Dark Country (37 page)

Gil thought quickly, putting together the first steps of a plan.

‘Okay, we’ll ask him about the will. But the other … I want some copies of it, but I don’t want anyone to know about it, yet.
I want to read it thoroughly first. When we act on it, it will have to be done quickly, and be well coordinated. I don’t want
anything leaked or even hinted at before then.’

How he’d act, he wasn’t sure yet. It would depend on the contents, the level of detail about the operations – and it might
depend on the barrister’s opinion of the will. Not to mention depending upon how long he survived, now that word could be
out that he had the will.

Kris drove them to another car park, in the business end of Macquarie Street, and together they walked up the block to her
father’s chambers.

The décor of the reception area spoke, in no uncertain terms, of money. Parquetry floors, solid timber front desk, leather
lounge chairs, original artworks on the walls. Behind the desk a man in his thirties, in dark suit, white shirt and tie, suggested
‘security’ rather than ‘secretary’ – an impression backed-up by Gil’s quick scan of the foyer. He counted at least three security
cameras, noted the security doors beyond the area and the monitor not entirely hidden by the high desk-front.

Kris strode up to the desk with straight back, head held high and an air of confidence anyone would be hard pressed to rebuff.

‘Please inform Mr Matthews that his daughter Kris is here, and the matter is urgent.’

The security man gave them both a good once-over as he made the call to advise of their presence. Leather jackets, bike helmets,
no appointment – they probably ranked high on the guy’s risk scale, Gil figured. If Kris hadn’t mentioned she was Matthews’
daughter, they would most likely have been politely escorted out.

Kris paced while they waited. It was subtle – more of a stroll, pretending to examine the artworks, but he knew her now, recognised
her restlessness, the unusual tension. She faced criminals without a flinch, had dealt efficiently and logically with all
the dramas unfolding around them, yet the prospect of seeing her father unsettled her.

It suddenly stunned him how little he knew about her background. She’d been in Dungirri five or six years, worked outback
for longer than that, and her father was a barrister – that was about the extent of his knowledge. He knew her character –
her toughness, her compassion, her courage, the ethical core of her – yet he had no clue what influences had
shaped her, what her life and experiences had been before the past few years in Dungirri.

The gilt board listing the members of the chambers only gave him one more piece of information: the second name from the top,
presumably ranked in order of importance, listed
John Matthews, QC
.

Gil didn’t know the finer details of the legal world, but he did know a Queen’s Counsel was not just a barrister, but a senior
one, recognised by his peers – and appointed years ago, before they’d changed the designation to Senior Counsel.

He didn’t have to wait long to meet the man. The automatic doors beyond the reception desk swooshed open, and Matthews strode
out, a commanding presence in an impeccable business suit.

‘Kris! What a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were in Sydney,’ he greeted her, kissing her on the cheek, but not, Gil
noted, hugging her.

‘Hi, Dad. Sorry to burst in on you unannounced. Can you spare me fifteen minutes? I need some urgent advice on a serious matter.’

‘Come through. This morning’s case got postponed, so I’ve got a little time. And your friend …’

‘Morgan Gillespie – Gil.’ Gil held out his hand and returned the man’s assessing look and his bone-crunching handshake.

Gil noted the security as they followed Matthews – the swipe-card controlled door from the foyer into an area of meeting rooms
and junior offices; discreet cameras; another swipe-card entry into a corridor of offices.

The office he ushered them into was designed to impress, with an antique oak desk, a matching large table with velvet-upholstered
chairs, and a couple of leather armchairs in an alcove. Bookshelves lined the walls, loaded with legal tomes, the shelves
nearest the desk also holding an array of photographs.

He picked a teenage Kris in a family portrait, laughing with a red-haired brother, another brother disapprovingly serious,
and a much younger sister, dark-haired and pretty, between her parents. Kris had her mother’s colouring, but there the resemblance
ended. Impeccable make-up and hairstyling highlighted her mother’s looks, but he discerned little of character in the portrait.
Whereas Kris – and her brother – glowed with life and energy.

In another photo, with a twenty-something Kris in police uniform, she was flanked by her parents, her sister, and the serious
brother, all looking proud. Her police academy graduation, he guessed, and wondered briefly where the laughing brother was.

Matthews invited them to sit at the table, offered them coffee and, when he learned they’d had an early breakfast on the road,
went to the phone on his desk and ordered a light lunch to be delivered.

Gil left it to Kris to begin, and she did as soon as her father had joined them at the table.

‘Dad, this matter has connections with a police investigation, but I need to stress that I’m here on a personal basis, not
official.’

‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked sharply. ‘Accused of something?’

‘No, not that,’ she assured him. ‘And neither is Gil. But some connections of Gil’s have been murdered, and there is a
distinct possibility of police corruption in the investigations. I believe his life is threatened, and more so since we found
this a couple of hours ago.’ She took the will out of the envelope, unfolded it, and passed it across to her father.

He withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, unhurriedly read through the document, pausing only to call ‘come in’
when a knock came on the door. A middle-aged woman wheeled in a trolley with an assortment of gourmet sandwiches, cheeses,
fresh fruit and coffee, laid them out on the table, and departed again with a warm smile but no comment.

Kris passed Gil a plate and napkin. ‘Eat,’ she ordered in a low voice. ‘I don’t know when we’ll get another chance.’

He needed the coffee more than the food, but he put a couple of sandwiches on his plate.

Matthews finally laid down the will and set his reading glasses on top of it.

‘The testator was a friend of yours?’

‘No.’ Gil didn’t care how blunt it sounded. ‘I knew him, but he was no friend.’

‘Ah. Nevertheless, it appears to be a substantial inheritance.’

