 
Risk

Free

Novel by

Graham Wilson

Copyright

Risk Free

Graham Wilson

Copyright Graham Wilson 2019

Published by BeyondBeyond Books

ISBN: 9780463261071

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without prior approval of the author. For permission to use contact Graham Wilson by email at grahambbbooks@gmail.com

## Chapter 1 – The Float

Stephen leaned back in his plush leather chair and cracked his knuckles, one by one. Then he raised his arms above his head and stretched all the aching muscles in his shoulders and neck. They felt tired but good, with that great satisfaction which comes when a major piece of work is finished. He glanced at this email one last time, re-opened the attachment, not needing to check but yet full of desire to admire his handiwork again: the ornate gold lettering was set in a shadowed background of glimpsed objects of great wealth, seen in a dim mirrored reflection. It was all set into an ornate gilt frame, redolent of the style of old masters paintings he had admired in art museums.

Prospectus for Gilt Investments

Public Offering

Once in a lifetime opportunity

No Risk Investment

Huge Potential for Capital Growth

Annual Return on Capital to exceed 10%

Over the page came the brochure's detail: all the components of the listing, beginning with a description of the full portfolio of assets held, along with many details of their exceptional value and promise for growth, accompanied by punchy info-graphics, coloured charts of upward trajectory. And then that final disclaimer, made as small as possible without appearing tacky.

'Nothing in this document may be taken as a Guarantee.

As with all investments purchasers should conduct their own due diligence to ensure their own financial security'

He would have liked to make the font of this part even smaller but did not want to run the risk of seeming to be hiding something; there really was nothing to hide, was there?

No!! A big capital NO!!

Time to get on with it! It was definitely time to send off this document he had just checked one last time, so as to satisfy himself it was legally accurate and met the prudential rules for a public listing.

He clicked the 'Send' Button on his email browser. The email vanished, en-route to his secretary, who would now send it off to the printers. It was to go out in gold leaf envelopes to 500 select clients who were being given first option on the float purchase, minimum lot size of 10,000 shares each at $10 per share, netting the listing company an initial return for these sales of at least a cool one fifty mill, not to mention the other fifty percent of shares which were being retained and distributed to company founders. His own bonus from this pool of stock was 20,000 shares. The prospectus suggested a likely upside of the float of 50% plus over two years and it guaranteed a 10% dividend return per year for the first two years. So, assuming it all went to expectation, he stood to pick up about $300 grand in a year's time, when free to sell. For starters, on Monday week, when the offering officially opened, he would collect his initial bonus of $100 grand, only a fair return for all the long hours he put into getting it all together over the last month.

Stephen opened his web browser, clicked into Google and typed Sports Cars, admiring the stream of images that covered the screen, he zoomed in on a couple then quickly rejected them as not having the right balance of flair and exclusiveness. A BMW caught his eye, shining chrome, silver paint and a black fold down roof. He felt himself salivate at the idea of driving it through Double Bay, with some gorgeous number by his side, her hair flowing in the wind. He looked at the price, the 150 number was a bit above his planned spend to use up the bonus, but then he thought, _What the hell, I stand to pick up an extra 300 bonanza in a year. Treat it as a down payment._

On impulse he found the closest BMW agent with one in stock and placed his order, reading out his credit card number for the 10% holding deposit. He hung up and paused to admire the car image on screen one last time before he got back to work.

Just as he was returning his attention to the other things he needed to do, his phone rang. It was his executive assistant, Janet, telling him she had a nosy female reporter from the Sydney Morning Herald on the line, Irina something. He did not recognise the name as belonging to one of their financial journalists he had been working hard to woo, so as to get positive stories about the float. But he thought, _What the hell, all publicity is good publicity, particularly if it bumps up demand for the shares and therefore that all important, first day trading result._

So he said to Janet to put Irina through and he would talk to her, looking forward to another chance to polish his soft sell routine before the launch, when he would take the stand for his talking head bit about the great value wrapped up in this float and how it met all the prudential requirements.

A female voice came down the line. She had barely said her name, Irina, followed by a Russian sounding surname, and he was off into his spiel, half expecting to hear back murmuring sounds of appreciation as he made all his key points. Nothing came back down the line so he kept on talking until he had it all covered. After a couple minutes he had touched all the bases. There was no reply. He found himself becoming annoyed at the silence from the other end. He forced himself to stop and ask what she thought. Still nothing came back. It was odd.

He asked, "Are you still there?"

"But of course, I did not ring to ask for a promo piece, I am sure I could have got this from one of your glitzy web images or brochures if interested, but I am not. I actually rang to ask a couple serious questions for an article I am researching about the long and less than illustrious history of the parent company, ARJ Engineering," she said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I am doing an investigative piece into the parent company, mainly focused in the 1970s and 1980s. In particular I am trying to find out about the chemicals and range of other products they manufactured as well as the safety processes they followed. It has been reported to me this company is doing something very similar to what happened with asbestos, separating the company from its long past history of using hazardous substances, to which it exposed its workers without proper care. I am reliably informed that, in a week, when the float happens, this separation will be complete and all chance of workers receiving compensation for past injuries will be gone.

"I wonder if you would care to comment on that. Oh, and by the way this phone conversation is being recorded, just in case you need to know."

## Chapter 2 - The Reporter

Irina put down the phone. Her hands were shaking; that despicable lawyer, so full of himself and how cleverly he was doing. Barely hidden beneath the over effusive gush was his chance to make millions for himself and his other corporate mates, all with at least big six figure salaries. It enraged her that he would get this money for doing next to nothing except robbing little people. The business journalist she talked to from her paper's financial section had clearly been pulled with this smooth selling routine, telling her it looked like a great investment, warning her to tread carefully before writing anything negative, lest they lose future revenue from company advertising. Already a six figure sum had been committed by the company for full page advertising and other special promotions in the week after the launch.

Perhaps she too would have been drawn in to the hype a couple months ago. But that was before she begun to discover just how many shitty things the company had done and how careless it had been with the lives and safety of the small people who had worked for them. Now she was just effing mad at these people, scum of the earth, high rolling corporate scum. Well, as one of her early mentors had said, don't get mad, get even. Or, as another cruder friend was wont to say, when you find turds in a swimming pool don't scoop them out, but pile more in. Go out, collect every dog turd you can find in the neighbouring parks and chuck them in too until the water becomes so foul that those swimming in it can't bear it. Then when they start to jump out you can catch them. She did not really like using such crudity herself, but it did seem to capture the essence of this situation.

She pulled her mind back from her anger and rationally analysed how she would play this. So far her story had three main legs, first the harmful exposure of workers in a factory in the 1970's to 1980's to one or more chemical solvents for washing machinery parts that were laced with a deadly contaminant, one called dioxin. In the past dioxin was just a name to her, now she had started to really appreciate how evil it was.

Secondly, a probable corporate cover up of these bad practises in the 1980s, after regulations had come into force which the company had continued to breach. Rather than changing practices to comply with laws banning certain chemicals and making rigorous protective measures mandatory, they sought to paper over the exposure, first using coercive practises to threaten anyone who complained, then systematically getting those people exposed off their books, using a mixture of restructuring and redundancy for trivial payouts, all with a non-disclosure clause. Over time they had cleverly terminated the employment of all those people likely to have been exposed. It was done in ways which made it all very difficult to trace back to source.

The people were got rid of on trivial pretexts, five minutes late for work, smoking out the back. This was mostly done in the time around the 'banana republic' recession that the country had to have, a time when job queues were growing rapidly and there were plenty more waiting in line to take their places. As best she could tell, over three to four years, all the people who had previously worked on the factory floor were gone.

There were no mass sackings where people would be likely to have a joint grievance and have kept in touch, just a steady stream of fortnightly or monthly terminations, until no one remained inside the company who really knew what happened. And, of course, when lots of people started to get sick a decade or two later, no one saw the pattern and connected the cases with their common history of exposure. So her best guess was thirty or forty people had died with an overlapping range of diseases and symptoms. This seemed extraordinary to her for a workplace of less than one hundred people, even more so as it seemed that no one else had asked any questions before. So far she had found twelve dead people out of twenty she had traced and she knew of three others, all who were currently seriously ill, in reality many were actually closer to dead than alive and most were likely to barely outlive the demise of their asset-less former company

And thirdly, with the new float there had come this latest round of restructuring, where the original company responsible had all its assets stripped out into a new and fully separate entity. So now, if anyone did make the sickness connection, all that remained was the shell of the past business. It would instantly become insolvent and cease operations if serious claims were brought against it.

As best she could tell it had kept a notional $5 million in remaining assets which it would divest over a decade in charitable donations, until the money was all gone and it was formally shut down. In its place was the new entity, Gilt Proprietary Limited, trading as Gilt Investments, with an expected post float market capitalisation pushing $500 million and a likely position in a couple years' time of a billion dollar plus company. Of course these donations would generate lots of positive press from grateful charities and effectively drown out any suggestions of the harm it had once done.

Sure the old company, ARJ Engineering, initialled from its founder, was only a small part of the new company, something around 20%. But it had been the driving force in doing the restructure and old ARJ, now in his eighties, held the largest Gilt shareholding. Not to mention that his son, RRJ, was a real corporate high flyer who schmoozed with politicians and media moguls. It was said that he was in line to become the managing director.

Irina knew all this in the way a smart investigative journalist, one who can almost see and taste a story of corruption.

But the challenge was having enough real proof to get the paper to go to print without leaving herself or the paper open to a large defamation suit. Not to mention the risk to future advertising revenue. It could easily vanish if she published her rumoured story. Still she could feel it taking shape. She had one week remaining to nail it before the float was a fully done deal.

She felt pleased she had just fired the first shot across the bows and, unless she was mistaken, the fish had jumped. She must be careful not to gloat or show her hand too fully. She was hoping her threat might create enough nervousness about shareholder reaction to slow things down a little. But it was a high risk strategy. It may have the opposite effect of slamming the company's secret doors, hiding most key facts, even more tightly shut.

The thing that had given her real heart was non-disclosure agreements she had found held by the widows of two dead victims. For a pittance these victims had surrendered all future rights to release information by either themselves or other family members, the punitive sanctions they imposed were extraordinary and the specific terms of the clauses were far more directive than she dared to believe, 'to in no way to disclose procedures used in the conduct of work for the company, including any materials used, any types of equipment used including personal and protective items.' This clause applied to any place on or associated with the factory premises.'

The good thing was that neither partner of the deceased was aware of these agreements, or their terms, until after their husband was dead. So they were in no way bound by these conditions. And, having both watched their husbands die slow and painful deaths, these were two extremely angry women who were more than happy for this information to come out.

## Chapter 3 - The Victim

Anna forced herself to turn off the alarm that shrilled into her ear. She would have so longed to ignore it and fall back to sleep.

But she needed the work. The small amount of money it left her each day, after she paid the debt collector, just enough to prevent him selling the treasured possessions of hers he held; an antique ring from her mother, a heavy gold chain from her grandmother, an ornate cross studded with small rubies and some other bits of old jewellery. She could not bear the thought of losing these last remnants of her past, parts of her Ukrainian history.

It seemed as if, all her life, she had been poor: poor after her husband had run off and left her, poor when as a small girl she had arrived from the Ukraine with her Mama and her Nona in raggedy clothes, poor when she was forced into work to support her younger brother at fifteen, after her Nona and Mama has been run down by a speeding driver one day when crossing the road at a pedestrian crossing. Her mother had survived for a few years in a wheelchair, likely dying more from heartbreak with the loss of her mother, her last surviving relative from the war, than due to her from injuries, bad though these were.

So Anna had little choice but to leave school and get to work to keep the rest of her family fed and housed. She had been fearful but was determined that Social Security would not fracture her family even further. So she had kept them together and her younger brother had finished school and got an apprenticeship and a future.

But, for her, from that first day, work had been a struggle, the groping in corridors of those men who knew she dared not complain about, the smell of chemicals that she used to wash the machinery parts and which regularly splashed onto her skin, leaving an ineradicable smell and the frequent bad headaches that persisted for half the night. Perhaps that was why she and her short time husband, before he left with another woman, had never been able to have children; three times she had miscarried, they were small things that looked deformed when they came out and, after that, no more.

Well, it had always been hard. It seemed to have got even harder lately. Often her head spun when she stood up and she had to hold the rail in her shower to steady herself. And, after a few recent years when the headaches had mostly gone, in the last few months they had returned with a vengeance, often forcing her to go to the toilet and take extra pain tablets mid-morning and again after lunch. Often she got home so tired she was barely able to make herself a simple supper before she fell into bed, to dream troubled dreams before she woke to the alarm to do it all again.

But still life had its joys, a small brother, Fedir, who had idolised her as a child and now, as a grown man who towered over her; he had always made her smile. She was so proud when he had got that piece of paper for finishing school, a sort of leaving certificate, and then that wonderful piece of paper that qualified him as an electrician. Then, when Fedir married Talia, younger sister of her work friend, Natasha, and they had three beautiful children and now four grandchildren, these were things of great joy. They made her smile and feel stronger whenever she thought of them.

She had been determined never to take money or other charity from him, to never let Fedir know of her poverty, how hard she had to struggle to maintain the barest necessities. She always found food for the table when he and his family came to visit and then money to buy for gifts for his children and grandchildren. But lately she had only just managed to maintain this with the debt collector's money and, each month, it got ever harder to pay him just enough to keep her things and not sell them off.

## Chapter 4 – The Brother

Fedir Yanukovic tossed and turned in his bed as sleep eluded him. He was worried about his sister, Anna. Eight years older, she had always been the rock in his life, particularly since that day when he was seven and the awful news about his Mama and Nona came. Really he could barely remember them before that day came, only that they had been a happy family of four, living in a small flat in Concord, not too far from where his mother worked in a factory in Homebush.

His mother could not drive, and could not afford a car anyway, so she had found a job she could walk to each day. It was a very basic job, packing electrical appliances into cardboard boxes. But it had given the family just enough money to live. All the while his Nona had stayed home, cooked and minded house along with minding him, until he was old enough to go to school. He had liked that life and believed in its safeness.

He was half way through his second year at school when that day came. He liked his school and teacher and he liked learning about the world and how things worked, particularly machines and electrical things. Sure a few kids had teased him and called him a wog or mocked his name. But that had never really bothered him, he was big and strong for his age and was good at games. Soon he had good friends who looked out for him. And the lunches his Nona gave him, things like meatballs in sauce, were so much better than the sandwiches of others. They had become a thing of note in his life when he shared them with his friends.

So his world had felt like a good place. And then there was his sister, Anna, eight years older, who had seemed so grown up and clever. And she liked him too, she did not mind playing his kiddie games and talked to him like he was as grown up as she was. It was in that year that once a month his Mama and Nona had started leaving him alone at home with Anna for a few hours on a Saturday while they went off shopping, catching a train to the city or at other times going to different places.

This Saturday was special because it was the day before his Nona's 60th Birthday. His Mama had managed to save some money by working two extra shifts that week. So it had given her enough to take Nona to the city, to David Jones, to buy a new dress. The next day they were to have her birthday party lunch, after church, with a chocolate cake, an amazing luxury.

He and Anna had stayed at home that day, playing games, waiting for the shoppers to return with anticipation and excitement. It was past time when they were due to return when there was a hard knock on the front door.

A big policemen was standing out there, explaining that there had been an accident as his Mama and Nona walked across a pedestrian crossing, the one next to the train station. As it was a quiet Saturday afternoon no one else had seen what happened, people just heard a bang and a screech of brakes. The station attendant had come out just in time to see a driver disappearing down the street. But his Mama and his Nona, wearing her new dress, had both been knocked down. Now they were both in the Intensive Care Unit in nearby Concord Hospital. So he and Anna were taken there to see them.

It was too late for his Nona, she had died in surgery from major internal injuries. His Mama was in a bed, connected to machines. Doctors and nurses, talking in hushed voices, said there was hope she would survive, but probably she would never walk again as her spine was broken. And so it proved when a few months later she was finally able to come home, now in a wheelchair, at first having to be fed.

But what he most remembered was the terror that night. A person from Social Security had come round, asking to speak to Anna, while he stayed in the other room, playing with his toys. Of course he had pushed his ear to the door, to hear what she was saying. The bit of the conversation that had stuck in his mind was the Social Security lady saying. "Your brother is too young to stay at home by himself and you have to go to school and cannot mind him properly. So we will take him away and place him in care. Maybe we will do the same for you too, a girl of fifteen is too young to be left to care for herself, let alone for her seven year old brother as well."

Anna asked, if they were put in care would they be able to stay together. The woman sounded dismissive, "Oh well, I am sure we can arrange for you to visit each other now and then, but no, it will not be possible for you to stay in the same place.

Anna had pleaded, saying, "Please me give a few days to work something out, we have an aunt in Melbourne. Perhaps we can go with her or she can come and stay. And they are saying it will not be long before my mother can get out of hospital and I can manage until then."

The Social Security woman sounded unconvinced, but she had nothing arranged and it would take a few days until this could be worked out. So she reluctantly agreed they could stay on for a few days until something else was available for them.

He remembered that night how he and Anna had cuddled into bed together, sharing their fear. Anna had promised she would do anything she could to stop them from being taken away to different places, that she would ring their aunt in the morning and ask if she could come up for a few days to help convince the authorities.

The next day she had rung the person she called her aunt, actually a cousin of their father, and asked got her to come to Sydney for two weeks so that they could show Social Security there was an adult she was looking after them. In the meantime Anna left school and got a job at the factory where her Mama worked, replacing her mother. So, by the time her aunt left, Social Security forgot about them and, because they had both kept their heads down, nothing further was ever done. But they lived in fear for years that someone would turn up one day and take Fedir away to a foster home.

Then, months later when their Mum had come home in a wheelchair it has been mainly Anna who had looked after her each day, as well as working, lifting her out of the wheelchair onto a plastic chair to wash her, brushing her hair, cooking food and feeding her and all the other innumerable jobs that took up half the night after a hard day's work. Of course he had helped too, coming home from school and making sure their mother was OK until Anna got home, telling her stories about school to pass the time. He did his best to help but his mother was too big and heavy for a seven year old boy.

He knew they really should have asked for help. But to do so ran the risk that Social Security would return. So they did their best and battled on. After about a year their mother had got sick again and died too. It seemed that, after the accident, she had sort of lost her own will to live.

So they had settled into their own life together, him going to school and studying and finally leaving once he got an apprenticeship, she continuing to work and support them both, sometimes she would get an extra shift which gave them money for something nice, but mostly there was just enough to pay the rent and buy basic food along with clothes and his school things. Around then she had got a job in a different factory, one making machinery parts. And she had got a push bike so she could ride to work and back faster.

Mostly they had good times together, he would sometimes bring friends home to enjoy his sister's cooking and she would sometimes bring home friends from the factory, which was her only life away from home.

Their life continued that way for over ten years until he was a fully qualified electrician. Just as he was finishing his trade, one day Anna had brought home a young girl of sixteen, Talia, sister of her friend Natasha, who had worked with her for a few years. Talia had just begun work at the parts factory too, also from a poor family, but with bright eyes and a beautiful face.

It had been love at first sight for them both. A year later they married, both as poor as church mice. They had moved to their own place, a mile from Anna's flat, and gradually prospered. His wages went up as he built his skill and one day he and Talia had enough saved to buy a house of their own.

Soon enough their own children came and in time he set up his own business which prospered further. Now he had five others working for him. While not rich, the years had been good. He had all the money that a simple man could want. He had tried to give money to Anna over the years, but it proved impossible – she was proud and would take charity from no one.

Then had come three years when Anna had married a man from the factory and moved to a newer and nicer house, still nearby.

Fedir had wanted his sister to be happy. For a while it had seemed that she could be. But Fedir could not bring himself to like Roberto, her husband. He thought of him as an Italian thug, Mafioso like. And sure enough, before long, Fedir knew Roberto was cheating on his sister, though Fedir could not bring himself to tell her. Instead Anna had set her heart on a child and three times it had looked like it would happen, but each turned to nought, while Fedir's own wife and children thrived.

Perhaps it was all those stinking chemicals she brought home on her skin. After he had left with Talia he knew Anna had taken a job on the factory floor, rather than stay in the packing shed. He knew she used lots of things there that did not smell nice and often gave her headaches in that job. But the money was a little better in that role, and hoping to raise a family she had taken it to try and get ahead. Roberto should have helped more, either with domestic help or with money from his job. But, instead, he used all his wages on himself, spending money on drinks and pokies and nice clothes while she battled on meeting all their living expenses out of what she brought home. Fedir found he could not bear to visit her when that man was there. So, for those three years, he barely saw her.

He was almost glad when his dropkick brother in law left with another woman, at least he and Talia could see his sister more and Anna was better off only needing her money to cover the cost of one.

So she had struggled for another five years on the factory floor until one day they had told her, with no warning, she was being let go. She had been late to work twice that week, each time only by five minutes. But it seemed to be all the excuse they needed. She was out at the week's end with barely a pittance of holiday pay to keep her going until she found something else

Fedir had wanted to help her then, asking her to come and stay at his house, offering her office work in his business, or a role helping with the domestic work around the house if she did not want to take charity.

Proud as ever, she refused. Soon she enough found another job. It was a little better, no more money but at least her clothes did not stink.

So their lives had gone on and the years had passed. After that she had come more to his house, remembering birthdays and always bringing little special gifts for the children, then for the grandchildren.

But it seemed to have gone amiss again. She was now past sixty, her hair was fully grey and her body was becoming stooped. But still, until lately, she had always been a force of energy, the first to do things, never one to stand back, with a sort of irrepressible vitality that infected others around her.

So why was he worried about her now, she was aging like everyone else so he should just accept that her body was slowing. He analysed what he knew, the basis of his discomfort. It was two things really; first he had caught her grimacing the other day when she thought she was unobserved, as if there was a pain deep inside her. And secondly her treasured jewellery seemed not to be there anymore. One day he had come to her house before she had come home from work. Having a spare key he had let himself in.

His granddaughter was doing a project at school. In the process she asked her Grandfather what he knew of his family heritage, his Ukrainian past. He told his granddaughter, Stephanie, that when he came to Australia he was a very small child and did not have any memories of his homeland, or anything passed down to him from that time. But then, as an afterthought, he had said that his sister, Anna, was older when she came. She may have some memories so Stephanie should ask her next time she saw her.

That day he had gone into his sister's flat to wait for her and bring her home for dinner. While waiting he remembered Stephanie's question to him and the need to pass it on to Anna.

It had come to him, the way one memory prompts another, that Anna did have things from the Ukraine, old bits of jewellery from their mother and grandmother, including a ruby encrusted cross which was probably valuable. He was sure he had seen his sister putting them into the top drawer in her bedroom dresser. He decided to look, to remind himself of what was there. But the drawer was empty except for a couple old felt boxes that looked like they might have held things in the past. He assumed his sister had put them somewhere else. A few minutes later, when Anna came in, smiling broadly to see him and hugging him in her old way, he asked her.

"You know the old jewellery you had from Mama and Nona, could you bring it and show it to Stephanie sometime. She is doing a school project and wants to see things from our past.

As he spoke he saw a mixture of pain and fear pass over his sister's face, before she anxiously replied. 'Yes of course, I would give them to you today but I left them to be cleaned. It might be a little while until I get them back."

In that second he knew his sister was lying and he did not know why.

She did not lie to him; it was just not in her nature. At times she would not tell him things if she did not want to speak of something. But, in all their years together, he could never remember her telling him a deliberate lie.

It bothered him. It meant there was something seriously wrong. He knew he needed to know why. Now he realised what had stopped him sleeping. He was determined to get to the bottom of it. With that sense of closure he fell instantly asleep.

## Chapter 5 – Irina

Irina found herself working busily on a fashion story for the morning. It was urgent and needed to be done, a profile on a new, up and coming designer for the weekend paper's lifestyle section, deadline midday. She was finding it hard to keep her mind on the job, knowing she wanted to get on with her all-consuming story, the one she had rung that creepy lawyer on late yesterday.

At last, just before midday she had her double checked proof ready to upload for the editor to review. She clicked 'Upload', then watched while the computer did its instant magic before she sat back.

First she needed time to think, to get a clear plan in her head and follow it, step by step. She half regretted yesterday's action of ringing the lawyer, showing so much of hand. Yesterday the rage had been running through her veins, having just talked to another victim and getting the ever increasing evidence of a cover-up, then realising, as she researched the new float, how little time was left to gain justice for victims before all the assets vanished. She had been determined to shake the tree and had felt, after that call, she had at least rattled the cage of a couple smug bastards who thought they were home free. But would it really help?

So today she would be totally rational, step by step, finish building the wall of evidence, one brick at a time, until all the empty spaces were filled.

She mentally reviewed what she had and how she had come this far. It had begun with a chance meeting at a Ukrainian social function held at the Orthodox Church of her childhood. It was to get a minor story to go in the community pages of how the church and the local soccer club were working together to raise funds to help refugees displaced by fighting in the Russian disputed Ukrainian territories not too far from where the Malaysian airliner had been shot down.

Money raised was going in direct aid. Alongside this was government lobbying to get an increased immigration quota for that region. In return the local community was offering assistance to integrate displaced people into the Sydney Ukrainian community. Due to her Ukrainian heritage, and the fact her parents were regular churchgoers at the church, she was asked to attend. She had gone, less than enthusiastically, in hope of getting some half decent story about the refugees.

And she had found something. It was a story about a totally home-grown Australian horror, not something happening on the other side of the world. She was saying hello to the priest, a man who had known her family since she was a child, but who she had barely seen since she ceased being a regular churchgoer, once she left home for University. Her parents were talking to the priest and to keep them happy she joined their conversation, they were staunch believers in God and their church, despite all that had passed since leaving of their homeland before she was born.

Her father was talking up her career to the priest, saying how she had become a successful journalist. That was a stretch of the truth; she was just clinging to her job while the paper shed more and more positions, all the while earning barely enough to pay for rent and food, certainly not enough for an extravagant social life or any of the other trappings of wealth.

After a few minutes she left this conversation and moved on to talk to an official from the soccer club. As she was doing this the priest returned with a tall man, dark hair starting to grey at the temples, who looked in his fifties. The priest asked her to listen to this man's story.

Impatiently, at first, she listened as this man described his older sister, telling how he had found her collapsed at her home one day, after her work boss had rang him concerned she had not made it to work. His sister, Anna, had been taken to hospital. Tests soon revealed she was going into multiple organ failure with what appeared to be long term toxicity to her liver, kidneys and bone marrow. As well she had a malignant form of blood cell cancer most commonly associated with exposure to harmful chemicals.

At this stage Irina was only half listening, it was yet another tragic story about the vagaries of fate, how bad stuff happened and the way illness often affected old people. But then the man had gone on to say that her symptoms and disease seemed almost identical to that of two other men he knew. Both men had died within a few months of each other five years ago. Both worked for a good while in the same factory as his sister, Anna.

Irina's interest was caught at this point, once is bad luck, maybe twice, but three times did not sound like coincidence. So her journalist-self became engaged, she started to ask real questions and make connections.

Soon she had gathered a series of disturbing facts: the fact that Anna had been dismissed from this job after more than ten years for the most trivial of reasons, for being five minutes late twice in one week, the fact that she had spent years working using solvents and other nasty chemicals with almost no protection, the fact she had often come home at night with the smell of the chemicals in her skin and on her clothes, the fact she had innumerable bad headaches in this job and endless bad skin, a thing he had called pimples all over her face, that the doctor called chloracne, this name that rang a bell somewhere in Irina's mind as a symptom of some chemical poisonings, and how all these symptoms had gone away once she left that job.

Then Fedir told Irina how he had discovered that one of the two men that died was sacked a few months after Anna, for a similarly trivial reason to her, and that the other was forced to leave with no notice, based on a claim of female harassment which he furiously disputed. She was told how each had been offered a token sum of money when they left, but it was only given on the condition that they sign a nondisclosure agreement which prohibited them providing any information about past work, any details of what they did, how they did it, where they did it, the tools used, even about having any contact with chemicals. The penalty for breaching this agreement was ten times the paltry $2000 each was paid, and the agreements made it clear the company could recover this, in the event of any breach, through the sale of their houses, cars or other assets.

Until then each wife assumed it was one of those restructures where the work had run out and so the company paid each man a bit of extra money to tide them through to a new job. Each woman only realised there was a whole different story when she discovered pieces of signed paper in the bottom of a drawer, carefully hidden out of sight under other personal effects.

Soon after the day that when Fedir had taken Anna to hospital he had started to ask around, knowing these two men slightly through Talia and her sister Natasha, who had both worked with them for a time before Talia left to get married, at a time before Anna worked on the factory floor.

And so the story of his sister and these other two men with possible chemical poisoning has started to form in Fedir's mind. What he now asked was that Irina talk with his sister and get the story from her before it was too late. She had been in hospital for a month and was losing her battle with the disease so there was not much time.

He knew nothing could save Anna, but he wanted some justice for what was been done to her. There was something about this man, Fedir, and his fiery outrage that connected at a deep level with Irina, the idea that this was not a fight about his right but about the rights of other small people, his sister and others who were victims of harmful things that persons in authority were required by law and could and should have protected them against.

He finished his conversation with Irina with another story. Many years ago, when he was an apprentice electrician, his friend had been badly injured through the carelessness of his boss in not checking that the power had been properly turned off. Fedir told Irina how he had joined the union, called it in and demanded it investigate and how he had almost lost his job over it. But the manager of the company was a good man and had backed him. After that worker safety became central to their operations. Then, when Fedir started his own company, he made worker safety the most important thing, putting on a safety officer and giving free access to union officials to check that all things were done right. He told how it had worked for him, with his rate of lost time from injury now the best in the business. Because of this his costs stayed low. So now he was angry at what others had done. He really wanted action, but did not know how.

So, while Irina knew it was a long way from an unhappy man's tale to a real story, there were things here that smelt bad, and she was willing to put some time into digging deeper for dirt. There was something in the way this had been done to another member of her group, those good people of her parents' homeland, the Ukrainian diaspora, that fuelled her outrage too.

She knew their story, over seven million who died in the war, more than any other country even Germany, and the continued atrocities to the current day. It was time to stop another bad thing being done to one of her own.

So she arranged to go with Fedir to visit his sister in hospital the day after tomorrow at Concord hospital. He would collect her from Strathfield Station and bring her there.

That was where she was going now. She walked to Redfern to catch the train from her small and depressingly expensive one bedroom flat at the back end of Sydney University. It was nothing flash but she had settled here since she was at University and even though five years had passed she had never quite got around to leaving. A couple times when she had boyfriends she had been tempted to take up offers to move in with them, but always something held her back. She rather liked her own spaces and her own company, truth be told. And she still loved her parents dearly, though she would go nuts if she lived at home. So she would go to their place when in need of food, care and attention, or just company. In the meantime she liked the student feel and all the facilities that came with being a University student; she could still make use of them even though her student days were past.

All too soon the train reached Strathfield. She almost missed the stop as she was lost in the world of her own thoughts, having a sense her life had lost some of its early glamour of being a cub reporter, making her own way in the cut throat world of journalism. Somehow she had snared at job at the Herald, the envy of most classmates, but the reality was less exciting than how she had imagined the promised status, the wages were marginal and there were plenty even hungrier than her who would take her place in a flash.

She half wished she had begged out of this story, her anger of two days ago had cooled. But a promise was a promise, especially when given under the tutelage of the priest who would soon pass his disappointment back to her parents if she did not follow through.

_Time to stop her internal moan and get on with it_ , she thought. She walked down the platform and took the north side entrance. Fedir had promised he would wait in the quiet street alongside, a place where he could park and buy a coffee. She had his mobile and supposed she should ring to confirm her arrival and alert him to look out for her. But just now she could not be bothered.

She came into the street and looked around. Considering she had only seen him once and had no idea what car he drove or what his clothes would be, she would probably have to call, but she would wait and look around for a couple minutes before she got to that.

Just when she was starting to feel that time was running away, she heard a shout. She saw a man standing in front of a café, paper bag in hand along with three cups of coffee in cardboard tray. It was him, he waved and she waved back, feeling her mood lift instantly with his infectious grin.

He pointed to his car and they converged on it together. His hands were full as he fumbled for his keys, almost losing the paper bag as he juggled everything in one hand while the other searched pockets. She reached out and took the things from his hands, gaining a nod of appreciation followed by a set of keys which popped the lock. It was a typical tradesman's car, tools in the back and two seats in the front; hers covered in an assortment of papers and a mix of other junk.

He apologised, "Been out on a job this morning and was running late. So I did not get a chance to sort out the car before coming here."

She shrugged, it was no big deal. It sort of reminded her of her father, also a tradie with a bricklayer's ute, bags of mortar and bits of half cut bricks, plus assorted tools mixed with a carpet of abandoned lunch wrappings accumulated from another era. It made her feel comfortable with this unfamiliar man, not quite a father figure but with something akin.

So she pushed herself in, creating her own space amongst the piles. There was a delightful aroma emanating from the paper bag, she sniffed and inhaled its familiarly delicious aroma of spices and sugar. Her mouth watered at her forgotten breakfast. "What do you have here?" she asked.

He grinned again, infectious as ever. "Well you see, Anna loves coffee and sticky Ukrainian pastries, things my Nona used to make, though I can barely remember them. So whenever I visit I like to bring her some, there are plenty in there for us all plus an extra coffee for you and me.

Irina nodded and smiled back, feeling somehow better about her world as they drove off, remembering the same things from her childhood.

It seemed no time until they were pulling into the car park and then making their way along a long antiseptic hospital corridor, passing orderlies with trollies and patients in wheelchairs. They came to an open door, it was a ward with four beds though only two appeared occupied and the first lady seemed asleep.

Fedir strolled in and the lady in the distant bed looked up. Her face was gaunt and her hair was thin and grey. But her eyes were dark and fierce, like a wild creature. At the sight of her brother her face transformed in a way Irina could not properly describe, a fond radiance was the best thought she could find but it only partially caught the intense pleasure that came out.

He walked over and put his hand on Anna's shoulder while he did the introductions, then passed them both coffee cups and opened the paper bag. It was rich and redolent with the looks and aromas of her own childhood, poppy seed pastry shulicks dripping with honey, korzhiks Baturin – favourite tea biscuits, and slices of apricot pennik, her favourite pie desert.

They drunk their coffees and consumed liberally from the food selection, each silent in a contemplative satisfaction for a few minutes.

Then Fedir explained to Anna why Irina was here and she settled into the chair next to the bed, voice recorder running and a notepad in hand, as she encouraged Anna to tell her story. It came out haltingly at first, then more fluently with little prompts along the way. It was essentially the same story that Fedir had given her, but something in the delivery of this gaunt old woman had Irina incredibly moved. Perhaps it was the resemblance to her own grandmother, dead now for five years, perhaps it was bits of Ukrainian idiom that slipped out along the way, perhaps it was a sense of her illness and fading mortality. But what moved Irina her most was the sense of uncomplaining bravery, that even though life had dealt her bad cards she faced it with her head high and a proud face, that sense that living with suffering was a part of humanity.

It was clear from the story that Anna had spent ten years on the factory floor, cleaning machinery parts with solvents and then assembling them with no gloves of other protection. Always they were hurried to do more by the foreman, often there would be spillages that were left uncleaned until the end of the day, and Anna's end of day job after the shift was over, was to clean the benches and floors, using a cloth and bare hands for the benchtops and a mop with bare feet on the floor, so as to keep her shoes clean and dry to walk home. No warnings were ever given that these chemicals might be dangerous and, should someone feel nauseous and take a break, leave early or come late, their pay would be docked. All of them had to agree not to be in a Union and anyone who did not follow the rules to the letter was sent off and did not come back. So all knew not to complain and, as most were poor migrants with little English, who would they complain to in any event.

When Anna had finished her story Irina started with questions to fill in the gaps; what was the name of the company, what was the foreman's name, did the owner or manager ever come to the factory floor, what exactly were the things they made and where did they go next, did Anna know the names or labels of any of the chemicals they used, did she know any other people from the factory floor outside work, did she know what had happened to any of the other people who had also worked there, what were the actual years or months when the various things had happened, and, most importantly, did she know of anyone else who had worked there who had got sick in a similar way to Anna, either while working there or since that time.

After an hour she had all the information she could glean, a mix of notes and audio. She asked Fedir if he could arrange for her to meet the wives' of the other two men who had also died before she left, which he arranged for the next weekend. Fedir offered to drive her back to the train station but she explained that she now wanted to talk to the medical staff about detailed aspects of the illness and what evidence they were aware of as to the likely causes. She asked that Anna sign a consent giving her full access to all her medical records and, with this in hand she said her goodbyes, knowing that she had much work to do to take this from a single person's tragic story into something much bigger, but yet knowing that she was sitting on the edge of something huge and determined to bring it out into the open.

## Chapter 6 – ARJ Conversation

Stephen had been determined to go home and celebrate that night despite the less than amusing phone call from Irina something, that uppity journalist digging for dirt. Hell, his new BM was only a week away and the float would go public less than a week after that. It was all looking so promising, almost everyone could see the huge upside, so the word going around the financial community was that this was not one to be missed, get your shares at the outset and hang on for the price climb.

Still there was always a naysayer and where would be the opportunity if everyone saw it with his upside eyes. Just because someone tried to get to him with a hatchet job, flinging dirt, it did not mean much at the end. There were always rumours swirling around and smart investors were not spooked easily, in fact they often tried to start a few rumours of their own to increase buying opportunities. So he felt inclined to put this down as just one of those nasty rumours and ignore it, anyone who rang up and talked the way she did must be a half crackpot anyway. So best get on with the main game.

On that comforting thought he had headed out last night. He found a crowd of his merchant banker friends drinking expensive whisky and cocktails at a boutique bar. Together they had knocked a good hole in the bar's collection, each spending high three figure sums on drinks before the night was done.

He half remembered a latter part of the night when he had been talking to a hot number from an opposing law firm. He had wanted to hit on her but had been too wasted to make an intelligent move her way. Perhaps tonight he would see her again and this time, with less to drink, he could turn on charm, leading her back to his bed to finish the night the best way he knew; he could picture her nubile body entangled with his under the sheets.

So now, today, he had a hangover and did not feel so upbeat about the float going ahead without trouble. There was something nagging at the back of his mind about that conversation yesterday, a thing he could not quite see but knew he should have picked up on at that time. And he would have done so if he was not full of the story of how great this float would become.

But now the discomfort was creeping up on him and he needed to place the source. What had she said, specifically, that was ringing an alarm in his brain? He wondered if he should ring old ARJ. He did not like than man, in fact ARJ made him sort of nervous, but that did not take away from the fact he was a top client and had told Stephen, on many occasions, to call him anytime, day or night, if the need arose to deal with any big issues. RRJ had said the same too but everyone knew the brains behind the outfit was the old fellow; his swish son, with the million dollar suits and solid gold do dahs, was only a show pony for the other ruthless brain behind it all. Plus, even to Stephen's tastes, RRJ was a part slime-ball, he always felt like washing his own hands after shaking one of RRJ's effeminate paws.

Stephen decided he would leave ringing ARJ until he had something a bit more solid to go on than a vague threat. The old man always wanted facts not speculation. So he would find out about this journalist, who she was, what she had written, where she was from, and of course any dirt that may prove useful if the story got more legs.

He typed 'Irina, journalist, SMH' into his search engine, and was rewarded by a small image of her picture and a link to some other stories she had done. Now he had a full name, Irina Petrenko, and a bit of background, coming from a story she had done on how the Ukrainian community was getting together with a local soccer club to assist displaced people in their +homeland from the Russian separatist war. From the way she told the story he got the sense that this community was her own – it had that sympathetic touch, and of course it finished with a call to action to help those victims of the fighting. The one thing he got, which surprised him a little, was the awful history that this country and its people had sustained over many generations. He was not much of a history buff but until now he had a sense, from what little he had gleaned, that Ukraine was just a troublesome part of Russia that should get its act together and stop whinging. Here he glimpsed a different story. He was just contemplating digging a bit further into this when an image flashed up on the side bar, one of those annoying porn sites which he mostly blocked, but with which he sometimes amused himself with. It was obviously a naked woman with a luscious body, and the word 'IRINA' flashed up in big bold letters, then below came the caption, in slightly less large type, 'Feast your eyes on this Eastern European beauty, see everything she has to offer!!' Of course it was followed by a click here to view icon. On clicking this came a message about the need to confirm his credit card details.

Despite previous visits to this site to tantalise himself he felt something of a voyeur as her contemplated whether to go for a closer look. The small nude image bore a good passing resemblance to the picture of the journalist, similar dark hair and features, but that was all her could get from it. It was unlikely to be the same person, but curiosity and a perverse desire for some sort of payback, after her contemptuous conversation with him yesterday, drove him on. He selected the option of viewing a sample image, the cost was a nominal sum and clicked accept.

It was a pretty hot upper body shot, generous bare breasts with erect nipples cupped. There was now the option; 'VIEW ALL IRINA HAS TO OFFER.' He held back from making that click, instead he found the best photo on the site of the journalist, Irina Petrenko and zoomed to the maximum size before the picture began to fall apart. Alongside it he place the image of the hot IRINA and looked closely. While he could not be absolutely sure they were one and the same, there was certainly a strong similarity, the hair was a bit different but the basic facial features seemed very much the same. He looked for any distinguishing features on the porn star Irina, the only thing he could see was a small mole or beauty spot on her neck, just below the angle of her jaw, but it could be an artefact. He could not see it in the newspaper image.

Still overall there was certainly more than a passing resemblance; he thought it highly likely both images were of the same person. He pasted both images side by side on an A4 piece of paper and hit print, 3 copies.

It was something to think about; perhaps he would offer to meet Irina Petrenko, hear her side of the story and, while she was talking, lay a copy of this double image in front of her and see how she reacted. He was sure he would be able to read whether or not it was her in that instant.

Part of him felt a desire to open the link to the full details and see this person in all their naked and erotic glory, he was sure it would be an arousing sight. But another part of him felt distaste and discomfort in this path, a sense that he would be moving from voyeur into a pervert's zone in doing this with such intent. So he closed the browser window to the porn site.

