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by
Stephen Collicoat
'Good morning, Paul. Any winners?'
The quiet inquiry jolted Paul Kruger. He cursed his ill luck. This is it, he
thought. Adequate warning. Three strikes and you're out.
The tag clipped to his blue shirt read 'Security Guard'. It was repeated on the
brass plate sitting on the front counter, behind which he sat. Except he hadn't
been guarding anything. Rather, he had been scanning the racing form in that
morning's newspaper. And of course, there was nothing. Nothing at Flemington, or
Randwick, or anywhere else. There never was, and never would be, a winner in any
race he picked.
Paul knew what he was expected to do. Sit at his desk, staring like a zombie at
the front door, hours before any office workers arrived, checking the security
screens, pressing the hidden button to accept an early delivery or warning the
guy who tried to sleep in his rags under the bleak shelter of the facade to
clear off before Paul called the police.
'One more time, Paul and you're out,' the Human Resources Director had raged.
'Do your job or we'll get someone who can. It's as simple as that.'
Simple, but how did they expect him to remain alert in such a deadly job? How
would she like to be sitting around, watching grainy, black and white pictures
of deserted hallways, empty foyers and deserted offices? A monkey could do his
job. Except this monkey needed his weekly, thin bag of peanuts. Needed to pool
his miserable wage with that of his wife who was working two shifts - both
cleaning toilets - to pay the rent, put food on the table and see their two
spoilt brats through school. And now his employer had caught him shirking. Not
just anyone working for Wildmarsh Enterprises, but the top man: Mr. Mark
Woodley.
What was it like to be Mark Woodley, Paul had often wondered. One thing, he
decided, it would never be boring.
Paul often imagined he was Mark Woodley. He was walking over to the private
elevator with the burnished steel doors. He entered the lift used only by
himself or ,very occassionally, his wife. It was Paul who pressed the button and
was lifted high above the lobby, sixty floors to the penthouse. And it was
there, in the hallway by the front door of the penthouse, where Paul's
imagination failed.
Other staff members shared Paul's curiosity about their rich employer.
'Come on,' they'd plead. 'Let's just take a look at the television screens. We
want to see Mark Woodley, the private man. What does he do in that lift? Yawn,
scratch, grimace?'
'You can't come around this side of the counter,' Paul would reply. 'What Mr.
Woodley does or doesn't do in his private moments and what I see on the security
cameras is between himself and myself.'
Paul liked the feeling that there was an unstated, yet special bond between his
employer and himself. In truth, it was all rather disappointing. Mark Woodley in
the lift wore exactly the same enigmatic smile that he wore in the lobby.
The camera set about the front door of the penthouse offered a small,
tantalising glimpse beyond and then the door would close and Paul Kruger again
became a bored, overweight security guard .
Paul raised his eyes reluctantly from his newspaper and tried a weak smile.
'No winners, sir. Perhaps you could suggest something?'
It was a bold move. Perhaps an appeal to Australian blokiness may just succeed.
Woodley shook his head. 'I can't help you there. I don't gamble on horses.' He
nodded pleasantly and walked past to the lift.
Paul watched him thoughtfully as the lift doors closed. Was that it, he
wondered. No rebuke. Or would he later receive a call from Personnel, telling
him he could pick up his severance pay at the office?
That was the last time Paul saw Mark Woodley. It was also the last recorded
sighting of the multi-millionaire.
It was mid-afternoon when Charles Bury reached Mt. Macedon.
He drove slowly down the winding, sealed road, checking the house numbers. At
length, he turned into a driveway that was flanked by two weathered lions,
crouching on tall pillars. The house, a sprawling 1920's cream stone building
was set in a formal garden, full of English trees and bushes.
Bury parked his car- an unremarkable Japanese sedan beside a late model, racing
green Jaguar. He found the front door open and, when Noone answered his call,
stepped inside.
Hearing the murmur of voices, he moved down the hallway. A man and woman were
talking.
'I can't see it, Mrs. M,' the man was saying. 'What's this Charles Bury meant to
find? The police spent three months looking into your husband's disappearance
and came up with zero.'
'Bury is said to be the best in Melbourne,' the woman replied. 'If Mark is still
alive, I'm told he'll find him.'
Her voice took on a harder tone. 'Besides you're my employee. I don't have to
justify my decisions to you.'
Bury entered the room. A tall, beefy man in his late forties, dressed in a
business suit, was standing by the French windows. A woman in her fifties, sat
on a sofa. Although she was casually dressed in a t-shirt, jeans and loafers,
she had the sleek, confident look of the wealthy.
'Mrs. Woodley?'
She turned at Bury's question with a start. Beyond the carefully tousled hair
and glowing tan which gave her a youthful look, Bury noted the fine lines of
disappointment and peevish boredom at the corners of her mouth.
'How did you get in?' she demanded.
'The door was open. Noone answered, so I walked through.'
The woman relaxed. 'Oh, that wretched woman. I forgot it's her day off. She's
never here when I want her.
'Well, now that you're here,' she continued briskly, ' Let's get started. I'm
Nicole Woodley and this is Spencer Brandon, my security advisor. I take it
you're Charles Bury?'
Brandon didn't offer to shake hands, but stood watching Bury with a hostile air.
'If you want a drink, help yourself,' Nicole Woodley waved idly at bottles and
tumblers grouped on an occassional table. She consulted her dainty, gold Rolex.
'Except I haven't much time. Some friends are coming over for tennis and I need
to change.'
'This won't take long,' Bury said impertuably. 'Let me summarise what I know.