Gil held his gaze. ‘One I don’t want.’

‘Have you heard of Vince Russo, Dad?’ Kris interjected. ‘Do you know anything about him?’

‘I’ve heard the name, but I never met him. There was an item recently in the newspaper about his murder. I understand he was
a successful businessman, predominantly involved with residential property development.’

Funded by dirty money, Gil wanted to say, but didn’t. Matthews was a senior barrister, the kind very careful with his
words, and Gil had learned over the years to tread equally as carefully with lawyers.

‘We need to know a few things, Dad. First, if the will appears legitimate and legally binding, and whether that stipulation
about the exclusion of his son and nephews could be contestable. And secondly, if it’s possible to find out through public
sources, more about San Damiano Enterprises.’

Matthews strolled to his desk and made a brief phone call. ‘Adrian, do a search on San Damiano Enterprises. Bring what you
find to my office within ten minutes. Thank you.’

Returning to his chair, he leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Regarding your first question, assuming the document
is genuine, it appears to be comprehensive. Everything is contestable, of course; however, given the explicit exclusion, and
the recent date of the will, I would be surprised if a challenge resulted in an amendment to the legacy. There would have
to be a strong argument. I presume the son and nephews are not minors, with a reasonable expectation of parental support?’

‘No, they’re not minors,’ Kris replied.

‘What if I don’t want it?’ Gil asked.

Matthews steepled his fingers, studied him. ‘You would be free to dispose of the inheritance as you wish, of course. Although
if the assets are as considerable as they appear, I would strongly recommend consultation with a good tax accountant. I take
it you believe the son should inherit? Or his daughter?’

Gil shook his head. ‘Marci’s dead. She was murdered the day before Vince. And Tony …’ He glanced at Kris, unsure how to express
it in exact, lawyerly terms.

‘Is under suspicion of complicity in both murders,’ Kris said.

‘Ah. So your reluctance is due to …?’

Gil pushed back his chair, strode to the window and watched the blue sky beyond the skyscrapers while he carefully put his
words together.

‘The source of the original money. The risk to people who … matter to me. And I don’t need it. I’ve got plenty, and what I’ve
got, I’ve earned … legitimately and above board.’

Matthews nodded slowly. ‘I think I understand. I don’t pay a lot of heed to rumours, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hear them.
I have heard a number of rumours regarding the Russo family, over the years. And the more recent ones …’ he eyed his daughter,
‘they have me worried for you. For both of you.’

‘I have to do my job, Dad,’ Kris said gently. ‘You know, getting the bad guys off the streets.’

He gave her a fond smile. ‘Yes, my girl, I know.’

A knock sounded on the door, and a clerk brought in a file.

‘San Damiano Enterprises, sir. This is what I’ve found so far. I’ll keep looking, if you like.’

‘Yes, please do so.’

Gil itched to look over the barrister’s shoulder as he flicked through the dozen or more sheets of paper. Instead, Kris pushed
his untouched sandwiches towards him, and he ate a couple of mouthfuls while Matthews read, and washed them down with rapidly
cooling coffee.

Matthews looked over his reading glasses at them. ‘It’s a private proprietary company. Russo was sole director and shareholder.
Financial reports aren’t readily available, but assets appear to include another large property portfolio. The company is
also
listed as a shareholder in a considerable number of publicly listed companies, and as a significant donor to charity.’

Gil swallowed a swear word. There went his hopes that San Damiano was simply a valueless holding company.

Matthews went to the computer on his desk, typed in a few words, and scanned the results. ‘I thought so. I’m assuming Russo
was Catholic. San Damiano is the church where Saint Francis of Assisi had a vision of Christ instructing him to “repair his
house”. From what you’ve told me, the name of the company, and the will, suggests that he was seeking redemption, or trying
to right wrongs.’

That accorded with Simon’s comments earlier, but it didn’t make Gil any happier about the result. He heartily wished Vince
had left him right out of his bid for salvation. Getting someone else to dob in his son didn’t amount to much redemption,
from Gil’s perspective.

‘That reminds me,’ Kris said, obviously thinking of the same thing. ‘I need to copy some documents. Can I use your copier,
Dad?’

Her father opened a connecting door through to another office. ‘Madeline will help you if you need it.’

And that left Gil alone with her father. He felt the man’s considering gaze, turned and confronted it.

‘I don’t suppose you could persuade her to go somewhere safe, or stay with you?’ he asked the older man.

‘If you’ve known my daughter for long, you’ll know that no-one can persuade her against what she believes is right. Least
of all me.’

There was sadness in his words, and obviously some history, but he continued without giving a chance for questions. ‘The people
who matter to you … is she one of them?’

Gil didn’t lie. ‘Yes.’

The man ceased to act as a senior barrister, became simply a father. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Keep silent, for now. Don’t mention to anyone – not even others in the family – that we’ve been, or what we’ve discussed.
I’d suggest that you also put your security people on alert. I doubt we were tailed here, but someone may make the connection
between Kris and you.’

Unless the Russos really dug about for Kris’s history, he hoped her common-enough name should keep her family out of it.

Kris returned with a small stack of envelopes. She passed one to her father. ‘That’s a copy of the will. Could you keep it
secure? And this too.’ After an instant’s hesitation, she covered her father’s hand with hers. ‘If I’m not in contact within
forty-eight hours, Dad, please copy the contents, and have it sent by secure courier to the people whose names I’ve written
inside. It’s important.’

‘I will.’ He kissed her on the forehead, and then drew her into a brief hug. ‘Be careful, both of you. And next time you’re
in Sydney, plan on a little time with the family, hey? Your mother misses you. And Royce and Steph.’

Royce and Steph
, Gil noted. Not Royce, Steph and …?