Instead he focused on learning about this journalist from the online information available. Sure enough he got the Ukrainian background, her successful early journalist's career in the Sydney Morning Herald and a few other little snips, nothing of much significance. He created a folder for what he had found on his desktop. Then, feeling the residue of a hangover, he decided he would go home for an early night for a change.

Next morning feeling fresher and much brighter he decided it was time to ring the old man, ARJ, as he was known. He felt the butterflies for a moment as he looked up the number to dial this tough and cranky old man, now clearly on the upper side of 80, but still the power and brains behind the business. He listened as the phone rang and rang, expecting at any stage for it to flip to message and then he would have to decide what to say, ring me back, or give a potted version of his concerns, of just to leave until later.

At the moment when his finger was poised to press the disconnect button, a gruff voice came on the line, "Yes! What do you want?"

Temporarily flummoxed he pulled his mind together asking, "Is that Mr Johnson?"

"Well, who the fuck did you think it would be – you rang his private unlisted number didn't you. And who the fuck are you, anyway?"

Stephen stumbled out his name.

"Oh, you're that flash shiny bum lawyer who I have paid a shit load of money to put my float together. Is there a problem boyo?"

Stephen made a bumbling and long winded explanation that he had a call from a journalist last night and that she had been inquiring about the parent company and had questioned the separation and she had suggested that many people were injured by the actions of the previous business.

Part way through he was quickly cut off, "Lad, don't waste my time with all that self-promoting drivel, just tell me what she said, word for word, and what you said back."

Stephen dredged up the conversation as best he could remember, cutting out his initial monologue and beginning with her question that was more of a statement, about looking into the company in the 1980s and the chemicals used and safety processes followed, and, as he said this, it was as if a penny dropped at the other end of the line. Then when he said the bit about her recording the call there was a violent expletive. A brief silence was followed by, "The fuckin bitch. You need to get dirt on her to put her back in her box, get to work seeing what you can dig up.

"And you had better get fuckin cracking, have it sorted pronto, before any rumours leak out, that's if you want to keep that pretty BM you have picked out, not to mention the millions in share options you hope to cash in one day soon.

"And if she told you last night why has it taken until today to let me know. I distinctly remember telling you to ring me any time day or night if something came up and you have wasted a fucking day."

Stephen thought of saying about her porn site images but the phone on the other end went dead before he had formed the words to say.

## Chapter 7 - Journalist Digging

On the Saturday afternoon after the meeting with Anna, Irina again found herself in the utility owned by Fedir heading to meet the two women whose husbands had died in similar circumstances to that of Anna's illness.

As they drove and he chatted, in a casual but friendly manner, she put her mind to reviewing her notes compiled thus far.

Anna's details of her day to day work had been excellent and she had worked on the factory floor at a time when there was growing awareness of toxic chemical and their danger to health. Already the DDT story was well known and cumulative effects of many other toxins were starting to be uncovered. And by then, in the 1980s, there was an ever increasing stream of evidence from Vietnam Veterans and their exposure to defoliants, Agent Orange and the like. The story of their contamination with a thing called dioxin was becoming well recognised, something which coincidentally had been made in nearby factories to the one at which Anna had worked.

As Anna told it, most of the drums used in the factory as solvents had been unlabelled. So it was hard to get to the chemical name of what had been used for cleaning up all the machinery for packing and sale, Anna's main job. And, of course, every night for several years she had the job of cleaning the factory floor of all the spills, working with a mop and bucket in bare feet so as to keep her single pair of shoes clean and dry for the long walk home.

Anna had been paid for an extra hour to do this work, work which often took twice this time. It was money she desperately needed to support herself and her brother. She said no one ever suggested that she needed to protect herself from what had been spilt on the floor as she cleaned.

The aroma suggested an oil based product, perhaps benzene or acetone. The fact that it was poured out of large unlabelled drums, reputedly sourced from other factories nearby, suggested little care in its manufacture. And it was abundantly clear that no training in its safe handling was given, nor was there anything resembling the protective clothing that was required by this time under a whole lot of worker safety regulations.

But really Irina needed a chemical name and source to make it stick, perhaps these people she would meet today could help. And a list of names of all the other people who had worked at this place over the many years when these known people had worked there. Then she would see if she could trace them and find out what had happened to them too, any unexplained illnesses and premature deaths, any unfair dismissals. She would like full list of names and addresses but would start with whatever she could get, first names, names of children or spouses, places that they worked after they left, other friends, sports or social activities such as club memberships, children's schools – the list went on and on. The point was, even with current privacy laws, once you could get into people's networks, they usually liked to tell you stories, and they linked you to other people. It was her journalist stock in trade and she knew from experience that eventually you found someone who knew a key bit of information. The biggest issue was that all this took time. She was unsure how much time she could get to work on it and also for how long she could keep it under wraps until the story started to leak out.

So she had her list of questions – the specifics of where and when each person had worked there and what they had done and who in the company they had dealt with, but then, equally importantly she wanted to know about their wider circle with others who had worked there too.

Before she knew it she was at the first wife's house, a modest brick and tile place with attempts at a pretty front garden of pruned roses and azaleas. The effect would have been pretty except for the sense of abandoned neglect coming from the rest of the place, overgrown weedy lawn, a decrepit picket fence with flaking paint, broken fascia boards and missing bricks in parts of the wall, and a bad need for overall repainting of the whole outside.

But the woman who met her was trim and sprightly, neat grey hair tied back and a pretty floral dress. Inside the house was spotlessly tidy, even if threadbare with worn carpets. The lady, Judy, invited them in with a smile which had hard, almost brittle edge. She apologised for the shabby outside, saying that her husband George was planning to fix and tidy it up until he got sick and now there was no the money to pay someone else to do it. It was all gone, there was not even enough to buy the paint and now the lawn mower had broken and she had no money to fix it either. So the best she could do was to try and keep the garden pruned with a pair of secateurs and keep the inside tidy. Her one child had moved interstate so she had no-one to help her with heavy work and it was beyond her alone to do it.

However she had the kettle boiling, cups and saucers on the table along with home-made biscuits that smelt good. They sat down around the table and Irina used her charm to help Judy relax and begin her story.

It came out easily enough: George had worked on the factory floor for fifteen years, he had been a conscientious model worker who did not smoke and barely drunk, at most a pint once a week on the way home or sometimes they would have a bottle of wine with their meals, a glass a night eked out over a few days. He was a man who liked his job and went to work each day with clockwork regularity. The money was tight but OK and often his clothes smelt of chemicals when she washed them but otherwise all seemed fine.

Then how one day he just did not have a job anymore, but he had a bit of extra money which he called a redundancy payment, it was not a lot and did not last long. After that, as a man nearing fifty, jobs had been hard to find, he was not bookish and so could only really do manual work. He found bits and pieces, a maintenance contract for a school for a while, some casual labour doing odd jobs, some home handy man work for a real estate agency.

It was just enough to keep them going, their savings were minimal but they had enough to pay the bills, buy food, run a car and have an occasional treat of a dinner out at the local restaurant and even an occasional movie.

So their life had drifted steadily from middle to older age, their one child, a girl had married and lived in Queensland and they saw her but occasionally, she had no children. Judy and George mostly lived alone, but she helped her neighbours with odd bits of babysitting, community cake baking and other odd things that needed little money.

It had not been exciting but they had a level of happy contentment with each other and the simple things they shared. However it all turned to dust when George got sick about five years ago. The little money they had at first was soon all gone, then the car was sold for a pittance, and somehow they the limped along, she caring for an increasingly sick husband. His diseases had been ill defined at first but began with lethargy and low grade anaemia. He started to catch every bug going round and stay sick for days and days. The doctors had diagnosed that his bone marrow was not working properly, they said it was not making enough red and white blood cells he needed, a disease they called aplastic anaemia.

They tried various treatments, all to no avail. Then he started to bleed profusely from the smallest cuts and get huge bruises from tiny bumps. They said it was all related and was due to a lack of platelets stopping his blood clotting. One day he had a massive internal bleed. They took him to hospital. He never came back and the final tiny bits of money went on the funeral.

She had tried to get on with her life, getting just enough social security to pay basic living expenses. Nothing remained at the end of each fortnight and the last two or three days were often a plate of boiled rice with tomato sauce or a slice of toast and jam.

Then, one day, as she was cleaning out drawers of some of George's clothes, buried under some old jumpers that he almost never wore, she found a plain flat envelope, large and half a centimetre thick. It had nothing written on the outside. She thought perhaps it held old photos that had been long forgotten. She tipped the contents onto the kitchen table.

She was surprised at the formal legal nature of this thing inside – a sort of contract. With increasing perplexity she read it through; once and then a second time. It had been prepared by a legal firm in Homebush. It named her husband as the beneficiary of an amount of $2,000, payable as a full and final settlement on the termination of his employment. In return he was obliged to disclose to no one the existence of this deed or any details relating to his work at the specified premises of his employment, including the nature of his work, the products manufactured, the equipment and other materials used, the procedures followed, the nature and details of the buildings and other facilities and particularly the names of all other people with whom he worked or dealt with at work. The deed claimed all this information was commercial in confidence and specified that any breaches would make him liable to pay damages to the other party of the deed, at a minimum in the amount of $20,000 or whatever larger amount his actions may cost the company for release of the information. This included any costs the company may incur in seeking damages.

Sure enough, there at the bottom of the last page was her husband, George's, signature, along with a lawyer's signature as legal representative of the company. So Judy now knew where the money, from when he stopped work, was paid from. Yes, it was a redundancy payment of sorts, as he had said, but it did not seem accompanied by other documents, such as a final group certificate, showing it as a formal payment through the wages system. So it seemed likely this part was paid in cash that had never gone through the company books. But, even if this was so, why the huge secrecy and penalties? And why was there this claim of commercial in confidence and an unlimited ability for the company to seek further damages? To Judy it did not feel right.

She found George's old payslips, including the final one which paid out his unclaimed holidays and four extra weeks of pay, in lieu of notice. There was no reference to this amount of $2000, it seemed it never made it onto the company balance sheet. It was strange and more than a bit suspicious.

Judy told Irina how she could feel anger to bubble up inside herself, even if he had agreed to not tell others George should have told her, she was his wife after all. The fact he had hidden this from her gave it a sort of shameful feel. Now she was determined to know what it was really all about.

So she tried to remember any others who worked on the factory floor with George, who his friends were. Most were only first names, and she knew no one else from their families to try and contact and find them. But, with persistence, after a week of dredging through memories she had finally recalled the name of one she might trace, Martin, who had a wife Wendy. One Saturday when Martin's boy had a ten year old birthday, she and George and their daughter, Mandy, then eight, had been invited to the son's birthday party. She could not remember the boy's name, she had never met the family since, but she thought she could remember the street in Five Dock where they had lived. So she caught the bus there one Monday morning and worked her way along the houses, beginning with those that seemed most likely, asking if a Martin and Wendy lived there. Most inquiries drew blank stares, and a few drew clear suspicion, but finally she came to a place where an old lady lived, probably well in her eighties.

The lady replied, "I think I know the ones you mean, their house was just three doors down. It was sold four years ago, after Martin Sherwood died. His wife, Wendy, moved to live with her son Greg who lives in Pymble."

The lady fished around amongst some papers on the mantel, saying, "I did not know them very well, really just enough to say hello in passing. But I am the only one around here that goes back over all the years that they lived there. The day Wendy left out she called round with a cake and this piece of paper, saying,

"'If any old friends try to find me could you pass on this address please?'

"If you visited all those years ago you qualify as a friend, so here you are. You may as well keep this paper. No one else has come looking in the years since, so I don't think anyone else will be needing it."

Judy thanked her and put the paper in her pocket, thinking she would head home, but it was only late morning and she had nothing else to do, so she asked whether there was any bus nearby here that would get her to a railway station so she could catch the train to Pymble.

The lady looked at her with sharp eyes saying, "Well you know I still have a car and a license, why don't I drive you and while we are at it you can tell me why it has suddenly become so important that you find them when you have not seen them for 20 years. But first let's have a cup of tea unless you are in a rush to get away. It's not like I have anything else that I really need to do today."

So Judy found herself telling this story as the lady, Ada, listened. She sat opposite, sipping tea, following it all with intelligent eyes and the occasional sharp question. It was clear she had her full faculties and was enjoying the challenge of hearing and thinking about something new. As Judy told her how George died, and of her strange find of the non-disclosure contract in the drawer, she could almost hear the gears in Ada's mind whirring. When she had finished Ada started to tell her another piece of the puzzle.

"Well, what you have said is passing strange alright. It does bring to mind the stories told when Martin died, and how he lost his job. He was a fine man, big, strong and good looking. But he was never a flirt or ladies' man, he always said the sun shone out of his Wendy, you know how you get to know things, never one to try it on around the neighbourhood, no wandering hands or anything anyway unseemly. Just polite, good natured, and he would say he was a one woman man. He was not the bookish type, just someone who liked his work, his garden and his family. He was never one to go off to the pub on the way home, no going out, playing larrikin with the boys or stuff like that.

"And yet the story was that they sacked him for feeling up one of the girls on the factory floor. He never said anything about it, but word got out through Wendy, she was so mad, not that she believed it, but it enraged her that someone would say that of her husband, she swore black and blue it was untrue. She was all for fighting it, clearing his reputation, but he would not. It was like they had something on him but he would never say what.

"And then, a year before he died, he got sick, something a bit like your George, bone marrow failure they called it, whatever that means, but over the next year he got more and more sick and weak. One day he was dead. Such a shame to see him shrink almost overnight from a big strong man into a stooped and wasted wreck, it pained us all to see it, but most of all to see how Wendy would walk slowly with him when his legs could barely hold up what nothing of him was left near the end. They talked about things like a bone marrow transplant but it all came to nought, no donor to match him could be found.

"I think it broke Wendy's heart; she sold up and left in no time after he was gone, it was as if she could no longer bear to live in their house with him not there. And I did hear she found some old papers and a good bit of money hidden away after he was gone; cash in an envelope, bright shiny notes, never touched, they said it was thousands, though that's just gossip.

"I never did hear what the papers were, but I would not be surprised if it was like what you found. I have always had this feeling that something was not right about it all, but could never put my finger on it. Now I feel it is best that you and Wendy should share your stories. There is a bad smell to it. I, for one, would like to know what it all means."

So it was that an hour later they found themselves pulling up outside a neat cottage in Pymble, a quiet street with straggly trees and a neatly kept front yard garden and nature strip. They knocked on the front door and after a distant call that sounded like, "Wait a bit," the door was answered by a young woman with two small children in tow.

Ada took the lead, politely inquiring after Wendy, saying she was an old friend from before she moved. With this name given the woman gave a big smile and asked the older child, a dark haired boy of maybe three to go and call his grandma from the clothesline where she was hanging out washing. In a minute she came, being proudly led by the hand by her grandson. She was a strong and capable looking woman, dark hair turning to grey in places but with a direct look and an initially guarded smile which opened up into a big smile when she recognised Ada.

Ada did introductions and a brief explanation of the purpose of the visit. The young woman offered to make tea and Ada took this as a cue to help her and leave Judy and Wendy alone to talk about their shared experiences.

It was remarkable how similar the stories were, the illness of both men was similar in type and duration, as was the sudden loss of their job on a trumped up flimsy pretext and the papers found were remarkably similar, each with the same sort of punitive non-disclosure clause and untraceable cash of very similar amounts.

Wendy went off to find her papers and she laid them side by side with the ones Judy had brought, the same lawyers names and signatures were there, the non-disclosure and punitive clauses were almost identical, the only differences were dates a few months apart and the names and signatures of the two men, their husbands.

So now they were both sure there was a funny smell to this whole affair the question was what to do. Neither had known other workers at the firm in more than a passing way but together they shared memories and compared notes, trying to think of all the names of other men from there who worked with their husbands that they knew, including any with wives or partners they had met. They went through the few who had come to the birthday party those many years ago.

At last they remembered something, not a man but a lady with her younger brother. It was more his unusual name than anything that helped bring it back, the name 'Fedir' which neither of them had heard before. The woman was his older sister, Anna they thought was her name. She worked at the factory, but that was all they knew. She had not been memorable, a thin woman of indeterminate age. But they both clearly remembered the brother, he was a young, dark haired man, full of vitality, who had played with all the children in a sort of older brother way. He had taken the role of a blindfolded buffoon for the party game, Pin the Tail on the Donkey. He had run around waving his arms and pretending to go in all the wrong directions, colliding with everything and everyone. All the while the small children had called out, "Wrong Way Fedir, Turn Around Fedir." He had spun and turned like a top, to play out their directions as they chanted his name as part of the fun.

So they had one name, Fedir and perhaps the name of an older sister, Anna, who had worked with their husbands. They wracked their brains for anything more about either of them, they half remembered that Anna had come as a refugee from somewhere around Russia and the rest of her family had all died so she was raising her younger brother who had just got a job as an apprentice electrician. So now they had a first name, perhaps an idea of an eastern European connection and maybe an occupation.

It was not much but it was something. What they agreed to do was they to try to track down a few others who had worked there with their husbands to see if they too had similar stories. They decided to break up the various tasks; Wendy whose son and daughter in law were both good on the internet would use their computer to do some searching, Judy, who did not know much about computer stuff would pull out all her old copies of yellow page phone books for the area and go through listings of electricians to see if she could find anyone who could be the grown up version of this boy, Fedir.

By the time they went on their way Judy and Wendy had swapped phone numbers and agreed to meet in a café in Strathfield in a fortnight to compare notes of what they had found.

Ada had also caught the bug of mystery and asked if she could come too. She said that her part would be to quiz any other neighbours who had known Wendy's husband in the neighbourhood to see if that would allow her to find other friends of his who might know his old work colleagues.

Two days later, as Judy was poring over old phone books, looking at the listings of electricians, she saw a listing for F Yankovic Electrical Contractor. There was a typical advertisement, listing the services they offered, followed by two lines,

'NO JOB TOO BIG OR TOO SMALL,

GUARANTEED SAFE INSTALLATION'

Below was a line she almost missed;

'Call Fedir for a free quotation.'

The phonebook was five years old, she hoped the business still existed. She rang the listed number. A receptionist answered.

"Would Mr Yanukovic be available?"

"I am sorry he has gone to the hospital to visit his sick sister. We are expecting him back in a couple hours. Can I take a message?

She politely asked, "Do you know his sister's name, because I think I might know her too?"

The voice came down the line, "Her name is Anna."

Judy told how she felt a tremor run through her body. She knew she had found the boy, Fedir. Her hands shook as she called Wendy and Ada to let them know. They did not wait until their scheduled meeting but met at Judy's house the next day. With trembling hands they all stood around the phone as Judy again rang Fedir's business number. He came on the line. They haltingly told him their combined story. In half an hour Fedir was at their home and in another half an hour they were all gathered at Anna's bedside comparing notes.

As they talked they all discovered a very similar shared history, the daily chemical exposure, the summary dismissals, the similar illnesses.

Fedir sat slightly off to one side, listening as the three ladies talked. He felt a sharing of their pain along with a building sense of injustice. He knew he must do something but what.

Then it came to him, he and Anna as children had gone to the Orthodox Church, it was a central institution of their family which they had continued for some years after his mother had died. Even though his weekly visits had lapsed, Anna insisted he have his children baptised there, she had remained staunch in her faith. He even remembered the priest who had baptised his children and who Anna told him had visited her in hospital, a kind hearted man around his own age. Fedir had also supported the local soccer club for many years, he loved the game but never had the chance to play as a child and build his own skill. Later, with his own children, he had encouraged them to play and supported the club which gave them the chance. They had been good rather than great players, but it did not matter, it was a community institution which supported his family and he supported in return. In his mail box last week had come a notice from the soccer club, saying they were fund-raising next week, in association with the church, to raise money to resettle more Ukrainian refugees from the current conflict with Russia, it was a joint project between the church and the soccer club to raise funds.

The priest was a good and just man. When Fedir was there he would ask the priest for advice and maybe seek help to start righting this terrible wrong that had been done to his sister and others. The priest knew people across the community and wider city and would surely have ideas about what to do.

## Chapter 8 - Irina Begins Investigating

It was Monday, Irina had spent several hours of her weekend talking to Judy, Wendy and Anna again. She heard Fedir's persuasive voice in her ear, urging her to do something. But what?

She had three people with remarkably similar stories; tales of bad behaviour of this company, their arbitrary dismissal, the threats against disclosure, daily handling of smelly, probably dangerous chemicals without protection, bad headaches and other side effects and a small payment on termination, and threats of non-disclosure to each.

Anna's termination payment was only two hundred dollars, a tenth what the others got and she had never signed any papers, instead being told most emphatically not to ever tell anyone what she done or they would come after her and take much more away.

Anna had accepted this threat without surprise. Her life was ever thus so she complied, being happy to receive the few extra dollars.

Now Irina sat down to write a brief to take to her editor of her findings, she needed his approval to put the many more hours into this story that it needed now to track down a witness list of another sixteen people who had worked there at the same time, ones whose names others could recall.

Anna gave them some names, a few were people Fedir had also met and a few even had remembered surnames. Most valuable in compiling the list was Fedir's wife, Tali, and her sister, Natasha.

Natasha had worked there for five years and, while only in the packing shed and never on the factory floor, several men who worked there asked her out as a young single woman. She even dated a couple of them, though never seriously. She had found a couple full names and old addresses.

So the challenge was to run these people to ground, see if any similar stories existed and start digging into this factory, to find out who owned it and where they had gone.

There was also a need to research what could be the cause of the harm, was it a product they made or was it a chemical they used?

But first she must write a summary of her story and take it to the editor. She had the physical location of the factory, it was closed now but there was still a couple of shabby old sheds visible in the distance behind a security fence, perhaps they were some of the buildings or perhaps storage sheds on the premises not yet demolished. The area was being redeveloped, post Olympics, into high tech business parks and upmarket apartments, it was now a suburb called Newington at the far edge of the showgrounds, football stadium and all the many other buildings of the former Olympic precinct. While the Olympics were now a fading memory, of which she recalled little as a ten year old child, she did have a remembrance of something to do with a major clean-up of the site due to industrial contamination and of pollution of the adjoining waters of Homebush Bay. She had a half memory about nasty chemicals people called dioxins in the sediments, even a ban on eating fish from this part of the harbour.

To make serious headway on this story she needed to spend a month of her life digging into it and, while she could keep some other work on the go, this was a serious commitment that her boss would have to approve. So she wrote her brief, summarising her findings. She read it through, thinking it was not bad; there was a credible case for a big story in here. But it was missing something she could not put her finger on.

At last it came to her. It was missing the 'who", who did she think was responsible? A crime without a culprit was barely a story.

She went back to Dr Google, zoomed in on the site as it was in the latest Google Earth photos, whatever factory was once there was gone, the site was essentially vacant apart from two old looking sheds at one edge of the site.

She checked with local government on development plans for this site. It was zoned for an extension to Newington Business Park and was currently going through the final DA approvals with the EPA. The plans specified it would require extensive soil remediation before it could have new buildings constructed. Obviously there was no factory here now and none of those who worked around here today, that she had so far met, could remember a former business name. The names on the old payslips bore no relationship to a known company she could find listed on the ASIC site. She could trace the payslip business name, but it would take time, it may be a holding company, a subsidiary of a main business to handle employee payments.

She sensed this indecisive floundering was not getting her far. She rang a researcher, an old hand who had been doing this for more than thirty years, saying, "I need to know who owned a factory on a site in the 1980s, there does not seem to be much left of it now as the land is being rezoned for a new business park."

He replied, "Leave it with me. I expect to be able to give you something in a couple hours. I will call someone I know in the land titles office. He will be able to look up the title to the parcel in the 1980s. That will tell you the owner back then.

Irina parked this case and went on to work on finishing a couple other projects which she knew she would be asked about if she wanted to get her time freed up. She finished one, a short story on an upcoming community event and settled into the layout of the second story, a lifestyle review of the best places to visit in a neighbourhood. She wrote her summaries of each and left space for the photos to sit alongside. She was just saving the last finished file when the phone rang.

It was the researcher, Jim. He said, I have what you need. The factory was once the main premises of ARJ Engineering, with ARJ being the initials of the original owner. It was demolished in the early 1990s except for one row of minor buildings, old storage sheds.

They would have gone then too but the EPA was concerned they were used to store chemicals and pulling them down may cause an increased risk of chemical contamination to the adjoining watercourses if old chemicals stored there had leaked into the soil below.

There is an order preventing the sheds from being removed until a soil sampling and remediation plan is approved. This is currently going through the DA process. Once this plan is approved the sheds will go along with about a foot of top soil that sits under them due to risk of contamination if it is left in place. Then clean soil fill will be put over the subsoil before the next stage of new construction can proceed. It is expected this work will begin in the next three months.

The most interesting thing is that this site is now owned by a company called Gilt Proprietary Limited, which is going through a public listing process as we speak. In about a month it will float as Gilt Investments, with this site being one of its high value assets once redeveloped. The last valuation three years ago gave it a land value of ten million dollars, however in documents lodged to support the DA it has been ascribed a book value once the new business park is opened of one hundred and fifty million dollars, as the value of the land on which the new industrial park sits. The predicted value, once the development is finished has a number of around three to four billion dollars with the company's share coming in at around a billion.

And get this, a 31% owner of Gilt Proprietary Limited is none other than the old man, ARJ, now 83, from ARJ Engineering in which he holds the same share. His son holds another 20% along with another 6% held by other likely company directors, the ones of ARJ Engineering and those who go onto the Gilt Board are almost the same. So names may have changed but, as yet, the ownership and responsibility has not, ARJ continues to own the site.

They say it is fenced off with a high security fence and is patrolled day and night by security guards who have big, nasty dogs, to ensure trespassers don't get onto the site. ARJ is clearly keen not to let anyone go poking around his property and is prepared to spend big money to keep it off limits.

And get this, here is the real kicker, ARJ's son, RRJ, is a close mate of some of our Herald Board members, plays golf with them no less. And Gilt Investments has booked advertising with our paper when the public float goes ahead, with a commitment to spend a supposed six figure sum on its advertising campaign already booked with our financial section.

I think you should tread very carefully if you want to ask hard questions about something to do with this former factory site or either of its owners.

After Jim had hung up Irina sat still, digesting the new information for a few minutes. She was starting to get a sense of the forces arrayed against her and knew caution of the highest order was called for. Yet there was almost no time left if the public float was a bare month away.

She realised she needed more, a much bigger and stronger case before she opened this can of worms. She saw that doing a brief to her boss now, seeking his approval to put resources into this story, was a high risk strategy; it could very well reveal her hand and forewarn those on Gilt Investments' payroll before she was near ready for any story to run.

Once her brief got into the hands of the Editor in Chief it was a short step to the paper's Managing Director and Board, a cursory read would show it as a high order corporate risk with so much advertising money at stake. And if it got to the Board, it was a short step to a casual conversation, over a drink or game of golf, which could tip off the company.

She needed another way to get this required information, outside of the paper footing the bill. She must only show her hand upstairs when all the evidence was assembled and it was so compelling that there was no place to run away and hide. And she could not escape from her everyday job; she had columns to write and deadlines to meet. What she needed was some money to track down all the other people from the factory whose names she had. Judy, Wendy and Ada could do bits but none was adept at this and they were likely to work both slowly and clumsily and, in the process, also run the risk of giving a tip off. What she most needed was a private investigator, but a likely cost would run to a couple thousand a day. She did not have this money.

At last it came to her. Maybe Fedir could help her find the money to pay a private investigator, perhaps provide some money himself or find someone else who would. Every time she talked to him she could feel anger bubbling up within him at the injustice, first done to his sister and then to others.

Before she had the chance to overthink it and back out, she rang him on his mobile and asked if she could come and see him after work tonight. He readily agreed, offering to come with Tali, his wife, tonight, once peak hour traffic eased and meet her in a nearby hotel.

The meeting time arrived before she knew it. Irina liked Tali as much as Fedir. She knew instantly this woman was clever and was on their side. Tali, in fact, did most of the talking. She said how, for all the years they had known her, Anna had been a kind aunt to their children. Now she was grandmother to their next generation. And both she and Natasha, her sister, had worked in the factory for a time. While it was in the packing sheds not the factory floor, who knew whether this thing had harmed them or their other friends too? At the very least she and Natasha were determined to find out what was done.

Over the last five years Tali and Fedir had put aside $10,000 to use to buy a surprise present for Anna's 60th birthday which was three months away. It was for a trip for Anna back to the land of her birth, a place she had last seen as a tiny child. It was clear now that Anna would never make the trip; it was unlikely she would still be alive then. So Tali and Fedir offered up that money as a start towards finding out what really happened at the factory. They said they knew Natasha wanted to donate money too and thought Wendy would be more than happy to put in the $2000 she had found in the envelope that her husband had never touched. So put together it would give about $15,000 to pay for an investigator to start work. Later, if needed, they thought they could raise more through the priest and local community, there were bound to be other victims out there once they started digging.

Tali also offered to help herself, saying, "As someone who worked there, it is probably easier if, in the first instance, I contact former workers when we find them. I will ask if they, or others they know, have had similar health problems and, if so, whether they are willing to talk to you, Irina, to tell their stories. We must remember that some may be bound by similarly punitive contracts and be frightened to tell what happened."

It was agreed. Irina would concentrate on talking to any victims found, getting their stories and any medical records, telling what was done to them. Alongside that an investigator could try and find out about the company, see what records were available for it, what was its main business, who were its suppliers, what chemicals had been used at the factory, why all the people had been sacked and what was done to the site since then.

That way each of them would work on a different part of the jigsaw. They would meet up each week and join the pieces together until they had assembled a whole picture.

Within half an hour the deal was done. If Irina could give him the name of a good private investigator, Fedir would handle the payments through his business, that way there would be nothing to say the newspaper was paying to investigate a potential advertiser, it would simply be Fedir seeking out the truth about what was done to his sister, and passing the details of any new victims on to Irina to interview and see if there was a bigger story.

In due course, if the evidence became clearer, she could go to the paper and ask it to fund more investigations to wrap up the story. They all agreed that secrecy was critical for now. They must not let anyone else know what they were seeking out, lest they alert the company causing it to hide records or other evidence. Irina also needed to keep this investigation hidden to stop this story from being leaked to other news outlets before she was fully ready to publish anything she found out. She knew her paper would only go ahead if it had the exclusive rights.

They arranged to meet and share their information at three o'clock each Wednesday afternoon, in a café near Strathfield station. This was handy for them all to get to.

## Chapter 9 – Eastern European Beauty

Stephen felt his ears burning and his hands shaking after getting off the phone to ARJ. He thought he was a polished deal maker and skilled lawyer with the tricks in his bag to deal with tough clients, but this guy's recent conversation had shaken him to the core.

He understood now, in a way he never had before, that this man was an ethics free zone, seriously bad news. He did not care a fig about the law or right and wrong, all he thought of was personal advantage; how to get it and keep it, how to win in any fight regardless of the tactics required.

Part of Stephen felt like telling ARJ to stick it and walk away. He knew he was no saint, but liked to think he had certain limits of decency. But it was no longer so simple, he had been drawn into the little half-truths that went with this job, the spinning of sales figures and projections, the drawing attention away from anything less than perfect in the company's past by donations to charities along with little gifts plus the wining and dining of high flyers from the media to get positive press and then a similar soft sell to other business leaders to get them to invest or tell positive stories around their board room tables. It was a cosy little club which he had willingly become part of. Now he could not easily leave, he would be viewed as a traitor. His corporate career would soon follow a downward path.

Then of course there was the money. He was doing well. He had a nice apartment in Potts Point, a few thousand in the bank and credit cards with big limits. But his lifestyle had become lavish and, even though his income had risen proportionately, there was not a lot left each month once all the bills were paid. And of course there was the small matter of the shiny BMW with the 100+ price tag which he had bought out of a bonus yet to be paid.

It would not take too long for this house of cards to unravel if he pulled out one piece. He realised he could not realistically walk away. Therefore he must do ARJ's bidding, distasteful though it was.

With this clear insight he typed her name into the search engine again and started to create a detailed biography on her, before returning to dirt digging on the porn sites.

There was surprisingly little in this age of online gossip, a photo of Irina and her parents at a church and charity event raising money for Ukrainian refugees, another photo of her and a priest at the same event talking to a middle aged man who looked like a business man, a series of recent lifestyle and fashion articles in the weekend lifestyle supplement. As he looked at this stuff he had to admit that this woman, as well as being seriously good to look at, seemed to have a flair for style and taste in fashion.

It appeared that her media career ran back over three years, first as a junior reporter covering things like courts and domestic violence, many small stories at the gritty side of life. There was a run of stories with a political bent in the run up to last year's federal and state elections, tales about waste and mismanagement in government and sweetheart deals between government and its mates. In particular, a series of stories questioning tenders for water and electricity infrastructure being given to major political donors along with allegations of sweet deals with the rural irrigators for water allocations. He read a bit and saw it was hard hitting stuff.

She had even been nominated for a media award for this stuff. Although she did not win, she was clearly well regarded amongst her other dirt digger colleagues, with her own share of success.

Going back before her media career was hard, no evidence of activity in student politics though she got honours in her journalism degree. She was one of a few picked up immediately post grad by the Sydney Morning Herald. Her LinkedIn profile listed her attending Sydney University and gave an age of 25. He found nothing further about her academic career or early life.

He knew that, having not found anything else to damage her, he now had to go digging into the porn site to see what he could find there. But he was doing it to harm her, not titillate his sexual fantasies, it was distasteful – he knew it must be done, BUT – he did not like doing it!

Still the instruction was clear, dig for dirt on her he must.

Then he had a minor brain wave, he would try the direct approach first. He would ask for a low key informal meeting with her, just a one on one chat over coffee, on the pretext that if he better understood what she was looking for then he may be better able to help her. He could encourage her to show him a card or two. And he could form a half intelligent view of her, and of her strengths and weaknesses, without giving too much away.

This would both help him know where she was coming from and point him more clearly towards any dirty secrets he should know about buried in the company's past. He felt he was justified in doing this on the basis that forewarned is forearmed, if he knew the danger he could seek to protect against it. Not to mention that he had written a prospectus with a glowing reference card and did not want egg on his face. And, if he was honest, deep down, he wanted to know a bit more about a fascinating woman who was both a hard hitting investigative journalist and a porn star, if the photos on the internet were to be believed.

Before he could go cold on the idea he asked his receptionist, Janet, to set up a coffee for him and Irina, yes that one who rang you two days ago from the Sydney Morning Herald, preferably no later than sometime today. As he had no appointments in his diary he could not break or reschedule he told Janet to make a time to suit Irina without being too accommodating.

Janet rang back in just over ten minutes to say that the meeting set up for four o'clock this afternoon in the café at the base of the MLC Centre in Martin Place, only five minutes' walk away.

Stephen whiled away the day, not doing much, quietly disquieted at the prospect of coming face to face with one who could prove to be his nemesis. He tossed up taking a closer look at the porn site but decided not to, he did not want his attention distracted by visions of her without any clothes in some sexually explicit pose, assuming she was one and the same person.

In the end his impatience got the better of him and he went out for a late lunch and a walk around Hyde Park to burn off some restless energy and keep himself sane. At last it was ten to four. He went down and across the road to their designated meeting point and found a table in a private corner, quiet but visible to those who walked by and might be looking for him.

He pulled out the paper and forced himself to read the business section while he waited. There was a short article about Gilt's up and coming public float offering but the detail was scant. It told him nothing he did not already know. He closed the paper with a thud and looked up.

He was just in time to see her floating towards him, an apparition with a striking resemblance to a Russian Madonna, dark swept back hair, large dark eyes, a strong but pretty face and an indefinable aura of magnetism, a part feminine mystique and a part other.

Irina took the proffered seat opposite and held out her hand to shake, nodding briefly in response to him saying, 'Irina Petrenko?'

It began in an awkward manner, her saying, "And what is so urgent you needed to talk to me about it today? Your secretary would not say. You seemed most unwilling to talk to me, in any manner that did not resemble corporate bullshit, two days ago. Why this sudden need to have a face to face, one on one, meeting? I would have thought that anything useful could as easily be said on the phone."

Part of Stephen felt he should respond in kind with cutting invective. But another part of him looked in admiration at this 'Eastern European Beauty', that was how his mind categorised her after first seeing her revealed online. She threw her words out at him with fire sparkles flashing in those dark eyes. It was an amazing display, intense serious passion, unconscious power and beauty, regal yet vulnerable.

Now, all at once, it felt ludicrous sitting here to fight with her, he found he had lost all his sense of intent and was floundering, looking silly. As he looked at himself in this place with dispassion it suddenly seemed funny, his normal, self-assured self was tied in knots by this force of nature. He found himself smiling, she looked puzzled which was even funnier. Before he knew it he was unable to stop laughing. It was not a nasty laugh, but one directed at his own discomposure.

Now she was laughing too, and then they were both breaking into fits of giggles as they responded to the laughter of the other. After a minute he at last composed himself, feeling embarrassed. "So sorry, I have never done that before. Do you think we could maybe start again? I did not come here to have an argument or pick a fight with you, but rather to ask you to tell me more clearly what you have found. It seemed to me that conversation was a thing best done one to one, without others being a part.

"But as you tore into me, putting me in my place, it suddenly seemed funny that me, a supposedly polished corporate lawyer, was being turned inside out by a lady I asked to meet. And, when you smiled back, it seemed even funnier. It's something from left field, not an image I try to cultivate. You have such a nice smile, even when angry, so that it made me smile too.

"I have been thinking about what you said to me the other day. While I am not here to make a confession of misdeeds by the company I represent, it seemed to me I needed to see the accuser and hear what she has to say, not dismiss it, unheard, with more corporate bullshit, as you so aptly called it.

"My sole intent was to meet you, assess the sort of person you are and hear what you have to say, before I decide what to do."

Irina did not reply immediately. She sat there staring at him intently, as if trying to weigh his trustworthiness and decide whether to open or close the hand she held. In the end she said, "Thank you for coming to see me, perhaps my phone call the other day, when I was angry, was a mistake. Unfortunately we have passed the point where talking would serve any useful value.

"I suspect you are not aware of the past actions of this company that you represent, or you would not be here today. But from here on I'm afraid we are destined to be adversaries though I like your smile too."

She sat still and silent for another minute, as if thinking. Then she took out a pen, wrote on the table napkin and passed it to him, saying. "Here are three people who deserve an apology from the company you represent. All are dead now but it would still be the decent thing to do. With that she got up and walked away, heels clicking."

***

Stephen walked back to the office, part intrigued and part frustrated. He had got two things from the meeting, that Irina and the Eastern European Beauty on the porn site were one and the same, and there were three dead people she held the company responsible for doing bad things to.

As to her identity, seen in the flesh she was absolutely unmistakable as the Eastern European Beauty, down to the small mole on her neck that he had seen in her on-line face shot. But, apart from these two things, nothing of any use at all had come from the meeting; she had controlled it from start to finish apart from the odd laughing interlude, a strange disjunct in a day. It was out of character for him and ineffectual. And yet, when he thought about her face as she tore into him, he could not help laughing again, though a real reason escaped him.

He looked at the paper napkin with its three names, none meant anything to him but, based on the context, he assumed all were dead.

He went to the death notices on-line and searched the name Anna Yanukovic. There it was:

_Family and friends of Anna Yanukovic are respectfully invited to attend her funeral service at_ _St Athanasius Ukrainian Orthodox Church_ _in Granville at 10 am followed by her burial at Rookwood Cemetery at 11 am._

Date of death was two days ago and the funeral was on this Friday, in two days' time. He had no idea who this Anna was, but at least it was a real name of a once real person. It was a place to start.

While he was at it he googled the other two names from death notices. It seemed like a long shot. Sure enough nothing came up.

Not to worry, he rang Janet again, almost due to finish for the day and said. "I want you to find out what you can about two deceased people who I assume died in Sydney. Their names are George Fisher and Martin Jamieson. I assume that they have died sometime in the last few years. I have tried the newspaper notices without success, perhaps you can look them up in the Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages. And, while you are at it, see if there is an entry for Anna Yanukovic, including a listed cause of death.

Janet mumbled, "You owe me one boss, its past my knock off time."

But still she did it and in five minutes the answers were in. Yes all were listed; one had died over five years ago and the other six months later. The cause of death in both cases was listed as multi-organ failure due to aplastic anaemia. Sure enough Anna's was almost the same, the Register entry only having come in the day before.

Now Stephen googled this disease term, 'aplastic anaemia'. In another couple minutes he had some key facts. It was a disease due to bone marrow shut-down so that the production of red cells, white cells and clotting factors ceased. The causes were many and uncertain, but the general view was that most cases were due to exposure to toxic substances, with some common culprits including specific antibiotics, benzene, dioxin and a range of other industrial solvents. The end result was victims died of a mixture of loss of immunity, chronic bleeding and lack of oxygen carrying capacity in their blood. While blood transfusions gave temporary help this disease was almost invariably irreversible and was fatal, mostly over weeks to months, though a few lived for a year or two. It was an ugly picture of a terrible disease.

Stephen had one last task to do before he finished for the day. That was to get real dirt on Irina, how she had become a porn star. He felt regretful about making a choice to go down this path, the brief introduction he had been given to her today was breathtaking, the fire and passion, mixed with her physical attractiveness, was quite overpowering.

But if he did not go looking he was sure someone else would. ARJ was nothing if not thorough and, based on him pulling the initial information on Irina up inside five minutes, ARJ was bound to find this out himself if he did not get a private investigator onto the job. So, it was better that Stephen knew what this story was about, whether he used it or not.

As to what it all meant, the chemical exposure stuff could well be right, all he knew about the company's old business was that ARJ had old factories on the site which he had shut down and demolished some years ago before. He had since applied to rezone the land for a mix of high rise residential and commercial use to allow for an accompanying business centre, which would increase its value tenfold. This was currently being delayed by EPA required remediation works. It was interesting the delay was due to soil chemicals.

