify figures connected to organised crime. Obviously, if they are in my area, I’d like to know about it.’
Sandra Hackett had told Seb that Karen’s information had nothing to do with Bullford Point, but Seb figured that playing ‘conscientious local cop’ gave him the best chance of finding out more.
‘I wondered if she passed on some information that could help me police my area better. We have very little crime here, and I want to keep it that way.’
‘Hmm. Well, I’m impressed by your curiosity,’ said Perkins. ‘Inspector Drummond says it’s a core value of good policing, as is being proactive, which you’re also doing. It’s a tricky one and, of course, it’s the inspector’s decision. I just do the admin. Let me take a look at the file, speak to him and find out what I can and can’t tell you. Can you come in and see me?’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘Let me … Okay, I’ve just had a cancellation the day after tomorrow. Ten thirty?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Goodo. Best you come here and we do it in person. You might be driving down here for nothing, but I’ll help you if I can.’
CHAPTER 28
Dev wasn’t normally one to re-read emails before she sent them, but this one needed to hit just the right tone. Friendly, thoughtful, convincing and … suggestive was too strong a word. So was flirty. Persuasive, perhaps.
Fuck it. Be honest. She was going for suggestive, flirty and even ‘If you sell me the house, I might just fuck your brains out.’ She wouldn’t, obviously, but it would definitely help if Viv thought she would. Exploiting the fact that he had always had the hots for her was just good business practice.
I hope I’ve convinced you that selling to us makes sense. On a personal level, if we can do this deal, it will be great to have an excuse to spend more time with you as we work through the details. It was so good to see you at the funeral. We all used to live in each other’s pockets, then what with careers and everything, I guess we drifted apart. Poor Joe’s death made me realise how valuable old friends are. You and I used to be close, and I do so hope we can be again.
She frowned at the last few words. Too formal, like that Jane Austen book they made her skim at school. She replaced ‘I do so hope we can be again’, with, ‘I do so hope we can re-ignite things’. That should get him going.
Quickly, before she was overcome with self-disgust, she pressed ‘send’. Despite having no belief in God, she said a little prayer and then swivelled her chair to look out across the water toward Bullford Point. It was a fifteen-minute drive around the bay, but a couple of hundred metres by water. She could swim there in ten minutes. Not that you’d try. A shark would get you for sure.
She rose from her impressively thick, dark, wooden desk – actually plastic, but wooden-looking – and stretched. Her office was tidy, modern and, most importantly, big. Anyone visiting would think she was doing well. Unfortunately they’d be wrong. She liked her third-floor view, liked her office, liked her job, hated the anxious feeling that reminded her that it might soon all come crashing down. Stop! She would get to the top. Ettalong zoning regulations limited building heights to just five storeys, so it wasn’t too far away.
She glanced at the clock. Looked brass, but also plastic. Barb would be here soon. She re-adjusted her face into something positive and optimistic, touched up her lipstick and found herself approaching the drinks cupboard, splashing gin into a glass, adding not-that-much tonic. She left out the gin bottle. Looked classy. That was the difference between gin and cereal. Leaving Sultana Bran out wouldn’t.
She took a swig and felt the soothing warmth spread through her. Alcohol, my sweet prince. Perhaps a bump as well. This was, after all, an opportunity to state her case. It was important she was at her best. She glanced quickly at the door and then extracted a small plastic bag from her pocket and sprinkled some white powder from it along the sideboard. Oh, all right, shelf. She produced a brown paper straw from her inside pocket, saved from her Life Booster breakfast smoothie, and hoovered it up. Whooshka! Now she was ready to do what she did best. Sell.
When Dev had started as a real estate agent, the hard bit wasn’t selling to prospective buyers. Any idiot could do that. Put up a sign, smile continuously, chase relentlessly, and you could offload a leaky cupboard in a ditch. The hard bit was persuading owners who wanted to sell to sign with you, rather than another agent. Initially, she talked too much and pushed too hard. Then one day it clicked. She had been pitching to an old couple selling the waterfront cottage they’d lived in for forty years to move into a retirement home. Every time she’d tried to tell them half-truths about the excellent results she’d achieved, they’d cut her off, reminiscing about the great times they’d had there, talking about their kids, describing how their area had changed. The questions they’d asked her weren’t about selling methods, reaching potential buyers, or whether repainting would generate a good return on investment. They were about her.
‘Where are you from?’ Bullford Point.
‘Do you come from a big family?’ One sister.
