Private Sydney Page 3

  I didn’t have a choice. Over the next half-hour, punctuated with queries about song lists and raffle items, I gained a picture of Eric Moss. An only child, focused and driven by the desire to excel in his field.

  I was surprised to learn that Contigo Valley was a non-profit organisation. And tax exempt. There weren’t many with turnovers in excess of hundreds of millions. Greenpeace was the only one that came to mind.

  Funded by donations, loans and occasional government grants, Contigo raised revenue by developing and selling new trauma devices, safety equipment and retrieval vehicles. They were awarded large supply contracts both in Australia and overseas.

  ‘Bushfires, tsunamis, floods, landslides, man-made disasters. My father increased survival rates for victims and emergency service workers. A device for giving life-saving fluids to injured soldiers has changed protocols in emergency departments and the combat field. Contigo even trains soldiers from China and the USA.’

  I could see why Jack Morgan, a former US marine, had invested in the company. It was a cause close to his heart. Still, I needed more about Eric Moss the man.

  According to Eliza he was fit aside from a few extra kilos, didn’t smoke or drink and only reluctantly attended work functions. He avoided the media, leaving that to the chairman of Contigo’s board, Sir Lang Gillies. It sounded as if Moss enjoyed his own company more than other people’s. At fifty-eight, he was a workaholic.

  ‘Any conflicts with colleagues or subordinates?’

  ‘Only with Lang Gillies. Dad’s been feeding his ego for decades. The old man spends his life on company junkets, in the social pages, collecting awards for work Dad did.’

  ‘Why keep someone like Gillies on?’

  ‘He has influential friends and Dad prefers life out of the spotlight.’

  That made sense. Sir Lang and his third wife were regulars on Sydney’s social circuit. Lang was politically connected, having made his money as a property developer in the most corrupt period in the state government’s history.

  I took notes. ‘So Gillies received the resignation email on Friday?’ Moss’s departure should have been big news in the business community.

  Eliza’s eyes shone with a new intensity.

  ‘The old man is lying. Lang told me Dad felt like a change. And how he’d wished Dad well.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s what happened?’

  ‘No way. Dad would never have left, let alone like that. Besides, Lang knows that without Dad the organisation would fail. And …’ she poked the table with her index finger, ‘no one else has seen the resignation email.’

  I agreed that Gillies’s disinterest in Moss’s plans was questionable.

  The receptionist interrupted again, this time for a call.

  Eliza held out her hand for the phone and covered the mouthpiece.

  ‘I’ve put together a list of places Dad goes, where and when he was born, where he lived, anything that might help.’

  As she took the call, I flicked through the two-page document. It made Moss sound like a saint.

  ‘No trappings of wealth despite the potential to command millions in salary.’ I read further. ‘Drives an eight-year-old Toyota four-wheel drive.’

  Eliza put the phone on the table with a thump. ‘Dad has never gone more than a few hours without calling back. No matter where he is. If he’s on a training exercise, he has a satellite phone with him.’ She bent lower to lock eyes with me. ‘Something’s really wrong.’

  Clomping heels rapidly approached. Another young woman tapped a clipboard and Eliza nodded.

  ‘I’d appreciate if you keep me informed, regularly. Is that all?’

  I was taken aback by the curt end to our conversation. She’d just raised the issue of foul play involving her father then closed off any chance of further discussion. As I stood and pushed my chair back in, she remained seated. A queen holding court with minions at her disposal.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gisto,’ she said, shaking my hand.

  I was unceremoniously dismissed.

  Chapter 11

  BACK AT THE office, Darlene had managed to restore all computer function. The virus had been isolated to the reception computer, which was lucky in the grand scheme. The new glass was fitted and Collette had cleaned the foyer. It was as if the morning’s distractions had never happened.

  I found Johnny in his office. The check on Louise Simpson was straightforward. An insurance company was stalling on compensation for an industrial accident that killed her husband, Vincent, eight months ago. She had two kids and lived modestly in Killara, in a home with a mortgage currently paid by her late husband’s parents. She was a cleanskin, without even a parking ticket to her name.

  My one concern was the group where Louise Simpson advertised.

  ‘What about the surrogacy site the Finches found her on?’

  Johnny flicked through some papers. ‘It has a firewall up, so I couldn’t find out who runs it. If you want me to, I can, but it’ll take more time.’

  ‘There must be legitimate organisations you can run it by.’

  Johnny was already ahead. ‘I contacted the two best known surrogacy groups, whose reps work with state governments on clarifying the laws on overseas surrogacy that at the moment differ in every state. They both vouched for the content and advice on the site.’ He pulled it up on his 24-inch screen.

  ‘Apparently it’s the only one that offers to connect people with altruistic surrogates in this country. It also connects couples to agencies overseas that deal in commercial pregnancies and navigate visas, birth certificates, documentation of legal parents, and other bureaucratic nightmares. From what I can see, the hopeful parents are pretty vulnerable every step in the process.’

  I wondered if the Finches had been burnt overseas, which was why they were turning to a local surrogate. Either way, it didn’t matter. Johnny could send through the information he’d collected and invoice the Finches. We need have nothing more to do with them or their life choices.