But, then again, the whole area around Homebush Bay was an old toxic waste-ground, hell they said for years that fish in the Parramatta River were too polluted to eat. The government had spent untold millions covering all the nearby contaminated lands at the time when they build the Olympic Venues and the Newington Housing Estate.

So was there really anything new here? Perhaps it was only all that old contamination to which everyone then working in that part of Sydney was exposed. That was a comforting thought – that it was just an act of history from a time when nobody knew any better, and the sooner it was all covered up the safer it would be for all.

But now he had a last job for the day. He opened his web browser and clicked the term he well remembered from two days ago, Irina Petrenko, Eastern European Beauty. Sure enough, in a couple seconds it had brought he details back up. This time has past payment was remembered, so he did not have to pay again to view her first close up image.

It was undoubtedly her; the mole on the neck was conclusive.

He paid another hundred to go through into the detailed shots. The browser opened a video option. The opening screen showing her lying naked on a bed, legs spreadeagled wide, perhaps a bit stoned looking, maybe she had taken something to heighten the experience.

He clicked the play button for the video to run. Now the camera zoomed in on her pubis as a man's hand inserted a dildo into her and rocked it back and forth. Her pelvis rose in apparent pleasure accompanied by sound effects of orgasmic groaning. Then came views from behind and to the side as a fit looking young man, face unseen, mounted her and inserted his erect phallus to replace the dildo. This was accompanied by more grunting and groaning as the sex act continued, though the pictures were mostly from behind and to the side with little of her face and almost none of his in view. However her dark hair and a silver necklace was seen in all the shots, still remaining in view, along with a small birth mark on her hip, so it was clearly her. After a minute of two this sequence ended in an apparent orgasmic climax, followed by a last close-up of her face as the man climbed off.

She still looked a bit stoned but her eyes were open and it appeared she was groaning in pleasure. It was her without doubt. Her willing participation was not fully clear, but she was not resisting and she seemed to be enjoying it, going on the accompanying audio.

It was good enough for Stephen: he took several more close up screen shots of various parts of the performance and sent these to his printer then accepted the $500 offer to download your own private copy of this video. He saved a copy of all these files on his computer hard drive and a second copy of each on a 32 gigabyte USB memory stick. It was more than enough for whatever further pressure was needed to pull her into line, even though the idea of using it sickened him.

## Chapter 10 - Name of Benzy

Ben, short for Benjamin, is my first name. My surname is unpronounceable, some Russian-Japanese hybrid. As my parents could never agree on anything except my first name and were divorced soon after having me, they stuck me with this long double barrelled surname because neither would cede this part of my naming rights to the other.

Hence, once I left school I abbreviated my surname to ZZ, as there is a Z in each part of this long, convoluted double surname and, with Z being the last letter of the alphabet, it seemed only right I should use it for the last part of my name. Hence I became Ben ZZ to those I met, abbreviated to Benzy when spoken. This single double name has the advantages of being easy to say and highly memorable, so I am never confused with another person.

Ben ZZ, the name on my office door plate, is a good name for use as a private investigator, which is what I am, and Benzy is easy for introductions. My work place is a small office in a shabby shopping centre next to Lidcombe Station on the main train line west from Sydney City, between Strathfield and Parramatta. It is a good place to come and go from, the costs are reasonable, it is easy to drive to and from with the main western motorway nearby and I use trains to take me to places when I don't want to drive.

Over time I have got to know my way pretty well around most of Sydney, but my specialty is the bits between Strathfield and Parramatta, including the Olympic Precinct and the Parramatta River upstream of Concord Road Bridge. In the past this waterway has, from time to time, been used as a disposal site for various unwanted items, ranging from dumped chemicals and rubbish to the odd bodies, car, human or animal, things that nobody wants to be found. These are often heavily weighted, at times wearing concrete boots to ensure submergence remains assured. There is plenty of water above them and a lot of other muck at the bottom to ensure everything remains well hidden.

My main clients are angry spouses, thinking or knowing the other half is cheating and wanting evidence to confirm suspicions. Other clients include companies who want the dirt on another business for commercial advantage, those trying to find missing valuables like hot cars that have taken a walk and there is always the odd old media hound who is desperately trying to uncover secrets that others would like to keep hidden.

For services rendered I have two rates of pay. The first is a cash only rate of $1000 a day, money given to me in non-sequenced notes with no receipts offered. The second is an official rate of $1500 per day plus GST, for which I will provide official documents detailing the work and payment.

In terms of my background, I was an average student of Homebush Boys High School. I had little motivation for further study after school and little interest in a trade, both sounded too much like hard work. My parents, even though separated, did both agree on me not becoming an idle layabout and each was determined to imprint on me their own plan for my life.

I decided that the best escape was to go off and join the army. This had three main advantages; that I did not have to cook or otherwise feed myself, that the discipline was lax compared to my parents' views, and I that I got paid to go and explore lots of out of the way places where I was largely free from interference or bother by others.

What I had not counted on was the boredom, I liked to read books but reading on duty was frowned upon, even when there was nothing else to do. Most of army life was spent either drilling, training or sitting around waiting for something big to happen, which it almost never did. So, after one term of duty, I decided that enough was enough and returned to the world outside.

At that point I though policing would be a good alternative, you were given a uniform and a gun and got to tell others what to do. And they paid you for your shifts and overtime, when you were called out. And I thought it was worthwhile nabbing the bad guys and there would be more to do with all the petty crime to pursue. So I spent three years as a beat cop and then got into the Criminal Investigations part. Being a beat cop was 95% boring and 5% sheer terror when you had confront druggies off their face or big ugly guys belting into wives and girlfriends. CID was better, at least you were mostly using your brain to try and pick up patterns. But after another three years there I realised that, again, 95% of our work was small fish, their little scams and rackets, and that my prospects for promotion or wealth in this job were minimal unless I became seriously bent like many others.

I woke up one day, a year or so after my thirtieth birthday, and realised my life was running by. I had used up thirteen years of my working life and had almost nothing to show for it, the job satisfaction was minimal, the pay mediocre and nothing great had happened to make the rest worthwhile.

So I gave my notice and set up my own business, and here, over fifteen years later I still am today. The business is steady, I make a comfortable living and I have that elusive quality of freedom to come and go as suits me. And, amongst all the mundane stuff, over these years, I have been privy to some pretty amazing secrets which make me feel like my life is worthwhile.

I am now forty eight and not married, but I do have a regular lady friend who I like. Outside of my work I own, mortgage free, a shabby weatherboard cottage down near the river. It has a garden from which I get day after day of pleasure as I watch things come to life, grow, and give their bounty.

Yesterday I was walking down the street, near my office, when I ran into an old mate, Fedir, a big Ukrainian wog, a good bloke and a good electrician to boot. Not that I can bad mouth wogs with my half Japanese, half Russian heritage and looks. But then I think the way we both look sure beats looking like a pasty skinned ex-Pommie wanker.

Fedir had done a low cost but good quality fix up of the old wiring when I bought my house. He understood that, until I did a proper renovation, I did not want to blow lots of cash. But I still needed it to be safe, lights and power to work and nothing to catch fire.

In return for his good price I did two minor bits of work for him, both of investigations into work accidents where he thought the site managers were lying and trying to blame his workers for what happened to them. He thought it did not seem these workers' faults, and reckoned these two managers had lied to keep onside with their own bosses as well as keeping their insurance premiums down. Fedir needed someone to confirm this. That way, when he told the companies, from whom he employed them as sub-contractors, to be rid of them there would be no come back if they tried to cut nasty.

So I got him Fedir the information he needed and he got rid of two bad eggs by passing on this information I gave him. We were both well pleased with our respective parts of this and had remained nodding friends since.

Today he was walking past me on the opposite side of the street, head down as if deep in thought. I had not seen him in over a year and, unless he was in a serious rush, I thought it was past time to say hello. So I called out to him, "Fedir, what you up to? Have you grown so big and mighty that you no longer say hello to an old mate?"

On seeing me his face cracked into a broad grin. "Benzy, you slippery old reprobate, I thought by now one of your less illustrious clients must have fed you to the bull sharks in Parramatta River. How about it, have you got time for a coffee, there is something I want to talk to you about.

So we went to the local Greek café come milk-bar which, as well as doing regular and Turkish coffees and a good moussaka, did the best baklava I knew of, to appease my sweet tooth. We settled into coffees and cakes in silence for a minute before Fedir opened up, "How goes it for you my old friend? Is your detective business OK?"

I grinned and said, "Always plenty want to sneak off and play round while the other stays at home. There is nothing like anger of a home partner scorned to write a big cheque. How about you? Still doing your dodgy wiring, electrocuting pets and babies?"

Fedir let out a generous laugh, "It is good to see you. When I saw you today I suddenly realised that I need your advice, perhaps even to send you some work. But first, what I will tell you must reach no other ears, OK?"

I nodded and he continued on.

"My sister, Anna, she is very sick, she will die soon. I think she has been poisoned. Many years ago she worked in a factory in Homebush Bay and they used many bad chemicals, with no gloves or safety equipment, not even any place to wash it off. Now she is in hospital and has this thing, the doctors call it aplastic anaemia. The doctors say it is caused by the chemicals poisoning her bone marrow. And, as well as her, I have found out of two other men who worked in the factory who died the same way, both five years ago.

So I am talking to a Ukrainian journalist, one who works at the Sydney Morning Herald. She wants to write the story and print it. But people who run the company who did it are friends with the bosses of the Herald. So she cannot ask her bosses at the paper to pay for her to investigate, you know, to hire a top dog private investigator and spend two or three grand a day to go digging, like they normally would. She has been asking around where to find an investigator who we can pay to help. When I saw you I thought of you.

"This girl, Irina, the journalist, she is angry like me. She wants to get this story bad, but she does not have the time to do all the investigation, and she does not have enough money to pay someone else to do it.

Me and Tali, my wife, we have some money saved which we want to use and others have a bit too, not a lot, but maybe fifteen grand. Irina said she would ask around the people she knows to try and find one to do this digging, but so far she has found nobody.

It would be easier if she could get the paper will pay, then the big ones would jump at it. But, until the evidence is better, there is too much risk this story will get out to the bosses and they will shut it down. So she needs someone small who will not scare the horses.

"I said I will handle the payments for this investigation through my business, that way she cannot be blamed if the company finds out. We met last week. Irina said she would send me names of private investigators who may do it at a low cost, so I could book one up, but no names have come.

"I don't know why I did not think of asking you before, either to give me the name of the right person or to do it yourself if it stacks up."

I was intrigued. It did not sound like a great earner, but this guy was straight and I liked working with him. And hell, what was the use of having your own business if you could not use mates rates when it suited you then charge double to some rich angry dude to make it up.

So I nodded again and said, "I think you had better tell me the full story, all you know. Then we can work out what work we can do for the cash you've got and particularly which pieces of the jigsaw I can best help with.

"The one thing that I know about is land around where you are talking. As a kid, wagging school, these places around the bay were our playground. So I reckon I am in front of anyone else in knowing the lie of the land.

"While I do not know the owners, I know where you mean. It was a dirty dump when we were kids. And even though have not looked real close I saw how they built a high security fence a couple years back. Last time I was near I saw two big security guards and dogs and I hear they work 24/7. It is strange how reluctant they are now to let anyone poke around there considering what a hole it was back then. Sounds to me like they have something big to hide with all that security, perhaps there is a place where all the bodies are buried, perhaps they dug a big hole and poured all the poison chemicals into the ground before they shut up shop.

"I do remember, from when I was a school kid, seeing lots of migrant folks going there to clock on and off. Most were poor and ragged, there was no security then. Perhaps your sister was one of them, the workers.

"So I admit this job has my interest. So long as I can cover my base day rate, I am keen to take it on, see what I can dig up from people who used to work there and particularly from those who brought stuff onto and off the place. There will always be someone who knows something, no matter how cleverly they think they covered it up. And the lawyers who handled all those payments will have to know something too; I reckon that is a place to start digging as well. Of course you may want different bits from different people, but why don't we start by making a plan of what can be done.

In the end we sat there for over two hours as Fedir told me all he knew, and I added in bits from my own memory banks. Along the way we shared a plate of moussaka and a Greek salad, along with another cup of coffee and a second slice of baklava. I agreed on a fee of a grand a day and, unlike other work done at this cost, I would even provide Fedir with a tax invoice to allow his business to legally process the payments to me.

He in return would pay my bill weekly for any days I worked until all his cash was burned or he knew what he needed to know. I had a couple quiet weeks coming up, and then a couple busy weeks following, so for the next fortnight I knew I had a chance to make a good start of this can of worms. I felt excitement at the thought.

I decided I would start with the security firm who was keeping the place off limits, find out who they were and how much they were being paid. This fact alone would give me a true feel for how big this secret was, based on how much money was being spent to keep it buried.

It was two o'clock when Fedir departed. I went back to my office for an hour to check phone and email messages. Then I did some quick googling of the site before I went for a walk. I find walking is best for preliminaries. You dress up to look harmless, then it is easy to chat to whoever you run into, you can take your time as you go, use as long or as little time as you need to work out who is who and what is the lay of the land.

I printed out a google map layout of the streets and river, which I folded down small. It is easier and better to have a paper map to hand when you are wandering around than to have your eyes buried in your phone half the time. Plus it gives something to scribble on about anything you find.

Just beyond the site are swamps fringing Homebush Bay, running down to the Parramatta River. Here I often take the guise of a nutty bird watcher, binoculars, camera and 'What Bird is That' book, all clearly in view.

There is a regular fraternity of such people who wander these parts, all with bursting enthusiasm for nature, "Did you see that Sooty Wanderer or Unmasked Plover they would call to each other as they twitched their way around the bay edges where the waterbirds gathered. Off course I may have bird names wrong but I'm sure you get the general gist.

So today I will be one of those odd cases, going for a stroll au naturel, taking in whatever sights and sounds are to be had. I even have a ridiculous floppy cotton hat that bounces around on my balding head.

I park my car around the corner from the street that leads past the back of the block and set out on foot, in a guise of 'bird watcher extraordinaire'. This street lies between a strip of vegetation with fringing mangroves along the edge of the bay on one side and the fenced off old factory site, now only seen as a barren empty wasteland, on the other side.

The residual sheds are at the far end of the site on this street. Next to is a gate which penetrates the high wire mesh fence. It leads into a smallish internally fenced enclosure holding the sheds. From it an internal gate goes into the rest of the site. I see it had a heavy chain and lock on each gate. It appears they were the only remaining points of ingress and egress to get inside the fences. I will venture over there in due course. For now I just want an overview of the site and to take some photos of what is there to be seen without security guards and their monster dogs breathing down my neck.

I walk along the opposite side of the road from the site, just inside the fringing vegetation, alternating between using binoculars and pointing the big camera lens at all sorts of random things, accompanied by a bit of book and voluble arm waving at imaginary things in the trees that nobody could fail to see, even if blind and half asleep. I have found, over time, that making people initially curious over who you are and what you are doing, then boring the pants of them with over long, enthusiastic explanations, is a great way to become totally invisible. Soon your new friends will not even wave back lest you come across to tell them about your exciting new discoveries.

After twenty minutes of casing one side, seen from tree edge with lots of telephoto shots of anything remotely interesting on the site, I vanish out of sight for ten minutes before reappearing on the bushy corner of the other side, two hundred yards down from the fence. Another road runs along this edge away from my waterside bush patch. I start to follow it for a hundred yards of so and then when nearing the corner of the site fence, having seen all I want, I make out I have forgotten something back in the bush and need to return. Five minutes later I re-emerge on side of the site where the sheds and gate are. After a last ecstatic photo of nature, and a couple sly ones of the site, I start a slow weary trudge along that road up past the gated corner.

As I near their vantage point by the gate, where two security men are posted, one on a folding chair looking bored and the other playing with a monster dog, while a second dog sleeps inside the shed enclosure, I open my bird book to a page of photos of non-descript brown tweety birds and start to mutter aloud words like, "Amazing, Such a Beautiful Specimen." I want to give an appearance of being lost in discovery of a thing truly wonderful.

I can see half amused, half perplexed looks coming my way as I draw ever closer. Now, a bare three steps away, I turn the book towards them pointing and declaiming. "I am so happy. I have seen one of them! It is an amazing bird, so beautiful! I walk up to the guy on the chair, a heavy set overweight Islander type, saying, as I point, "Have you ever seen one of these? It is so amazing and so beautiful."

He looks puzzled at my book and antics, shaking his head slowly, clearly rendered speechless in the face of my excitement. Unfazed at his ignorance I continue on to the dog man, a weasel looking type, enthusing to him.

"So amazing, unbelievable. Have you ever seen anything to equal it?"

I sense his friend smirking at me behind my back and, in response, he is unable to supress a smile, to which I respond with enthusiasm. "It is really true? Do you like it? Perhaps you know this bird too?"

He shakes his head, still speechless too.

I make as if to suddenly come to my senses, saying, "I am so sorry, the excitement was too much, I had to tell someone and you were the first I saw. You think I am crazy. Yes?"

He nods.

I continued, "I have just discovered an incredibly rare bird, never seen here before, but alas I fear that birds are not your thing."

He nods again, saying at last, "I am sorry, I know little of wild birds, the ones walking down the street interest me more."

I laugh enthusiastically at his small joke and hear his mate laugh to so I include him in the conversation. "I think you prefer birds in the street too."

His mate nods enthusiastically.

Turning again to Weasel, I continue, "But you have a dog, two dogs, and you like your dogs, so I think you do like some animals too. Are these your dogs, are they friendly? What is this dog's name?

Now the ice is broken and they both wander over to talk. I sense they welcome anything to relieve the boredom of hours of doing nothing. The dog is named Ranger, he is three years old. They quietly admit to me that he is a big goofball, though the female dog, Biscuit, now sitting up inside the fence, is a bit fiercer, but not too bad. Ranger likes best to eat and play. He too is bored with hours of standing around and nothing to do, whereas Biscuit is lazy and likes to sleep so she does not object to all the many long hours doing nothing. The dogs belong to the security company, but live here in the kennel next to the shed. There is a dog only gate that let them out to have the run of the whole site, as they would go crazy if locked all day in the small enclosure around the shed. And, to relieve their boredom along with his, Weasel brings them out, one at time, to play and accompany him on hourly walks around the perimeter of the site, in order to check the fence and make sure nobody is hanging around.

I asked, as if perplexed, "Do you not get smoko or lunch break? Can you not take him off the park for an hour to run free and play with the other dog, surely they do not need you both here all day long, do you really need to stay here and guard this gate all day long?. There is nothing here anyway.

They nodded, as if agreeing this job was a waste of time. Pacific Man adds, "But the money is good, $50 an hour, better than what I used to get for security at a pub, plus we do twelve hour shifts, so lots of hours of pay.

I decide I will push the friendship envelope further. "It is time for my afternoon coffee. Could I go and get you both a coffee and cake at the corner shop to help me celebrate my discovery?

"My car is a few minutes' walk away. How about I return with a drink for you both in fifteen minutes? We must celebrate! It is a very special day for me. I think even your dog deserves a treat, can I get him something too?"

The both nod enthusiastically, anything to break up a slow day.

In a short while I return with coffees and cakes for three along with a pack of dog treats. First I passed a couple treats to Weasel for Ranger and Biscuit who has woken up and joined our party. Then I hand around our own food and drinks. Pacific Man finds a second chair and also a drum which he offers as my seat and we sit and chat.

I tell them of a different imaginary me who works at a local University studying birds and of how I have just got a first ever sighting of a rare bird which has travelled from the opposite side of the world to reach here. They both showed amazement that a bird would fly so far and Weasel asks why a bird would come to such a crappy place, a bay full of rubbish.

I shrug my shoulders as if this beat me too.

They each tell me snips of lives and families and bits about the job, the work is boring but the pay is good enough to make up for this, there must always be two of them on site with a dog, one patrols the boundary each hour. The rest of the time they both stay put, they would both get sacked if their boss ever came to check and one was missing. They do twelve hour shifts, a mix of days and nights. Another crew, blokes like them, does the other twelve hours each day with a swap over at eight each morning. Each guard gets one day off per week, when a temporary bloke will cover and these guys varied, so it means they never have days off together. That way one of them always knows what to do, knows the routine.

I ask what is so special about this place that it must be guarded day and night? Neither knows. They tell me that they must report at once if anyone ever gets inside and particularly if anyone tries to get into the shed.

I ask if they have ever met the person who owns this place.

Weasel said they had, just once. "He is an old guy, his name is ARJ."

I ask, "Is he a good guy, friendly?"

Both shake their heads, "No, old and grouchy."

They tell me the only thing ARJ did was walk around the fence, checking closely for gaps or signs of someone trying to get in. Then he got into his flash car, a Mercedes, and drove away. Before he left he said that if he ever caught either of them slacking he would sack them both. Their own boss, who had come along separately, said the same.

But really they could not complain. They both got paid fifty dollars an hour to sit her for twelve hours each day and do nothing. It was easy money.

As we chatted I started offering the each of the dogs little treats and, before long, both were eating out of my hand and accepting my pats around their ears. It was a good start.

After half an hour, when I felt I had gleaned all that was useful to know so I made my excuses. I decided to return at eight o'clock tomorrow morning when the shift changeover happened, bringing fresh coffee and lots of cakes. That way, with a bit of luck, I would meet both them and their alternate shift members and get a second chance to befriend the dogs in a low key manner. I am uncertain if a friendship with these guys will be of value, but I am sure it will not hurt. And, if I need to get inside, friendship with the dogs will be vital.

*

Back at the office I take the pictures I want off the camera memory card and save them on my computer hard drive. I do a quick scan of them all at high resolution. They are singularly unremarkable, the main thing that strikes me after looking at them is that they show nothing of real interest, two small sheds, one about six by four metres and the other a bit smaller. The close ups of the high security fence are interesting. It is not only was made of cyclone mesh to three metres high, but has both internal and external barbed wire overhangs which come two thirds of a metre out from the fence. There also appears to be six live electrical wires inside the main fence, each offset about 200 millimetres from the cyclone mesh. No doubt these would be alarmed for any break to their power, meaning that even if the guards were distracted it would be extraordinarily difficult for someone to cut their way inside undetected. From way the whole thing was set up it also looks like there are CCTV cameras and motion detectors placed at regular intervals along the inside of boundary. Having regard for the dogs which have the run of the inside at night, I think the use of motion detectors must be limited to a narrow strip alongside the fence, perhaps a metre inside and out, to minimise triggering by the dogs, and also to pick up anyone hanging around the fence or tinkering with it.

In total it seems massive security overkill for a vacant site. When I do a quick back of the envelope calculation of the cost of the security guards it seems even more so. Two men on a twenty four hour shift rotation, based on the quoted pay of $40 each per hour means that a daily wages bill of about $1000 for each 12 hour shift, thus it is likely to run to about $3000 each day when factoring in a profit for the security company and other extras like a person monitoring back at base. So this daily cost means an annual cost of around a million a year, assuming it is an ongoing cost not just something hyped up around the time of the public float. Even if it only runs for a month or two, the approximate hundred grand a month is still serious money.

It seems an amazing amount to spend on an almost empty block of land. Off the top of my head I think of two possible reasons, that there is a thing of utmost secrecy inside one of the sheds, or that part or the whole site was massively contaminated with something seriously harmful and the owners did not want others knowing the extent of this.

On Google maps I measure the boundaries to get a clear size scale. The site is about two hundred metres long and one hundred and fifty metres wide, making it about three hectares. It is clearly a prize bit of land and, if it was turned into a mix of residential, new industrial and a shopping precinct, as Fedir said was proposed, the three hundred million type price tag does not seem unrealistic as the finished products could easily sell for multiples of this. So the upside of an approved DA is there for all to see. But, if the final work is only to dig out some contaminated soil and put a foot or two of clean soil on top to bury any other contamination, why the need for all this security?

Something does not add up. I suspect the sheds are the key, but it would be challenging to get inside these. Simpler may be to test other parts of the site for contamination with old chemicals. It would be easy to use a drone to get soil samples from a selection of places around the site.

I already have my own drone and operator's license, great for collecting evidence on cheating couples. Often, once they close the doors on secret liaisons, they shag in full view with windows open, as if titillated by the semi-public exhibition. I have captured this in a two second fly-by from a drone camera on more occasions than I can count.

It would be simple to make a fitting to collect bits of soil using this machine; it could land and scoop up enough for a test in a few seconds. So that part could be cheaply and easily done. I would work from just across the road where I am legally allowed to fly it and could keep it in sight to ensure the security people did not know. However there is a cost of thousands extra to pay to test the needed samples, so I needed to be judicious about what samples I take from where. Still it may give clues about what nasty chemicals were once used here.

But before I start down that path I need to get the old plans of buildings and drainage to see what was where and where the drainage went. Unless it all ran straight into the bay there is a fair bet that this would be a hotspot for any samples looking for contamination.

Dark is starting to settle in outside my office when I look up. It is time to get home and water the garden. Rising to leave I felt satisfaction that I have this job. I do not care about the money, I will make enough to cover costs. After that it is about doing something for some deserving people. Fedir's story has moved me deeply. That, coupled with my preliminary viewing this afternoon, tell me there is a thing malodourous and rotten buried here. Rich people do not spend money with no good reason and great bags of money are being spent here.

I am also looking forward to meeting the journalist and others at the weekly meeting, scheduled for tomorrow, to get a full picture of what they had already found out to know where to target my own efforts.

## Chapter 11 - Anna in Hospital

Anna had now been in hospital for almost three weeks. Initially her being in hospital had felt better, that blessed relief of not having to be on her feet all day and of having everything done for her was wonderful rest after how hard it had been before.

And Fedir had immediately gone to the pawnbroker and retrieved her jewellery on getting the story on that day when she had collapsed. He did not say how he had done it, he had just presented her with these things in their original boxes the day after she told him. She was so happy to have them back. Each day she fondly took them out and looked at them, and sometimes at night she slept with the cross around her neck, feeling the protective spirit of her God enfold her when she did.

But now she could feel the hourglass of the sands of her life starting to run out. She knew she would only leave this place in a box and that day was fast drawing nigh. Part of her felt relief that it would all be over soon.

But another part of her felt there was unfinished business she had to attend to before it was too late. She understood, from fragments Fedir and that journalist told her, that she was not alone in getting this disease; that many others she had known and worked with were afflicted like her.

These people had been her friends, they had laughed and joked, even shared their meagre lunches and cakes. It had not been all bad. So she felt affection for these other sufferers, she wanted to do something for them.

Her body was too weak to go and visit them, she could no longer bake a cake. But her mind was sharp. She rolled around in her mind what she could do. She finally realised she could tell their story. She asked a nurse to get her a pen and paper. She would try to ensure that few died forgotten with their stories and what happened unknown.

She would make a list and, alongside it, she would write down everything she could remember about each person whose face or name she could recall. She would also write about her time working there: the day she started, the day she finished, the people who worked alongside her, the people in any other jobs she knew, the man at the gate, the man who did deliveries, the bosses who always told her what to do. Also any other stories she could remember about each person she knew, their children's names, the places where they lived, what they had done for holidays, romances, marriages, baptisms – all the fabric of lives.

It would do two things – it would give little bits of their unknown stories a continuing life and it would give evidence to Fedir and that nice journalist lady, Irina, for the investigation she knew they were running.

With her mind clear and a sense of purpose to fill her declining days she began to write. Soon she had filled one sheet of paper then two; next thing she knew the nurse had brought in a large notebook and handed it to her. It said 200 sheets, double sided A4, feint ruled. That gave her more pages than she needed to write down everything she knew.

Tomorrow Irina was coming to visit with Fedir and some others, a man called Ben who Fedir told her was a private investigator was one. She would show them what she was doing and hope it helped.

Next day Anna was feeling better than she had in a few days. She knew it was only a temporary reprieve from the relentless progression of her disease, but it was as if her activity, the dredging of her memory banks, had instantly invigorated her with energy. She realised it was coming from doing a thing that mattered, to use all her remaining days and hours to best advantage.

In her writing, before she got started on the factory story, she dug into her earliest childhood memories of before she came to Australia, that post war Communist era in Ukraine before they had escaped to the west, when her mother and Nona had clung to the remains of a family shattered by war tragedy, until it was clear that no more would return; no grandfather, no father, no brothers to her mother, all were presumed dead. The survivors were just two old aunts who had decried that they would stay in the land of their birth until they died, no matter what awful things were done to them.

But her Nona and mother decided they must leave. It was just the four of them, the two women and Anna, five years old and Fedir of only one year. Fedir had been conceived in a window of brief leave before her father was dragged back into the army where he succumbed to disease in a far flung province. It was an era before modern medicine and antibiotics which may have saved his life, they said he died of wound fever and pneumonia. Her father never saw his baby son and Fedir never knew his father, whereas she had half memories of him. She remembered a man a bit akin to Fedir in his looks now, strong of body, who laughed loudly and told jokes. His hair was going prematurely grey from the privations of war and starvation in her distant memory flashes, even though he was a man of less than forty.

There was a half memory of them sitting at a farm kitchen table for a Sunday lunch, with the unexpected luxuries of meat and eggs to go with their potatoes and cabbage, along with much loved sweet pastries. There was a memory of him swinging her around in his arms on her fourth birthday, he seeming impossibly strong and indestructible in her childhood eyes, there was a memory of her father laughing and joking with her mother. Then there was a last memory of her mother and Nona crying when news came of his death in a far flung outpost of the empire. They buried him there; nobody would transport the body of a common soldier a thousand miles home.

Soon after they packed a few possessions and somehow found their way to Germany, getting there before the wall was closed off. From there they found their way onto a refugee boat that brought them across the ocean to the opposite side of the world.

Of late Anna had felt a hankering to return to the country of her birth, even if just for a few days. Oh to refresh her distant memories, to run her fingers through some rich soil from their childhood farm, if only. But this would never come to pass now. Instead she sat and wrote these earliest fragments on paper, along with what followed after in this new land.

It was not much but these memories were all she had. She felt she owed it to whatever of her family, through Fedir, that came along later, to pass on these tiny remnants of remembrance.

Next morning she was sitting and musing over these words on paper when a knock on the door alerted her to the arrival of a visitor, it was Irina, come a little early, with her own bag of snacks to share. Anna went to fold the papers she had written on, and put them within the notebook, as Irina sat down alongside her bed.

Irina, noticing the pen still in hand asked, "Have you been writing letters or something?"

Anna shook her head, "No, nothing like that. Yesterday I decided I should write my own list of all the people I could remember from my work and what they had done, so as to help you all. But, once I started, I found that my mind kept going back, further and further, right back to my earliest memories of childhood. I thought, perhaps, Fedir's grandchildren, who will never properly know me, should have small bits I can remember of our Ukraine homeland, stories of our lives there and how we came to this place.

So that is what I have been writing so far. Now I am ready to write all I remember of working in the factory.

Irina said, "Would I be able to read what you have already written? I too am Ukrainian, though we have no family stories from back then. My mother's parents were orphans and she has no family story. My father left too when a child about your age. His parents, who had lived through something like your family, said it was best to leave the past in the past. So they never spoke of it. They are dead now and I will never be able to ask them. Could I read your story, perhaps it is something like my own."

Anna nodded again, "Of course, it is good to know one's history!"

So Irina sat and read as she waited. It was less than two pages of close spaced writing, including just fragments of the living in Ukraine. It then told of the leaving and first coming to this land of opportunity, and how there was food enough here, the sun shone bright and their early life was good.

The power of these memories moved Irina greatly, she could feel tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she read. She marvelled at this story of courage of a family, a grandmother, a mother and two small children, to leave all behind, to travel across the destitute lands of post war Europe, the odd acts of random kindness by strangers that had helped them survive, and finally their arrival here, so strange and foreign; new foods, new customs, new language; but yet more than enough. It told how they seized and built upon this opportunity for a new life, hard though it was.

Irina marvelled at the courage shown by this frail old lady sitting in the bed beside her and felt admiration for her strength to have survived it all. Reading these tiny fragments gave her a burning curiosity to discover this land of her antecedents, so that she too could have her own memories and knowledge of from where she came.

She decided it was a thing she would do tonight, to begin researching the history of her homeland. It was something she had ignored thus far, but now she needed to know.

Beside an emotion of hunger to know, Irina felt another one rise; rage.

This lady had deserved better, she had trusted this country to give her a new start, to treat her with decency, and it had failed her. First came the car accident, that random event which killed her surviving relatives, then came the systematic abuse at the factory. The car accident was somebody's fault, but the person was unknown and could never be found. That could never be remedied. But the things that happened in the factory were different. They were the deliberate acts of a person or persons, who had been reckless in their care for those who worked for them, small people without their own voices or power to challenge a system.

Well that would end now, she had a voice and her voice would be heard. When she had begun this job she had felt sympathy for the victims, but it was an empathetic emotion for victims of the world at large. Now it was personal, as if someone had harmed a member of her own family.

She had seen it before in court, the unreasoning rage of a father whose daughter was murdered, the mother whose son was abused by the church. She had understood it before, as if seen from a distance, but never walked in their shoes. Now it was as if Anna was her grandmother and she was walking with her. Her rage was personal. Regardless of what her newspaper said or did, this story would be told, that was a promise she made to herself.

She handed back the sheets of paper to Anna and chatted with her while she waited for the others to arrive, they talked of small things; Fedir, Tali, her nieces and their children who were like grandchildren to her. Irina told Anna of her own family, of their involvement in the local community through the church and the priest, and then of her going to University and getting a job at the newspaper, and of some stories she was writing.

They heard the others arriving at the nurses' station and before they came into the room Irina said to Anna, "You must keep writing, you must finish telling this story of what you remember. I promise I will make sure it is told for others to hear, whatever it takes.

## Chapter 12 - Ukrainian Story

That night, rather than going home after work, Irina went to the Sydney University Library. With a focused intent she began to research, steadily building an understanding the history of her homeland.

She briefly skipped through the earlier parts, the occupation of these flat fertile farmlands by the Slavic peoples, the strategic importance of this land, her country, at the crossroads of Europe and its far east, the succession of invaders and conquerors who had come and each left a part, Greeks and Romans, coming in the first millennium AD, of Scandinavian peoples coming from the north, then people coming from the western steppes in the time of the Mongols, the founding of a Russian identity and a Cossack empire, the first world war, the vast deaths with the Spanish Flu, the brutal coming of the Russian Revolution.

However it was when she got to the Second World War that Irina found her attention was totally captured. She knew, from general school history, that Russians had sustained horrendous casualties in this war, along with the Germans and that the Ukraine was in the path of much of this fighting.

But that was where her specific knowledge ended. Now she first read on Wikipedia,

' _The battles on the Eastern Front of the Second World War constituted the largest military confrontation in history. They were characterised by unprecedented ferocity, wholesale destruction, mass deportations, and immense loss of life due to combat, starvation, exposure, diseases and massacres. Of the estimated 70-85 million deaths attributed to World War 2, over 30 million, the majority of them civilian, occurred on the Eastern Front._ The numbers made her head reel, these deaths alone were more than the whole Australian population of today, and most were civilians massacred over about three years.

And she read Hitler's comment, 'I need the Ukraine so they can't starve us out, as happened in the last War.' It became increasingly clear that the most decisive and awful battles of this whole war were fought to gain control of her homeland, a prize that neither would let go, despite all the bloodshed and suffering it would entail.

She could barely grasp the one and a half million soldiers who had died on Ukrainian soil, only to be totally dwarfed by the over seven million civilian deaths, about one in every five people who lived there at the time. She read familiar names like Odessa, Kharkov and Kiev, others like Babi Yar she knew not, she read of the 700 Ukrainian cities and 28000 villages flattened and destroyed in the conflict and of Herman Goring's proposal that all Ukrainian men be exterminated and their place be taken by true Germans to breed a new superior people. Then she read of the terrible famine which struck after the war where more vast numbers died, along with a further 650,000 citizens who were deported under by brutal Stalinist purges.

Small wonder Anna's remnant family had fled this debacle, the scale of suffering of a whole nation had become too vast to be sustained or endured. In a way Irina sensed that such a conflict was far too vast for any remorse or condemnation, powers beyond comprehension were involved and people and their individual rights could not be seen or comprehended, unimaginable though this was. But, as she understood this monstrosity it made that which followed seem even worse.

Irina could feel an anger growing inside her as she read these brutal statistics. But it was not directed at the vast scale of the suffering they had endured then. Instead it was at the betrayal of their new country, the place which had offered them refuge and where they had made a new home, a place where surely their history of suffering must be at an end. But it was not so, another evil person or persons had casually allowed these same victims to be pawns in his own play, such a small play compared to the grand events of nations, but in its own way equally brutal in its callous disregard for the rights and safety of others, not protecting his workers when he easily could have done so, not protecting their rights when they became sick from his actions, but instead stripping away their legal protection, first in secret agreements and then with creation of a new entity that was separate from before.

Gilt indeed, gilt fleecing and robbery of a new round of victims, tossed aside for corporate convenience. _Yes I am angry_ , said Irina to herself, _and my anger has a name, a firm once called ARJ Engineering, is a wolf dressed up in sheep's clothing as Gilt Proprietary Limited._

She promised herself, for a second time, _I will nail those responsible to a public wall of shame if it is the last thing she ever do_.

## Chapter 13 – Building the Story

Irina, Fedir, Tali and Benzy sat at four sides of a table in their regular meeting place in Strathfield, considering what they had got so far. Ten days had now passed since Fedir had lunch with Benzy and eight days since Irina had visited Anna in hospital and got the first part of her story.

Tali had tracked down and talked to twenty former employees of ARJ Engineering. Of these fourteen had worked on the factory floor. All these had their employment terminated in similar circumstances to Anna and the two others. The other six had worked in the packing shed, of them four had left of their own accord and two had been pushed out in a similar manner.

All those terminated had received payouts, if such a term could be used for the miserly sums of money involved. Amounts ranged from two hundred to two thousand dollars. Similarities in how terminations were handled were striking; same lawyers, same secrecy, identical non-disclosure agreements on similarly punitive terms.

Of the workers Tali had traced, three more were dead, one with similar aplastic anaemia and two with nasty malignant cancers, one a with a liver cancer and the other leukaemia. Eight more were sick. Four of the sick were remarkably similar to the cases they already knew about. The others were a bit different, but all cases had syndromes which involved mixtures of immune and internal organ disease problems, causing chronic ill health. The doctors called them cases displaying a range of toxic symptoms.

Eleven of twenty seemed remarkably high, even though, as time passed ordinary people got sick, aged and died, regardless of what happened here. But still, five dead out of twenty three and nine others seriously ill, over fifty percent, seemed remarkably high. And it was clear the death toll would rise fast, with those in fast failing health. The victims were strongly skewed to those who had worked on the factory floor with only one of five who had worked in the packing shed showing signs of illness.

None of these victims, their families or treating doctors, had previously thought to associate their illness with their past work. But now, all but two of the twenty, having heard about this frightening pattern of illness and death in others, had agreed to talk to Irina.

She had scheduled these interviews in her evenings over the next week, so it did not interfere with her day to day work, lest this aroused questions from her bosses at the Herald, with the risk of it getting back to the company. She thought it just as important to talk to those still well as to those sick, both lest something happen in the future and also to see if there were any obvious differences in their past work or exposure patterns apart from the obvious link of having worked on the factory floor.

Fedir and Tali reported that Anna had been working hard writing out all the things she could remember from her time at the factory. With a burst of early enthusiasm she had recalled the names and some details of about thirty people who were additional to the ones that Tali had located thus far.

However the news on her health was no longer so good, she was failing fast; the doctors were now talking about her having days or, at most, a few weeks left. It seemed that many parts of her body were shutting down at the same time and, despite having an initial upbeat demeanour at the beginning of writing her story, she could no longer sustain the effort. Now, despite her fierce determination, the pen would fall from her hand after she had written a few words and she would slump back down in exhaustion.

So, to honour her desire that her memories be recorded, Fedir had taken to talking to her with the tape recorder running and repeating whatever she whispered back to her to check its accuracy and clearly to record it. He said she had done more than enough in getting them started on this trail, it was for him and others to take it from here and she seemed satisfied with this.

He said to the others around the table, "As I watch her suffer, I want it to end for her sooner than later. I know she cannot get better. So I most wish to see her at peace, not in pain, having the rest that eluded her in her lifetime. She seems ready to go, she spends much time holding the crucifix close to her face and saying prayers, as if commending her soul to another place."

As he said this Fedir had tears in his eyes and Tali rested her hand on his arm for comfort. The others murmured their sympathy. Irina said it made her more determined than ever that the story be told.

Then Benzy gave his update. He told the others how he had befriended both pairs of the guards and their dogs. Now, as he walked along the fence, the dogs would run close by with tails wagging as he stopped to throw them a treat. He said the guards all viewed him as eccentric and crazy but a friend. He would visit them both day and night, saying he tracked night birds too, owls and the like, as well as the day birds. He played them owl calls, asking them to listen out in case they heard one, which they promised to do.

This friendship was partly based on the coffees and cakes he brought, but they also seemed to look forward to his visits as something to cheer up their otherwise boring days and nights. He thought that, in the next week, he would be able to get a copy of the keys they carried. They often put them on the table when eating and drinking together. His plan was to create a minor distraction nearby. When they ran to investigate he would to make imprints of both the inner and outer gate padlock keys in a piece of clay to give to a locksmith to make copies.

He thought this would be the easiest way to gain access to within the compound, and thus to gather samples, without any one realising. Getting the key imprint was a thing he could do on his own. But to get inside he must use a second person. His plan was for him to occupy the guards and dogs at the opposite side of their land for a few minutes. While he was doing this the second person would go inside and take quick samples at key locations. At night the site was dark with no nearby lights and, by doing it then, he did not think anyone would realise if each gate was quickly unlocked then pushed closed again and relocked on exit.

The gates were not alarmed, the guards had told him this, whereas all the rest of the fence was. So this was the one place to get inside that would not trigger an alarm back at base. He knew a young quick bloke who worked with him on odd jobs to do the inside bit while he would run the distraction. He would be down at the opposite corner closest to the bay, 150 metres away. From there he would call to the guards to come over, see something of interest, perhaps show them some apparent damage to the fence, along with a smelly distraction to keep the dogs with them.