‘Did you always want to be a real estate agent?’ Always! (A lie, but with a not-great HSC, hating the Commerce degree she got into, and the band she managed imploding, talking shit for a living seemed the best option.)
‘What do you do in your spare time?’ Cycling and yoga. (More lies. The first she hadn’t done since she’d got her driver’s licence and the second she’d never done, but they sounded more wholesome than vaping, drinking and casual sex.)
She’d realised then that the key to hooking clients wasn’t demonstrating competence. It was getting them to like you. After the old couple signed the contract, to celebrate Dev bought herself a bike and a yoga mat. Occasionally she rode the bike. She hadn’t unrolled the mat yet, but it looked good in the corner of her lounge room.
After that, she scaled the ladder from real estate agent to property developer. It wasn’t difficult. Buy an old, rundown shithole that old, rundown people were selling, build the biggest house – or, even better, apartment block – that regulations allowed, and sell it. The only tricky bit was getting the money. If you used your own, you had to start small and progress was slow. Getting investors allowed her to scale up, plus you could charge them a handling and negotiation fee for dealing with owners, council, builders and potential buyers. It did mean she had to manage both ends, and somehow simultaneously convince both vendor and investor they were getting an amazing deal, but she was good at that.
She had done it twice, successfully, which gave her the confidence to try something bigger in Bullford Point. Knock down three houses, build a dozen apartments, and add shops on the bottom floor. The first two owners agreed, options were signed, and then along came Joe.
Unfortunately, her charm and selling skills hadn’t worked on her old friend. You can’t shit a shitter. Joe was used to playing people, and had a great bullshit detector. So she’d turned to plan B and offered him more money. That meant she had to stretch a little, but she had been ecstatic when he’d agreed to sell. She’d started dreaming about owning her own waterfront property and told her investor, Jack Mead, the coathanger baron, to get his money ready.
She had also, and this perhaps appeared reckless now, told the other two owners she was exercising her option to buy. It was only after she had emptied her bank account, maxed out both her credit cards and taken out a loan to finance the deposits paid to them that Jack told her that with a property price downturn predicted, his modelling suggested profitability would only be sufficient to justify his investment if Dev could deliver all three houses, not just two. In short, without Joe’s house, she was fucked.
That was fine until Joe changed his mind, backed out and betrayed her. He had informed her by email, the coward. When she read it she had thrown up.
She had poured everything she had and more into the other two Bayview Road properties. Without someone else’s money, she didn’t have anything left to develop them. It had taken her months to find Jack and then get him interested. Now he was gone, and she wasn’t confident she would be able to find anyone else.
If she sold the two other properties, the above-market price she had paid plus the housing market U-turn would mean she would lose plenty, but she couldn’t afford the interest to hold onto them until the market came good again. What had looked bulletproof on paper, had turned out to be an actual bullet, aimed at her.
She had persuaded Gary to pump in some much-needed funds with some only-a-little-exaggerated promises that, if the development went ahead, he would make a motza, but his cash alone wouldn’t be enough. She had actually already spent some of it, which was another worry. No problem if the development went ahead, but if it didn’t and he wanted his money back …
Then Joe died and she had a second chance. 28 Bayview had a new owner, one she was confident would say yes, especially if it was she who asked while batting her lashes and wearing something low cut which, let’s face it, was pretty much her whole wardrobe.
Her desk phone buzzed. She punched a button. ‘Speak.’
‘Barbara Young here to see you.’
‘Send her in.’
Today she wasn’t selling property. She was selling a vision. She already had provisional council approval and was confident that would convert into full approval, but residents could still bring pressure to bear by lodging objections and even funding a court appeal. She needed to win hearts and minds. Get Barbara onside, push a different narrative from the doom and gloom that witch Sue was spreading, talk up opportunity, down threat, get a favourable story in the newsletter and create some community buzz pushing their way. How hard could it be? Pity Barb was a she, unless she was a lesbian. Dev had always found it easier to persuade those who might be attracted to her. She had the tools, and wasn’t afraid to use them. There was a full-length mirror in her cupboard, but she didn’t need to check. She knew she looked great.
She opened her laptop and pretended to read an email. Look busy. She heard the door open, but kept studying the screen, frowning slightly with an expression she was confident conveyed intense concentration on something very important, and then looked up.
‘Barbara,’ she said flashing her big smile, the one that brought hardened businessmen to heel faster than the promise of a tax-efficient investment. She studied the older woman for clues. Short brown hair, big glasses, friendly smile, cream pants, blue jacket, bright scarf. Librariany. No lesbian vibes yet, but it was definitely on the cards.