  I was relieved. At least something today had been straightforward. I needed Mary on the Moss case right away. We’d start at Contigo’s city office in Martin Place. If Lang Gillies had lied about the resignation, Eric Moss’s disappearance had just become our top priority.

  Chapter 12

  THE WALK TO Martin Place was quick and silent. On our way to the MLC Centre, Mary stopped short of the revolving door and looked back at a memorial to the victims of the 2014 siege.

  She had been directly across at the Channel Seven studios interviewing a client, an hour before the gunman entered the café.

  ‘You couldn’t have changed the outcome,’ I said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  She shrugged and pushed through the door.

  Contigo Valley’s central office was on the sixty-fourth floor of prime Sydney real estate. Prominent legal chambers, international finance corporations, a Russian bank and the US Consulate all shared space in the building. It was a stone’s throw from State Parliament as well.

  We were greeted at reception by Eric Moss’s personal assistant. In his mid-twenties, Oliver Driscoll was around 170 centimetres with hair shorter at the sides than on top and dark-rimmed glasses. He quickly led us to an outer office with an interconnecting door.

  ‘This is where we work.’ He opened double doors into a larger room. A white shag-pile rug filled some of the void between a nondescript desk and sofa. The desk was conspicuously clear apart from a closed A4 portfolio diary in its centre.

  ‘How long have you worked with Mr Moss?’ I asked.

  ‘Two years.’ He seemed focused on the piece of rug. ‘I can’t believe he just walked out. Without telling me.’

  ‘Have you cleared out his things or is this how Mr Moss likes to keep it?’

  ‘Eric’s fastidious. He writes everything in the diary. Calls, meetings, functions. I don’t get why he’d ever leave it behind.’

  Mary wandered around the room. ‘Does he have a problem with computers o
r smartphone calendars?’

  ‘He’s just old-school and likes to have everything written down.’

  Mary wondered, ‘Doesn’t that reduce efficiency?’

  ‘In the afternoons I fill in his upcoming appointments. If he’s at the base, I phone him and he writes it all down. He always has it with him.’

  I moved around to the desk. ‘May I?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I opened the diary. It had functions organised for the next six months. Fundraisers, training courses, and a list of everyone he called. From the volume of calls listed each day, Moss seemed averse to emails as well, yet that was how he’d chosen to resign.

  The assistant hovered. ‘If Eliza is asking you to help, she must be worried too.’

  ‘Too?’ I looked across at Driscoll.

  ‘Something stinks. Eric would never walk away. This was his life, and we were like family. He’d work from six in the morning until midnight. Even slept on the fold-out couch when he was in town.’ Driscoll moved to the other door and opened it. ‘This is his bathroom.’

  A toothbrush and razor were still in place in the shower recess.

  Mary quietly checked out the bookshelf then tried to open a credenza beneath the desk. It was locked.

  ‘Do you have a key?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Eric is the only one with that. Why would he keep an office key and leave his personal belongings? None of this makes sense.’ Driscoll sat on the sofa, face in his hands. I had to wonder about how close the assistant was to his boss.

  ‘Did Eric have problems or disagreements with any of the staff?’

  Driscoll shook his head. ‘He gets on with everyone, knows everyone’s names. Even kept paying one woman who had cancer and ran out of sick leave.’

  He smoothed his skinny trousers. ‘Eric believes you can tell a man’s character by the way he treats people who can’t further your career.’

  It sounded as if Moss and his daughter shared philosophies.

  I sat beside him.

  ‘How are the staff taking the news?’

  ‘Donors are panicking, groups are cancelling training camps … It’s exactly what Eric wouldn’t want to happen. And none of us wants to work for –’

  ‘Driscoll!’ a voice snapped.

  The assistant sat to attention. ‘Quick, hide Eric’s diary,’ he whispered.

  Mary dropped it to the floor and pushed it under the desk with her feet.

  Chapter 13

  I RECOGNISED THE distinctive cravat and striped jacket from the social pages. Sir Lang Gillies, chairman of Contigo’s board.

  ‘You should have told me Eliza sent visitors.’ He made no attempt to hide his disdain.

  ‘Craig Gisto, Private Sydney, and this is Mary –’

  ‘I know who you are and you have been misled.’ He turned and limped on what looked like a bad hip. Mary and I followed with the assistant close behind.

  ‘Mr Moss’s daughter has asked us to find her father. If you know where he might be –’

  ‘The Bahamas, Noumea? Have you tried Tasmania, the Midlands?’ He waved arthritic fingers in the air. ‘He always talked about going there for a holiday.’

  I stepped into line with him, past a couple of offices with staff answering phones.

  I decided to be non-combative in my approach, despite the obvious animosity towards us. ‘We understand the timing and manner of his resignation was surprising.’

  ‘How so? The man was free to leave without notice. He’s no doubt taken up a more lucrative offer. And before you ask, it wasn’t my place to question him. I didn’t care to know.’

  ‘How many years was he with Contigo?’

  ‘I’ve been on the board for twenty-seven years. So a couple more than that. We built this organisation into what it is today …’

  If that was the case, it was unusual; no golden handshake, no farewell, no drinks. Not even a media release.