He would use an earpiece microphone to communicate with his second man inside about how long he had to do his work. Benzy was sure he could keep them with him for five minutes. He thought three minutes inside should be enough for his helper to get dirt sampled. If this did not work the fall-back plan was to use his drone but he preferred the idea of a key to open the gate along with a distraction now that the dogs were his friends.

It would not get him into the sheds, he had been told they had separate locks that only ARJ had keys to and that the sheds were also alarmed back to base. So he must find another way to get inside them.

The four of them agreed that Benzy should run with his key copying idea and discussed the best way to get a look at the sheds. All thought a reported chemical spill along with a new concrete floor seemed highly suspicious. It sounded as if a drum of chemicals had tipped over and leaked into the soil and ARJ had covered this up with a concrete slab. They concluded that if they could identify the chemicals used from soil samples and show they had an association with harm to health, then a legal court order could be sought to investigate these sheds. But in order to get that they needed more evidence of harmful things on the site, such as high levels of banned chemicals.

They all agreed that the best way to get this evidence was to get inside and quickly go to key GPS mapped points, taking a small bit of dirt from each. The sample collector would take a GPS phone video at each sample location, one which logged the precise GPS position, to confirm each sample identity. If something was found this could become evidence in a court hearing.

Fedir was talking with a lawyer from the Environmental Defenders Office on this, one who Irina had put him on to. This person could seek a court order if the sample evidence came up with something. There was a legal concern as to whether this evidence would be admissible if collected without land owner consent but the lawyer thought that a public interest argument of benefit to many already sick people could get over this likely objection.

Benzy had got old plans of the site which showed building locations and where drainage ran. This gave a good idea of where to sample. Tomorrow he would collect a sample from outside, in a place where the old waste pipeline from the site ran into Homebush Bay. Once this was analysed they hoped for a list of likely chemicals to test for from inside soil samples.

In terms of getting information from people who worked here about the chemicals they had used, so far they had largely drawn a blank as no one had known anything specific. All the workers could tell them was that they had used liquid chemicals to clean and remove grease and grit from metal parts. Some liquids looked and smelled a bit like petrol, sweet smelling or aromatic, but others had a much worse smell. They also said that working with these things often gave them headaches and bad skin, similar to what Anna had said. They said the chemicals they used came out of unmarked drums, a mix of 44 gallon and four gallon types. Most of the handling involved washing machinery parts before they were assembled and packed for dispatch. This was generally done without gloves or other protective equipment as people could work faster that way and they got paid on output. The products they made included gear box assemblies, wheel bearings and mechanical pumps.

Some people had seen full drums being brought in to the factory on the back of a truck and others had seen empty drums taken away. Nobody could remember who had done the carting.

Benzy, in his own questioning, found one man, Angus, with a memory of going to a shed at the back of the factory, almost certainly one of those still standing, though an earlier plan showed more sheds in this area and the man was not fully sure which shed it had been.

Angus had helped load a 44 gallon drum of liquid onto a trolley to bring to the factory floor after an existing drum had been knocked over and spilled. He said the shed had only drums inside it, maybe thirty or forty. They were stacked at least three high and filled most of the space inside the shed. He had helped lift a drum off the second level to bring out. He remembered it was difficult to remove the drum because it was up at waist level and tightly stacked with lots of other drums around it. He said the shed had wide double doors and they normally used a forklift to pick up drums and bring them out. But this day the forklift had broken down so they had to do it by hand. It was hard for him, a big strong man with another similarly strong man helping, to get the drum out because the drums were stacked high in a narrow space.

The other thing Angus remembered, from perhaps a few months later, was seeing that all the drums had been taken out of this shed and stacked in the open while they built another shed to put them in. Angus said he was surprised the drums were left outside until the new shed was built as other times a new shed was built first before they transferred things to it.

When he asked one of those working on the new shed why this was, he was told there had been a drum leak which made the ground soft. As a result the drums had fallen over inside the shed, so they all had to be brought out to fix the floor, before they could be restacked.

This worker also told Angus that, on the weekend it happened, ARJ paid outside workers that he did not know to come and take the all drums out then immediately put down a concrete floor where there had been dirt.

This was unusual on two counts, first as to why they did not return the drums to their old location a week later once the concrete was hard, rather than leave them sit out in the weather for another month and second, why the work to concrete the floor of the old shed was not done by them; they were employed as the building and maintenance crew to do these jobs.

He had said that clearly this work was not urgent and could have been left until a day or two later, at least until after the weekend. And spending money on someone else to do this sort of work was very unusual as ARJ was a renowned penny pincher who, both before and after this event, demanded all work of this sort be done by them.

Another odd thing this worker told Angus was that after that time the door of the old shed was always kept locked, even though there was almost nothing in it, just a few boxes of papers that looked like old records. Other sheds had always been left open so people could come and go, bringing things in and out, as needed. So it also struck this worker as strange that this shed was always kept locked after that, with the only door key kept by ARJ. It was never locked before and no other storage sheds were locked after either.

After this story Benzy had taken his site map and worked out the actual location of this old shed on it with Angus. By looking at this alongside old aerial photos and comparing these with what remained on the site on Google maps, they concluded that the locked shed was still there and had remained locked until this day even though the factory buildings and all else were gone.

Now, sitting around the café table, they discussed what this all meant. It was suspicious to have new security after this drum fall. It indicated this shed contained something that must remain hidden, perhaps highly contaminated soil where the contents of a drum had leaked into the ground. In this case the question was why they did not dig out the soil and take it to a waste disposal site, unless maybe it had gone so deep it had contaminated the groundwater.

Benzy then told them about his wider investigations into the company, its other holdings, the history of this factory site, then the steps the company had taken to close this factory and seek to have this land rezoned. Alongside this was the work to create the new company, Gilt Investments, offloading all past liabilities in the process.

The new company was registered in the Virgin Islands and had a mix of onshore and offshore investments with signs of very creative accounting in running losses in Australian businesses through loading their balance sheets with massive debts but still making high profits at an operating expense level which were of course booked to low-taxed offshore arms of the business.

Some of it was incomprehensible to Benzy as he was not an expert in financial accounting and international tax law, but the pattern and future intent seemed clear.

From the date of public listing on the Australian Stock Exchange, Gilt Trust Investments was to become the shell to receive management fees and retain oversight of a series of other companies.

There were two of importance; one was the former ARJ Engineering Company which no longer had any assets, other than a five million amount of residual capital which was used as a vehicle for charitable donations to a range of worthy causes. The other company had the lofty name of Olympic Heights. It owned the parcel of land on which the factory once sat along with several other adjoining, proximate sites in the area, a total of almost twenty hectares. The book value of this land was listed at around $300 million.

This area was awaiting rezoning and development approval for a mixed residential and commercial premises development. It was a kilometre from the Olympic Park Train Station. Concept plans for its development showed five residential towers built in a half circle around a shopping centre. The residential precinct abutted waterways and bushland of Homebush Bay, with bush and water views and waterfront paths giving pleasant public amenity.

The commercial side, suitable for warehouses and other light industry, sat opposite, promised both local jobs and value adding to the retail space through bringing in more local businesses along with their workers.

As it was state significant development its approval sat first with the Minister for Planning, who was on a first name basis with ARJ and RRJ. The only thing outstanding for the rezoning to proceed, soon followed by Council granting the site DA, was approval of a site remediation plan to deal with any potential chemical contamination. It was a known issue in the locality, dealt with in many other developments, from the Olympic Precinct on. It was said officials saw no particular grounds to stop it.

Still the EPA had sat on its approval for six months for unknown reasons. It was rumoured a favourable decision was very imminent, in which case the company would move rapidly to finish clean-up of the site, then put the bulldozers in to finish the job and start construction of the new precinct.

It was understood the company would release its public listing offer as soon as the rezoning and DA were in place. This would more than double the value of these assets overnight and create a buoyant atmosphere for a share float with investors rushing to get a slice. On the basis of a likely EPA decision in two to three weeks it seemed a public float was about a month away.

Once this public listing came into effect the shopping and residential precincts would become the principal assets of Gilt Trust Investments. They would transfer the real value to a select group of shareholders, of which ARJ and his family were principal beneficiaries, supplemented by a discrete group of high wealth investor clients, all with substantial existing assets.

At the same time old ARJ Engineering Proprietary Limited would be left as a shell with an ever decreasing asset base as the original five million was washed away. In two to three years, when all the money was gone, it would be liquidated and the last fragments of any value would vanish.

This development even had a veneer of greenwash. It was being heavily sold in a public information campaign, saying a part of this money would be used for site rehabilitation and restoration activities, which would fast track the return of adjoining areas of Homebush Bay to a pristine natural state, not to mention providing boardwalks and viewing platforms for local residents to use to maximise their enjoyment of the nesting birds and native wildlife.

A glossy pamphlet extolled all these virtues. Of course this marketing campaign was pushed at potential buyers as yet another reason to buy one of the new properties off the plan with their upside of being close to nature as yet another reason to bid up their exclusivity and price.

## Chapter 14 – Irina - Pieces of a Jigsaw

Chemical tests were in for the soil around the location of the old drainage pipe outlet into Homebush Bay. They were interesting but hardly conclusive.

Benzy had collected six soil samples, three from the dry soil beyond the high tide mark, one in the centre of the likely discharge point and one from a hundred metres left and right of this point. Then there were another three samples from the mud at the water edge in each of these locations closest to their corresponding dry site.

The Environmental Defenders Office paid for all these to be tested in an accredited laboratory for a range of likely substances, particularly focused on past well known contaminants known from across the Olympic site including 2 4 5 D and T herbicides, dioxin, and industrial solvents like benzene, toluene, trichloroethylene, carbon tetrachloride and heavy metals. It was highly likely that some or all of these would turn up, what was critical was to show levels much higher at the discharge point that in the surrounding environment.

We had just got first results and were told it would take three days until all the results were in, so what we had was only indicative. It confirmed the expected culprits were present but it was hardly a smoking gun.

In the meantime Benzy had gone ahead with his little scam to get the key impressions. This worked a treat. He had arranged for a friend to park his old car about fifty yards down the road that ran outside the site gate where he was sitting at the security guards table with a cup of coffee.

He had just got off the phone to tell me how it had gone down the day before, saying; "I timed my arrival to coincide with the return of Pacific guard from an internal circuit of the site. He was just back through the double gates to the outside, locking each behind him on exit. They take turns to do this internal circuit to check for it anything each hour at the half hour mark.

"When the one gets back there is a half hour gap until his friend does an external circuit around the outside of the fence, which he begins at the start of the new hour. They swap between the inside and outside circuit half way through their shift so each guard does both circuits each day. These run like clockwork with each circuit taking ten minutes from start to finish.

"So, I know their routine and I know there is a twenty minute gap where they both mostly sit at the table and chat, though at times they play with the dogs or do other minor tasks. I have learned to time my arrival to when the internal circuit guard returns, as he has his keys in his hands from locking the gates. He mostly drops these on the table while he has a drink and sits down to rest, particularly if it is hot.

So it is the perfect time to arrive with a coffee or bottle of coke for each of us. Sometimes they offer to pay but I tell them I am a well-heeled retiree, with an interest in birds and I enjoy a chat. I visit a couple times a week and sit with them for ten minutes before I head on my way.

They are usually both together along with the dogs, and it has become out little ritual of pleasure. I tell them a new bird story each time. In return I get them each to tell me something they have been doing and then we chat about what is happening in their work and on the site for a couple minutes.

This time, as expected, the returned guard was locking the outside gate as I walked up and he put his keys on the table as he took the coffee and cake I proffered, one in each hand.

Five minutes into our coffee the alarm in the car my friend had left went off with a loud shrieking sound. Without thought my two guard friends got up together and ran, side by side, towards the car to check it out. They never looked back, it seemed that the excitement at this novel event had overtaken them plus they trusted me to stay there until they returned. The two dogs loped along beside them. The alarm ran for a minute before it stopped. They both checked the car for any signs of break-in or damage. They found nothing and a minute later they strolled back together, mildly perplexed at the non-event, but also glad to have done something of interest and possible value.

"In my pocket sat the clay lump with its two imprints. We finished our coffees and I made my departure walking away into the fringing mangroves. Five minutes later my friend came back and collected his old car, its duty now done. Once he was around the corner, out of sight, he collected me and took me to the shopping centre. Here I passed my key template to an old pro thief who has reinvented himself in the guise of a locksmith. I knew he would have my keys done by the next day and sure enough today it was done. I could not test them today but I am confident they will work."

When Benzy finished his recitation, I told him of the lab results, a mix of chemical contaminants; benzene, toluene, carbon tetrachloride, 2 4 5 T, my old favourite, dioxin, and traces of many others. Levels were higher in the central point where the waste drain pipe ran, but not dramatically elevated, suggesting that whatever had come out had already been widely distributed around the bay.

We agreed that we needed to get inside to get some on ground samples if we were to have a chance of the court order. As far as I could see this was the only way to get inside the shed. Benzy said that this was the next step and told me he would set it up for tomorrow night.

I could feel impatience but knew I must wait for this to be done. In the meantime I decided to make another visit to the hospital where Anna lay, partly to say my goodbye, as Fedir had told me yesterday she was not long for this world, and partly see if she could give me any further pieces of the jigsaw from which a clear picture may start to take shape.

I sat there for a few minutes contemplating next steps. I could feel the time to get this story together was fast running out, in the same way that it was running out for Anna. I realised I could not sit back and wait for others to do their work. I had to seize the initiative and find a way to get things moving faster. It was a feeling I knew well from before in critical parts of journalist investigations, and I had it strongly now. It was the make or break point for any investigation, the place where you had to lay out all the jigsaw pieces side by side and force a shape that made sense to emerge.

I had written out and summarised all the information Fedir had given me from talking to Anna along with the earlier bits she had compiled. There was a wealth of interesting bits but no obvious immediate leads. What I needed was to find someone or something that revealed the contents of the liquids used to wash down and degrease the machinery parts. Significant exposure to this seemed to be the common factor linking sick people, along with lesser exposure for those who remained in good health.

I remembered Benzy telling us three days ago about the worker, Angus, who had told him about the maintenance worker and his story of the building of a new shed and the locking of the old shed, along with the way unknown people were brought in to concrete the shed floor after the drum collapse.

I had a lightbulb moment where I suddenly saw something, perhaps a way forward. I was chasing all these people who had been friends of Anna's, people who had worked on the factory floor and may have been harmed and got sick by what was done to them. Their testimony was important but I already had a clear picture of what had happened to them, the daily work they had done. Their story was consistent and, as a story, it did not matter very much whether it was told about twenty or thirty or forty people, it was still the same bad story about similar victims.

What I needed was to get closer to the source, to find the persons who had brought in the drums, built the sheds, removed the rubbish or done all the other routine stuff. Sure these people may not have known the names of what they were moving but would know where they came from and went to.

Benzy had already found a worker who had known a maintenance crew member well enough to swap stories. If I could use this person, Angus, as a way to get to the others perhaps I would get to the next level of information, find the missing pieces of the jigsaw that would let me see the shape.

Benzy was busy doing his bits, organising to collect the samples, as well as chasing up other leads. He was already busy and needed to continue what he was doing. This other part was what I could do, all I needed was contact details and an introduction to Benzy's source who I hoped would lead me to a maintenance worker.

Such a person would be bringing gear in and out all the time, building supplies and the like. So there was every chance he would know others who did deliveries too. I suspected, in a low cost operation like this, he often collected things the business needed or arranged for others to do so. And there was also an excellent chance he knew the ones in the office who placed orders and managed payments. Where there were deliveries there would be payments, along with order documents and receipts to keep track of money and products supplied. These things would give other business names as suppliers along with details of products supplied.

Benzy picked up his phone on the first ring when I called. In a minute I had a full name and phone number and a promise that he would ring straight away to this bloke, Angus, and ensure he was expecting my call. A minute later he had called back. He said, "Angus is expecting your call, but you must tread carefully. I am not sure if Angus is fully on our side yet.

I decided that I needed to meet him in person to try and build a bit more trust as this was my best shot yet to get a view from the inside.

Angus was a godsend; he was a burly bloke, now in his fifties, who had worked for the company for ten years before he started his own construction firm. He was still friends, after a fashion with ARJ and RRJ, in that they passed a bit of work his way. Even though he was initially a bit guarded with me, his manner showed there was no real love lost on his side for his former bosses. And the big thing was the former company maintenance bloke, Richard, was a friend to this day, they had even worked together for five years after they both left the pay of ARJ. So, by the time our second coffee was on the way, he had organised for me to meet him and Richo, as he called him, at the Lord Nelson Pub in the city that night. He told me Richo was now a pub manager at a nearby city pub and it was their way, every couple weeks, to meet for a pint and trade stories. Before we parted I got the story from Angus about his less than full love for the RRJ clan. It related to a girl he was dating from the accounts section and how, one day, RRJ, then about his own age, in his late teens had trapped her in the stationary storeroom and tried to feel her up, before she managed to duck under his arm and get away.

Angus had offered to sort the creep out. She had declined, saying her job would be impossible if that happened. But still, he had never trusted the guy after that and, even though he done some construction work when offered by them over the years, he had never trusted RRJ or his father since.

I asked him if he was still in touch with this girl from Accounts, and he said, "Yes, she had left six months later, but they had stayed friends even though their romance had not prospered after his offer to sort RRJ. He also said she had been a bit angry when she left as she complained they had short changed her on paying out some of her entitlements.

Angus wrote out her name, number and address on a slip of paper and passed it to me saying, "Her name is Janelle. She was a nice girl when I knew her, probably still is. Unfortunately she married a rich dude and she got a bit snobby, mixing in the upper crust. So she may not want to talk to you. Still, if you mention my name, I think she will be OK. I see her every year or two.

As I walked out of the café, having promised to meet Richo and Angus in about five hours I felt a surge of elation. Between them and Janelle, I felt as if I was close to making this picture come alive, one jigsaw piece at a time.

## Chapter 15 – Benzy - A Setback

'Tonight is the night', the song kept going through my head, filling me with optimism, 'It's going to be alright': that's what I promised myself, although the nerves were alive and jangling, mixed with a heady dose of optimism, coming out of the success of two days before when I got the keys cut.

I had even surreptitiously tested my blank key yesterday, the one to the outer padlock. I did it leaning on the gate, patting Biscuit through the fence, while both the second pair of guards, Eric and Fitzy, sat at the table, my body blocking their view of my hands at the front. The key slid in easily and I gave it a half turn, not enough to release the lock, but enough to confirm that it really did work. It only took a couple seconds and they were none the wiser when I turned around.

I knew from them that my original two friends, Pacific Man and Ferret Face, were working tonight, doing the night shift for the next six nights. I got on fine too with this pair of security guards, they liked my coffees, cakes and random stories well enough, but the bond was less strong.

Part of me felt bad that, if it could be shown that I had got inside on their watch, Pacific Man and Ferret Face would lose their jobs, but I rationalised it by saying to myself that their jobs would disappear in a couple of weeks' time once the EPA approval came through and the bulldozers moved in.

They half knew this too and I had already said to them that when this job was over I had a few friends who might be looking for good security guards and I would put in a good word for them. This seemed to please them both and it was a promise I would keep and I would do the same if needed for Eric and Fitzy too, they had all been decent to me, despite my devious ways.

My plan for this night was simple, to come past just after dark, say a quick hello while telling them I was off down to the bay to try and spot a famous owl, said to be feeding on the rats next to the shore edge at night.

I had all the best gear, a head torch and a powerful spotlight, plus high tech night vision stuff which I had previously demonstrated to them, telling them this was needed for night observations of my feathered friends.

Then, about an hour later, when Pacific Man was half way around an outside circuit, coming towards me with his favourite dog, Ranger, on a lead, sniffing and checking for intruders or any suspicious things, I would wave my spotlight and call out to him. I would tell him I thought I had seen someone interfering with the fence, seen from down at the bay. At the same time as I called this out I would use my wire cutters to snip through several bits of the lower wire of the cyclone mesh fence. And next to this I would drop lots of small, smelly, roasted meat fragments, the type to drive a hungry dog nuts. I would scatter these across the ground both inside and outside of the fence.

I expected that Pacific Man would use his walkie talky to call Weasel to come over and investigate it together, while the inside dog, Biscuit, came running across too. Once I saw them both on their way and the dogs were here, scrabbling furiously for treats, I would use my earpiece microphone to call in my helper, Jacob. We had done several past jobs well together.

He had on night vision goggles and a night adjusted GPS phone camera strapped on his inside forearm that ran a continuous video feed. It would help direct him to each site to sample, eight in all. The walking distance for the full circuit was only one hundred and fifty metres, two minutes of easy walking. Allowing ten seconds at each site to scoop up the small amount of dirt needed into a sample jar, which the arm camera would film as he did it, all the while capturing its GPS location, this meant the total time needed was about three and a half minutes. In practice we could do each sample in five seconds, and the full walk in one minute thirty seconds, meaning that three minutes inside should be plenty.

I would use one command to start the operation, 'Ready, one to call Jacob in, 'Go', one to pause, 'Wait', and one to get out fast if needed, 'Stop'. He in return would call out the number of each site in sequence once done, 'One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight'. He would finish with 'Out' when he had made his exit, locked the gate and was walking away. That would be my signal to disengage.

I expected it should run like clockwork. In our daylight practice runs in the local park we had done it easily in three minutes. So, even allowing for night, four minutes should be plenty. I was confident I could keep the guards at the damage site for a full five minutes, maybe more, though I knew they would not want to stay too long away from the entrance gate at night.

My story would simply be that I had seen someone messing with the fence and, when I had called out, they had run off. I would say I had only got a back view but it looked like a single man of medium height dressed in dark clothes. When they arrived they would hunt around for a bit and find nothing apart from a few cut wires and some very excited dogs. It should be obvious that nobody had got in, and so get logged as minor damage or a false alarm, at least that's what I reasoned.

Once they had checked it out I would leave them and walk back towards the edge of the bay, saying I must return to my observations. I would leave them with my mobile number, that of a burner in my invented name, should their company wish to confirm any details with me.

So, while not cocky, I felt confident it would all go to plan and should take less than ten minutes from start to finish. I did a final test of all my gear to ensure that everything was working properly, and did the same with Jacob to ensure he was all set to go on the call.

The last of the twilight was fading as we got into the car and Jacob drove it into position, around the corner about 400 metres from the gates.

I climbed out and walked 100 metres, just before the corner where I tested that my microphone was getting through to Jacob, "Test Call."

"Jacob here."

"Next call, Ready."

"Await your call."

***

Imagine my surprise, when I strolled towards where I expected to find Pacific Man and Weasel sitting between inspections, to find two men I had never seen before of positively unfriendly demeanour and two new dogs that growled in a vicious manner as I approached. A quick glance at the fence from twenty yards away revealed that two new shiny locks had taken the place of the two well used ones that had been there before.

It was obvious my plan had hit a snag and a plan B or C would be needed. I continued walking along the road, pretending that I was merely a passer-by, though it was obvious they were very suspicious of me. Once in the shelter of the bayside trees I sat down and contemplated this disaster.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck, then double and triple fuck_ , said my mind.

Even my drone could not work from here on unless I could make these new dogs go to sleep. It seemed I was stuck. I quickly called Jacob and shut it down for the night, at least until I knew what had gone wrong.

## Chapter 16 - Anna's Remembrance

Last night Irina had enjoyed a glass of wine and an absorbing chat with Richo and Angus. Both were of an age and similar in looks and manners, with that obvious affection that runs between long term mates.

Both were friendly but sharp. She realised, after ten or fifteen minutes of preliminaries, that she needed to level with them if she wanted to get a real understanding of how things ran at ARJs.

So far her introduction had been to Angus as a friend of Benzy's, a man Angus knew slightly from work Benzy did, past investigations for builders who thought their workers were fiddling their bills or nicking things. It had been small time stuff, but Benzy did his part well and discreetly, gaining Angus's respect. It seemed Angus had assumed this was something similar with an RRJ or ARJ business in the headlights. In a way it was, and what they told her about how the business ran was helpful in a general sort of way.

But, when she started to dig into details of what happened twenty or thirty years ago, seeking to dig down to an ever greater level of detail, she saw a perplexed look come over both their faces. It was clear neither of them had much love for either RRJ or ARJ, though RRJ was less liked. As Richo said, "The old guy is an out and out bastard, but at least he is a straight down the line bastard who will try and screw you to your face. You at least know where you stand with him."

Angus added, "Yeah, not so with RRJ, smooth slime-ball, he pretends to be your mate to your face, oozing oily charm, will buy you a drink and splash around some cash. It is only later you find out that, at the same time, he has being doing his best to shaft you, give you shitty products, do dodgy work, bad mouth you to other businesses or slip the knife in any way he can."

The negative opinions were fine but the information thus far was only generalities, she needed to get much more specific to make headway. Her judgement said they were honourable, what she told them would stay with them and not leak back to the ARJ clan through their business associates.

She took a deep breath and decided she had to play it straight, at least to tell them the bare bones of who she was and what she was seeking.

She said, "I can see you are curious as to why I am asking all these many questions about things that happened over twenty years ago."

Both nodded.

She went on, "Before I go further I need to know that what I tells you stays with you, that you won't pass it on to friends in the pub or business associates. It's not that I am doing anything illegal, but what I tell you needs to stay completely under wraps until I have the full story together.

"Can you agree to that?"

Again they both nodded.

She went on, "I am a journalist from the Sydney Morning Herald doing an investigation into the ARJ business. I don't know if you know, but ARJ is about to float a new business on the share-market, developing the old site where you worked at Homebush Bay into an upmarket mix of retail shopping centre, business park and high rise residences.

"Yair we knew that," Richo said.

I went on, "I have no objection to that. What I have a problem with is how they treated their former workers. I know of over twenty who are very ill and several who have died. That would be fine if it was their own misfortune as they grew old. But the evidence I have seen suggests many were poisoned by the chemicals they used while working there, then the company tried to hide what happened.

And the really nice bit is they doing a corporate restructure, like what happened with asbestos, where they are stripping all the assets out of the old company. If anyone tries to sue them in court for what they did there will be no money left for any victims to claim, it will have all vanished while they and their rich friends live it up in the Bahamas, the Caiman Islands, or some other place where nobody can reach them.

She could see two sets of eyes boring into hers. She knew she had them.

She had quickly sketched out the main features of what she knew, the details could wait for another day, but it was enough to get them in.

Through their own networks they had heard of the odd former worker who had got sick and also had an idea of the secrecy that ARJ applied to all that happened on the factory and to workers he had paid out. But they had both left voluntarily and had never been told any specific details of what he paid others, though Angus remembered what Janelle had said about being diddled about her entitlements when she too left of her own accord. And Angus had never forgotten about RRJ trying to molest his then girlfriend.

Before she left both agreed to help her anyway they could. Each would find two hours tomorrow afternoon to go through all the details they could remember with her and answer any further specific questions she had.

Their only requirement was that neither of them be identified as sources of information to any third party at this stage, to which she readily agreed.

She would meet them again this afternoon at two o'clock in Fedir's work office, so that she could go through whatever details they could add. Benzy and Tali would be there too, they needed to regroup after Benzy's disaster last night. She was confident that the information that came from the others would help motivate Angus and Richo to give their best too.

She could sense these two men had a sense of loyalty to others who had worked there back then. The idea that they or their friends may have been poisoned, whether by accident or on purpose, was also a motivation.

Now she had another visit to make - to talk to Anna one last time.

***

Irina sat in the chair next to Anna and felt immense sadness. When she first met Anna she had seen a gaunt suffering woman, one clearly ill and being ravaged by disease but one still with fire in her eyes and passion for life. Now all that remained was a wasted shell, tissue thin skin over gaunt bones of face and hands, shrunken lips and sunken eyes, breath that barely came, sounds of machines above which her whispered voice could barely be heard.

And yet her eyes had still smiled a welcome at seeing Irina and she had ineffectually tried to raise the frail hand which Irina had grasped.

Irina took the skeletal hand in one of her own and with her other stroked the wasted head as she felt tears trickle down her cheek. She knew that this woman had lost her fight and run out of time. Today would be her goodbye until she stood beside her graveside and that would be very soon.

As she looked at this person who had suffered so much she felt the anger surge back through her. Now over a month had passed since her first meeting with Fedir where she heard the first parts of this story. Together with the rest of them she had done much to search out this story, but it was not enough. After she left here today she was going to shake the tree much harder.

But first she must sit and talk quietly with this woman, listen to anything she was still able to remember or find voice to tell, and at the same time give her any small comfort she could to ease her passing.

Like Fedir she too wanted to see her at peace, having pain free rest. Of course the only place where that would happen was when her spirit had left her wretched body and, hard though it was, she could see a kindness in it at last coming to an end.

So she leaned forward and put her lips almost on her ear. "Anna, is there any last things you want to tell me, more things you have remembered or any other things you want to say.

The breath came out from Anna's lips in a faint whisper of voice as she replied. "Thank you for all your kindness, to me and my family. I have been dreaming happy dreams of my father and mother, and of my Nona, I hope to see them all soon. I have given you names of those I remember as best I can.

But there are two others whose real names I do not know but I do still remember a little. They were sisters, maybe sixteen and eighteen. We called them Jo and Vo but those were not their actual names, just our nicknames. The older one was stronger and prettier, her younger sister was pretty too but more delicate, more a girl than a woman. They worked as cleaners. They were migrants like me, but I do not think they had proper work papers. They were Asian, perhaps they were Vietnamese or Cambodians. They had little English. From what little they could tell me I understood they came on a boat.

They told us they escaped from being locked up, perhaps in Australia, perhaps in another place. They were terrified of being caught and sent home.

Sometimes at lunch, it was winter then, I would sit out in the sun and eat my sandwich, and sometimes they would sit next to me and talk a little, some with each other but also to me.

They had been given cleaning work by RRJ, but they were frightened of him. I think he tried to abuse them, force them to do things with him against their will, you know what I mean. The money they were paid was very little but they had no other choice, there was nowhere else to go and nobody else they knew would give them anything to live on. It was when I was living with my husband or I would have offered them a bed at my house. But I could not. He would never have allowed it. And he would probably have tried to abuse them too, he was like that.

They tried to always stay together to protect each other, particularly from RRJ, but it was hard, sometimes he would send one to one place to clean and tell the other to come with him to clean another place. I do not know what he did but sometimes the older one, who seemed his favourite, would come back crying, as if he had forced himself on her.

They mostly came in very early, in fact I think the night watchman would let them sleep in a shed down the back, he was a kind man. There was a tiny shed where they kept their cleaning gear next to the one with all the drums and I think he would let them sleep there so long as they were up and about before he left and anyone else arrived. They would leave their few clothes and other things in there during the day, it was as if they had no proper place to stay, but slept out in the parks or whatever shelter they could find.

But then RRJ found out, he came in very early one morning looking for something and found them there. He got cross with the night watchman and told him they could not stay there anymore though they still left their things in the shed during the day.

A little while after that they disappeared. Some of us who had been their friends were worried for them, we knew they had no plans to leave, their few clothes and their other things were still in the shed and they had been telling us about soon having enough money saved to rent a place to stay and get some other cleaning work, away from the factory. They had said it would only take another month until they had saved enough money and then they would not have to work here anymore.

On the day we realised they were missing some of us were worried and wanted to report it to the police, but we were frightened if they were illegals that they would just get into more trouble, and that it would cause trouble for the factory for letting them work without papers. That lunch time, it was a Friday, several of us searched for them, we looked in the cleaning shed and the other sheds but there was no sign though their things were there. We tried to look in the drum shed next door but the door was locked. We also looked in the bush along the water but there was no sign there either.

The next day their clothes were gone, so we thought they must have come back in the night and taken them. We stayed worried for them but there was nothing that anyone could think to do. Then about a month later we heard that the older girl had been caught and was locked up awaiting deportation. Nobody knew what had happened to her younger sister but we thought they must have both run away together and she must still be in hiding so we did not say anything then either. But we heard a story one day that the younger one went missing while she worked with us. We did not know if it was true. It was only a rumour, there was nobody who knew.

It's funny; I have been thinking about them both a lot since I have been ill, particularly in these last few days. I regret not having helped them more; they were homeless teenagers in a strange land with no family. I wish I had given them a bed and food then their lives may have been better.

I feel shame I let fear of my husband stop me offering them kindness. I was pregnant then before my second miscarriage and did not want to fight with him. But I am sad now for what I never did to help them.

Perhaps you can find out what happened to them, the older one should have a record from when she was in detention. If I have any money left once I am buried perhaps you could send them a small gift from me.

As she spoke I repeated what she had said, sentence by sentence, into my phone voice recorder, and each time I had finished she would nod to confirm I had the words right. It was slow work taking half an hour to get is all recorded. By the end her voice had almost completely failed and she closed her eyes in exhaustion. I held her hand as she regathered her strength, to see if she had anymore, but that was it. I asked if she had any more she wanted to tell me and she shook her head.

I said, "Thank you, I will try and find them and send them your gift."

She whispered, "Thank you, I will not see you again so goodbye."

I walked away, glad to have given her this last gift of closure. It did not seem to have anything to do with all the tragedy which had befallen her, but it moved me even more that her last act was to do a kindness to another.

## Chapter 17 – Irina- Assembling Evidence

That afternoon six people sat around the table in the meeting room in Fedir's office. It was a cramped space but we did not mind.

The four of us who had worked on the story thus far each took a turn summarising what we had found out over the last few days as well as telling of our failures.

I took all through a summary of everything that was known so far, the approximate number of people who had worked on the factory floor and in the packing sheds over the time that Natasha, Tali and Anna had worked there, how many of these they could recall names for, how many they had been able to trace and find, those who they had talked to, those who had their employment terminated for minor reasons and those now sick. Also those unwilling to talk and why that might be.

I then went through what they knew about the products made by the factory and the manufacturing processes, the chemicals used, any worker protection supplied or used and how the cleaning was done. I asked Benzy to summarise the results of soil samples tested thus far which revealed little.

He also briefly covered his investigation into the company restructuring and the fact that the new company, once floated, would shed all liability for what previously happened at the factory including any future liabilities for past injury to workers.

As we each went through what we knew Tali stood by the whiteboard and wrote down a list of questions we needed answers to, and how we might get these answers: what were the chemicals used, who supplied them, who brought them in and how were they disposed of.

Fedir summarised what he had found out about the systematic process of getting rid of past workers and the questions it raised, who decided to do this and who agreed on the terms of their dismissal, who selected the specific people to go and who arranged it, where money for redundancy payments came from, what threats and coercion were used to get people to leave and who knew of these arrangements beyond ARJ and his lawyers.

Finally we came to the residual storage sheds, why they had remained in place when all else had been demolished, what was in them then and now, why the secrecy, why the current security of an empty site except for these two sheds, and how the plan to get samples last night had come unstuck.

Richo and Angus sat and listened intently in silence for this first part, both their attentions clearly captured.

Then I turned to them saying, "You have each heard what we know. Could you now each tell us, is there anything else that you know or can add to the facts or questions to be answered?"

Richo began, "I think I can fill you in about how the rest of the site was run and what may have behind the getting rid of people, though it is not much more than a guess, so please don't quote me.

"As I worked in maintenance I worked across the whole site and got to know pretty well what was done in each part, how the waste was removed and how repairs, maintenance and cleaning were arranged and done. I don't know so much about how the supplies to the factory were ordered except for the things I needed, but I often took deliveries and arranged for them to be stored in the various sheds, there was one for machinery parts made off site that would be used in the assembly process, another for drums of chemicals, another for general tools and equipment.

Richo then pointed to Benzy's old site map and gave a quick summary of what each building was used for and then continued on. "The factory was really in two parts, a main shed for metal fabrication where the components we made on site were turned out. These were things like the pump and engine cases that were pressed out of sheet metal, the gear and drive shafts that were pressed and cut from steel rods, and some of the main gears that were cast out of mouldings. Most of the rest of the parts, things like the ball bearings and wheel assemblies were brought in from outside, stacked inside wooden boxes with a liberal coating of oil or grease to stop them rusting until used. The second part of the factory was the assembly floor where all the bits were put together into assembled parts, with first the grease and grime being washed off until the parts were clean and shiny, then different components were assembled, gears put onto drive shafts, wheel housings put together and slotted onto axles, pumps assembled inside their cases.

It was about half automotive component manufacture and about half general engine and machinery manufacture, things like lawnmower engines, hills hoist gears and all sorts of other bits and pieces. The factory did special orders that were fabricated one off, to make a machine for a special purpose, but the money was in assembly line components. They were shipped to other factories to put together with other parts and turn into finished products.

"In terms of the general deliveries we all knew what was to go where, and we would help the trucks unload whatever came, mostly things stacked in wooden boxes labelled with a part number. Each number had its own place of storage. What we did not know was where they came from or who the suppliers were. I often met delivery truck drivers but, apart from building supplies which I ordered, I never knew what most other things were, only where to put them. When I took a delivery that was not for me I would pass the dockets, still in an envelope, on to the site foreman, an old guy named Wally who was a long standing friend of ARJ.

"In terms of the chemicals used all I can say is they came in in unmarked drums which were stored in the shed which is still there until today although the drums were removed the day after the collapse and after that they were moved to a new shed we built, you know about how the old shed floor had concrete laid down and how the shed was always locked after that.

I remember there were two main washing products, one was in the forty four gallon drums and was a liquid a bit like petrol. I have a half memory of someone calling it a mix of benzene and toluene, saying you could put it in the gas tank of your car to drive. It was used to wash grease and grit off machinery parts, before they were assembled.

"Then there were four gallon drums of a more oily substance with a very bad smell. It was used as a final rinse and particularly for tough cleaning like when stuff was half baked on and would not come off with ordinary washing with the regular petrol like stuff. This liquid seemed to give people using it headaches and skin rashes if they used it for too long.

"Again the drums were unmarked. My suspicion is there was something nasty in those drums. The locked shed had a very bad smell of that chemical coming out just after when they took the drums out. My suspicion is that when the big drums fell over one of the small ones tipped over too. They did not want anyone going near it so they covered it in concrete and kept the shed locked to make sure whatever remained of the stuff was kept far away from people, now buried under solid concrete.

"What I don't understand is that, if there was a big pile of contaminated soil, why they did not just dig it out and put clean soil in its place. I think the key to finding out what happened is to get into that shed, lift the concrete and see what lies underneath.

"From how all the people got sick I assume it was something poisonous. I think when they realised the harm it could cause they systematically got rid of all the workers who may have been exposed. They did it one or two at a time so nobody realised what was happening.

By the time they were doing this all the work health safety laws were changing and, if it was shown that a boss was deliberately harming workers or even failing to protect them properly, he could be held personally liable for what was done. Around then most factories brought in strict work health rules about wearing protective clothing and all that stuff.

I reckon that old ARJ thought it was all too hard and decided that getting rid of all those who had used the stuff was the easy way out. So he used a mix of threats and small payments to get them to leave. And he must have been scared of any of them getting together after they left and sharing what happened. So he made them all sign non-disclosure agreements with huge penalties in return for getting the money he offered. He was not the sort of person to give money away unless he had something big to hide.

"The factory was getting old by then and needing a lot of maintenance to keep things running properly, I know because I had to do it. So he would have needed to put in a lot of cash to bring it up to scratch.

Along with that their sales were falling and they were not making much profit anymore; cheap imports from Asia of cars and components along with other machinery, small engines and the like, was putting the squeeze on.

"Then, with the Olympics coming to this part of Sydney, there was a big push by the government to shut down all the dirty industries around there. To make it happen they were giving grants, loans and tax concessions to get them to relocate to other places.

"I reckon ARJ saw the writing on the wall two ways, and he also realised that, with the Olympics coming, the whole area would go upmarket. So, not only did he close his own factory but he encouraged neighbours to do the same. Then when their vacant land came on the market at a cheap price he bought it up and sat on it until the right time came along.

"Now with the real estate boom and the shortage of light industrial land for new business parks he has decided the time is right to make a killing. Just a pity about any poor buggers he screwed along the way, I reckon that's how he looks at it. He is not a complete arsehole but money is what it's all about for him and there is not much milk of kindness flowing through his veins."

He turned to Angus saying, "I am sure there are a few bits I have missed that you can fill in from here.

Angus came in, "Reckon you have it about right. You have to remember too most factory floor workers were migrants with bugger all English, so they neither had the money, the knowledge of the law or the union connections to challenge what ARJ did. So they took the money he offered and went off to find other similar jobs in one of the new factories or business parks opening up in the west of Sydney.

"With the real estate boom coming up to the Olympics the price of houses or flats had got too expensive to afford a place to live in Concord or Ryde or other of the suburbs near there, whereas a house was a whole lot cheaper out around Blacktown and the jobs were moving there as well. Once they lost their jobs most would have moved out that way and, once there, they would have been unlikely to ever run into each other again.

I think the most useful source of information about what was brought in and who did deliveries is likely to come from Janelle who worked in Accounts for a couple years and handled the purchases and deliveries, and sometimes did a bit of the payroll work, she probably won't know much about that bit and was no longer there when ARJ started to get rid of the factory workers. But because she paid the bills it's a fair bet she will know what was ordered and who supplied it, at least in general terms if not in all the details."

So we felt we had a picture and a way forward. What we did not have was time, my source at the Herald told me the EPA decision was expected to be announced tomorrow and once it was out there the float was all ready to go and only a week away.

## Chapter 18 - Countdown

Sure enough, next day the EPA Director signed off on the site remediation management plan and we were informed on good authority that the local government would issue its approval of the rezoning and the DA for Olympic Heights Development before the end of the week.

That day Fedir and I talked to the Environmental Defenders Office as to whether they thought they had enough evidence to seek a court order to access the sheds and sample what was inside and underneath them. They did not think they could get this based on current evidence available or even an injunction to stop the council issuing the Development Approval.

I was shaking with rage as I drove back to my office in the Herald that afternoon. I needed to think of a new way to rock the boat and crack open the things this company was trying to bury. So I picked up my phone and dialled the number of the lawyer, Stephen Oakes, whose name I had been given as the person handling the preparation of the float documents and prospectus by Gilt Limited, only to be doused in PR spin.

I woke up next morning to the news that Anna had died overnight and her funeral was organised for tomorrow at Rookwood Cemetery.

It is strange how sometimes your life descends into moments of great clarity. Before I could think twice and back out I rang Fedir and asked him whether he would give the eulogy at his sister's funeral.

He said, 'Yes of course and Natasha and Tali will speak about her too. But I do not know what I should say about her illness, I would like to say the ARJ company poisoned her and others along with her. I am more and more sure that it is their fault that she got sick and died, because they did not protect her from the things that she was using, things that poisoned her.

I told him, "I agree, I think you need to put what happened out there, tell people what we know. If you stick to facts, what happened to Anna at the factory, how many are dead, how many are sick, what their symptoms are and how the people were given non-disclosure agreements to sign, and that you think Anna was poisoned by a chemical she used at the factory you do not have to worry about defamation, it is just a set of events that can be checked. What you must not do is speculate on who is to blame and the wider causes.

"If you tell that story I will seek approval to publish a short summary the day after in our paper, a report on what you said, a report on facts that we can back up with evidence. I will also invite a couple journalists I know from other organisations along to make sure that we do not bury it. I will invite a journalist from Channel 9 news and ABC local radio on the condition that neither releases their story until my paper had gone to press. That way, if it gets picked up, which I am sure it will, then we will be ready to go to press with the much bigger story the next day, calling for a new EPA investigation and a public inquiry into what happened at this factory.

Fedir readily agreed and later that morning I briefed my chief editor on a new promising lead I had been given, something that had come to me via a priest at a community function and that I had done a small bit of preliminary work on but how the brother of the victim had paid a private investigator to get a much bigger story that he intended to tell the world about at his sister's funeral tomorrow and how he would give us an exclusive if we went ahead and reported on what he said tomorrow.

I told him I was concerned it was going to leak to other media outlets if we did not pick it up, that I understood that he was intending to invite ABC local radio and Channel Nine news to come along and would definitely do so if we did not take the story up. When the boss realised this story related to ARJ and RRJ and that they were mates of some of the papers Directors and also that there was a lot of advertising revenue for the upcoming float at stake there were hurried calls and conference meetings between him and the big bosses, a couple of which I sat in on. I pointed out that this advertising revenue was probably dead anyway, that if this was as big and ugly a story as indicated, and particularly if the EPA launched a new investigation, then the float was likely to be delayed and may well die, and it would be a bad look for our paper if we let the story go to others. In the end it was with reluctance I was permitted to draft a short piece, just bare bones, that I would put out if the funeral went ahead, and particularly if other organisation journalists were there to hear it.

When this was confirmed, mid afternoon, I rang Fedir to tell him, that if either other journalist asked for an interview tomorrow at the funeral he should say to them that today he was grieving his sister but tomorrow he would be happy to do an interview and tell them more of what he knew. He agreed to this readily.

I was happy that this would give us the lead time we needed to get our story out first, and we could then ration what information was fed to others as we went along. I knew if would take several days for them to catch up with all the witnesses and facts we had assembled.

Imagine my surprise when I got off the phone from Fedir and came back to my desk to find an urgent request for a meeting with the lawyer Stephen Davison over an afternoon coffee. Yesterday I would have been happy to chat to him and maybe even give him some breathing space to do his own digging. Today I knew that the horse had bolted and that tomorrow I would really begin shaking the tree.

It was a strange meeting and, despite my initial distaste, it was hard not to like someone with his strange humour even though it did not belong in the place where we were then and even less in the place we were going to.

## Chapter 19 – Comeuppance - Benzy

It was good to get the bigger picture from Richo and Angus, it was starting to make sense, though I did find it a bit hard to believe that there was so much fuss being made of a shed that had a drum of chemicals spilt. Digging out and getting rid of soil with the crap had to be a much cheaper option than paying a hundred grand plus for security on the site to keep everyone locked out.

I was a bit frustrated at having gone a such long way in investigating and then getting stuck. I found myself toying with the idea of putting my drone in the next couple nights. Even if it was spotted I was pretty sure I could get in and out before the guards could respond. If I landed inside the small enclosure around the two sheds even the two dogs could not get to my flying machine quickly. It was not something I had discussed with the others and I did not want to do anything that crossed paths with what the others were working on. But I wanted to have another crack at this place, to see if I could get a red hot soil sample from Ground Zero, that was how I thought of the place of the locked sheds.

After I left the meeting with the others in Fedir's office I got into my car and headed home, however after going around a couple corners I changed my mind and headed back to work, thinking maybe tomorrow night I would give the drone a spin, so tonight I should check all the gear was in order and the batteries fully charged. As I got close to the office at Lidcombe the pub at Auburn beckoned. I thought, _'What the hell, a pint here would be a good idea to calm my frustration._ '

It was a regular watering hole of the past and I knew a good few locals. These days I was more of an occasional visitor, but it was very much a workers pub and I liked the vibe.

I settled with my drink into a corner table, happy to sit alone and think, as I had not seen anyone I knew. A shadow loomed between me and the light. I looked up to see the not exactly smiling face of Pacific Man looking at me, Emmanuel was his proper name. He was obviously pissed off at me so, not one to be intimidated, I invited him to sit down.

He gruntingly accepted with a, "What the fuck you doing here, you fucking shyster, I've a good mind to rip your fucking head off your neck?"

"Don't reckon that's a good idea," I said. "Don't have a personal grudge, but have had plenty of practice handling blokes who try to it on. Plus I have my own questions to ask you. Like, where the fuck did you go to last night? Who are the new gorillas with the new dogs, neither of which is friendly?"

Pacific Man burst out laughing, "Well I've got to give it to you, you've got balls, whoever your real name is."

I held out a paw saying, "Benzy, that's me, Benzy Security. You wouldn't be looking for a new job would you? I might have something going in your line of work. I am looking for someone to help me with a break in. I assume you're not working for that other mob anymore and, if they gave you the flick without notice, I assume you're not their greatest fan.

So we compared notes. It turned out they had been suspicious about the car with the alarm going off back at base and, when ARJ demanded they do a review all the security camera footage extra carefully one of the cameras had caught me picking up the keys and making the imprint.

So, the next day two hours before I was due to come back that night, they were hauled into the boss's office and given their marching orders, with ARJ standing over them, shouting, "What the fuck am I paying all this money for security guards who ain't worth a pinch of shit getting conned like that," as he replayed the footage to show them.

They had not even been paid for their last two nights work. So, as well as being out of pocket, were both effing mad at both me and ARJ.

I bought a beer for Pacific Man and told him a bit about my revenge plan, the idea that there was something in or around that shed, and so we needed a soil sample which I thought I might get with a drone. I offered him 500 for tomorrow night to help me. It was above the odds, but hell he was down two days of pay, so it seemed only fair. Plus I had it in my mind that if we could get results that counted this had all the makings of a big story, with some fat chequebook journalism from Irina's paper. If that sort of cash started flowing and I would need a couple more helpers to do the digging.

The old adage that 'My Enemy's Enemy is My Friend' was never more true. He was genuinely than pleased to accept my offer, living with the hope of giving one in the eye to ARJ and his cronies. When I filled him in on more background he even told me that, as he walked around the shed, there was a patch of oily ground at the side, about a foot across, that ran out from the slab edge for about a metre where nothing grew. He said he would not be at all surprised if it was coming from whatever was underneath the concrete. It was better intelligence than I could have hoped for.

In the morning I was sad to hear that Anna had died overnight. I had only met her the once, but I could see at a glance how hard her life had been. The idea of doing one more thing to help her, even if she was gone, appealed. And I decided this one was on the house and I would not bill them for it, it was personal for me now too. I hoped to be able to tell Fedir and Irina after the funeral that my past night had been a success.

That night, an hour after dark, Pacific Man met me at my office.

I set him up with night vision gear and an in ear microphone to talk to me. He job was to stand watch in the bushes opposite the back of the shed, ten metres along from the entrance. From there he could see exactly where everything was to call me any needed instructions.

I needed to be back further, well out of sight. With managing controls for the drone I could not be really secretive. So I needed someone with close line of sight who could call me in details, 'a foot right, down now, up and across a foot then down again'. The drone had a camera but it was directed down. It was much better to have a second observer with line of sight who could help me by calling out the fine directions of where to move.

I was aiming for two samples along the oily soak place and two others in different parts of that side of the enclosure. It was on the downslope side of the shed, where natural drainage would run. If I did not get red hot samples there I did not think they would be anywhere. I would try for the soak first as, that way, I could abandon the other sites if detected too soon. I was happy to be spotted, but I just wanted to ensure I had got pay-dirt before the gorillas and their wolves arrived on the scene.

It all went off like clockwork. The dogs picked up the drone soon enough but, as it was not a person they were at first puzzled, whining and growling rather than barking. By the time they got properly excited I had two samples, taken out of the line of sight of the guards. I then did one in the furthest corner of the enclosure, still out of sight of the guards, who were now trying to work out what had got the dogs so excited. The final one was in their vision, but they were still fumbling around, unlocking the second gate inside, when the drone zoomed upwards and flew away, mission complete.

## Chapter 20- Anna's Story

So here I am standing at the graveside. We have had a brief ceremony with the priest in the church, where the priest told a few stories about how Anna had been a faithful servant of the church and Natasha had talked about her as the best of friends. Fedir had been in the church, as had I, but had stayed silent, having decided to save his words for the final part when sods were thrown on the grave.

He had written out the words he would say and I had checked them, to ensure that they were provably true and therefore not defamatory.

I had ensured the TV reporter from Chanel 9 was present, along with the man from ABC Radio, telling them there were to be no recordings made for airing of this ceremony. I knew they would still have their phone recorders running to catch the audio, but it would not be of broadcast quality with a swirling wind, which was fine as it would help them remember later. I had tried for a five line taster in this morning's Herald, a piece of bait as a lead in for the major story lined up to run tomorrows, but it had not made it.

I promised both the ABC and Channel 9 that Fedir would talk to them tomorrow if they wanted to follow up the story. We all knew the rules; I had the exclusive and would let them follow one step in front of the rest. I had no doubt this story would run, it was too big to be ignored and, despite the great angst of my bosses, the Herald would lead the exposure of this dirty secret.

It would be all over in ten minutes, and we were both ready as we watched the casket being lowered. I noticed the lawyer, Stephen Davison, standing off to one side and respectfully dressed. He did not speak to anyone else, but was watching and waiting to see what unfolded.

Fedir walked to the graveside and looked up at the surrounding crowd, perhaps fifty of the regular churchgoers and a few personal friends. He spoke in a calm voice, but with an edge to it that carried easily.

"Ladies, gentlemen, thank you all for coming to say goodbye to my sister. She has been the best sister that any man could hope for, a friend to my wife, a second mother to my children and a grandmother to their children.

"She came to Australia as a child who escaped from the Ukraine soon after the second world war, a terrible time for her country and a terrible time for her family, most of whom died amongst the eight million other Ukrainians who died in the war and in the Stalinist purges that followed, more than all the Jews murdered, awful though that was, more than those who died in any other European country.

She welcomed her escape to freedom. I came too but was too small to remember. She came with our mother and our Nona, the only ones of her family to escape. You would think after all that her family had suffered life owed her a little bit of fortune, but it was not to be.

When she was fifteen and I was eight, our mother and Nona were both knocked down by a speeding car as they crossed the road near our house in Concord. Our Nona died there and our mother, after months in hospital with a broken spine was confined to a wheelchair. The social security people told Anna she was too young to care for me and my mother, that my mother must go into a nursing home, and Anna and I would become wards of the state, placed in two separate institutions, no longer able to stay together.

"Anna was determined not to let that happen, she left school and got a job in a factory, paid barely a subsistence, just enough to buy food and pay rent. In the night and early morning before work she cared for our mother, and after work she again cared for our mother and me. And for ten hours every day she worked, poor work, dirty work, but it kept our family together, which was all that mattered to her.

"Because of her I finished school, got an apprenticeship and a better life. My mother did not live to see it but if she had she would have been proud of me and even more of Anna for all her hard work to keep our family together and build it a new future.

"Now you would think, that after all the terrible things Anna had known as a child that the people in the factory would treat her decently but it was not to be. Every day she washed machinery in chemicals, but she never had gloves or other clothes to protect her skin, each night she would smell of the chemicals she had used all day, and she would have a rash on her skin and feel too sick to eat. But still she kept going, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

"Then one day they called her in and told her she did not have a job anymore, someone said she had stolen something which was a lie. All they offered her was her wages up until that day and two hundred dollars even though she had worked there for almost twenty years. And to get even that small payment she was made to agree said she would never tell anyone what she had done in the factory, how she had worked with these chemicals with no protection, even when the law required it.

In a way losing her job was a blessing to my sister, for a while her health improved, she was happy with any other bits of work she got and was like a second mother to my children and their children. But then, as time went by she began to get sick again, a thing they called aplastic anaemia.

"The doctors said something had poisoned her bone marrow, now she had no immunity, she could no longer fight off the diseases of ordinary life, the flues and colds. So, slowly and painfully she died, it seemed to me she had been poisoned by her job in the factory with all the bad chemicals. It took her another twenty years to die, but the damage was done, that was what I believed.

Other people said she was unlucky; it was just bad luck she had got this disease, nothing to do with her work. But I started to ask what had happened to all the others she had worked with, and slowly a different story came out. So far my wife and I have found over thirty, and the story is the same. All were sacked after years of working there for the most trivial reasons and paid a pittance when they went, all were forced to sign the same agreements on the same punitive terms to get any money, threatening to take houses, cars and claim back ten times their final payments if they ever told anyone what work they had done and what was done to them.

"And over half of them are now dead or sick with diseases like my Anna, cancers, aplastic anaemia, immune diseases and organ failure. The doctors say they look like they have been poisoned though, as it happened many years ago, they know not with what.

"And who is this company for whom they worked. Has it helped these poor people, its victims, has it offered any compensation or help with their medical expenses. In fact it has done exactly the opposite.

I will not name the old company today. It has been stripped of all its assets but for a few million dollars. But in its place is rising a new phoenix from the ashes, it goes by the lofty name of Gilt Investments, and under it sits a new entity, Olympic Heights, offering upmarket apartments for sale on the land where this awful abuse happened. Perhaps some of the money from the sale of these could go to the victims, it was after all their work that helped this factory continue for decades, with their health the price of its prosperity. It seems a reasonable proposal to me, for the victims to share the spoils.

But this is not so for Gilt Investments. It says it is not responsible for what happened in the past. It is only interested in those with new money. For them it tells them the future is bright, that they are making a new, risk free investment, that is what it promises. It has done the same as was done with the asbestos victims, the old company is but a shell and the new company no longer has any responsibility for the deeds of the parent, despite the owners being mostly the same.

Risk Free is a good name; the risk remains with the old victims while the new owners have their mansions in offshore tax havens as they enjoy all the good life that other peoples' money and health can buy.

On behalf of my dear sister Anna and all the other many victims like her, I hope you all rot in hell, you who stole my sister's life."

With that Fedir picked up a shovel full of dirt and dropped it on the grave before walking away, head held high, daring any to challenge him.

***

It was not the script that he and I agreed he follow, it was getting to the edge of what he could safely say, even though it was all true. But the raw emotion and sincerity rang through far better than any rehearsed script could ever do. As he spoke I felt in him the same rage that had flowed through my veins as I heard Anna's story from her mouth. With that rage came a great freedom for him to tell it as he knew it was, to call a spade a spade without worry for legal niceties. Now it is spoken I am as moved by his words as I was by his sister's death and I am glad these words have been said.

As I stand here watching him walk away, needing time with his own grief, I realise there are several people wanting to talk to me, the two journalists, Benzy, Stephen, and some well-wishers. Tali has followed her husband to give him strength and comfort. They are to return to their house for the wake, and he will be there to shake hands and accept condolences.

Benzy is easiest, I find space for him first and he quickly tells me of his successful mission last night. Despite the sombre mood I feel his elation and want to respond with my own however I settle for a well done, and he tells me the samples have gone to lab and the results will be in tomorrow which is perfect for my main piece tomorrow, assuming something is found.

The two journalists come next; the guy from Channel Nine is half cursing me, "God Dammit Irina, if I had only brought a camera; that was pure gold."

"You would not have been invited if you had, my story comes first but you will get your chance tomorrow, he has said his bit at the graveside, and he has told me that, after his sisters wake tonight, his time of private grief, he is happy to do an interview with you tomorrow. You can run it on your nightly news if you so choose.

The lady from ABC radio afternoon chat show came next, "Are you sure I cannot ask him to ring in for an interview this afternoon?" she asks, knowing already what the answer will be. I smile and shake my head. "How about just a mention of what I heard today as a prequel for an interview tomorrow?"

I feel myself relent, some part of this story is too good for her to waste today, and it will help build ratings for the rest of us tomorrow. "Only that you attended a funeral today where the brother made amazing allegations about the poisoning of his sister at a factory in Homebush Bay and that he has agreed to come in tomorrow and do a face to face interview on your show. Oh and of course you can mention that the story will also be in tomorrow's Herald and Chanel Nine news, or so a little birdie told you.

Stephen came last, obviously unsure of how to approach me. I had hardly encouraged any positive reaction from him in yesterday's encounter though to be fair he had done little to deserve it.

He said, "Thank you for inviting me. It has given me food for thought. But that is not why I wanted to speak to you. I feel it is only fair to warn you."

"After I first talked to you on the phone I found something extremely damaging about you online. When I put in your name in a computer search engine an image came up of a naked woman with your name and face and the caption Eastern European Beauty. I have not sent the link to ARJ but I am sure he will find it and I know he will play dirty.

"It is not something your bosses will like. It may even give them second thoughts about running today's story. I am duty bound, as ARJ's solicitor to tell him this afternoon about what was said at this funeral today. It will all come out from there and I am sure that it will get very ugly." With that said he walked away.

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I did not know what this story was and could just hope it was a Photoshop job. But I knew it would be bad, very bad, and it could only get worse from here.

## Chapter 21 – Feeding the Sharks- Stephen

I am back at the office with a sense that my dream of wealth is about to go up in smoke. I am wondering if I can renege on my snap BMW purchase, but my credit card has already been charged the $15,000 deposit fee and I feel it would be a forlorn hope to ever get this back. It is obvious, that with at least three media outlets about to give the story of ARJ poisoning his past workers prime time media coverage, that the float of Gilt Investments will head into very troubled waters. Even if not fully dead I can see the first day share price taking a massive hit; If this happens I think I can say goodbye to any bonus and my future wealth prospects are bleak. So, even if the promised shares come my way, it will be a long time until they realise the value I had once confidently expected.

But I have a much more immediate problem. As ARJ's principal legal adviser for this float I am duty bound to let him know about the storm which is coming. Even if what I told Irina, about her sex star alter ego, does lead to the Herald pulling its story, it will almost certainly run in public tomorrow based on two other media outlets being there. They will run with it as part of their basic moral responsibility to be champions of the public interest, a great excuse to get this out there, not to mention the way a mix of human tragedy and scandal boosts ratings.

So I do not think that this story can be stopped, even if great pressure is brought to bear on Herald decision makers, with a combination of threats of defamation and the loss of major revenue from advertising sales. Their smart lawyers will of course know that defamation is most unlikely as I assume the statements of the brother are provable. And, even if they are false, any court case run against the aggrieved brother would just stir up a mass of further publicity that would compound the damage of the original story.

And the idea of advertising revenue still flowing is probably now moot. Of course ARJ could respond to negative media by launching a big advertising campaign. But that comes with all its own risks, such publicity is a two edged sword. It may just add fuel to opposition fires and bring more victims stories out. And those rich people who would otherwise buy the shares will be most sensitive to public opinion, even if it is really only to ensure the value of their investment does not decrease.

Not to mention that a public listing has now become highly uncertain. Should more victims speak out it could easily lead to the EPA withdrawing its approval for the site remediation and for the council, at the eleventh hour, to refuse to grant the Development Approval, destroying a huge slice of the value of any public offering. Even if these approvals proceed this story may well lead to a public inquiry into the decision making processes of the EPA and council in granting their approvals, the Environmental Defenders Office lawyer who stood at the back, listening to it all, will surely call for this. They may well use this information as the basis of a legal challenge to any consents or seek an injunction to prevent their future granting.

But, for now, I have two much more immediate problems I am dreading. The first is to call ARJ and let him know his Gilt Investments is now looking very shaky and, if it becomes the centre of a media storm, his house of cards may all blow away in the wind of public rage.

The second problem is to decide what to tell him about Irina. He gave me the job of finding dirt on her and has paid me for my services. I now have dirt on her, big time, and I think my client duty means I must tell him. I hate this idea, but I think I must be the messenger even though I doubt it will help, she like me is just a story messenger and hurting her will not take the story away. But if I do not tell him the odds are that he will find out anyway and throw this in my face, tell me that my failure to muzzle her has cost him big time and demand the return of his fees paid to me. And I know he is a vindictive bastard, and will use this information to harm her in any way he can, even if it is a futile gesture. So should I tell him or just keep my head down and hope the storm passes my by, plead ignorance if he finds out later, as I expect he almost surely will.

It is funny, the more I see here the more I like her. Sure it is partly her looks, she is drop dead gorgeous, much more in the flesh than in that sick video. But it is more, there is a basic decency and niceness to her that I seem to have forgotten exists in the world in which I move where everyone is out for themselves, even my recent sexual encounters have been more about little competitions for status, who can score the hottest chick, when you are together who can create the biggest turn on and sustain it the longest.

When I see her I realise this other stuff is all meaningless, along the way basic human decency and kindness has been lost. She still has this quality in abundance and I have forgotten how much I like it. It makes me feel my life has lost its way in the last decade of relentlessly striving to get ahead. My mother has been dead for more than a decade. My father has been across the other side of Australia for longer than I can remember with some other woman. And my sister has not spoken to me since my mother's funeral. Until now I have blocked this stuff all out, thinking I am fine on my own, success is what matters. Suddenly this seems shallow.

But yet all this desire for being decent has no bearing on what I must do. After five minutes of weighing all the options I know that I must do this bad thing even though I don't like it. I must tell ARJ and let the cards fall where they may. I think tomorrow or next week I will be looking for a new job, but it is past time to change the future.

So I pick up the phone to make the call. I feel the sharks circling. I know the feeding frenzy is about to begin. There are two people in the water. One is a journalist named Irina. The other one is me. I care less for what happens to me than I care about the consequences for her. But the die is cast.

## Chapter 22 – Body Blow

As I walk away from the funeral towards my car I feel like two different persons in the same body. One is hugely elated that the battle has been joined, that we have counterattacked and struck our first blow. And, as well, Benzy's overnight success promises another counterstrike too. Tomorrow we will know what his samples have found but I feel in my bones that this is the piece of evidence which will start to break the dam.

I sense a crack now forming with Fedir's impassioned statement. If we can prove major contamination with toxic chemicals this crack will become a breach that soon becomes a flood as water pours through.

I chide myself not to get in front of what I know, but the near taste of success will not be dimmed. But, at the same time as the one half of me is bursting with optimism, another part of my feels like it has been hit with a truck. I do not know what Stephen's warning means; my body and face in lurid sex poses, could it be some clever photo-shopping. But as I turn my mind this way a sense of doom and dread washes over me, not only for me, but for all who will soon have this information thrust their way in an attempt to discredit me and, through shooting the messenger, kill the story.

I know I must forewarn my editor boss in the Herald, I must warn Fedir and Tali, it is too late to warn Anna. As well I must tell my parents and a few close friends, before they find this out another way, but what can I say?

I should do an online search to see what is there, to see whether it is real or not. I cannot see how it can be so. I am not a prude and have had sex with some men, just a few, in my course through life, mainly at University. Still that does not equate to this.

Those were private consensual arrangements, most only of a single night after a few glasses of wine in a bar. And there have been none in over a year. My friends mock me about becoming a celibate. The truth is, in part, I have been too busy for this part of my life and, in part, that I don't like the idea of more one night stands. I know I want something of substance but I have not yet met a person with whom I want this thing to happen. And I do not want it at the expense of a career.

I need to find out what this story is; it won't run away by hiding my face. I have never looked at porn sites. I think I must, but this idea fills me with distaste. I cannot warn others of an unknown thing. I cringe at the thought, not that I believe I have done anything I should be ashamed of, but yet!

I stand there shaking my head and muttering to myself, trying to think of a way forward, oblivious to the world around. A person has come up to me, looking at me inquiringly. "Penny for your thoughts, you look like a fighter who has been king hit with a body blow. I just wanted to check about the best way to send through the sample results tomorrow?"

It is Benzy; it is not his problem but his understated kindness moves me.

I have to tell someone, he is right here. I sense he is a decent man and is also used to seeing others at their worst without standing in judgement.

So I tell him what little I know. He promises to find out what he can, as soon as possible, and call me back with what he discovers.

## Chapter 23 – Benzy – Digging for Dirt

It is strange to be asked by someone you really like to go digging for dirt on them. Usually it is the other way around, the aggrieved wife thinking the husband has been out shagging, or the jealous man wanting to know who his wife has been seeing when he had been away, the one who has left the tell-tale cigarette butt on the verandah or who was dipping into the whiskey.

But digging is something I know how to do and an hour later I am into it. Of course it means turning off the porn filter on my computer, the one that normally blocks those pop up ads. I am instantly bombarded with a stream of them, seriously annoying. Irina has told me more than enough to get me headed in the right direction, a caption of Eastern European Beauty tied to her name. In less than a minute I have her picture on screen. It is her or an incredibly skilled photo-shop job, there is no doubt.

I need to pay the money to see the full feature of pictures and video to know if it has been doctored, but my gut tells me not. I have never minded playing voyeur to sneaks but it does not feel right to play voyeur to someone who seems both beautiful and innocent. If I was ten years younger I would seriously fancy her myself and I can feel the power of her attraction though I choose to studiously ignore it. But I need a copy of all this to show to her and let her try and think how it could have come to be. If it is not a clever fake there is some way it was created that is not magic.

So I use my work credit card to get the right to a downloaded copy of what is there and make myself watch. My first run through just confirms my initial impression that this has not been doctored, at least not by putting her face on another body. The second time I run it I observe, much more closely what is happening to her, how much she seems to be an active and willing participant. My suspicion starts to form. There is no doubt that someone is having sex with her and doing other sex things with her, using a dildo and more. There are enough crosses between her body and her face to know it is the same person in both. But most crosses to her face are fleeting, there is little of a close up nature and the bits of it seen have an almost unreal feel, she looks a bit stoned. Perhaps it was a student party where they all got smashed and had wild sex, except the explicit sexual stuff is too clear for that, the man who is fucking her is clearly going hard with no dope like features. Most shots of him are from behind and the side with minimal face view and, added to this, his face looks heavily made up meaning, it could be hard to recognise him in real life. By the end of the third pass through the video I realise that this has a very stage managed feel to it. It seems that someone has made a lot of effort to create an appearance of natural hot sex.

As I finish watching I realise the pop up ads have continued to bombard my computer, obviously targeting my interest with more like this. At first I am inclined to repel this unwanted distraction and shut them all down. Instead I take a quick glance at other previews. This gives me a feeling that a couple of them may be doctored too.

Perhaps the same person or organisation has posted more than one such video. I wonder if they will respond to a request for more. So I work my way around the website looking for a contact point to access services that extend beyond the video. A couple other pictures have an option to meet the hot girl in person for a much more substantial sum of money, so I presume there is a real person behind these who is available to rent for pleasure.

Irina's picture does not have this option, but I think if I put in a request I might find someone real behind the site. So I click on the contact point and submit a request via the form. "Love your site, do you have more of Irina, or a way to meet the real Irina. I would love to get to know her, up close."

I think it is unlikely that anything will come of it but who knows.

## Chapter 24 – Benzy – A Toxic Chemical Cocktail

The results are in from my night escapade sampling the security yard, and the words, _'toxic chemical cocktail'_ jump out at me. Most samples results are not exciting, just small to medium amounts of the usual culprits. But one is; the one closest to the side of the shed where the drum capsized. It lists over a dozen chemicals detected in this sample including typical chemical solvents, mainly benzene and toluene, along with what seem astronomical levels of dioxin, and some other really nasty shit.

Most of names I do not recognise off hand but quick use of Dr Google informs me that many are highly toxic by-products of industrial production processes, particularly those in use up until the 1980s when hard hitting work health safety rules started to come into effect, banning or requiring a high level of worker protection from many of these things. The summary by the toxicologist at the bottom of the report sums it up well.

"Extremely high levels of a toxic cocktail of chemical compounds."

It is interesting that there has been little dispersion from the one site hard against the cement base to the shed, as close in as the UAV could get. Then, when I look closely at the photos of the site I realise that this one place is under the overhang of the shed roof that extends out for about two feet. This must have protected it from direct rain whereas, for the rest of sample sites, there is a slope which becomes a drainage line, taking water away from shed and into a corner drain which runs under the road and discharges into the bay at the place I took my last sample. So for the rest of the area, water coming off the shed roof would run across the ground, washing away what was there on the surface. I sense an element of luck that I got one sample from right there, a metre further out the sample found very little.

What it suggests is that there is something seriously bad in the soil under the cement slab of the shed and, over time, small amounts of whatever this is have oozed their way into the soil immediately alongside the slab. It is not quite a smoking gun but it is getting close. Put into the right hands, along with a story of a lot of sick people, it could make a demand for a proper investigation of this site very hard to say no to.

I feel pleased; I set out to get evidence of what was on this site, hoping to find something bad enough to justify hiding it from others, plus paying for a lot of very expensive security. Here I have something solid to point to. Best of all I have a precise GPS point of where this material came from allowing someone to go back to exactly this place to take a repeat sample. And if we can get a second sample taken by a regulatory office such as the EPA, then this may really shake the tree, requiring a much fuller investigation before any DA can proceed. What I would really love to do is to lift the slab of this shed to see what lies underneath.

But I know too that it is going to get really ugly from here, a foretaste is seen from them getting rid of any past workers. Coming over the horizon next is blackmail directed to Irina, along with lawyers and injunctions and perhaps a last ditch effort for them to do their own removal at night when nobody else if looking.

Part of me says this is not my problem; that I should just hand over my results and let others take it from here. But they are all babes in the woods when the real heavy shit comes down. And I share some of the anger I can feel bubbling out of Irina, this is no longer about payment for services, but rather a need to square the ledger for the rotten things done to small people by those with too much money and power and too few ethics, SCUM!!

To do this I know I need a plan and real help. I feel an inkling of an idea in the back of my mind. It needs to form further until I am ready to fully unpack it, but for now I lay out the first elements in my mind.

The first part is getting everything ready and in place to do our own site investigation. I reckon we need at least six strong blokes, bolt cutters and a digger on site at two in the morning, a time when most folks are fast asleep.

The second part is to go right into the tiger's den, pull its tail and poke its eyes and make it blink, get in fast and excavate it before ARJ's hired security, with police assistance, can stop us. We need to lift the slab with a piece of heavy machinery and see what lies underneath. I still have a few old mates from army and police days. I think I can get a few to come along for the ride. I reckon we can get it done inside half an hour and be long gone before the opposition can get there and take action to stop us.

Once this is done and we know what is there, the last part is to use Irina and her journalist friends to hang out the dirty washing for all to see.

I marvel at my brazen stupidity in thinking this will work. It is high risk but, by God, if it does work it will bring the whole house of cards tumbling down and bury them beneath it. It could well end me too, charged with trespass and other offences I have yet to think of. But my soul loves a grand gesture and this surely is one.

## Chapter 25 – Stephen –After the Funeral

The phone call I have been dreading comes to me before I have had time to think. As I walk away from the funeral I take out my phone and turn it back on. I had deliberately silenced it, ensuring that I was not tempted to pull it out while at the funeral, that would be beyond disrespectful to the people here. As it comes to life it shows five missed calls and three messages. Before I can begin to look at them the phone rings again and it is ARJ on the line.

I take a deep breath and push the answer button, keeping the phone far enough away from my ear not to assault my senses with the expletives. ARJ launches into the tirade expected. When he pauses for breath, I ask, "How can I help you? What would you like me to do?

It turns out that last night there has been another break in at the site, well not exactly a break in but a drone was witnessed collecting samples. ARJ wants to know who did it and for me to throw the book at them for trespass. On further questioning it turns out that ARJ knows very little, the security guards witnessed a drone flying overhead and landing in the back corner of the enclosure with the sheds, perhaps collecting a soil sample before it took off and flew away towards the bay. Nobody was sighted and there is no way to identify the drone, so this seems a dead end to me.

However now the real purpose of the call emerges, ARJ needs me to get the DA approval signed today. The Minister for Planning has approved the rezoning and the EPA has approved the site remediation plan. All that remains before work can start if for council to approve the DA. It has told me it will sign the approval in the next couple days; that everything is in order. Now ARJ will wait no longer. He says he needs these two documents signed now, "today not tomorrow", is what he shouts.

It is probably doable. It is only lunch time, I should be able to get onto the senior staff member who has put this document in the approval in-tray of his boss and ask that he put it right under his bosses noses for signature this afternoon. I can plead a critical timing issue with the public listing. I will say that float listing documents need to go to print this afternoon. Therefore the statement that all regulatory approvals are in place must be true or it will be misleading and potentially illegal, which I cannot allow. Therefore without a signed document today I must delay the listing which will cost investors a lot of money. This critical player has his own parcel of shares in well-hidden investment portfolio, so he clearly understands the implications.

Once I have agreed to action this instruction the phone clicks off.

ARJ has now lost interest in me. My intended revelations remain unsaid. I will tell him when I ring back with an update on the approval documents. By then I hope I will have good news that counters the negatives that are sure to follow my other revelations.

By three pm I have copies of the required final approval document. It is the Development Approval via the Head of Planning at Parramatta Council. It gives approval for the construction on the site, the new shopping centre and associated high rise apartments. It comes with a price tag of half a billion, but once done the upside is the same again in terms of predicted profits made.

It sits alongside and references the EPA site remediation plan which lists soil works to be done before the development can begin. This identifies a risk of residual soil contamination arising from some potentially toxic chemicals produced by former factories in this area, though the submitted samples have only shown low levels. So a foot of topsoil is to be removed from across the site and taken to a secure disposal facility. In its place a metre of clean soil will be brought in to cover whatever soil remains on the site. This action will cost millions of dollars and take several weeks, but once finished we will have a clean site for the future development, though there may also be the need to dispose of more excavated soil as building foundations are put in.

I am glad no whiff of what was said at the funeral this morning is out in public yet or perhaps some people would have become nervous. Whereas, as it is, this is a purely routine approval, one of very many crossing the desks of these high officials. This one has gone through all the required steps and got required government policy ticks so it is a matter of routine procedure that it gots the official signature on the page.

All I have done is hasten the process slightly; certainly I can put my hand on my heart and say no undue influence was brought to bear. I just hope, for my own conscience's sake, that there are no dirty little secrets about to come out for this site that shake the tree and call into question the validity of this and other approvals. This is something out of my influence or control, still I whisper a prayer in my head to the God I don't believe in, that it is so.

I try to ring ARJ back with this good news but his phone is engaged.

Instead I leave a message followed by scanned copies of the approval documents, sent via email. I am certain he will ring me back soon enough if has something further to say. I find I don't have the courage to tell him what transpired at this morning's funeral. He will know soon enough.

## Chapter 26 – Irina-Rage

I feel punch drunk after what I was told about my porn star alter ego this morning, but I must put it aside and focus on the task at hand. In a strange way it almost makes the task easier. I was so angry about what was done to Anna, and Fedir's impassioned speech this morning makes that emotion even sharper. And there is a second focus to my rage, the idea that someone is out there and trying to turn me into a porn star. I have been with a handful of men in my life and a couple times I was fairly under the weather from too much to drink and don't remember it all clearly.

But the idea that someone has filmed me acting out a porn star role seems incomprehensible. And the idea that someone would try and use a porn image as some sort of blackmail makes me furious, the anger from before morphs into flaming rage burning through my head at this idea.

But I know I cannot write this story consumed by this anger. Instead I have to use it as motivation to push myself harder to tell the story better. This gives a clear focus to what I must do for the rest of today. So far this story is odd early drafts and many notes and scraps of paper where I have assembled the other bits that will come together.

Now I must go and sit in a quiet place, block out all distractions and write, write first Anna's story, that of an immigrant child whose family suffered unimaginable horrors in the Ukraine and when she finally escaped to Australia, had her trust abused to a whole other level from our own country that had promised sanctuary.

It is a story of courage as much as horror, the indomitable spirit that fought to the end, trying to draw positives from the bad hand dealt her.

Then following in her shoes is the story of all the other victims – again small people in menial jobs who were not protected when they should have been, and when someone foresaw a problem with this they decided that the best solution was to bury it deep so the story never saw the light of day. As a result each person got sick and died alone with no knowledge of others who had walked the same path.

I have thirty witnesses to this next step and there may be a hundred more whose names I know not who did the same jobs and have vanished. Most likely there will be more sick and dead victims amongst these. Of these, I will find some more, given time. To speak for these I will tell stories I know, those of the two dead men whose wives hold non-disclosure agreements. The next row will paint a second picture of more faces, needlessly harmed and suffering too, standing behind those whose stories I know.

And, in counterpoint, is the story of those who profited. It will tell how this was no act of careless omission but a carefully managed plan to hide what was done. For this the non-disclosures are my smoking gun, and the pot at the end of the rainbow is what will take their place, rich people's shops and apartments where only the moneyed set go. And, of course, for every dollar spent in building this dream, another dollar goes into the pockets of those who did the deeds and caused the harm, which is soon to be whisked away into an offshore place beyond the reach of any Australian victims.

The image of Christopher Skase comes to mind, dead now, but hiding in his Spanish penthouse back then, living on his stolen wealth while those still here, his victims of a great deception, bore the pain. Of course this man, ARJ or RRJ is not Skase, and for now he remains in Australia living the high life. But in other respects the pattern is essentially the same.

So I sit and write and rewrite for three hours until the story is done.

I must now take it to my editor to get his approval for it to run. I know he will be nervous but once I tell him others now have the story from the funeral and theirs will run tomorrow, but that only I have the scoop that draws the threads together, he will reluctantly agree to its delivery to the printers arms, ideally with a taster on page one and a full expose on page six or seven.

My editor is out though it is clear he is still on the job, his briefcase and papers still on his desk. I have emailed him the story but on his desk I pen a brief note which I leave with a red sticker, attached to a print out of the story, saying; "This needs to go in tomorrow's paper, ring me if any issues."

He is a good man and straight. He will ring with any problems but I think it will go straight through. It is a well written piece, short and to the point, a heady mix of emotion and fact. It's mainly bait for what's to follow, a first outline to draw attention to a full feature article in the weekend edition.

I smell blood in the water. The sharks are circling. I wonder if the torn body parts when the shark feeding is done will belong to me or another.

I leave the office an hour before normal finish time and walk around the corner to the local bar where I sit and nurse a drink. By now my anger has faded. Even though I feel a faint thrill of anticipation that the story will soon be out there, my main feeling is fear this will all go horribly wrong. After half an hour another couple of early starters from the paper join me. Gradually the fear fades to a distant terror. My life is about to be irrevocably changed.

I am about to leave for home when my mobile rings. It is Benzy, I dread what he will say – I assume it is news about my porn star role, but he brushes straight past that saying. "I think we have panicked them. The dozers are on the site already and they began in the place where our evidence is from. The sheds are gone along with a foot of dirt which sat on top of the place where they used to be. I just watched this dirt and broken cement being loaded into trucks and taken away. And following right behind are other trucks putting a metre of clean fill over the top of anything that might still be there.

Do you want to come with me and take some photos? I don't know what else we can do but perhaps you can ask some questions about why there is so much of a hurry to get rid of what was in this place.

I grab a train to Strathfield and then a taxi from there. It is as Benzy says, the gates are wide open, half the fence is down and there multiple machines are working on the site in the fading light. A guy sitting in a car with the Logos on an earthworks firm at the side of the road who is clearly watching it all – he looks like the site supervisor. I go over to him and ask if he knows what is happening. He is clearly bored with nothing to do but watch. He is friendly.

I had expected hostility but it seems he has nothing to hide.

I ask him "What is going on?

He says, "Well, we've been waiting for a fortnight to start work and this afternoon we got the call to begin. It came through around three from the owner of this patch of dirt, ARJ. He rang my boss and, as I was there and the job was for me, he put the phone on speaker so I could hear too.

"ARJ said he had got the DA signed just after lunch. With that and the site remediation plan approved he said there was now nothing to stop us getting on with it.

"After a minute of barking instructions ARJ left it one of his underlings to confer on the details with us and went off. This man emphasised we must get cracking. I first said we could start tomorrow. He insisted we begin tonight. He said we at least needed to clean up the corner where the two old sheds were, to knock them over, smash up the concrete slab below, and put the bits in a dump truck which is taken straight to be emptied into the local landfill tip. Then we must use a dozer to scrape a foot of soil off the top of this area and immediately cover it with a meter of clean fill.

"He told us that ARJ had said that, now it is approved, the bit where the sheds are must be done tonight, even if they have to work until midnight.

"So straight away I sent in two dozers and a backhoe digger with a big scoop along with a compressor and two jackhammers. We ripped the shed apart, broke the slab into bits and put it all into the first truck to take to the tip. Then our dozers got to work scrapping the topsoil into piles which we are now busy loading onto trucks to go to the same place as the shed.

"The first thousand square meters in nearly done and they are covering it with clean soil. Tomorrow we move onto the next bit and in a couple weeks' time it should be done.

"I have to give it to ARJ, once he sets his sights on doing something he does not fuck around. He has offered a bonus thousand dollars to each man working here today to get this first bit finished tonight. I don't know why the hurry. But he's going for broke and we're all happy to take his cash."