  ‘… into a world-class research and development centre.’

  We moved into an office. Mahogany bookshelves housed rows of photos, reaffirming Sir Lang’s importance to the world. Framed images of him with prime ministers, celebrities and a US president.

  Gillies made sure we noticed. ‘Impressive,’ I said for his benefit as he plonked himself into a high-back leather chair behind a desk the Queen would have been proud to own. The assistant and Mary lingered in the doorway.

  ‘Is there any other reason you can think of that might have prompted Eric Moss to change jobs so suddenly? I mean, a quarter of a century with no changes, then,’ I snapped my fingers, ‘he’s gone in a flash. Without telling the people he’s closest to.’

  Gillies opened the financial newspaper on his desk and looked up, as if bored by our presence.

  ‘I cannot discuss Moss’s work with you due to commercial in confidence.’ He reached into a drawer and pulled out some glossy brochures. ‘These should tell you all you need to know about what we do. Now, I have an organisation to run. Oliver will show you out.’

  I took the promotional material and entered the corridor.

  ‘And, Oliver, bring me Eric’s diary. I’ll be personally handling all his appointments and calls.’

  ‘I’ll have to search for it, Sir Lang.’ The assistant seemed defeated. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘There’ll be significant restructuring in this office. Let the staff know that anyone breaching confidentiality by speaking to these people will be the first to go.’

  Gillies really ticked me off. He was beyond arrogant. Anyone with a heart would want to make sure Eliza’s concerns were allayed.

  Unless he had something to hide.

  Chapter 14

  I WASN’T ABOUT to be railroaded by Lang Gillies. I popped my head inside his door and asked if he objected to my using the bathroom on the way out. He grunted, but could hardly refuse.

  Mary seized the opportunity to distract the old man by pointing to a photo of him in military uniform proudly displayed on his desk. I stepped back into the corridor and left her standing at ease by the picture, hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘Where did you serve, sir?’

  The old soldier couldn’t resist the urge to brag. And Mary could keep him talking with her knowledge and experiences in the military. It bought me a few minutes with Oliver.

  ‘If Eric’s in some sort of trouble, maybe I can help,’ he volunteered.

  Thankfully, Gillies’s threat hadn’t intimidated the man who worked closest with Moss.

  ‘Any idea what sort of trouble Eric could be in?’

  Oliver scratched his neck. ‘The guy’s a monk. Doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble, take drugs or date. It’s offensive the way Gillies’s acting like he didn’t ever exist. He’s got to know where Eric went.’

  This could be the only opportunity I had to ask. ‘Were you two having an intimate relationship?’

  The assistant smirked. ‘You think Eric and I were an item? God no, he’s way too serious for me. Besides, he was married to this place. From what I can tell, he wasn’t interested in either sex. It was like he was asexual.’

  I asked Driscoll if he could tell me who looked after the accounts.

  He hurried back to his office and wrote down the name of the chief financial officer who Moss dealt with. ‘She’s fond of Eric and due to retire in a few months. She won’t have much to lose by talking to you.’

  He collected Moss’s diary. The information was only in hard copy, nothing electronic. Once Gillies got it, any leads would be kept from us.

  ‘Any chance I can get a quick look before you hand that over?’

  ‘Better than that.’ He glanced around to ensure no one was in earshot. ‘I’ll photocopy it first.’ He held the diary to his chest.

  I couldn’t walk out with papers now and it was unlikely I’d ever be allowed back in.

  ‘Can you courier the copies to our office?’

  ‘I can’t see me getting away until late. Maybe I can drop them off before I check in with Eliza.’r />
  ‘How well do you know Miss Moss?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes when we were working late, Eliza would bring dinner and eat with us. They’re both really good people.’

  We left the office with the diary still in Oliver’s hands.

  As he closed the door behind us the assistant said, ‘Lang Gillies may come across as a buffoon but he has a lot of powerful friends. You’d never want to cross the vindictive SOB.’

  Chapter 15

  FROM THE FOYER, I called the financial officer’s number.

  Renee Campbell listened as I introduced myself and explained that there were concerns about Eric Moss’s whereabouts.

  Oliver Driscoll, however, had beaten me to it.

  She agreed to meet us in Martin Place in five minutes and suggested a café that made great flat whites.

  As the coffees arrived, a small woman in her late sixties approached. She had short, wispy grey hair and wore a pink crocheted vest over a navy skivvy and skirt.

  She took a seat and thanked us for meeting her.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

  ‘It sounds like his leaving shocked almost everyone. Do you have any idea where he went?’

  She stared at the coffee. ‘No. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d resigned. We were supposed to meet that afternoon.’

  ‘Was there a problem with accounts?’

  She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a sip before answering.

  ‘Not really. I couldn’t locate the receipts for a table at a charity ball. I happened to mention it to Eric in passing. He said he had them in his office and told me to come at four o’clock the next day. He’s so lovely; he put half an hour aside so we could catch up over a cuppa.’

  Mary glanced at me.

  ‘How much were the tickets for?’

  ‘$10,000. It’s like petty cash. Last year we turned over four hundred and seventy million dollars from donations and revenue.’