I asked couple cursory questions but the man had no more information to add so I asked if I could go onto the site?

He shook his head, "Nah, too dangerous for that. Don't want you getting run over. We'd then have Worksafe to pull us up. Plus there's nothing to see.

So I asked if I could take some photos from the side of the road.

He said, "Sure, free country, but I don't reckon there's much interest in a pile of dozers spreading dirt."

I could see my follow up story running before my eyes.

What Was Here to Hide?

Yesterday this was an old factory site with night and day security guards and guard dogs and to keep the public out. Today, within a few hours of getting their signed approvals, everything remaining from before is gone; sheds flattened, smashed up and removed, the top foot of soil taken away. It was the site of the old factory where dozens of sick people once worked; today we buried one, the doctors said they suspected chemical poisoning. Now they are trying to make it all disappear before our eyes.

I ask you, "What was here to hide, what secret are they are covering up?"

Benzy drops me back at Strathfield railway station when we are finished our fact finding mission to the site. We are both tired. He says to me as we drive. "I have found some stuff on the web about that other story you told me. It looks bad but I think they have doctored the footage. However we are both tired now after a long day. I think talking about it is best left until tomorrow when both our minds are sharper."

I nod agreement; right now it is something I don't want to know.

Before the train arrives I check my phone. There's nothing. It's been strangely silent this evening. I infer this as a good sign, assurance that all's well and I will see my story on the paper's front page in the morning.

## Chapter 27 - Irina - The Vanishing Story

I get up early next morning and walk to the corner store to buy the paper. On impulse I gather all the other morning editions too, the Telegraph. Australian and Financial Times, lest any part of the story gets a run in one of these.

I carry my papers, unread to the local café where I decide that today I will treat myself to coffee and cake before I settle down to read through the content. I deliberately refrain from looking at any newspaper until settled.

My cake and coffee taste wonderful. I savour each mouthful and then the last morsels until completely finished. Now I am ready to read.

I turn to Page 1 of the Herald. I do not expect full page coverage here but a mention is expected. However there is nothing to see. I go to Page 3, Page 5, Page 7 and then to the Business Section. I am feeling really perplexed. It should be here, or in the unlikely event that it is delayed my phone will have a message. But my mobile is as silent as the paper. I work my way through every page of the Herald, going from cover to cover – absolutely nothing.

I flick through the other papers, not expecting to see anything within them – it is our story. I am 99% sure it has not leaked. The Financial Times and Australian are silent. It is only when I get to the financial section of the Telegraph I find something relevant, no more than a brief mention:

"Injunction taken out by Gilt Investments alleging defamation against Sydney Morning Herald, preventing publication of articles about its site at Newington or any allegations of harm to former employees at this site. Gilt Investments has indicated it will seek substantial damages against this paper and or its employees for false and misleading information that they have been the source of, in relation to this."

Suddenly the coffee and cake sit inside me like a stone. I had expected them to play dirty but not this.

I need to get to the office and fast to find out what is happening. The silence on my phone and emails now feels really ominous.

I go home, shower and dress. I pick up my phone once ready.

Now the silence has broken. Both a message and email relaying the same thing from our Human Resources Section, each saying:

" _You are suspended from your current employment until further notice._

You are not permitted to contact other employees of this business, return to your workplace or access work documents or records until further notice.

If you require personal items from your office please contact Building Security to escort you to your desk to collect such items under supervision.

You will continue to be paid while suspended unless otherwise advised.

If you require further information please contact Helena at Human Resource whose phone and email details are listed below;"

To say I now feel like I have been king hit with a sledgehammer is a massive understatement. The allegations of sexual impropriety against me felt like a body blow, but this has knocked me completely for six.

I sit on a chair in my apartment for an unknown time, at first trying to comprehend and waiting for my mind to clear. Two emotions are warring within me. One is complete and devastating shock; my career and my life as a journalist are effectively finished. Papers back their journalists against threats unless evidence is devastating or there is something else huge at stake.

The second emotion is barely a flicker at first, just the faintest spark. But gradually it begins to glow. Over five or ten minutes it began to burn brightly. Soon it is flaming up all around me; it is an all-consuming rage. I had thought I was angry before but it was nothing compared with this. I let it run free for a few minutes, burning everything it touches before I engage my rational brain.

My mind is trying to tell me something. I knew all along that ARJ and his minions are complete bastards, the story I've been chasing has told me that exceedingly clearly. But this seems like a huge overreaction from him even to that. Why the obsessive secrecy from before, why past security on a desolate site which cost a king's ransom, why the incredible haste to remove what was there once the approval was granted, and why the desire to come after me so directly once I put him under threat. It all adds up to the same thing; there really must be a big story here.

So the same questions remain, "Why and what are you trying to hide?"

It is good to have my mind clear and rational again. I own almost nothing and so have almost nothing personal to lose apart from my job which is as good as gone. And I am sure I have done nothing that constitutes criminal conduct. There is great freedom knowing there is nothing more to fear, I really can act as a free agent in the knowledge I am immune to these threats with no downside except my reputation which is already as good as gone.

First I ring Benzy, then I ring Fedir, then I ring the lawyer I have talked to briefly from the Environmental Defenders Office before.

We agree to meet in an hour and plan our next move at Benzy's office.

Before I go I know there is one more thing I should do. I need to let my family know what is coming. I ring my mother and explain briefly that papers and TV are about to say bad things about me and not to believe what is said.

I also ask her to pass this on to the rest of my extended family. I would like to ring my friends at the Herald but the instruction is clear, I am to have no contact there. It makes me feel temporarily lonely and cut off, but there is nothing to be gained by going there.

On impulse I make one further call. It is to Stephen, lawyer for the ARJ monster machine. There were no instructions about not contacting them. I wonder what his role is in all this. I feel strangely conflicted in wanting to talk to him. Our first contact was a disaster but then, when we met face to face, I could not help but liking him. I sensed a decency of some sort in him, and of course we made each other laugh, if but for a brief minute. And him seeking me out yesterday to give his warning feels like it was done from a good place too. I felt nothing gloating or malicious in it, rather it seemed to come from a genuine desire to help me or at least to get me prepared.

Stephen's phone rings out, unanswered, not even going to message.

I shrug and go to put my phone away. But it rings back with an unknown number displayed. The timing coincidence is strange so I answer it, contrary to my habit of ignoring unknown and unexpected calls. It is Stephen after all, saying, "I saw you rang. I needed to ring you back on a different number as I am not sure it is safe to use my ordinary work phone."

I ask him if he knows about the action against the Herald.

He says, "In part, though ARJ has terminated the use of my services, as of yesterday. I got approvals for his development yesterday afternoon. At that time I was going to tell him of what I had found out about you. I felt it was my duty to do so and planned to do it before I went home yesterday.

"But at 4 pm yesterday I got a document from another solicitor saying they were now representing Gilt Enterprises, with my services terminated immediately. They gave no reason but it is like ARJ to act like that, he is cold and ruthless in every possible way.

"So I never called ARJ to tell him what I knew about you. But, even so, I wanted to say sorry for any role I had in causing him to target you. Then of course this morning I read in the Telegraph that he and his new lawyers are launching a defamation action against the Herald. It's classic ARJ tactics, launch a counterstrike. I wanted to let you know I have no part in it.

"I cannot discuss client information about him; that would breach my legal ethics duties, but I still wanted to say I'm sorry."

With that he went to make his apologies and hang up.

In that instant I do not want him to go, so I say, "Thanks for calling back. Perhaps we could meet for a proper talk about what this all means when my head is clearer. As you can imagine it is all a shock just now."

He replies, "I would like that. Please call me when you are ready."

I head for the train station to go to Benzy's office and as I walk along my phone rings. It is my editor, Jim, from the Herald. I answer with trepidation.

"Is that you Irina?"

"Speaking, what the hell is happening?"

"I am not supposed to talk to you but this is getting up my nose as unfair. So I will tell you what I can. When you had left the note on my desk I had just been called to a meeting with our lawyers and senior management.

"We had just been served with a writ from Gilt's lawyers alleging a range of defamatory actions, led by you, threatening our company with damages running to hundreds of millions of dollars based on the potential impact on its share price at listing.

"Along with this the company got a sympathetic hearing from a couple cross bench politicians who tabled questions in NSW Parliament about our actions, using the cover of Parliamentary Privilege to claim a witch hunt.

"At the same time ARJ told us, through our Managing Director that he will pull booked advertising for the Gilt Float of over $100,000 and move it to the Telegraph if we publish any negative stories between now and when the float goes public, which is supposed to be next week.

"ARJ told our MD he would hold off on this on one condition only, that you were immediately suspended and removed from the premises for at least the next week until the matter is fully investigated. The date he specified is two days after the Gilt public listing is released.

"Of course, in the meantime, the float listing will be done, with a hoped for bonanza in the share price of Gilt and any investigation is likely to drag on for weeks until completed, particularly if it requires an investigation into your journalistic ethics and a potential referral to the  Australian Communications and Media Authority.

"I knew you had an investigation in process about the harm to former employees from what you told me two days ago but did not know you had the story fully ready to go until I came back to my desk after this meeting, not that I really had any choice.

"In the meantime our MD and lawyers decided that we would accede to the ARJ Gilt demands and hold off on running anything for the agreed week minimum, on the basis that, if it stacked up, we could always publish after that. Of course, when I came back to my office and read what you had put together I could see that it may be dynamite, but by then the decision was made and the assurance given. Plus, as of now, we have suspicion but not hard evidence, though their behaviour makes me even more suspicious."

Jim's story came out in a rush with nothing said by me, but at least I understood a bit better. I asked, "Have you asked yourself, why are they playing so hard ball? What do they have to hide? I am not going to let this go, even if it destroys my career. And, unless I am wrong, it is too late to stop the story running. Fedir's speech at the funeral was listened to by the ABC and Channel 9. He has agreed to speak to both this afternoon, so there is every chance this will be on tonight's TV news. Just a pity we missed the chance to be first, but I suppose they think that is worth $100,000."

Jim said, "I thought you would say that. What are you going to do now?"

I briefly told him and, from his intake of breath, I knew I had him in my corner. He said, "It sounds like we need to get in first. I will talk to our MD again. He is between a rock and a hard place, but we would look even worse if we run away from this, and cave in to corporate pressure and, as you say, it's too late to stop it now.

"Officially, of course, I know nothing of what you have told me. I will tell him my sources have dug this up and we are likely to end up with a pile of egg on our faces and our credibility for honest reporting trashed if we do not put our own story out there, no matter what the legal boffins tell us to do."

## Chapter 28 – Irina - Counter Attack

The meeting with Fedir, Benzy and Paul, the EDO lawyer, dragged on for more than two hours as we tossed back and forth what to do. While it ran on I studiously ignored my phone, wanting my concentration unbroken as I took part in our deliberations. In the end it was decided that we would go forward on three fronts.

The first was that Fedir would tell his story on the airwaves, as scheduled this afternoon, beginning shortly after the 3 pm news with a live telephone interview on ABC afternoon radio. This would be followed by an interview for the evening news on Channel 9, done at 4 pm in their city studio.

The first interview would just be about the death of his sister and the other sick people but when the Channel 9 interview came around Fedir said he would drop in the bombshell of the drone test results of chemicals found at the site and the actions of the company to immediately start work clearing this part of the site. He would ask the question of Gilt Investments, "Why the rush, what do you have to hide?"

Fedir said he understood he was putting himself at legal risk going down this pathway, with the current defamation threat against the Herald, but his sister's memory demanded it of him. We all applauded his courage.

I said I thought it was possible that Channel 9 would get cold feet and cut the drone test bit, but most likely they'd run it, lest they missed their chance.

Paul said that once the ABC story was run the EDO would seek an urgent injunction to suspend any further works on the site until full investigations of any chemical contamination were done. It was likely that this hearing would be first thing tomorrow. If so, having the Channel 9 story already out there would be highly advantageous as it would put pressure on the EPA, council and other regulators to act as well.

Benzy then told us of his original plan to remove the slab and excavate under the site of the former shed, to see what was down there and take soil samples to confirm the suspected source of chemical contamination.

He continued, "My first inclination, after seeing last night's work was to think the time for this had passed; that with the shed gone and a meter of clean fill on top it is too late. But the more I think about it the more I think it is still worth doing. While technically illegal, perhaps even trespass, to go on the site and do works without approval, there is no longer a security detail, not even a fence, to keep people out. The company obviously thinks that, with the shed and topsoil gone and all the clean dirt over the top, whatever was once there is well buried.

But I am not so sure. I reckon a digger machine could dig a decent sized hole through the new fill pretty quickly. Once one gets down in the subsoil any contamination is still likely to be there. They have actually done us a big favour by removing the slab. Now it will be much easier to access whatever is underneath. And I doubt that taking a foot of soil off the top will be enough to remove all evidence of a major contamination point, if one is there.

"Last night the operators shut down at midnight, once the corner where the shed once was had been fully covered. Tonight the site manager told me they will call it quits at six pm. From tomorrow, work will run from seven am to five pm each day. And, as best I can tell, all the security at the site is gone and there is not even video surveillance any more.

We know exactly where to go from the drone GPS coordinates. My new plan is to go there tonight, just after midnight, with a digger along with half a dozen blokes with shovels and sample collection bottles.

We will video as we go and first remove the topsoil with the digger scoop then use shovels to see what lies beneath, hopefully there will be a big pile of smelly, oily soil, laced with chemicals. We will take a collection of soil samples from below and then backfill our hole, to return it as close as possible to the way it was before we began our work. It should all be done in a couple hours. With a bit of luck, when they come in tomorrow to continue work, nobody will be any the wiser, unless something obvious is found tonight."

I ask, "What about the cost to you of the men and machinery?"

Benzy replies, "Call it one for the good guys. I am happy to cover it."

We nod our thanks.

I ask Paul from EDO about admissibility of evidence obtained this way.

He says, "It's like film footage of animal welfare events taken illegally. It will be up to a court to rule but I suspect it will need to be considered.

"So, if I know more samples are being tested tomorrow, I will inform the court and ask that any test results be admitted into evidence. The other side will not like it but I suspect that the judge will rule that, notwithstanding the means of collection, any information obtained cannot be ignored, particularly if it shows a positive result. Of course he can always order that further legally obtained samples be collected to confirm our result.

So Benzy, Fedir and the EDO each have parts in a plan to counter-attack and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. None of us know whether it will work but hitting back, in any way we can, feels right. The only one who does not have a clear role from here is me, the now unemployed journalist. Sure I am only suspended but with all the big guns lined up against me, it seems like I may as well bow to the inevitable and think about a plan for life beyond.

As we each go separate ways from the meeting I feel strangely deflated. Yesterday I had the world at my feet, a huge story, potentially even a national award for breaking open a major new dirt file.

Now I am just Irina again, once a former journalist with visions of making the big time. Even if it all this comes together my role will be little more than as a footnote in the history of a story that others get to tell.

As I walk back to the station it comes to me, I have not even inquired further of Benzy of my porn star role, he hinted he found something out yesterday, that much he made clear. And he did not suggest it was not me, even if a set up, so there must be something real there. I rack my brains, the only remote possibility I can see is of one night when I had a suspicion my drink was doctored. Next day I woke with no memory of the night before.

It seems like a stretch, but stories I hear suggest date rape drugs are out there. How can I be sure this was not done to me? And if somebody was sick enough to do this why not also take pictures and post them. I cringe from the thought but a part of my brain accepts it may be so.

However, as to what Benzy knows, since he offered to check it out, we have both been consumed with other events that have overtaken us. This has been pushed aside, less urgent, a story for another day.

I could follow Benzy now and ask him to fill me in. But he has much to do to get ready for tonight; he does not need my side story as a distraction.

I know it has more to play out but for now I think I have no choice but to put it aside. There is an old saying that ignorance is bliss. Part of me thinks this is a better path, choosing not to know what I don't need to know, at least for now. But that is cowardice, when one runs away through fear.

I recall now that Benzy too is a sideshow in this sex story. It did not come from him, even though I have dropped him in it. It came from Stephen, who I spoke to this morning; that seems half a lifetime ago with all that has passed today both before and after that time.

I remember the kindness in Stephen's eyes when he told me of this. It was like he had seen me at my most intimate but did not want to further hurt me with what he had seen and yet he knew he must warn me. The further I think about our interaction the more I am inclined to trust him. Despite his role in the slimy listing of Gilt I feel there is hidden decency.

And it seems that he, like me, may be out of a job, he did not exactly say that, but it is clear that his services are in not high demand by ARJ.

So perhaps, like me he is at a loose end, temporarily underemployed. Perhaps he has time to shoot the breeze with some casual and friendly conversation. Even though I cringe to think about him having seen me in a sexually explicit pose, there is nothing gained by running away from whatever he knows. I think it would be better to hear any details directly from him than read about it on the front page of an opposition paper.

That settles it. I will ring him up and see if he is free to meet me over lunch. I am heading back to the city, which is where he works, in any event. The last place I want to go is back to my empty apartment and brood the afternoon away in solitude. I will catch a train back to the city and get out at Town Hall. If he cannot meet me I will indulge in some shopping therapy, not that I have spare money to waste if I am soon to be unemployed, but window shopping beats sitting at home feeling sorry for myself. And lunch definitely beats the other two options, particularly with a handsome man.

Before I can chicken out I make the call and he picks up on the first ring.

I begin, "I seem to have found myself under employed if not unemployed for the rest of today. Are you busy? If not I was hoping we could meet over a coffee or lunch."

His reply was instant, "Yes, like you, I am very definitely underemployed today. Lunch would be great provided you let me buy. Where are you?"

"I am about to catch the train from Strathfield to the City, I expect I will be there in half an hour."

Great I will try to make a reservation for a little place I like at Queen Victoria Building, or if not there then somewhere else close by. Ring me once you arrive and I will give you directions.

## Chapter 29 – Another Irina

Stephen is sitting opposite me in a little café downstairs in QVB. For an out of work lawyer he looks incredibly well in his bespoke tailored suit and tie which complement good features, whereas I feel dowdy – ah the things that money can buy. We have a bottle of a delicately flavoured white wine open between us. We clink out glasses together.

"To temporary underemployment," we both toast.

"I hope it's temporary," I add, "my bank balance can't sustain it for long."

"Well, today is on me, eat drink and be merry. Tomorrow be dammed."

I smile at his counter and he smiles back. I like his smile.

While our meal is served we make small talk, in part to give ourselves space to see how we like the place and each other's company, in part to postpone heavier conversation. I find I like being with him very much.

However, when the main course is cleared away and a coffee and desert menu is brought, I know we need to move forward. I begin, "I am sorry I was so rude to you last time we met. I feel embarrassed thinking about it."

He replies, "I am sorry for that awful sales pitch I gave you when you first rang. Looking back now it seems incredibly insensitive and blind."

I nod, "Apology accepted. Can we call a truce and begin again."

He nods, "I would like that."

I ask, "How do you feel about no longer working for ARJ, or Gilt as they call his new firm. Will you have enough work without it?"

He replies, "Probably better than you feel not working for the Herald. In your case I hope it is only a temporary blip, whereas for me, even if ARJ asked me to come back, I am not sure I could stomach his ways of doing business anymore. I will miss his generous fees but I am glad to not need to talk to him again. And I do have other clients, even if not quite so lucrative."

I smile, "I am glad there is a silver lining of sorts."

I take a deep breath, "There is something else I want to ask. It is sort of embarrassing. That thing you told me about after the funeral yesterday. Can you explain it better to me, so I know what it means? I am not sure that I want to know but I feel I need to.

Now it is his turn to look embarrassed. He says, "I feel bad, googling you like that. I was just trying to find out who you were after I talked to you that first day. And this pop-up ad came up on my computer, with your name and the caption, 'Eastern European Beauty'. I only had other web images of you to compare it to, but it looked like you. Then after I met you that day, I knew the face was really yours, though other parts I am not so sure of. You looked a bit stoned and other parts could have been doctored. But it had that little mole or birth spot on your neck and I am sure that part was real.

I took a deep breath and asked, "What else did you see apart from my face? I am sure that is not all that a porn ad shows."

Now he looked even more embarrassed, but to his credit he answered truthfully, "Well pretty well everything, you were naked and having sex with another man, lots of close ups, it's awkward to talk about like this but it was very full on and hot.

"It began when I told ARJ about our first conversation. It seemed to put the wind up him. He asked me to dig for dirt on you, information that could be used to make you back off on your story.

"So I was going to tell him what I found about you yesterday afternoon, not that I wanted to, but he was my client and had paid for me to go looking. But he sacked me before I got the chance to let him know. Now I am glad he never did get to hear it from me.

"Still you need to be prepared. It is the sort of thing that they could try and blackmail you with. And, if I could find it so easily, I think anyone else investigating for him would find the same stuff pretty fast. To see it all you really need to do is switch off any internet blocking filters and google your name along with the caption, Eastern European Beauty. If you do I think you will soon find what I was looking at.

It's funny, but as he was skirting his way around telling me what he saw, I suddenly wanted to know what he thought of my alter ego. A mischievous feeling and smile came over me. I asked, "Did you like what you saw?"

Now he went bright red, clearly embarrassed.

I persisted, "Go on, tell me? You said it was me, no clothes, close ups of having sex, but was it sexy?"

Finally his words came, "I like looking at the person sitting across the table much more. But yes, it was really sexy and I could not help but like it. But, after meeting you, looking at you right here and talking to you, it makes me feel like a peeping Tom or some other sort of sicko. I like looking at the real you much better, particularly when you smile."

Now it was my turn to feel embarrassed, but still I was glad he liked what he saw. I had a final question to ask, "Did you make a copy or download it. I think it is something I need to see, even if it embarrasses me."

He said, "I have a copy on a thumb drive at home. I downloaded it on my computer at work but did not want to take the risk that someone else might see it. I can get it tonight and give it to you tomorrow if you like."

I felt like I had gone too far to call it quits now. I said, "I really would like to see it today. Would I be able to come with you today and get you to show it to me. I could come around later if you are too busy just now."

As I said this it felt like another person had possessed me, as if my alter ego, Irina, porn star has stepped to centre stage. It was both exciting and a bit scary at the same time. But I really wanted to know what this person looked like and whether it really was me. As well there was a second little voice inside my head saying, _Well, if he has already seen me without any clothes, and having sex, what else is there to see_.

And there was another even more naughty voice that said, _I wonder what he looks like without any clothes, perhaps I need to ask him to take his own clothes off when we watch it to square the ledger._

He looked at me quizzically as I asked about seeing the video, clearly uncomfortable to being a witness to this show. But in the end he said. "If you are sure that's what you want to do that is fine. We can go around now and I can show it to you if you like."

I felt a tingle of anticipation as I accepted his invitation. The die was cast now and there was no going back. It was such a small step from us together watching a picture of the naked me to him seeing the real naked me, if only to compare one picture to another. I think, in my mind, I had decided to trust him and wanted him to be my lover before the day was done.

His car was parked in a next door carpark and in ten minutes we were at his place in Woolloomooloo. We parked in the basement and caught a lift up to a lobby with expansive views across the harbour on the tenth floor.

He held the door open for me. I took his hand and I walked inside. In my mind I had already taken control of this situation. I did not want it to seem somehow sordid from here. I kept hold of his hand as I walked into the living room and together we admired the view.

He went to his desk and took out a USB and then went across to the TV. As he turned to face me, he said, "Are you really sure?"

In reply I said, "Do you have a dressing gown I could borrow please?"

He raised an eyebrow but soon returned from the bedroom with a sheer silk number, obviously feminine in style, and gave it to me.

I went into the bathroom and took off my clothes, a light skirt and top, then removed by bra and panties. I felt briefly self-conscious as I looked at my naked body in the mirror but thought, _I am only showing him what he has already seen_. So I slipped the dressing gown over my shoulders, leaving the tie loose and walked back out. The video was loaded though pause was pushed. The instant I saw the person on the screen I knew it was me.

She was naked, half turned so only a profile of her face and the outline of her breasts were visible. I took off the dressing gown and walked alongside the TV, approximating the screen pose, saying, "OK, comparison time now. It looks like me, I think it is me, but I want your honest opinion."

It is funny how erotic it is looking at yourself naked, with an attractive man looking on, and with your alter ego doing ever more erotic things with another man and his objects on screen. I almost wished for my own dildo to try it out for size.

At first Stephen was uncomfortable but I said, "There is almost nothing you have not seen of me, but you have me at a disadvantage. Another naked man is in this role play and I would like it much better to act out this role play with you. Let's treat it as our own erotic fantasy where we each perform our own erotic roles." And so we did.

And when the movie was finished playing we made love twice more in his bed and then fell asleep together in something more lovely and intimate than I could ever have imagined. When we woke the sun was setting and we made love one more time for good measure before I got up and showered and he ordered us some dinner.

Over dinner we re-analysed the video to try and work out how it was made. It began with my face looking fairly normal but slowly I became more and more stoned and, as the full on sex began there was only the odd cross to my face and it looked like I was away with the fairies. And it was clear he had repeated some of the footage on multiple occasions. There was no doubt that both the body and face were mine; there was both a little mole on my neck and a small birthmark on my buttocks that came regularly into view.

Gradually the pieces of how it came to be came together in my mind. It was the night I had thought. I remembered waiting in a bar near University after being asked out by another guy in my year I fancied. Half an hour had passed after our due meeting time without him arriving. I was thinking of going when another man offered me a drink which, feeling bored, I accepted. We chatted for a bit and then he bought me a second drink. As I sipped it I began to feel a bit woozy, so he offered to drop me back to my place which I accepted. That night I was home alone as my flatmate was away. Somewhere during our earlier conversation I had told him this. In going with him I had no plans to do anything with him but I was feeling pretty out of it so I told him my address. I remember him leading me out of the bar towards his car. Next thing I remembered was waking up the next morning in my bed, alone, but dressed in my nightclothes, with no further remembrance of the night past.

I never saw this guy again and have only a fleeting memory of his face, though it does match the look of the man on the screen.

The place where he filmed me was not our flat so he must have brought me there instead, perhaps it was his own pad, perhaps it was a filming studio. Then when the filming and acting was done he must have brought me home, dressed me in my nightgown and tucked me into bed.

I remember waking up a bit sore in that place in the morning which was no surprise with all the action it saw the night before. But with no memory of the acts I dismissed it. I was hardly sexually promiscuous, having only slept with two men before that night, though with one it had happened several times over six months, before we went separate ways.

It was strange to think that, in the five years since that night, my alter ego had been repeating this fantasy over and over, to titillate unknown men. Meanwhile I had gone on with my own life blithely unaware.

Part of me was angry at what had been done and part was curious as to how I could have lived two parallel and unconnected lives. I also felt that this cloud definitely had a silver lining. The sex with Stephen, which happened yet again at dawn, was vastly better than anything I have ever known before.

And at a deeper level there was something very attractive, in a kind and funny way about him. It made me feel good when I was with him in a way I had never known with another man before. I hoped what we just had it was the first of many nights of intimacy, even maybe love. So I could not feel too upset about what had brought us together even if it was bad in itself.

## Chapter 30 – A Brand New Day

After our post dreamy, post sex mood subsided Stephen got up, shaved and showered, saying he would go and grab us both a coffee, panini and cake for breakfast, while I lounged in the luxury of his king sized bed with a panoramic view out across the harbour to the heads, watching occasional boats drift by.

Stephen returned after fifteen minutes with an arm full of goodies and the morning papers. It is amazing what a difference one day and night had made in my life, perhaps it was all the good sex, but the world of yesterday with its high drama and shocks seemed another world away and the papers held scant interest.

And, despite the role these events had played in bringing us together, they had barely featured in our pillow talk, not out of avoidance but because our interest was much more personally directed to each other.

We had explored all the intimate secrets of each other's bodies, from my hip and neck birthmarks, to a puckered scar on Stephen's chest. We had told stories of important others in our lives and were both pleased to discover the other was seriously unattached and therefore free and available for more.

Still, out of habit rather than real interest, I picked up the Herald. On the front page I saw, with surprise, my short by-line, as expected from the day before. It was the lead in to my article, which duly followed on Page 7. It was almost word for word what I had written, just a day late. On the opposite page were the more detailed revelations which emerged at yesterday's interviews on ABC radio and Chanel 9. It was hard hitting stuff and I could see Stephen squirm a bit as he read it. Of course, despite an afternoon and night spent in the same bed it was not something we had talked about. All he knew was what he had heard Fedir say at the funeral. It brought home to me how opposite our paths had been before yesterday's close encounter and our new beginning. It was something we would talk about soon, but in our own good time, in order to navigate any conflicting allegiances.

Almost as an afterthought I picked up the Telegraph. Page 1 had skipped the story of Gilt Investments or the possible defamation so I turned to the business pages. Sure enough there was a development on this story. It was hedging its bets more clearly than yesterday, briefly referencing information which emerged yesterday about the harm done to victims from past practices of a firm that had managed the site before Gilt Investments was established. The cursory reference made no connection between the past management of the site and the company now, so a casual reader was unlikely to realise the ownership of both was essentially the same.

However it did finish with a sentence that put me right in the frame, saying, 'It is understood that the journalist working for the Sydney Morning Herald' at the centre of these revelations has a few problems of her own. Late yesterday new information emerged of her central role in a porn ring where she goes by the screen name, 'Irina, Eastern European Beauty'. More sensational details are expected tomorrow.

I knew, at once, this was far from over and was bound to get very ugly from here, with battle lines drawn by both parties. Still I was glad I had seen the video and knew what to expect. I thought I understood how it had been made even though there was no escaping it was indisputably me. Also I was glad that porn filters on most media would ensure that the explicit bits were filtered out of common viewing.

I looked up. Stephen's eyes were following me as I read. I pointed to it. He nodded. I said, "Thank you for showing me, it's much better knowing."

He winked and said, "Thank you for showing me too, the real thing is ever so much better that the picture I had in my imagination. Still I must admit the video was a big turn on. It had me fantasising over you even before I met you, as I am sure many other men have or will do.

However I want you all for myself, not to be shared around.

With that I got up and kissed him on the lips and we returned to bed.

I felt so much better about this today than I could ever have imagined.

Now Stephen needs to go into work and I am unsure what my day holds. So he gives me a spare key to his place and tells me to come and go as suits, then shows me how to log on to his computer if I need to work online. All at once he is gone with a last wonderful hug and smile. I am on my own.

I wonder what has changed at the Herald since yesterday and realise that since I came here yesterday my phone has been cast aside unused.

My mind has clearly been elsewhere and I grin inside at the thought.

I find my phone. It is flat so I put it on to charge. In five minutes it comes to life with a host of unread messages pinging in.

I should feel guilty for ignoring it I suppose. But hell, I was sacked and what I did instead was ever so much more fun. I want Stephen back to do it all again. I decide not to rush – first a second leisurely cup of coffee with the last remaining cake, then I will see what else this brand new day brings.

There are a succession of messages from the Herald, that run like this.

1.21 pm – Jim here, MD would like to talk to you re story, can you ring.

1.55 pm – MD needs to talk to you urgently, please call back.

2.30 – We have decided to run your story –ARJ has pissed boss off big time with unreasonable demands and threats.

2.45 – your story has just gone live online with lots of hits. Paper version tomorrow

3.00 – Fedir interview with ABC is great – your post has gone off big time.

7.40 – Channel 9 interview a scorcher – this is big, so glad we got in first

9.30 – Where the fuck are you – apologies for French and know last communication was you're sacked - really need to talk re where to now.

Then today at 8 am – _All is forgiven, please come back to work or at least ring to tell me you're OK_

I feel bad reading this – he is a good boss who has done his best by me.

I pick up the phone and press his number but it goes to voicemail. So I leave a quick message. _Hi, Irina here, sorry for being out of touch yesterday, something else came up. Now back and pleased to know I still have a job. Will be in by 11 am_ (I know I need to check on what else happened first).

I quickly scan my other messages. Three are from Benzy and one from EDO. The EDO one comes first saying – Injunction hearing at 9 am tomorrow in Local Court – Downing St Centre. Come if you can.

It is 8.30 and I decide I must go. I'd better get my skates on. I treat myself to a 30 second shower. I have no choice but to recycle yesterday's clothes. At least they are clean, untouched since I took them off straight after walking through the door.

As I rush out to catch a cab I quickly scan the Benzy messages.

The first is routine, _All set to go just after midnight, myself and 6 others plus digger and PPE – must make sure we don't get exposed to whatever nasty shit is down there._

At 1.30 am: _We are in – all quiet. Have removed topsoil. Below is a square dug hole with very smelly awful looking soil in it._

At 2.30 am _– Holy Shit – looks like a grave – a body. Must call police._

I feel like the journalist who has missed the main story while life passed her by but I can't find it in me to really care. My night was much better.

## Chapter 31 - Stephen – Could This Be Love

I have just spent the most amazing day and night in my life. My feet feel like they are floating on air. Yesterday morning I woke up shell shocked at the turn of events, having lost my main client and two thirds of my income. But then my phone rang and I saw it was Irina. My day turned from a bit bad, to good, then wonderful, then to utterly incredible.

The good was when she talked to me on the phone and was not angry with me, despite my role in getting her fired. She even asked to see me again.

The wonderful was when she rang again and asked me to lunch, I felt butterflies of anticipation as I hung up the phone, waiting for her to come.

Incredible was when she invited me to take her to my home to see the video. I knew it was a promise of so much more, to see the real body behind the image. It was there in her eyes as she asked and was there in the frisson of excitement as we drove home together and I anticipated seeing this real woman, completely naked before my eyes.

The utterly incredible came when we became lovers, not just once but over and over again, up until right now, a bare half hour ago. I think and hope there will be plenty more.

And the final thing, before I said goodbye to her this morning, which found me surprised by unadulterated joy, was she told me that, despite the bad shit that is no doubt coming our ways, she would not change a day or minute of what has happened, as without it she would never have met me.

I hugged her back and said, "Me too".

At that moment I thought, Could this be love?

Tonight I think I will ask her, "Please Marry Me."

Now, as I walk across the Domain to my office in the city, I think of all the things I must do today, some minor, some urgent, some postponed from yesterday when I could find no thoughts beyond Irina.

I must ring up my other three main clients and assure them of my continued attention and good service. I have neglected them a bit of late with all my focus on ARJ. But I cannot count on him for anything more and I may even have to spend money against him should things cut nasty. So I need to secure a stable income from at least part of my business. It is five years since I went out on my own as a boutique commercial legal firm specialising in acquisitions, mergers, take-overs and public listings.

It has served me well, this year has an expected million plus turnover, with about 50% coming to me after the costs come out. Of course $600,000 plus has come from ARJ and I will have to trim my lifestyle a bit to pay the costs of office plus secretary plus extras out of the $400 left and still leave some living money. However I am confident that, with a bit of effort, I can build it back to a good living for me. To be truthful, becoming one of those mega rich has suddenly become much less important. Meeting Irina has taken the blinkers off my eyes and I have suddenly seen a whole other world out there which had passed me by unseen before.

Yesterday at lunch we talked briefly about allegiances. It was in the context that we both had our existing allegiances, she to her story and its victims and me to my legal clients, the corporate businesses I represent.

I suppose that is still true. There is some confidential client information that I cannot tell her about and I do not think she would want me to. But that is all. My allegiance has flipped overnight to her. I know she is a good person and I will support her in what she does. It really is a no brainer.

The rest is dross, making her feel good and smile is all that matters.

Plus, as I think it through, it's really pretty simple, first I want to marry her, then I want to spend my whole life with her, I particularly want to make babies with her, to have our children together in our own house.

And, in seeing people through her eyes, I have begun to see them with kindness, no longer numbers on a balance sheet or costs to be cut, but real people with real lives, where the decisions I make have real consequences.

It's not that I have become a pussy; I know how to play the tough lawyer role and play hardball. And I will still do it where justified to help my clients. But it is no longer about doing it to make max money for me and for them. It must be done with decency and a big slice of compassion which it seems is something I have lost along the way.

So, regardless of whether Irina and I stay together, though I hope to hell we do, I make this promise to myself to be a kinder and more decent person than the person of yesterday and the years before.

Having finished that thought I am at the office. It's time to get to work.

## Chapter 32 – Benzy – Dark Night

We are at the site of the former shed. The night is very dark, there is no moon, and there is not a soul in sight. At the opposite corner are the faint dark silhouettes of some earth moving machinery, ghostly outlines of dark on dark. But that is all, not a light, not a smoke smell of a hidden guard with a cigarette, not a movement beyond an odd distant scurry in the bushes below, perhaps a stray rat or cat. We are two cars with myself and six other strong guys. One car is towing a trailer with a hired backhoe on it. It was the easiest solution, not a big earth mover but a meter wide digger with a scoop which, over fifteen minutes, should be able to dig out a meter of soil in a square of four by three metres to approximate half the slab on underside of the shed. My dimension for the shed is six by four metres from my aerial images and I reckon we will dig the half closest to the place where we took our toxic soil sample first and see what we find. If we turn up nothing then we can repeat it on the second half of the slab footprint. It is easier to do it by halves and we have plenty of time in the night to move on if needed.

Before we move out we sit completely still in our two parked cars for ten minutes, to be sure, to be sure, to be really sure, that there is nobody is out there in hiding. Then two blokes do opposite way circuits of the perimeter to ensure that nobody is hiding over the back or otherwise out of sight. When they return twenty minutes has elapsed since we drove up. We all agree it's time enough.

The guys with me are all ex Special Forces, mildly bored with their days. The promise of a night of stealthy action, plus my shout in the pub after, is all it takes to buy their night. Even though we have not operated together for a couple years we are well honed at joint operations, a job for each – two sentries with walkie talkies, two diggers with shovels and two baggers, each in PPE of face mask, gloves and rubber boots, plus leak proof overalls, so as to minimise the risk of accidental poisoning. I am operations coordinator; I will hold position above the action but in communication with the rest.

We drive the digger off the trailer at the side of the road. I direct it to where it needs to go. We put plastic orange pegs in the ground to mark where the shed once was, based on the aerial photos. Then, satisfied we are on our own, we put up four bright lights to shine where our hole will go.

The digger starts work, lifting soil, scoop by scoop and putting it in a pile a couple metres away from our marked out area. The soil rapidly piles up; it is soft, loose and dead easy to move. There is a surprising amount to take out of our half slab site, but I suppose twelve square meters is quite a bit of soil, a good truck load when you see it all in one pile.

When the digger starts to scrape hardened subsoil you can hear a change in noise. With the bulk of removal done, two blokes jump down with shovels and tidy up the loose bits until we can see what lies below. In a few minutes we can see clearly where we are, the soil under the slab is drier and looser than the surrounding subsoil, I guess no rain has fallen on it for twenty plus years. There is a clear line where the colour changes with the moisture. Plus the outside soil has been compacted with rain and traffic over all this time giving it a firmer consistency. We put down new plastic pegs to mark the margins of the old slab and work to get this area fully cleaned up. Half way across we spot another change, here the soil is very soft and loose as if dug up and returned but never compacted.

Perhaps, after a chemical spill happened, they part dug this area out and took away the most contaminated soil before deciding to cover it all up. We map this place out with another set of pegs. The area is about a meter wide and one and a half meters long. It continues under the edge of the undug part of the slab with the topsoil still covering it.

We decide this is ground zero, the place we should sample.

Now we need to be careful because god only knows what bad stuff is mixed in with this dirt. We will follow the hole down for a bit and see how far it goes. First I probe with a reo iron rod, a half inch thick length of steel used to reinforce concrete, with its roughened edges. It goes down easily for over three feet then hits hard subsoil. I move it a foot and probe again; it gets to nearly the same depth but hits something hard which it deflects off. When I pull it back there is a tiny scrap of green cloth caught in the end of the rod. It's a bit odd, maybe an old rag was thrown in after use to wipe up spillage.

I look at my watch. An hour has elapsed, it's almost one thirty.

We are all sweating in our PPE, despite the cool night.

I call five minutes time out to let everyone have a stretch before we excavate the hole we have found. Now all the dirt will go into black plastic garbage bags, each taking three shovels full, about ten kilograms. The bags will be stacked in the order they came out should we need to go back to the approximate location of the dirt for anything we find later.

We set to work, two men digging, two men bagging, two men stacking; the sentries now dispensed with as there has been no action. The pairs rotate in five minute shifts. In twenty minutes we have taken out the first foot of dirt in the central hole. It is very manky with a chemical smell and an oily texture. The bags are all neatly stacked on a clear bit of the subsoil, the position of each mirrors the removal location.

Now on to the second foot of soil. It goes the same until we are nearly down to its bottom, half way across.

One of the diggers calls out, "What is that? Shine the light down here."

It is a white object, still attached to dirt. As the light picks up the detail we realise we have found the skeletal remains of a hand. "Holy shit."

We all gather round and look, it is a smallish hand, bigger than a child but not full adult size, maybe a teenage child or a small woman. We realise this is now a probable crime scene.

This is where our digging must stop. Time to let professionals take over.

Before we do I take four small yellow jars of soil, one from each corner of the grave, as far from out victim as I can. It's so that we have our own soil samples as it will be hard to get back here once the police secure the site.

I still want to run a chemical assay to see if we have hit the mother-lode.

I have been sending hourly interval texts to Irina, each giving quick status updates, more to allow me to track the time later than in expectation she will read them just now. I send a final one to alert her to our discovery.

Then it is time to dial 000 to alert the police to our discovery. I give them basic details and tell them they don't need to hurry – the owner of the hand has clearly been dead for a good few years and nobody else will be around here for several hours, probably not before seven in the morning. In the meantime I promise to stay on the site and not let any others come near.

We have a quick discussion and decide that seven of us is too many, me plus one other is enough from here. We do a quick clean up in our hole to scrape away extra footsteps and any other items we have dropped.

Once happy there are no giveaways I wave the five goodbye, telling them my promise of beer will have to wait for another day. At least when it comes there will be a good story attached.

They head off in the car without a trailer while two of us remain with the digger, the bags of soil, our hole in the ground and the grisly remains.

It is past four in the morning when a patrol car arrives with two bleary eyed cops, they had to attend a domestic violence first, are not too pleased to see us and are immediately suspicious of what we are doing here.

For a minute I think they are plan to arrest us for some dodgy activity.

I calm them with the offer of a hot coffee and burger each from the local 24 hour Maccas. As we all settle down to chew on that I give them enough of the back story to capture their interest and set their minds at rest that our role is as discoverers is not as suspect murderers. They tell me a pathologist and the lead investigation detective will not be on site until seven am. I and my mate Fred offer to stay and keep them company until then, which pleases them. I think they want us handy for statements when the big boys arrive.

## Chapter 33 - Irina – The Crazy Day

As the taxi takes me towards court I try to ring Benzy, wondering what the hell the message about the body means. Of course it was over six hours ago since then and he has probably crashed out, having been up for most of the night. After five rings of his phone I hang up thinking that, if he is asleep, I should leave him that way for a bit longer and that he will ring me when he wakes up. Once I work out what is happening at court I can check this out myself, if there is a body it should have been picked up by media by now.

I think of Googling on my phone but we are pulling up at the court steps and I need to pay the cab then focus on the task at hand. Paul, from the EDO is standing in the lobby waiting to be called as I enter. I go over and ask, "Are you all ready and do you need any help from me."

He nods and shakes his head in short succession. I take it to mean that yes he is ready and no help is required.

I see Paul get called over by someone who looks official. There is a short interaction, then him shrugging and nodding his head. He comes over to me saying, "It looks like our hearing has been deferred. I was just told there has been a significant discovery on the site overnight. Police are investigating. Until the nature of these findings is clear our matter has been stood over. It is a direction from the judge so neither party is in a position to argue."

He continues, "I wonder if it has anything to do with the investigations that your friend Benzy was planning to conduct last night."

I show him the text that Benzy had sent at 2.30, saying "I only read it on the way to court," but add, "I think this is the significant discovery."

We are sharing a bit of gallows humour when my phone rings again.

It is Jim responding to my message, saying, "Where are you? We need your help with this thing. It is running red hot."

I calm him down with a, "Back on the job, after a great night in bed."

He whistles, "You are a dark horse, it wouldn't have anything to do with your second job, masquerading as an Eastern European porn star would it?

I just laugh and say, "How about I come in to catch up, share war stories, see whose are better?"

He snorts and says, "Kiddo, a catch up would be delightful and I can't wait, but right now I need you to get your but in a taxi and get out to Olympic Park. The police have just announced discovery of a body on site. The place is now a crime scene with an investigation underway, a possible homicide.

They are calling a ten am press conference at the local precinct office. Something tells me I need you out there. Once you are in a cab you can fill me in on the porn star story the Telegraph is running, though I am doubtful that story has legs now a murder story is in the frame."

A minute later I am in the taxi and talking to Jim again.

Stephen and I decided last night that, if this sex story surfaced I would call it a date rape, which happened while I was at Uni. I would say I had just discovered it had been filmed and put up on the internet. Further I would say I was referring to the police and ask people to respect my privacy in a difficult situation where I had done nothing wrong.

It was pretty close to the truth though I squirmed as I told Jim. I said, "I am determined to hold my head high and show no shame because I know I was not to blame.

Jim, ever practical, says, "Let's get a court order supressing any further publication. From there, if it gets run, the media will be held in contempt of court. Is that Okay by you?"

I murmur assent.

He continues, "I will get our lawyers onto it right away. Later we can look at whether to up the stakes with a defamation writ against the Telegraph for what it has already published. But this should shut it down for now. We can go ahead and seek a restraining order right now on my say so. Tomorrow we can back it up with a sworn affidavit from you if needed.

It's funny; Jim's practical good sense almost makes me cry. When I try to say thank you my voice almost chokes with emotion.

He says, "Look after yourself kiddo. See you soon."

I had supressed my fear of this story with other actions, partly to cover my blind terror. Now, to realise I have a non-judgemental friend in my corner who rapidly takes the required steps to bury it, is a profound relief. It floods me with gratitude and other unnamed emotions and makes me realise what good work colleagues I have and how glad I am to have my job back.

And, as my mind works through how I feel, it also motivates me to try and nail the bastard who took these pictures; both for my own sake and that of others less powerful who have been his victims. From the practised way he did it I am almost sure I am neither the first or last of these.

## Chapter 34 – Stephen – Voices from the Past.

As I walk into my office I can see my secretary, Janet, is in a panic. She is normally pretty calm but something has clearly got her rattled. As she sees me she says, "Thank God you are here Stephen. I have ten calls from ARJ in the last hour demanding to speak to you, all nasty, some positively obscene.

I thank her for being long suffering and tell her I will talk to ARJ in five minutes, I just need a bit of clear space first to get me head together in this parallel universe.

So I sit with me notepad and draw doodles of sports cars, ones like the one I have just paid a whacking deposit on and am unsure how I will go with completing the purchase on my reduced income. I am not even sure I want it anymore. It's just another bauble, though an expensive one. But the contract seems watertight. If that is the case the choice comes down between doing 15 plus grand cold on forfeiting my deposit and raising the money somehow to complete the purchase on my reduced income. The thought comes to me that Irina would look seriously good sitting in this car with her hair blowing in the wind. Where did that come from – its pure indulgence, although I really do like the image.

Now I focus my mind on what, if any, contract obligations or negotiations I need to undertake with ARJ. I hope we can separate our business interests cleanly without too much pain.

I assume he will want all the files to go to his new lawyers and think. "Thank God, they are all in meticulous condition."

It's one of my strengths to be neat and tidy with paperwork. I learnt it from my first boss who was a shocker. He almost lost the shirt off his back when he got sued. His paperwork did not back up all his claims, particularly those related to his billings.

So, provided ARJ provides the required, signed release documents and payment for work in progress, I will transfer his files across with pleasure.

Before I can pick up the phone to call him, Janet, over the intercom, announces. "ARJ is here to see you. I have asked him to take a seat in the conference room. I think it is best not to keep him waiting for long."

I collect my notepad and a Dictaphone, which I turn on before putting it in my pocket, and head in to see him. "ARJ, what an unexpected pleasure. How can I help you? I thought you no longer needed my services and would be instructing me to transfer all your files to your new solicitor."

He scowls at that but nevertheless stands up and holds out his hand which I shake. Old habits die hard.

I wait for a few seconds for him to speak. "Bit of a misunderstanding about that. I want you back on the team. I only meant to transfer the Gilt listing files, I thought you were getting too busy and have other important work I need you to do."

It is a bald faced lie and we both know it is a bald faced lie, so I let a pregnant pause of silence lie between us. It runs on for a good few seconds. ARJ waits for my answer, which I am not about to give.

Finally impatience gets the better of him, "What the fuck, are you still nursing a grievance over what was done, I told you it was a mistake and I want you back on team, what more do you need?"

I am tempted to spit out, "Nothing you can give," but I want to know what his real game is so I decide to play. "What is it you want from me, what is it you want me to do, what brings you right here to talk, man to man."

ARJ checks an expletive and restrains his temper. "What is it with you and that journalist girl, the Russian porn star. First you take her out to lunch, then you bring her back to your place and shag her for half a day and a night. She is the enemy, what the fuck are you having to do with her?"

As he speaks these poisonous words part of me wants to pick him up and throw him through the plate glass windows onto the pavement twenty floors below. Instead, somehow, I restrain myself, calling out.

"Janet, please show my client out, we have no more business to discuss."

ARJ stands up and looks as if he will come at me. I would be happy if he did, he is a tough old bird, but well on the upper side of eighty. I know I can easily put him on his arse with one hand behind my back, I am fit and my boxing and martial arts skills are still good.

But I just stare him down. After a few seconds and another mutter he stomps off outside. As he walks through reception he says, "She is a fuckin whoring slut and you're a fuckin dickhead to be taken in."

I call out, "Janet, please make up my final bill of costs for Mr Johnson's work, I know he won't be requiring my services anymore. He is no longer welcome to step through my door."

I know it is not my smartest business move, but I feel good as he leaves.

I go out into the office where Janet is alone again and High Five her. "Good Fucking Riddance," I say. She manages a faint smile.

The day drifts by in the routine business of legal practice. I talk to all my high value clients and assure them of my focused attention with words to the effect of, "I've been a bit busy last month but now your business has my full and undivided attention, why don't you come in and catch up when you can fit it in your diary and we will review where everything is up to?"

All respond with positive sentiments that they are very happy with the service and expect to meet me soon, once their secretary and mine have compared diaries and worked out dates to suit.

At one stage I look at my watch and note it is almost twelve thirty, the time I met Irina yesterday. I wish we could do it all again. On impulse I ring her to say so. She responds with, "Oh I wish so too, I think yesterday will live in my mind forever. But there is always tonight."

I think, "Come On Tonight."

I briefly ask how her day is going.

She says she is in the middle of a police meeting but has much news to tell me tonight, and clicks off.

Janet and I share a sandwich for lunch and I cannot help smiling. Finally she asks, "What is the smile for, a new lady in your life?"

I am normally coy about my love life, though I try and keep Janet enough in the picture to know which calls to put through and which to politely tell, "I am sorry, Mr Davison is not available just now, could I take a message?"

But today I want to tell someone and I know she is the soul of discretion so I say, "Do you remember that journalist, Irina, from the Herald, the one who rang a few days ago?

She purses her lips and says, "Oh the one you desperately wanted to arrange to meet the next day. Yes. I thought that did not go well. Don't tell me that there is something between you and her now.

I grin like a schoolboy. I finally say, "I think I will propose to her tonight. Maybe I should go and look at some rings."

Her eyes twinkle as she says, "Sir I don't think that would be wise. No doubt you have impeccable taste, but in this modern age us girls like to have a say in these things ourselves." Then she laughs with delight and goes to the bar fridge and opens a bottle of champagne saying, "About time Sir."

***

I muddle through the afternoon which is hard work. About three Janet came knocking on my door saying, "I know you have ceased to do business for Mr Johnson Senior, but I have just had a phone call from Mr Johnson Junior, that is Mr Richard Johnson. He assured me this has nothing directly to do with Gilt Investments Public Listing or his father's business after I advised him we were no longer acting for his father.

"However he was most insistent that he have the opportunity to meet with you on a private matter. He asked if it would be possible to do it out of the office, perhaps in a private room in the Australian Club. He said he is free there at any time this afternoon if you can fit him in. I promised to relay your message and to ring him back.

This has me intrigued. I have always like the son better than the father and in fact it was the son that first brought their business to me. I know he is always compared unfavourably to his father in business acumen, at times he comes over a bit slippery, and he has some of his father's shady ways. But I have always found him fair, decent and much less the tyrant than his father.

It seems to me he has always lived in his father's shadow, but still he has been a successful business man in his own right. And he is charming in a way his father can never understand. This gives him success in a political domain where some subtlety is required. So I am inclined to say yes, with my clear reservation that I do not want to get drawn into another murky commercial deal. I want to be done with these.

In the end I decide I owe him an audience, there is no harm in a polite meeting as long standing friends. So I ask Janet to schedule it for half an hour at his suggested location of the Australian Club in Macquarie Street.

As I walk ten minutes to get there I reflect on our ten year association. I first met him in my mid-twenties as a rising but still junior associate in a big commercial law firm who handled large corporate clients. He was on the board of directors of another firm. It needed advice to its directors on the level of due diligence required before they decided on whether to support a share buyout of their company.

My job was to do the leg work for our senior partner who would provide the advice and bill as if it was all done by him, though in reality 90 % of the actual work was mine.

Over a couple hours he and I sat together in a small conference room and went in detail over all the figures and considerations. In the end we both formed the same view that it was not in the company's interest to accept. There were a couple buried risks that needed to be better explored and the other company had little willingness to do so.

We were both convinced of the rightness of our decision, which the legal advice reflected. It was not popular advice to the rest of the board who saw strong upside, not to mention their own hefty bonus payments if the buyout proceeded. But Richard, with my legal backing, hung tough and scotched the takeover, a fact thoroughly vindicated a year later when the other business went in liquidation.

So Richard and I always had a level of trust after that.

Then at the age of thirty, when I had taken the big risk of setting up my own firm in the shark tank of the big corporates, Richard rewarded me, by bringing the ARJ Engineering Account across to me. Now, for the last three years we have worked closely on the public float of Gilt, though in the last 18 months I have seen increasingly less of him. This is, in part, because his father became ever more dominant as this deal reached the pointy end and, in part, because Richard seems to have been away a lot or tied up in other business dealings of which I know not.

Still my gratitude and friendship to Richard is a thing I value and it has remained strong as my own business prospered. Now, at the grand age of thirty five, and ten years on, if you asked me a month ago I would have told you our firm was on a solid upwards trajectory. Today I was less sure of both this likely path and of my own personal commitment to its success.

Richard has booked us a private room as indicated which I am shown to on arrival. It is about six months since I have last seen him. My memory is of a vigorous, urbane man of around fifty, hair slightly grey at the temples but otherwise dark, well built, tending slightly towards portly and impeccably groomed, a man who walks and talks with confidence. There has always been a touch of slime ball about him too, a bit eager to touch ladies, close to sleazy manners, but I mix in this sort of fishbowl and cannot be too choosy.

The man who stands before me is a shell. I am shocked, in part it is that he has noticeably aged and lost his imposing mass. But much more it is that his bearing had shrunk, as if his confidence and gravitas have flown away.

Still, when he sees me he energises and shakes my hand with a firm grip. There is a flash of the Richard of old in his eyes too. I resist the inclination to say, "You look well," it is not true. Instead I settle for, "It's good to see you, it's been a while."

He replies, "You look well, it seems life is treating you better than I, if not without a few speedbumps in your dealings with my father, I gather."

I decide I might as well be direct, saying, "Yes, we had a hostile meeting this morning. The end result was I don't act for him anymore. Did he say so?"

"Yes, though not in such polite words. But that's not why I wanted to see you though it has a bearing. It's more I want your advice on a couple difficult matters. Despite what has passed with my father I have confidence that you will tell me honestly, without fear or favour, what you think."

I nod, "I will do my best."

He continues, "First, let's deal with the elephant in the room that you politely avoided in your greeting. As is evident I have been unwell; a bout of leukaemia they tell me, my bone marrow is shot with a thing called 'Aplastic Anaemia'. They say it's not dissimilar to some of the victims in your journalist friends' stories. I am in remission for now, and if that doesn't hold, I am told my last option is a bone marrow transplant, with perhaps a 50% success rate.

That is by the bye except for the fact that there is nothing like facing your own imminent mortality to force you to look at your life, what you have done and the decisions you have made.

For me, in doing that, while not all is bad, I find that some things don't pass muster in any objective test of morality. As you probably know for the last couple decades I have played a back seat role in my father's company, it was his and he built it, and it seemed I should leave him to run it as he saw fit. However that has come at a price. I find that the price has now become too high. And I've come to realise that I must share a large part of the blame for some of the bad things it has done. I have always lived under my father's shadow, at times I was terrorised by him into failing to stand up for what is right. At other times I followed his model of bad behaviour to others. Now that must end. Not that I came blame him for all the bad I have done, some of it lies squarely with me.

I have now reached a point where I must try to put some things to right. But to do so I cannot let him remain in control of the company any longer. I own 20% of its stock, he owns 31%, so together we control it and can ensure we determine what is done. So far almost all the decisions have been his and I have gone along with them. But, as he gets older, he becomes ever more difficult and unwilling to change. He is prepared to use any means, fair or foul, to get his own way, as the last few days have shown. And his meanness to those who does not like goes far beyond anything rational.

So I need someone in my corner to advise me on how to seize control and then to mastermind this operation. I don't need to tell you that it will get really ugly, much worse than now. It is not something I do willingly, but I see now I have run away from this for far too long and now I have no choice.

When it is over I may well be dead, if the cancer wins, or in jail due to things I have done in the past. But neither is a good excuse for inaction. So I am asking for your help. If you agree we will go forward together.

I know what a big ask this is. Ugly will not even begin to describe it. But you, Irina, have courage and so must I.

It is true both ARJ and RRJ carry a big load of blame for many bad things done in the company name. But I am not blameless either, in my lawyer role I have aided and abetted things that I can see now were far from right. And if I have learnt one thing in this last week it is that conscience matters, we must each do our bit to help the good and right to prevail. This does not mean it will end well; we may both end up destitute when this play is done.

But restitution requires action, I must do my part too.

So I take a deep breath, hold out a hand to RRJ and say, "Yes I will help."

Almost as an afterthought I ask. "How did you know about Irina and me? How did your father find out?"

Richard raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'Surely you know', but answers the question anyway. "One thing my father has taught me throughout my life is to trust nobody but the family; that means him and me; in fact I doubt he even really trusts me. He surely will not after today.

"So, when you trust nobody and you have more money than you need, you use if to watch others. It is not so hard in this age of modern technology, phones with GPS trackers, miniature cameras and many other surveillance devices. So a camera in your apartment lobby, a tracker in your car, who knows what else, perhaps even the Find My iPhone Ap subverted to let a third party track your phone location. And, of course, there is the good old fashioned bribery of others to report on your movements, the lobby security guard, the hotel attendant, the list goes on. I don't know all the specifics but I know my father and this is exactly what he pays others to do.

"So, assume that you and Irina are being watched at all times and wherever you go and you won't be too far wrong."

Richard and I agree to meet tomorrow to start to plan out our moves and put all the details into play, again in a neutral but different location.

I say "Next time I will bring a new phone and catch a taxi to make the security guys work harder."

He laughs and says, "Me too."

I think our meeting is done but before I can leave he says, "There is one other thing, a body. I am to blame. I will confess, but first I must take control.

"Find me a good criminal lawyer to help with this."

## Chapter 35 – Irina – The Story of the Body

I am standing at a press conference at Auburn Police Station. They are running the investigation from her into the body found by Benzy. It is mostly words with precious little content, but I suppose that is normal at this stage.

On the way here I got the taxi to swing past the site, so I could see for myself where the location was. It is clear it is where Benzy was working last night, the crime scene tape and lots of vehicles and tents are all congregated around this site. I can even glimpse soil piles of earth from his excavations.

By the time I arrived I have got onto Benzy. He stands next to me, with odd muttered comments. He has not been identified as the finder, which is good, all they have said is a body was found under the soil at the construction site and work has been suspended on the site until further notice. They tell us a forensic pathologist and police investigation team are on site to collect the evidence and remove the remains. There is no information on age or sex of victim or other identifying features, nothing about the time since death but they say the remains appear to have been there for an extended time.

Benzy cannot tell me much more apart from that the body was under the slab and the soil different from the surrounding soil, and its oily contents.

I put my hand up and venture a question. "Can you tell me whether the body was buried in an apparent grave or in some other location." This draws a frown at my temerity. The answer is just to repeat what they have already said about the body being found under soil at the construction site. I know I am on shaky ground here. I don't want to drop Benzy into a big hole as my source of information so I let it go.

Other journalists bounce around more questions but all go nowhere. The main focus is whether there is a link between this body and the story running in the media about people being harmed by chemicals at the former factor, or any link between the toxic chemicals samples reported last night and this discovery. Again the police duck a straight answer, just saying investigations are continuing into these matters and any potential links.

I think I am home free and am about to walk away when a journalist I know slightly from the Telegraph turns his attention to me, saying, "Aren't you Irina, the source of the original story about this site. And, is there not also a report linking you to a porn site where your image appears under the caption, Eastern European Beauty Queen? Do you think your position in this story has been compromised by those revelations?"

I can feel Benzy tense with anger beside me, I fear he is about to go over to this guy and put a fist in his face. I calm him with a light touch and answer with as much dignity as I can muster. "Our paper is currently applying for a restraining order in regard to those sexual allegations on the ground that they are misleading and defamatory, so I would caution you in any further reporting of that matter, lest you are in contempt of court.

Benzy gives me a thumbs up, the Telegraph guy, now with his mouth open, looks taken aback. I feel inordinately pleased with my rebuttal.

When the press conference is over one of the policemen in attendance comes up to Benzy and asks if he and I can come and meet them in a private interview room. They want to get a statement from me and also ask Benzy some additional questions about last night.

This is good because I was intending to seek my own interview with them as a follow up to my story of yesterday. On the way in we both agree that a full and frank disclosure of what we each know is best from here.

The police talk to us briefly together where I give a potted version of the story I have published thus far along with more information about all the victims I am aware of and my supposition, based on their stories and the termination documents, that there had been a systematic cover up of the work practices at the former factory on this site two to three decades ago.

I wonder if I should tell them of my whispered conversation with Anna about the two Vietnamese girls who vanished. But Anna is dead and this is only a half rumour, not one ever spoken of by another. It is too thin a thread to throw out there, no more than a drifting spiders web.

Benzy then summarises his findings in his investigation of the site, the fact that the brother, Fedir, put up an initial money for his services following his sister's illness and the discovery of other victims. He tells of extraordinary past security at the site until the approvals were given and how he had used a drone to take soil samples that showed initial high levels of contamination alongside the shed.

He tells how we had decided to seek court order to investigate what was under the shed until ARJ pre-emptively removed it and covered the location with soil. He goes on to say that, as the site was open and unsecured at night we decided to repeat the sampling under the place where the shed had been to see if it was the source of chemical contamination. He describes how they found a central area where the soil was loose and mixed with chemicals, and how, as they dug this out to collect samples, they found the hand. He says they immediately stopped work and called the police.

I show the texts on my phone which verify the timing of his story.

We are then taken to separate interview rooms where each of us is given out own detailed grilling. It is not hostile but there is clearly suspicion about the motivation of my actions. I stick to repeating the facts as I know them, repeating what I have already said over and over again.

When it is clear they have run out of questions I say, "As I am the journalist at the Sydney Morning Herald who has taken the lead on this investigation I have a few questions of my own which I would like to ask."

They look bemused but do not refuse to take them. So I begin.

"I do not want to compromise your investigation in any way however this is a story I am already reporting on and I intend to do a follow up story based on the discovery of the body, as this was found as part of our own work."

"It is clear to me the body was found under the former shed. I gather the pathologists have now removed it. Can you give me any information on the approximate age and sex of this person? Also, is there any information on the likely time when buried there?

The principal detective pauses for a minute and then says. "At the moment this is off the record but I understand the information will be released this afternoon, so I might as well tell you anyway. You are not to release it until we publicly announce it.

I nod acceptance.

"Based on the clothes with the body, it appears that it is a young woman between 13 and 20 years of age. She had dark straight hair which suggests she is Asian. She also had major crush injuries including a fractured skull and rib and spinal fractures which appear to be the cause of death. It also appears she was buried on the site shortly before the shed was constructed and was wrapped in a dark green blanket on burial. Beyond that we have no further information on who she was or how she came to be there.

"In return for me telling you this I ask that you give us any contact details you have gathered from your investigation of any former people who worked on the site around the likely time that this shed was constructed as this will save our own investigation considerable time."

The information they have given me is gold as it will let me write my story this afternoon and have it ready for immediate publication once it become publicly available. I will of course also give the police the names and contact details of the former employees I have been able to locate. As for all of Benzy's sources and the information they have given him about the history of the site that is a matter for him though I think that some of them will be very reluctant to have their parts revealed, for fear of repercussions.

So I agree with the police this is a fair exchange and that I will withhold my details until they are publicly released. Benzy is still inside his own interview room when I come out and I suspect he will be there for some time yet, so I ask the policy duty officer to let him know I have gone back to the Herald's office to write my new story.

I swing past my apartment on the way back to the office and do a quick clothes change along with packing an overnight bag with enough for two or three nights away from home with Stephen, on the assumption that my life is going to be very full on for the next couple days and I will stay with him.

I decide I want to spend whatever free time I have in his company.

The taxi waits for me and in ten more minutes I am outside our office in Pyrmont. As I walk through the entrance there are wolf calls, whistles and hugs, along with lots of claps, cheers and calls of "Well done", for my latest story. I feel like a returning hero and briefly walk on aird.

I go first to Jim's office and do a quick download of this morning's events. It takes a minute for me to connect to his mood; I sense there is something else bothering him. He lets me finish in his typically unhurried fashion, which I have grown to love, especially on the most frantic days. I pause and look at him inquiringly, wanting him to tell me what is the problem. Instead he hands me a one page legal looking document, followed by second one that runs to many pages.

The first is a restraining order preventing any media from publishing an allegations or other information in relation to the claim that I have been a party to filming or distribution of pornographic images, either under my own name, that of the title, Eastern European Beauty Queen, or similar captions. It is in effect for seven days during which time the parties may seek to obtain a permanent injunction through a court hearing if they choose.

The second document is hot off the printer in the last half hour. It is a writ claiming a conspiracy between myself and one, Stephen Davison, to publish false and defamatory stories through the Herald and other media sources including the ABC and Channel Nine in relation to the current and former properties of ARJ Engineering and Gilt Investments. It seeks damages, yet to be fully quantified but estimated to be of the order of $200-300 million for the loss in value of the public float as a result of our conspiracy, and our individual and joint actions. The matter is set down for preliminary hearing tomorrow at 9 am and then, subject to the outcome of this, for a further full hearing 14 days later.

As I look at this number which exceeds anything I can imagine I suddenly realise what a high stakes game we are playing. I can see at once it is clever, by naming two individuals as the partners to a conspiracy, as well as multiple media organisations it gives them multiple avenues to pursue. It also has the effect of not only seeking damages from big organisations with deep pockets, but individuals with much more limited assets, who are very vulnerable to becoming sacrificial pawns in this high stakes game.

I also realise, in the back of my mind, that it's not all their way, in fact fortune has favoured us. Yesterday, apart from some testimony of 20 to 30 years prior, all we had was one set of samples, illegally obtained, of chemical contamination on the site. Today we have much more, a body and a probable murder investigation, as well as a new batch of samples which the police will legally test which will trump almost all else. And, with this discovery, police have secured the site to stop any further tampering with evidence.

Still it is curious how the timing coincides with today's new discoveries.

I feel I need to talk to Stephen, to see if he knows and what he thinks. I look at the time, it is after 3 pm, the day is flying away. When I call him his phone goes to message so I leave him a three line voice message from me.

Back at the office with a story to write,

So looking forward to seeing you tonight,

Have you seen the writ naming us both by ARJ?

I wonder what evidence they have of our affair? We were seen and probably photographed talking together at the funeral, our meeting over coffee would be easy to substantiate. But by themselves both are innocuous. Do they have evidence of us spending yesterday afternoon and all last night together? I can't see how but would put nothing beyond the viciousness and means of ARJ, including round the clock surveillance, listening devices, the list goes.

It is funny how we all use our electronic devices without regard to a vast trail of information they collect about our activities and movements.

This thought gives me a sinking feeling. It is bad enough that some creep date raped me and filmed me five years ago then put these pictures online. But the thought that Stephen and I could have been recorded in our most intimate lovemaking yesterday is almost intolerable.

I realise all these thoughts have washed through my mind in a minute of two of silence in Jim's office and he is looking at me intently.

I point to the money number and say, "Wow."

He smiles grimly and say's "Yeah, time to talk to our lawyers again."

I point to the first piece of paper saying, "Thanks for this, it's something."

Then I say, "Can I have half an hour, I have a story to write about a girl's buried body found. I think this needs to be our first line of defence, that we are revealing an awful secret that the public must know."

He nods again, this time with a touch of a smile, "Well, kiddo, I am glad nothing can keep a good journo down. I only hope you are right. I will book a meeting with the lawyers for an hour's time. I assume that you and they will need to be in court tomorrow to defend the charge."

I go to my workspace and set out to write the first piece of my defence. It is not that I am not worried or scared. I am totally terrified, not just for me but for the new man in my life. He has a lot more to lose than me. But fear sharpens my words and drives me to counterattack in the only way I can.

So I begin:

Yesterday we asked what ARJ Engineering, now Gilt Investments, has to hide? Why the desperate need not to let anyone know what was hidden by an old shed. Today we know. It is the body of a teenage girl with dark hair. She was buried in a hidden grave which was covered by this shed, a shed which was kept permanently locked so nobody could go there anymore.

Our sources tell us that this shed was first built at the direction of Mr Anthony Roberts, supposedly because a drum of chemical had tipped in the soft soil and spilt. They used the chemicals in these drums to wash the machinery they made, we have been unable to get anyone to tells us what was in these drums but we have found forty people who used to work there and of these eleven are dead and another ten are seriously ill, one died this week and was buried two days ago. Her brother believes she was poisoned by the toxic chemicals she handled in this job. Nobody ever warned her they may be dangerous, nobody ever gave her protective clothing to wear. We reported yesterday about the chemicals found in the soil next to the shed, laboratory reports said there was a toxic cocktail of chemicals, with well-known culprits such as dioxin at incredibly high levels.

And now Mr Roberts has the gall to seek to sue me, the reporter of this story, on charges of defamation and conspiracy, to prevent me publishing what has been found. He has made claim for a listed $300 million of damages by me to his company, saying that I have decreased the value of his float.

It seems to be a last desperate attempt by Mr Roberts to divert attention away from what he has done, a systematic poisoning of his workers and then a massive cover up. And now a possible charge of murder. You the readers can be the judge of Mr Roberts behaviour. The police investigation has a long way to go. But the body found gives an explanation of what Mr Roberts needed to hide.

Mr article, which will go on Page 3 of tomorrows paper, goes on for another half a page. But I feel like I have encapsulated the main points in this opening. I look forward to it be spread far and wide by the time we turn up at tomorrow's court hearing. Even if it does not win a legal argument I would much rather have public opinion on my side.

It is late when I have finished meeting with our lawyers. They have briefed a top silk and we are to meet at 7:30 am tomorrow to finalise out position. I have yet to have a chance to talk to Stephen and presume he will have briefed his own counsel to mount his own parallel defence. My lawyers have suggested we have a joint meeting with Stephen and any counsel he has retained in the morning, so we can work together on our defence. I assume he will agree though he knows much more about court than me.

It is almost 7 pm when I leave the office. I see I have three missed calls from Stephen as I walk out, having put my phone on silent for the last three hours. I smile as I read message which followed the last,

Can't wait to see you.

Finished now and heading home.

Hope you won't be long.

It takes half an hour through the peak hour traffic until the taxi drops me at the apartment lobby. I use his intercom and he buzzes me up. He is waiting for me as the lift opens and the sight of him makes my heart leap.

He sweeps me off my feet into a huge hug. It feels so good as he takes my hand and brings me inside, saying. "I know we have lots to talk about, it's been an action packed day for us both. But before we get to that there is a thing I want to say. It is a thought that has gone through my head a thousand times since this morning. Every time I think of it I like the idea more.

"I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife."

It's like a bolt from the blue, yet I know the answer without thinking.

I say, "The answer is Yes."

## Chapter 36 – Irina – Defamation

The morning comes around way too soon. We have spent half the night talking, so much to plan of a future life together. Stephen is 35 and I am 25. He wonders if the age gap is an issue. I tell him I think it is fine.

Late in the night, when our other talking and lovemaking is done, we finally get to talk about our work days and the events which unfolded.

First I tell him about the press conference and the story I have written, then of going back to the office and seeing the two legal documents.

Stephen tells me about his day and the two meetings, first with ARJ and then with his son. He plays me the audio he recorded of when ARJ spoke about me as if I was some slut, how he was an inch away from throwing ARJ out the window. I do not think of Stephen as a violent man, but his muscles are hard and there is a well hidden strength.

I say, "I am glad, I do not want my fiancée in jail. I think it is up to us both to ensure the consequences of what is unfolding put ARJ where he deserves. I would rather see ARJ in jail than in a box."

Then Stephen tells me about his conversation with Richard and of his agreement to help the son get rid of the father's control of the firm. I say I have reservations, the son is no saint. I know the bad things that happened are not the actions of the father alone, Richard was there too in his role in the business and complicit in much that passed.

Stephen tells me he shares my reservations, but Richard is unwell, even dying, and now he wants to make amends. I am not sure that regrets so late are of much value, but I see his point. I suppose everyone can have remorse, and society needs to display some forgiveness though I am far from ready to give him my own absolution.

But we both agree that if ARJ loses his role in managing the business, it is a good thing that will benefit many.

Finally, in the fast approaching morning, we talk about the writ and how we should play it. We agree to plan our approach together though Stephen thinks us operating separately and both pushing our own story is better.

He will tell of his role as the loyal solicitor who only ceased to act for his client when the client acted unilaterally to terminate his employment. "There is no conspiracy there," he will say.

He says he will not deny his relationship with me, but will say it began after his employment with ARJ was terminated, that his first conversation with me was motivated by seeking a resolution to his clients concerns about the story I was writing and that the second meeting at the funeral was in response to my invitation to attend. That he came in order to understand the impact the actions of the firm was having on people in its former employ.

He will say he liked me from when he first met me, but then it was just a business relationship of two people with intersecting work interests and only changed after his employment was abruptly terminated. It was after that we agreed to meet for lunch as we were now both temporarily out of a job. He will say our personal relationship first began with this meeting and what has happened since is nobody's business but our own.

It is near enough to the truth and I say, "I think it is good."

He also tells me he thinks evidence ARJ will present will be three things, personal surveillance of us both by an employee of ARJ, a tracking device in Stephen's car which he has removed now and a camera in the lobby outside the lift with a view of the front door of Stephen's apartment that he has also found and removed now. He will object to all this evidence as demonstrating poor faith by his client and on the grounds that collection was illegal, as it was obtained in private places without his explicit consent. Still he will not seek to prevent these recordings being tendered, provided he can tender evidence of his own, namely the tape recording of his conversation with ARJ in his office yesterday morning, also obtained without consent. This will give a lie to any suggestion that he is still contracted to work for ARJ and it will also show what a nasty man he is through the way he talks about me.

I tell him our lawyers are mainly going to use a public interest defence, to say that the story I am telling is one of victims harmed by the actions of this man, ARJ, and the intent of his action is to deny the rights of victims.

I am also happy to go on the stand and confirm his version of how our relationship began and refute any suggestion of conspiracy between us.

We discuss how to play it if they try and introduce evidence about the sex video. We agree that this should be objected to on the basis that there is already a restraining order to publication of it and any action in relation to this should be dealt with separately, through its own legal process. We will also say it is not relevant as it pertains to something that happened several years before current events and therefore cannot have any bearing on them.

When our legal tactics talk is done we finally fall into a deep sleep in each other's arms. All too soon an alarm jolts us awake at 5:30.

We both need to shower and dress in our best, today's public image is important. Then we must leave in time to be at court by seven am for a joint meeting with our combined legal teams. After this each of us will go off with our own lawyers to plan our own detailed defence.

We just have time for a quick cup of coffee together before the business of the day begins. We agree to keep in our separate spaces until the hearing is over. It rolls along as planned. Before long I am sitting next to our lawyer and barrister, listening to ARJ's legal team begin to present its case. Hearing it is a single judge of the Supreme Court, the quantum of the claim is such that it has skipped past the local and district court jurisdictions. There is no sign of ARJ, but I assume he is on the other end of the phone to his lawyer and can available if needed.

As expected they lead evidence of video surveillance of us in four places, the first café meeting, the meeting at the funeral, the lunch in Queen Victoria Building and in the lobby outside Stephen's apartment. Here they show us both going inside holding hands and coming out together when Stephen leaves the next morning, with the final exchange of a passionate kiss.

This last scene is the most telling, one can hardly doubt a relationship exists at this stage, particularly as the date stamps of us coming and leaving are evident. It is pointed out that I have not left the apartment at all during the intervening time.

Both my barrister and Stephen's object to this footage, saying it has been obtained without our consent. But we agree to leave a decision about if it is admissible until after both sides have had a chance to present evidence.

Stephen's barrister then begins with his defence as agreed. When it is proposed to play the tape of his meeting with ARJ, there is a strong objection that it was obtained without consent and is client in confidence information. We are ready for both arguments; the first is dealt with by the fact that the judge has already seen similarly obtained evidence used against us. So it is not reasonable to afford us the same right before admissibility. The claim of client in confidence material is dealt with by a statement from our barrister attesting to the fact this audio recording clearly goes to show that there is no longer a client relationship when it is recorded. He says part of the relevance of the audio is that it demonstrates this fact.

Now the barrister for ARJ seeks an urgent recess to confer with his client on this point. The judge is clearly not impressed. He says if this matter is of such importance to Mr Roberts, he should have attended the court in person to be able to give immediate instructions. Nevertheless he allows a time of five minutes for this contact to occur before the hearing resumes.

At this time their barrister comes back with another play, thus far the matter has been heard in open court, with several known journalists present. We have no problem with this and it seems to have suited the other party thus far as they have been presenting evidence which seeks to damage our credibility. However now they seek a suppression order on the publication of any proceedings of this hearing in the media, or alternatively, to have this become a closed court session with no reporters present.

The judge rejects this, saying, "I will rule on this too once I have heard all the evidence. However, for now, I direct all of you in attendance that nothing in this proceeding can be released or discussed with others until I have made my ruling. Any party who breaches this ruling will be in contempt of this court and will be dealt with accordingly.

So we have won this round and the playing of the tape commences. Stephen sounds impeccably polished and polite in his welcome to ARJ. At this time he states his understanding that the legal relationship with them had already ceased. ARJ's response to this is not definitive but supports Stephen's position. When ARJ then launches into his attack on me, including the word slut there is an audible gasp by reporters and others sitting in the gallery.

Stephen's reaction is pretty abrasive but I silently cheer. I see several in the gallery also nod in support and a couple even clap silently. Then Stephen delivers the coup de grace, stating completely unambiguously that the legal relationship is over and he is in the process of transferring the files to the new solicitor, subject to the payment of outstanding fees.

My evidence seems an anticlimax after this, however my lawyer reads out my article on Page 3 of today's Herald, saying this demonstrates there is a clear public interest in revealing past actions of ARJ Engineering and Gilt Investments. If there has been any loss of value of these businesses due to my revelations it is because of their prior actions which the public has a right to know about. I then take the stand to give evidence about our relationship and confirm there has been no conspiracy. My lawyer draws out of me that I did not even know Stephen until a few days ago, and by then almost all the information in my story was already gathered. He adds that a relationship which has been in existence, based on evidence of the plaintiff, for less than 48 hours, has presented minimal opportunities for conspiracy to occur.

The other side seeks to challenge some of our evidence, but the judge denies this saying, "This is a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to proceed to a full hearing. Any attempt by either party to rebut the evidence of the other belongs in a full hearing.

Then he makes his orders:

"I consider there is sufficient evidence of collaboration between the two named defendants to justify a full hearing on this matter. I set this down for a date agreed by the parties a minimum of one month hence.

"This is not be interpreted as a finding of defamation or conspiracy but rather that sufficient evidence exists to justify a full court hearing.

"Further I rule that all the evidence presented today by both parties is relevant to this future proceeding and is therefore admissible.

"I rule that any evidence in relation to claims of prior sexual activities by Ms Irina Petrenko is not relevant to these proceedings, and is to be dealt with in a separate hearing, should this be required.

"I reject claims that any part of the evidence given in today's hearings be withheld from the public record. I am satisfied all matters dealt with today in this court are in the public interest. Therefore I find they should be reported freely, without any limitations imposed by this court."

I breathed a sigh of relief as I listened to these findings and Stephen gave me a small victory sign. It was not everything we wanted but there was not a finding to give comfort to the other side and, most importantly, it left the door open for me to continue to tell my story.

## Chapter 37 – Stephen – Hostile Takeover

I am filled with admiration for Irina at the way she had held her head high and told her story. We have just emerged from a hearing where her past sexual activities were publicly exposed for all to see. We had thought the other side would drop it, but still they object to a restraining order placed on reporting Irina as a porn star and European Beauty Queen. It felt like one last desperate attempt by the other side to tarnish her and thus decrease the credibility of her other reporting. The judge withheld his decision but in the interim has maintained the restraining order indefinitely, saying he needs to consider some aspects of law but sees no public interest in this story being allowed to be broadcast, that the facts presented in today's hearings do not support the other side's claims. So I think we have won.

It must have been excruciating for Irina. She had good grounds for asking this be heard in a closed session, but she said she did not want to hide away and considered she had done nothing wrong. She also said she wanted her example to encourage others who were victims of similar things to give their own evidence to the police.

In preparation we made a report to the police of what was done to her which included a copy of the video. We were told, soon after, that they had launched a formal investigation. But we have little hope this will amount to anything much, at least not soon.

Today Irina stood up in court and gave a full recount of how this video was made, as best she could understand it. The video itself was not played in court; the judge ruled this would not be permitted, though allowed three still images that were not sexually explicit, to de displayed. He said these were merely for the purpose of confirming Irina's identity. He prohibited use of these images in court reporting.

I found her testimony utterly compelling, but of course I relived it with her and remember the slightly manic way she confronted it. I do not regret its role in bringing us together but a part of me wishes it could be expunged from the record of our lives.

But overall I am filled with admiration for the courage and determination of this woman I love. We have now set a date for our wedding, at the start of the New Year, when most family and friends are on holidays and can come.

A further week has passed since the first defamation hearing. Both sets of lawyers are making frantic preparations to go to trial in six weeks' time.

We consider this case is another stalling tactic and have little concern the evidence will support their position. I think what they are trying to achieve is enough time before it is finished to get the public float done, and they will use its continuance as an obfuscation tactic.

The Gilt Float launch was postponed for a fortnight at the insistence of ASIC who stated that significant new information needed to be understood about the company by potential investors, arising from media revelations and police investigations, before it could launch its public offering.

To say ARJ was extremely unhappy with this is a major understatement. Richard's inside sources say he was apoplectic for two days. So it's now due to launch now in a week's time though it is hard to see that it will be ready with all the uncertainty. But their argument is that the information is now in the public domain letting potential investors determine its significance. The caveat is that specific details cannot be revealed due to the legal processes underway. They also say that the legal processes could run for months and it is not reasonable to delay it for a long period due to this. I think they may win this argument, it is hard to see how investor interest is served by more delay.

At the same time calls for a public inquiry or revoking site remediation plan or DA approval have fizzled and the Minister for Planning has clearly stated he will not review the rezoning. The police investigation of the site is done so they have returned to work and removed all soil with residues of chemicals from the shed slab location. They have also collected subsoil samples from 20 further random points across the site for testing. These only found chemical contamination at low levels, thus suggestions of widespread site contamination have been debunked. It is, as they say, a level of residues on par for what has been found across the whole Olympic Precinct. Therefore the remediation plan and site works remain appropriate.

Not much new evidence has emerged from the police about the girl's body however their soil samples tested revealed extremely high levels of a cocktail of toxic substances, primarily solvents and dioxin, in the soil under the shed. The police have not revealed their specific results, but the samples Benzy collected from the grave show dioxin levels are extreme.

However this story has slid down the ratings with no new shocks coming out. We know the police have questioned both Richard and ARJ along with a range of others who worked at the site but nothing has been released. At this stage there are no suggestions of any charges being laid.

Inside sources say no identification of the body has been made, but it is a south east Asian girl of about fifteen years of age and that her body sustained crush injuries causing death. How and when this occurred seems unknowable and likely to remain so.

As to Richard's first statement about being responsible for a body, all he will tell me is that he asked the criminal lawyer I recommended to be present at police interviews and has refused to answer specific questions about the shed on the basis they may incriminate him, whatever that means.

I know he knows more but will not say until the company's ownership is resolved. I suspect this is on the basis of not acting as a company director if facing or convicted of criminal charges.

So the story has faded. But, though diminished, it has done incalculable harm to the fortunes of Richard, ARJ and other shareholders. ARJ Engineering itself has been a public company for more than a decade and this reporting has played badly for its share value, which is down almost 50%.

And, even if Gilt were to go ahead and float in a week, as ARJ still proposes, I think they will be lucky to sell more than a small proportion of the shares on offer. Maybe this suits ARJ; he could pick up lots of those available shares at knock down prices, in the process further enhancing his control.

It is conceivable that, if the float goes ahead, he could end up as the majority shareholder in his own right. If so our plans to topple him may come to nought. For now it is a game of bluff to see who holds the best hand.

So, based on loss of share value, the quantum of damages named by the defamation writ is accurate, it only the cause that is in dispute. The public has little sympathy for ARJ's side, saying his company has got just deserts for past actions. But talk is cheap and public debate resolves nothing.

What matters is action and this is almost here. With the share price fall there are lots of unhappy investors. So, last week Richard and three other minority shareholders, each with a couple percent of stock, filed a motion for an extraordinary general meeting before the float. It required ten business days' notice. This was given, just. The stated intention is to discuss and vote on the performance of company including its directors and management. It seeks a spill in all current director positions including the managing director, with a new board to be appointed by majority vote of shareholders. These directors will then vote to appoint a new managing director.

Currently ARJ is both Chairman of the Board and Managing Director. If our motion gets up, neither position will be held by ARJ, which will bring his ability to control what the company does. He will become just another shareholder with no more rights than the rest, despite his 31% holding.

This proposal was met with an enthusiastic response by a huge number of shareholders and we have been flooded with advices of attendees along with proxies from many more conferring their voting rights to Richard.

ARJ, of course, was vocally opposed. He has stated, publicly, that his management has served the company well for almost forty years, that what is happening now is just a temporarily dip in the company's value, based on scurrilous rumours, and this will shortly resolve once the Gilt public float is done. Further he says the defamation case will vindicate his actions.

But few believe him and most of those who have spoken in public have supported the spill motion to declare all current directors positions vacant and have also indicated they will vote for substantially changed membership of a new board that would better serve shareholder interests.

Richard and the other three directors who had publicly supported him bring 26% of voting stock with them and so far we have another 6% of proxy votes and indications of a further 7% who will definitely vote with us. ARJ has his 31% of stock along with two directors and a handful of other shareholders who owe him old allegiances which he has said he will collect on if they do not support him. Together they hold about five percent of stock. That means our predicted numbers are 36% to ARJ, 39% to Richard and 25% swinging in the breeze. So if we can get half of these to come with us, we will get over the magic 50% and take control.

We have begun planning in earnest for a company post ARJ. Richard and I decided it was important, at the outset, this was not just seen as a scheme the two of us have cooked up together. This could feed ARJ's conspiracy paranoia and he may try to use to subvert us with shareholders or company office holders. So we have established a small team of trusted people to work with us to develop our plan which we will present to the meeting.

Our team includes both the Chief Financial Officer and a past external Accountant to the firm, both of whom have told us they are uncomfortable about the direction that ARJ is taking it. Their loyalties are divided but it is clear they are on our side. All our discussions have been done with absolute privacy. Our team also includes a medical compensation expert and a soil remediation expert to ensure we follow best practice in helping victims and cleaning up the site. It also includes a noted architect to ensure what we build is of the highest quality and a conservationist of high repute to ensure our plans lead to long term improvement of the local environment of the wetlands and river.

And, should we gain control, we have our list of highly credible directors to take over. ARJ will lose his seat but we will leave his other two director cronies with their jobs, so it is not seen as retribution against them. We know their impact on director votes will not matter and it is better to have them inside the tent with some leverage over them, than outside and scheming for a comeback with ARJ.

We have proposed a new chairman who is an eminent businessman. He has served on a range of other highly regarded boards. He would take over this role for twelve months, while we do our required restructuring to sort out the mess with former injured workers and take other steps to both rebuild the company's reputation and put it on a solid financial footing.

We will leave the Managing Director role vacant while Board leads a credible external recruitment process. As an interim step I will take the role with my main work being legal and financial management of the change. This will be for a maximum of 12 months while recruitment proceeds.

I am hoping my role will be for less than six months as, even though the pay is good, I have another new life to lead. Our plan is for the company to generate good long term investor returns, but done in an ethical manner.

My main job for the company will be to set up a victim compensation fund. We estimate we need to put aside between $100 and $200 million to cover potential payouts to victims, on the assumption that are up to 100 of these and each payout will be in the range of one to two million dollars. So our plan is, prior to the float, is to announce the establishment of a $100 million dollar trust fund to ensure any injured workers, harmed from past practices, receive just compensation. There are sufficient cash reserves on the books to allow this without adversely affecting company operations.

As the Olympic Heights development proceeds, it will provide an income stream to meet any residual costs in future years. On this basis, for the five years after the float, a further $20 million per year will be paid into the Trust, ensuring sufficient funding to meet all foreseeable needs.

At the same time, to give something back to the wider community of this area, we will propose that any earnings from the trust, once established, will be directed to conservation works in proximity to the site; including wetland restoration, removal of contaminated soil where feasible and doing things to enhance the ecological value of this area of the Parramatta River catchment.

Our estimate is that five to ten million dollars each year can be allocated for this work. It will be overseen by its own board, an independent group that is a mixture of local community members and expert scientists.

At the end of ten years, once the likely cost of payments to all likely victims is known, the Gilt Board jointly with the Trust Board, will have discretion to divert any remaining funds in the Trust to conservation projects or other agreed projects that enhance the wellbeing of the local community; things such as job trainee schemes, community employment and community art projects being in scope.

We are confident that, if we do this it will return long term value to Gilt investors, along with meeting victim needs and also doing much to enhance the long term local community and its environment. It will do this in part by making the development site a highly desirable place to live, work or conduct business, and in part by serving as a model for a good corporate citizen which will boost company reputation and desirability for investment funds.

So we have written press releases, we have prepared material for the upcoming shareholder meeting, we have canvassed key stock holders, we have run our plan past regulatory authorities to get in principle support, and have done everything else we can think of to swing the vote our way.

We think it should go ahead smoothly but I suspect it will not.

Sure enough, two days before this Extraordinary General Meeting, ARJ fires another salvo, with another writ and publicity to support it.

Again the Telegraph leads the story on his foray. It is supported by key doctors and lawyers, who declare that Richard is medically unfit to act in his role as a director on the board or to determine how he votes with his parcel of shares. ARJ seeks that the court appoint another director to fill Richard's role while he undertakes his treatment and also for the voting rights of his shares to revert to ARJ, who transferred them to his son at the time the parent company, ARJ Engineering, became a public company a decade ago.

We have no option but to defer the AGM for a further 5 business days while this legal matter is resolved. This brings it perilously close to the proposed public float day that ARJ intends to proceed with. This is high risk but an even worse outcome would be legal uncertainty as to if Richard can cast a valid vote with his shares. They will be critical in the battle for control.

Richard tells me privately that his disease is not going well. He doubts he can beat it but, even more, he is saddened by this final act of bastardry by his father. He looks increasingly frail though it seems his fire and passion grows stronger with each passing day.

The following day we are in court. His treating doctor, an oncologist and a psychologist all give expert testimony that he is fit and competent in his director role and is able to make sound judgments, notwithstanding the rapid progression of his disease. This time ARJ is present. He makes high sounding statements about seeking the best interests of the company as justification, though our cross examination draws out his hypocrisy for all to see. ARJ does not look as his son as he speaks, despite Richard eyes boring into him.

The judge reserves his judgement until the following day, despite our plea for an immediate decision, citing the imminent EGM and public float. He advises his judgement will be handed down in the morning tomorrow, giving a bare five day response time before the EGM proceeds.

As Richard walks from court he stumbles and almost falls. He continues, supported by two friends. I am glad the judge left the court first. Richard's frailty is very evident and a Telegraph photographer snaps a picture.

I do not think the court case works in favour of ARJ except as a publicity stunt. There is widespread sympathy for Richard's courage and distaste for the behaviour of his father. Still today's front page story in the Telegraph, questioning Richard's competence, along with a photograph of his stumble in a follow up story tomorrow may have the desired effect of swinging a few shareholders back to the father, out of concern the son may be unable to finish what he started.

Tomorrow we get our judgement in Richard's favour at 10 am. It finds him competent but, as predicted the Telegraph runs its follow up on Page 3, to keep the question running. Perhaps tomorrow they will print two lines at the back of the business section to reveal the court judgement.

As for shareholders who will vote, it is unlikely many will look deeper than the main newspaper story, barely an odd one is likely to read a court judgement buried deep in the back pages, to counteract this.

As the day of the AGM approaches my gut tells me it's lineball which side is in front. We decide that Richard and I will jointly speak in favour of our proposal. I have my own parcel of 10,000 shares which gives an entitlement to speak and voting rights. We will be followed by the other three directors who support Richard's stance, and then we hope by some others in favour.

We know that, as ARJ still holds the chair, he will do everything in his power, procedural or otherwise, to stop our voices being heard and then to disrupt the vote to follow.

First ARJ moves a motion to not proceed to a vote for a spill of the Directors. We seek to rule that out of order, it is not on the Agenda, but in the end, rather than debating and using time, we decide that people who vote for us are likely to reject this motion. We also think his heavy handed attempt to subvert the meeting will not win him friends amongst several hundred shareholders who have turned out for the day. And so it proves. There is barely a vote in favour of his proposition and an almost unanimous rejection of considering other business outside the agenda.

So now we move to the main event, whether we move to spill directors. ARJ speaks first and takes far longer than he should in making a vague, self-serving and rambling defence of the status quo, interspersed with vitriol and threats. Nobody claps when he is finished and nobody else elects to speak in support of him. The other two directors he owns choose not to speak for him. We have privately assured them that if they do not speak in his defence we will not oppose their nominations to the board.

Now it is Richard's turn. He stands up, frail and diminished from other times, but his voice is resonant, his hands are steady and he stands straight.

He starts, "It is a very hard thing for a son to go against his father, but today I must. The future of the company and my own personal integrity are both at stake. So I no longer have any choice but to do this.

"For many years I have sat back and left it to him, the man we call ARJ. Some things he did were good. But, as the years have gone by, more and more of these things were bad, bad things were done to those who worked loyally for us. We abused their trust and paid them off with a pittance. Now all this has come out in public as I am sure those of you who have followed the story in the media will know. I am ashamed of my part in this.

As many of you know, I am unwell. I have cancer and am unlikely to be standing here at our next AGM. The one thing I want to do before I go is to put the bad things of the past to right.

We have a great company and one we should be proud of. And it will grow even greater, as the years pass, under the name Gilt Investments.

"Gold is a fitting symbol, but only for a company that does good, good by its investors, good by its workers, and good by the wider community.

"So I stand here today and ask that you each come on a new journey with me, make a new beginning, one of which we will all be a part, one recognised as leading the way to a better future.

"Stephen will outline the details of what we propose if our vote succeeds today, how we will set up a trust to compensate the victims, how we will put any surplus funds into the local community and into restoring our beautiful river environment.

"When today is done, and in each year that follows, I want you all to look back at this moment with pride, today, together we made something right."

Richard sits down to thunderous applause.

I speak but only very briefly, I do not want to let the momentum slip away. The other three directors on our side do the same, saying little more but reinforcing Richard's message.

Then the vote is taken. The scrutineers collect and tally all votes while we sit and wait. In five minutes the chief scrutineer walks to the podium, saying, "We could spend longer checking and cross checking every vote, but there is no point. At this stage we have over 65% in favour of the motion to spill the board and elect a new one, versus less than 35% who do not support this. So let's now move to the next steps on the agenda, the appointment of a new chair and new directors."

It all goes like clockwork after that. In an hour it is done with each of our proposals agreed to and all the plans to make them happen in place. Now it is on to the public float. We announce that the float will be deferred to allow new information to be prepared for investors, with this date set to occur in a month's time. By the time I head home in the evening the ARJ share price has jumped 10% and demand for the prospectus for the float has surged.

The only thing of course is it needs to be re-written to take account of the changed circumstances and be more realistic in its claims. One particular term I will change is 'no-risk' will now become 'known risk'. But that is a job for one of my new employees for another day.

As I walk to the car with Richard he looks completely shook, his feet drag and his gait wobbles. It is as if today's brave showing has consumed the last of his dwindling strength. I feel he is not long for this world.

In the morning my phone rings. The caller tells me that Richard has died overnight, they think it was suicide.

## Chapter 38 – Richard – The Confession

I know it is time to put this ghost to rest. It is something I need to do for my own closure and I owe it to others that this story be told, her story, Bian.

My own time is fast running out. Blood tests last week showed what I had already guessed, that I was no longer in remission, that the cancer cells were back in my blood. And my own bone marrow is well on the way to full shutdown. It is hard to know how much is due to the toxic drugs I have taken to try and beat the cancer and how much is due to the toxic shit we used to wash the machinery when I was a kid. It was a great playground for a teenage boy, all the machines and conveyer belts, all the drums of things that stunk but seemed good at cleaning and were donated to us for next to nothing, from those who no longer wanted it and did not want to pay high costs of disposal. I don't think it ever occurred to my father that this stuff was bad, and not just for the workers but for his own son whose playground it was.

Of course he was too busy sitting in his office making deals to make him more money for him to ever pay much attention to what his son was doing. It seems fitting that I was no more immune to these things than his workers, who he definitely did not care about. But then, whether he cared about me after my mother died, when I was a child, is highly debatable.

For now I am being mainly kept alive by blood transfusions and cocktails of drugs. They tell me my one chance of cure is a full bone marrow transplant and this at best gives 50% odds if they can find a good match. So far matches offered are not that good. Even if they do find a perfect match I am not sure I can be bothered. I am tired. I will be glad when it is finally over and there is only rest. I suppose that thing's called dead, dead sounds OK to me.

I suppose I should go into a police station and hand myself in, make what is called a full confession; allow them to question the whys and wherefores. But I can't be bothered with that either. Some may call me a coward for refusing to submit myself to this world's justice, allow myself to be tried for manslaughter or whatever the correct charge is.

That is fair though I have tried to make amends with what I have done over the last few months. And that justice is pointless anyway; should they bring the court to my hospital bed as my body slowly fails, should they wheel me in and out of a courtroom lying on a mattress. These thoughts are both degrading and ludicrous.

So instead I will write out my memory of the event, let it serve as a confession so the book on this story can be closed with my passing.

***

There is a perverse power when your father is the boss of all you survey and you can do no wrong. Sure, the factory supervisors kept a half an eye on me as a teenage boy when I ran amok. But, wherever possible, they studiously avoided the stories of my misdeeds reaching my father. At first it was a bit of smoking, drinking and larrikin behaviour. But, around my mid teenage years, I discovered the endless fascination of girls.

My first sexual encounter was with the maid who cleaned our house.

I was still at school and, for us boys, school conversation mainly revolved around sex. We had collections of magazines with pictures we shared around, lots of naked women in explicit poses. And I knew my father used the maids for more than their cleaning services, it was not uncommon to find one leaving his bed in the early morning. This morning I had to see my father to get a school note signed. He had left early but I did not know. So I knocked on the bedroom door, and with no answer I opened it slightly. There in his bed was his current cleaner, probably five years older than me. As I looked in she pulled the sheets over her naked body, but I had already seen what was on offer. So I came in and she shared it with me, pleased to be my first teacher. After that, when my father was out, sometimes she would come to my room.

There were a few girls who worked in the office but I mostly kept away from them because my father was there. But there was another class of girls, often they had little English and their migrant papers were suspect in relation to employment so they did not want to get into trouble. And often they sent money back to families in other places which was desperately needed.

I did not discover this all at once, it was like pieces of a jigsaw that my mind slowly put together. But I knew girls gave sex and there were girls, lots of pretty girls, in a place I lived and worked in and I saw them every day.

There were those who were already willing, they would give me smiles and eye flutters of interest, some would come over and chat to me on their breaks without any effort on my part. And odd ones would happily meet me in secluded areas before or after work, at times on the factory premises, sometimes in the bushes along the river behind. In time I built a tin house there, just a shed with a mattress. It became a favourite assignation point.

But even though some came willingly, offering spread legs and open thighs for mutual pleasure, there is a spice that goes with the unwilling, the ones where pressure needs to be applied to get what you want. Mostly it works when the choice is stark, work here, get a little extra money on the side, with no questions asked about papers, or find another place to go.

All you have to do is take off your clothes and lie on a mattress on your back for a few minutes, now and then, while the boss's son takes pleasure. He will even wear a condom if you ask nicely. Afterwards he hands you a few dollars to keep your family happy. It seemed to work well enough; at least it did for me. I kept track of new girls that arrived and planned the seduction of those who appealed to my taste. And mostly I got my way.

But now and then there was one that played hard to get.

There were two lovely Vietnamese sisters; the oldest was sixteen or seventeen, the youngest perhaps fifteen, still blossoming into womanhood.

I was first told their names were Jo and Vo when introduced to them by other workers. We employed them as cleaners and paid them cash, so they never appeared on our books. Later when I met them together Jo told me her younger sister's name was Bian, so that is what I called her after, but all the other workers still called them Jo and Vo. [

It took me about six months of assiduous planning until I got the older sister, Jo, on her back, and it was a great delight. I was her first man, and I would repeat the pleasure at least weekly as the months went by. I thought that, once I had seduced big sister, little sister would follow easily too. One day I suggested to big sister that she bring Bian next time to join us, and I put one hundred dollars in her hand when I said it.

But, instead, Jo looked at me in horror. As time went by I could see that it had turned out the other way, the harder I tried the further away she kept Bian. As she matured she grew prettier and my desire for her grew too. Jo older sister did all she could to keep Bian away from me. She understood my designs and always kept a watchful eye on Bian when they were at work together. Their job was to clean up before and after the other workers arrived, mostly to sweep floors, mop spills and remove rubbish.

A few more months went by and I kept looking for opportunities to get Bian on her own. A time came when Jo was not at work for a couple days, some said she was sick at home, others told of arrest by the immigration people. They had very little money and often slept in a shed at the back, a storage shed next to the shed where we stored the drums of chemicals. The night watchman on the back gate would turn a blind eye.

When they were there together I left them alone and kept away. There were always enough other willing partners to keep me entertained. But now I sensed my chance was here and I should seize it.

I came in early the next morning to see what was on offer. Older sister, Jo, was nowhere to be seen. But Bian was coming out of the storage shed, looking half dressed with her clothes askew. I called her over to the chemical shed on the pretext of showing her something inside. It was early and nobody was in sight. She came to me but looked scared.

I pointed for her to come inside and followed her in, closing the door behind. There was light coming in a high window to let us see. At the far end of the shed, down past the drums, was a green blanket which I decided to use for a bed, to make her lie down on it. I pointed to it and made her walk towards it, following along behind.

It was a narrow space about a metre wide. One side had full 44 gallon drums, stacked three high. They had a liquid a bit like petrol that was used to wash the grease off machinery parts before we assembled them. On the other side was a row of four gallon drums, stacked two high against the shed wall. These contained a smelly, oily liquid. It was used sparingly for hard cleaning, as it dissolved almost anything. We all hated the smell, it gave us headaches, but it worked really well.

When Bian reached the end and could go no further she turned towards me. She looked fresh and lovely in her sleep mussed state, with her top not fully buttoned. I think she was on her way to wash when I found her. I took a step back to give space for her to spread the blanket and indicated to her to do this. She did what I asked and then stood up looking fearful. I called her over to me. She came, reluctant, eyes wide like a doe and nervous.

When she stood in front of me I undid the other buttons on her top. I put my hand inside and fondled her half formed breast. I could feel her shake as if she was terrified but she did not pull away. So I lifted up her skirt and found she was wearing nothing underneath.

It seemed my lucky day. I pushed her towards the ground, indicating to lie on the blanket, undoing my pants as she went. But in that second she made a lunge to get away. She did not cry out but flung her body sideways, banging off drums. I grabbed for her and my body hit the drums too. There must have been a slow leak because the ground was soft where we hit. The drums swayed. I stepped back. She saw her chance and flung herself into the gap, just as the top drum came down, landing right on top of her.

It happened so fast that we, neither of us, could move. She was under the drum when it hit the ground. She gave a little cry and then she did not move. The corner of the drum that landed on her also hit a small drum on the other side, causing it to burst. I watched in horror as this chemical flooded out, across her and over the ground in an oily slick.

Bian had not breathed and I knew she was dead. When the chemical flow subsided I looked in terror at what I had done. I was eighteen; I knew I could be tried for murder and spend my life in jail. I decided to try and hide what I had done.

I rolled the drum aside, picked Bian up and carried her to the back of the shed, where there was a small gap between the drums and the wall. I pushed her body into the space and threw the green blanket on top of her to hide her from accidental view. I thought of trying to carry her down to the river and throw her in or bury her down there. But people were here now; the noise of them arriving was filling the outside air.

In the end I decided I must tell my father, he would surely help.

And help he did. He announced to the foreman that there had been a drum leak and padlocked the shed. That day was a Friday and so there would be no workers in tomorrow. So, when it was dark, he and I together wrapped Bian's body in the blanket and put it in the back on an old work van he used for deliveries. He had the only key so he knew it would be safe in there.

When this was done he called four security workmen from another of his worksites. He arranged for them to come in the next day. That morning they took all the drums outside then dug a big hole in the floor alongside where the chemical had leaked. He said this was because we needed to dig out the soil full of chemicals and bury it under clean soil.

When they finished it was almost midday. He gave each worker two hundred dollars in cash and said they must tell nobody what they had done, to which they all agreed.

When they were gone we put the girl's body at the bottom of the hole. She was stiff now. I was glad I could not see her face; it was bad enough to do this when I could not see her. Then we filled the hole again, first with some chemical soil from where the spill was, then with other soil piled up beside it. There was still some extra soil left from the hole and we put this in the van and dumped it in the bush.

The next day my father got a new lot of workers tin to put a cement floor down inside this shed and kept it locked after that. He told them they must not dig up the soil in the hole below as it was full of chemicals that were poisonous. He also got the workers to build a new shed nearby to store the drums in. After that he would never let anyone come into the old shed again.

He also told me to get Bian and her sister's clothes from the shed where they stayed and burn them in the rubbish, so nobody knew where they went. I never saw Bian's sister, Jo, again but I heard a few weeks later that she had been caught by immigration and deported. So she never had the chance to come and look for her sister and I was glad for that.

A few people asked around as to where the girls had gone and we told them we did not know, that they had not come to work one day and we had never seen them again.

My father told me I must never tell anybody what we had done or we would both go to jail. Perhaps we would have but perhaps that would have been better. Instead I have never forgotten Bian. She still haunts my dreams.

Later I looked up the name Bian to find its meaning. It means 'Woman of Secrets'. It seems fitting and true, she was the woman of my secret. I am glad she has been found, her grave is hidden no longer

***

Well that is my story – what I did to the girls I abused was bad, what I did to Bian was worse. I would like someone to find her older sister now; I think she lives back in Vietnam. I would ask her to take her little sister home and give her a proper burial. But I cannot.

Instead I will take these tablets beside my bed and not wake tomorrow.

## Chapter 39 – Irina – Anna's Trust

I am tired but happy. I am three months pregnant, I think it happened the second night together with Stephen. Once we decided to get married we agreed that we could dispense with the contraceptives. I did not plan to get pregnant quite so fast but yet I did. Stephen and I have decided that if it is a girl we will name her Anna and if it is a boy then we will name him Fedir. I think it will be a girl, so Anna. I roll the name around my tongue and like it. History and simplicity sit side by side with it.

Our wedding is in two months' time and I want to get the loose ends of the past sorted before I enter a new future.

I have attended two funerals since the day when Stephen had his resounding victory at the shareholders meeting. I credit him with the success of the day. It was his hard work and meticulous planning that created the narrative that Richard sold on the day.

I do claim a minor share of the credit, the idea of the Trust came to me in one of our late night lovemaking and conversation sessions. In my mind the two seek inextricably linked. We make love and in the afterglow we talk and talk and then talk some more. Along the way we try to solve problems of the world, his, mine and those of the whole world at large. I remember saying, "There is really no point trying to stop the float, it is the source of funds that can help the victims. What we need is a way of taking some of those funds and setting them aside, putting them apart from the company where they can be used to do good things, to help the victims harmed by the chemicals but more, to remove any residues from the soil and to improve the natural environment they have polluted.

Stephen picked up and thread and carried on with it, "Such a thing is called a Trust, it has its own board of directors who decide where money is used and have freedom to act. That way the parent company cannot change management and overturn what is done. Once we had the ideas Stephen then did the real work to make it happen, figured out the detail and set it up. And someone else would probably have come up with the idea too. But I feel a sense of ownership of this new creation.

Back to the funerals – the first was that of Richard, found dead the next morning and buried a week later. I don't know why I find it hard to give this man what my objective mind recognises he deserves; forgiveness. I think it was reading his confession, yes there was remorse, but mainly for Bian's death. After that time there is no evidence he ever abused another woman. Instead he went off to University and go a Business degree and took a formal role in the Company. But I found it awful the way he casually talked about how he forced all those women to have sex with him, let's call it rape, just like has been done in the film industry and by other powerful men endlessly. It was the way he admitted to one crime but virtually ignored the others that grates. I would feel more compassion for him if he had showed remorse for all these other crimes as well. And, even though his ending solved a lot of problems, it did not show much courage, he knew he was soon to die and took the fast, painless way, sleeping tablets.

So, yes, I am glad he did good things at the end of his life, but my heart can find little generosity for him in his death. In that Stephen is kinder, but then he knew him better and worked closely with him at the end.

So when I stood by his graveside, with Stephen, I felt little more than a fragment of relief at closure. Stephen read again the words he had spoken the day before he died at the Shareholders Meeting. I found myself moved by the power of his words, they were inspirational, but I sense that they were the words of a speechwriter as much as those of his own heart. In a way the words were mine, these were the concepts we had talked about endlessly in our late nights, the words a journalist would use to move readers. I sense Stephen took them and used them in the notes he prepared for Richard to use on the day. Of course the delivery was Richard's and to be fair he did that very well, he won his investors hearts as the vote showed.

The other good thing he did was to vest the voting rights of his shares in Richard after his death, done by another solicitor, all fully legal. So they were kept out of reach of ARJ while the restructure proceeded which was vital. In due course they will pass to another once the complex estate is sorted, but that is a story for another day.

Since that funeral day the company float is done. Gilt Investments is now a real thing. Alongside it is this new Trust with a balance of a one hundred number, followed by six big zeroes. In recognition of my story's contribution I was asked to serve on the Trust Board but declined. I said, "I'm a journalist, a dirt digger and a story teller, not an administrator."

Instead Fedir and Natasha were appointed, along with Wendy, wife of Martin, five years dead. There is also lawyer and a doctor, a man who cleans soil and a man who loves birds. And there are two Gilt Directors. It is enough. But now the trust needs a name and I have been given naming rights.

The second funeral was that of the father, ARJ, as I know him. He did not come to any events that followed the shareholder meeting, not even to the funeral of his son. And now I think I know why. It is something that came out in the unscrambling of Richard's estate.

Richard was not his biological son, but was a child of Mary who ARJ had later married, born a year before they got together. And Richard's mother died when he was ten. So while ARJ was the only father Richard ever knew, it seems that the father's bond to the son was a weak thing. So while he was fed and clothed, it seems he was raised with little parental care, much more cared for by the intermittent housekeepers he employed, often women who served as live in mistresses to the father as one of their many roles. It seems that these many women who passed through Richard's life were not treated well by the father, they were little more than objects to do menial tasks and gratify his periodic sexual urges. As I see the role models he grew up with I begin to feel a small bit more kindness towards the boy and man he became.

As for ARJ's funeral, it was a sorry affair with a bare dozen standing at the graveside. The priest said some words about his business success, which were a poor excuse for a eulogy. Nobody else spoke, apart from Stephen. He just gave functional information about ARJs wishes to be buried here with a simple headstone. There was no church service and no wake.

Like his son his death was self-inflicted, for him from the barrel of a gun. It was done on the day after the float proceeded, which was a resounding success in his absence, being fully subscribed with a substantial first day's trading gain, which made the investors happy. Perhaps it was his final loss of relevance and publicly demonstrated misjudgement that pushed him over the edge. It certainly was not financial pain; he died a very rich man.

As I stood by the graveside I felt strangely moved that for a man with so much ambition. He had left so little legacy; yes there was money, but so little love and loss. I wondered what was the point to a life lived thus.

So I took flowers from the wreath and broke off petals to scatter on the casket lying on the ground, thinking to throw in one from each of his victims, plus a few more besides. In death he and they were equal and as the priest said the words, "Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust", it felt right his body would rot like his victims. Yet I felt faint regret there was nobody to grieve his passing.

As I walked away on that day I thought of the lack of succession, ARJ had no children of his own and Richard had none either despite many different women and apparent opportunities. Perhaps, these chemicals, that poisoned many others, had poisoned them too and so rendered each man childless.

If so it seemed fitting, theirs was a legacy of absence.

Another month has passed since that time. I am still to choose the name for the newly established Trust. It looks like Richard's own shares are to be sold with the proceeds divested across a range of charitable institutions. A further ten percent of these proceeds are to be added to our Trust. So it is a creature of big size and with it comes a largesse to do good,

I thought to choose Anna, but if I have a daughter that name will belong to her. So I think of the girl I never knew who has finally been taken home, a fifteen year old Vietnamese girl whose body has been flown to her home village, the place of her birth, and buried there. Her sojourn in Australia was brief and few remember her. For a while I thought it was fitting her name lives on this way in the place where she once lived and which claimed her life. Her name was Bian, Woman of Secrets. So I toy with choosing Bian's Trust, it seems a fitting name and perhaps I will use it. But she seems too unknown, I think I want a name with a known story to tell, one to inspire.

So far we have traced seventy people who worked here. Twenty one are dead and twenty seven are ill. There has been a lot of publicity which has helped find a few more since I looked. I think there are more yet to find but not many. I suspect some died in unknown places from unknown illnesses. These names we shall probably never know. For those known an ex-gratia payment is to be made to the family of each person who has died, an amount of one million dollars. It will not bring them back, but it puts a real value on each foreshortened life. For those who are ill now, the Trust is first meeting their needs, medical or otherwise. Then it will work out what seems fitting compensation. It is not legal nor adversarial, rather it tries to be kind.

As for me, I had a brief spotlight of national fame, an award from the Australian Press Club and some others. Now I am just happily married me, still chasing down new stories and whatever posts of gold lie buried beneath. And soon, please God, I will be a mother of a new Anna, she will be my trust. I like the idea that there will be two Anna's to share in the Trust, one that is gone and one yet to come, a past redemption and future hope.

So in the end I decide that the Trust must take the name of Anna, it was she who began the story. And I will finish writing her own story and place a copy in the Trust records so that more than her name lives on.

As for Bian, her name deserves to live on too. So I will ask the Board of Trustees to create a bequest in her name, Bian's Bequest, something to be awarded each year to help a needy but deserving migrant establish a new life in Australia, to help build a better future for another Bian or Anna.

## Chapter 40 – Benzy – The After Play

Irina and Stephen have been married for a month when I get a strange call.

It is on my second phone, the one that does not give my business name or my own name, just says, "Sorry, can't talk now. Leave a message if you want me to call back." I check it each day, just in case one of my back door contacts is calling. Calls on it are rare but today I see a missed call from five minutes ago but no message. The number of the missed call is withheld. As I am holding the phone it rings again. It is from a man who calls himself Ethan, though I doubt it is his real name. It asks if he is speaking to Jamie.

I have to dredge my brain cells to remember when I last used this name, it is one of my occasional names used when I don't want the real me to be known. I say, "Yes, that's me," as I give myself more time to think.

The voice say's; "You expressed interest in meeting Irina, hot Irina, in a close physical encounter. She's proving hard to get hold of and line up some free time. It seems her diary is full right now. But I thought, maybe, I could interest you in another, another dark hair girl, a second Eastern European Beauty. She is almost a dead ringer, but even better, a lookalike.

It comes to me now; this is when I was tracking down the details for Irina of the porn video. I had sent a message to the person linked to it on spec, asking to meet the real Irina. Time has passed and I have barely thought of it. With all the publicity about the real Irina I assumed this person would hear about it and go to ground. The police talked to me back then, as part of their investigation into it, but my material was the same as what they already had and the credit card payment I made led nowhere. So I assumed it was a dead end and, with all else that had passed, it was small beer.

But maybe this guy does not know any of this; maybe he lives under a rock in his own little world of creepy, deviant sex.

I say, "Yes, I am interested. But I need to see pics, to see if I like her as much I liked Irina. Send me a front and side on pic of her face and upper body. Then ring back in ten minutes. I will let you know once I look.

The phone pings a few seconds later and I see the requested images have come. I quickly call my police contact and forward on the images. In the space of a minute we decide we will try for a sting. If he doesn't know what has happened to Irina perhaps he is not the sharpest tool in the shed.

He rings back at exactly the appointed time. I say, "I like her, she looks real hot. How do we go forward from here?"

He says, "Her name is Nadia. It will cost you three grand to meet her for a half night, one on your card up front and two in cash when she comes.

"You choose a hotel in the city where you want to meet her and tell me the details when I call this time tomorrow. She is available for the next three nights after tonight. You wait in your room until I come. You must only come down when reception calls. I will bring her to reception at 8 pm on the agreed night. When I come I will collect another grand which you have left for me in an envelope in reception. Put my name, Ethan, on it.

'You will pay her the final grand when her work is done. She needs to leave by midnight. If she is late or you want more time with her it will cost you an extra $500 an hour, paid in cash to her.

I wonder if he will really come in person to collect his money of if this is just a story and she will take the cash while he is far away. Or, whether she will even come at all? Perhaps he will just collect the grand in advance and move on the next sucker. But I suppose, if he wants repeat business, he has to deliver a real person.

So we set it up. The concierge at the hotel is an undercover police officer, the room is booked and I wait. It runs like flawlessly, he comes at the due time, asks for his envelope, takes it and walks back to a waiting taxi. A minute later, money counted, Nadia gets out of the Taxi, walks in and asks to that I be called to come and meet her. As the taxi drives away an unmarked police car follows and pulls it up once around the corner. Two police officers come out, ask Ethan to step outside, arrest him, put him in cuffs and lead him away. The off duty police officer and a second one sitting in the hotel lobby together arrest Nadia and bring her to the police station for interview. It is all done smoothly with barely a ripple while I sit in my hotel room. I probably did not need to be there, but as we had agreed that if you are going to play the sting, you need to play it right. Next day Irina comes in to an identification parade and identifies Ethan, as the same man, David, who had bought her the drinks on that fateful night. That video is corroborating evidence.

Of course neither name is real. Our Ethan tries to bluff his way out. But a fingerprint match gives a real ID. Soon a search warrant finds a studio with all the revealing evidence, recording equipment and multiple videos of another eight girls, some willing and some unwilling victims. And from his computer police get the network and the money trail. He is Serbian and he specialises in the Eastern European dark haired look.

In the end he rolls over and pleads guilty. He gets a ten year sentence with six years non-parole. Some of his girls, like Nadia, are very unhappy this business sideline is no more and even give him character references, saying he always treated them well. I have no doubt that they will soon find another to manage their services. Such is the way of the world.

## Epilogue

Five years have passed since the events which shook our lives. My Irina grows more beautiful every day. We now have an Anna, as expected, and Nicholas, a two year old tear away.

We live at the top of one of the towers at the newly built Olympic Shores Apartments, the part of the Olympic Heights development that is closest to Homebush Bay. It is a great place to live and we bought if off the plan at the 5% discount price that went with all sales to people who owned more than 10,000 shares in Gilt Investments, a reward for the faithful.

From our balcony I like to look across the waterways of the Parramatta River which lead on to Sydney Harbour. To one side I can see the high rise towers of Parramatta and the distant Blue Mountains, to the others side I see the high rise city skyscape, which sparkles with light at night.

Since listing these shares have gone up in value by 50%, a good return which has almost met the original prospectus forecast, though not quite the compound growth bit.

I have a Gilt Prospectus framed on my wall, not that it was ever used. But I like the artwork the graphic designer did. And each time I look at it I realise that nothing is ever 'No Risk.' There are real risks and there are real rewards.

If you are really lucky, like me, the balance comes out right.

# About the Author

Graham Wilson lives in Sydney Australia. He has completed and published twelve separate books, and also a range of combined novel box sets.

They comprise two series,

1. Old Balmain House Series – three novels

2. Crocodile Dreaming Series – five novels and a two book prequel

along with a family memoir, Arnhem's Kaleidoscope Children.

No Risk is his most recent novel, released in late2019.

The Old Balmain House Series starts with the novel, Little Lost Girl, which was previously titled, The Old Balmain House. Its setting is an old weatherboard cottage, in Sydney, where the author lived for seven years. Here a photo was discovered of a small girl who lived and died about 100 years ago. The book imagines the story of her life and family, based in the real Balmain, an early inner Sydney suburb, with its locations and historical events providing part of the story background. The second novel in this series, Lizzie's Tale, builds on the Balmain house setting, It is the story of a working class teenage girl who lives in this same house in the 1950s and 1960s, It tells of how, when pregnant, she is determined not to surrender her baby for adoption and of her struggle to survive in this unforgiving society. The third novel in this series, Devil's Choice, follows the next generation of the family in Lizzie's Tale. Lizzie's daughter is faced with the awful choice of whether to seek the help of one of her mother's rapists' in trying to save the life of her own daughter who is inflicted with an incurable disease.

The Crocodile Dreaming Series is based in Outback Australia. It starts with the first novel, 'An English Visitor' which tells the story of an English backpacker, Susan, who visits the Northern Territory and becomes captivated and in great danger from a man who loves crocodiles. The second book in the series, Crocodile Man, follows the consequences of the first book based around the discovery of this man's remains. The third book, Girl in an Empty Cage, is about Susan's struggle to retain her sanity in jail while her family and friends desperately try to find out what really happened on that fateful day before it is too late. In Lost Girl Diary Susan vanishes and it tells the story of the search for her and four other lost girls whose passports were found in the possession of the man she killed. The final book in the series, Dance of Shadows is the story of a girl who appears in a remote aboriginal community in North Queensland, without any memory except for a name. It tells how she rebuilds her life from an empty shell and how, as fragments of the past return, with them come dark shadows that threaten to overwhelm her.

The prequel to this series has just been published in two parts. It is the story of what made the man Mark, who is a central book character. Part 1 of this prequel, Return of the Breaker, (Crocodile's Child) tells part of the story of Mark's life, as written in by him in a notebook found after his death. Book 1 follows how the abused boy survives a difficult childhood and grows into a charming but dangerous man, who forges his own uncompromising path through life, seeking to follow in the footsteps of the Breaker, that famous horseman who has become an Australian legend of many other books and films. The real Breaker lived and died a century before, and his famous last words as he faced a firing squad at his execution were, "Shoot straight you bastards.' This man seeks to live and die with similar courage.

The second part, the book, 'Whirlwind', completes Marks life story in its increasingly dark final chapters of a search for vengeance and retribution, which consumes him like a Whirlwind, sucking him down ever deeper into the worst of his own human nature. The Prequel should be read after the original five books in the Crocodile Dreaming Series in order to properly understand it.

The book, Arnhem's Kaleidoscope Children, is the story of the author's life in the Northern Territory: his childhood in an aboriginal community in remote Arnhem Land, in Australia's Northern Territory, of the people, danger and beauty of this place, and of its transformation over the last half century with the coming of aboriginal rights and the discovery or uranium. It also tells of his surviving an attack by a large crocodile and of his work over two decades in the outback of the NT.

Graham is planning a memoir about his family's connections with Ireland called Memories Only Remain and also is compiling information for a book about the early NT cattle industry, its people and its stories.

He is also compiling stories set in inner Sydney, in the Rocks area, where he and his wife life, with their three fluffy dogs in one of Sydney's oldest houses. Many people have said to him. 'If only the walls could talk.' He hopes to one day tell some of their secrets.

Graham writes for the creative pleasure it brings him. He is particularly gratified each time an unknown person chooses to download and read something he has written and particularly write a review - good or bad, as this gives him an insight into what readers enjoy and helps him make ongoing improvements to his writing.

In his other life Graham is a veterinarian who works in wildlife conservation and for rural landholders. He lived a large part of his life in the Northern Territory and his books reflect this experience.

More information about Graham and his books and writing is available from the following sites:

Graham Wilson – Australian Author on Facebook

Graham Wilson Author Profile on Smashwords

Graham Wilson's Publishing Web Page

www.beyondbeyondbooks.com.au

If you want to contact Graham directly please use the email:

grahambbbooks@gmail.com