Please correct me if I'm wrong.'
He sat down in one of the chairs without invitation and continued. ' On February
28 this year, your husband disappeared. The last person that we know who spoke
to him was a Paul Kruger, who was then a security guard for the building owned
by your husband's company. Mr. Kruger is now unemployed. He spoke to your
husband at around 5a.m. After a brief conversation, Mr. Woodley entered his
private lift. Kruger told me he observed Mr. Woodley on the television set that
is linked to the lift's camera. He watched your husband enter the front door of
his penthouse on the 60th. floor, after which we know nothing, as there are no
cameras installed in the flat.'
'Yes, my husband insisted on his privacy in the penthouse.'
'None saw him leave the flat or saw him leave the building,' Bury went on. 'The
next day, having tried to phone him several times, you travelled to Melbourne
and went to his penthouse which was empty. You then called numerous colleagues
and friends of Mr. Woodley. Finally, on February 30, you notified the police.'
'Who investigated the disappearance very thoroughly,' Brandon put in.
'Yes,' Bury agreed. 'I've read the files. At first, there were fears that your
husband had been kidnapped, but there was never a demand for ransom. After a
month, you made a televised appeal and a large reward was posted. This resulted
in a flood of hoax calls, but nothing substantial. The police also investigated
and dismissed the theory that your husband had became involved in some criminal
activity. Since then, I take it there has been no contact from Mr.Woodley?'
Nicole shifted impatiently. ' No. Can we wind this up now? I'll help in any way
I can, but I really must go and change. Spencer Brandon will answer any other
questions.I've told him to give you any assistance or access you need.'
'A few minutes more,' Bury said equably. It was many years since he had felt
awed or intimidated by the rich. 'I believe for all their thoroughness, the
police took the wrong approach. I don't believe Mr. Woodley was kidnapped. I'm
convinced he left the building in a deliberately secretive manner.'
'And how would he have done that without being seen ?' Spencer Brandon scoffed.
'Easily. Mr.Woodley is a resourceful man. He doctored the cameras so that they
showed an empty lobby and lift.'
'Assuming that, how did he leave the lift without the guard in the lobby seeing
him?'
'Because he didn't take the lift all the way to the lobby. He took it down to
one of the office floors. Mr. Woodley's company rents out space to a number of
commercial tenants. Many of these renters wouldn't readily know him by sight,
especially if he was disguised in some way.'
'Oh, this is ridiculous,' Brandon laughed. 'What, did he wear a false beard and
glasses?'
Bury refused to be baited. 'He wouldn't have needed an elaborate disguise.
Everyone would expect to see a millionaire businessman in a suit. If he was
dressed, say, as a delivery man, who would notice him? I imagine, having taken
his lift to an office floor, he went to a washroom by the lift, then coming out
joined office workers waiting for the lift. He would have chosen around
lunchtime or at closing time to join a crowded lift. He then walked out of the
building with the group. I doubt the security guard would notice that a delivery
man who hadn't come into the building was now leaving, but the security guards
change shifts around the lunch break anyway.'
'Why do you dismiss the idea of kidnapping?' Brandon persisted.
'It's too clumsy', Bury replied. ' Why would anyone enter a building and travel
to a restricted area, when they could have simply plucked Mark Woodley off the
street?' He turned to Nicole Woodley, ' No, I believe that your husband walked
out of your life.'
'But why?' Nicole asked helplessly.
'That's the mystery here,' Bury said. 'It's not how he disappeared, but why.
'Let's look at motive. His business was doing well. I carried out a careful
audit and there's little debt and no offshore bank accounts. I haven't found any
connection to organised crime. Your husband wasn't having an affair and I
believe neither were you. There's no attempt to defraud the tax officeand
there's no connection with a terrorist or other political group. He has no
connection with our government's security services, nor do any of his major
clients.'
Bury shrugged. 'Am I missing something, Mrs. Woodley? I can't imagine why your
husband would leave without a trace. Did you have a good marriage?'
Nicole considered the question. 'I always thought so. Mark isn't the type to
chase after other women and, in case you're wondering, I'm sure he's not a
closet gay. In fact, he's quite conservative in his sexual tastes.'
'Then,' Charles Bury said, rising, 'That's all the questions I have at present.
I'd like the swipe card to Mr.Woodley's private lift and the keys to his
penthouse. I'll be staying there for a week. Please call me if you want access.'
'What are you going to do there?' Spencer Brandon demanded.
'Listen, Mr. Brandon. I have my own way of doing things. I don't require your
permission and I don't welcome your curiosity.If you have a problem with that,
raise your concerns with Mrs. Woodley. Otherwise, butt out.
'Finally,' he said, turning to Nicole Woodley. 'The fee is as we agreed. If,
after a week, I don't feel I can bring anything useful to this inquiry, I'll
tell you and we'll terminate our agreement.
'Goodbye, Mrs.Woodley,' Bury smiled as Nicole languidly waved farewell. 'I hope
you enjoy your tennis.'
The following day, Bury moved into Mark Woodley's penthouse. He immersed himself
in the missing man's world, but found nothing significant.
He then examined all Woodley's possessions: his clothes, personal papers,
including passport, credit cards, the words he wrote, videos he watched, the
books in his library shelves, the pictures hanging on the walls and the view he
enjoyed. Apart from confirming his view that Mark Woodley had a fresh and
original mind, Bury found nothing to help solve the mystery of why a
multi-millionaire would choose to disappear.
A lesser man may have felt discouraged, but Bury knew that each case he worked
on had its own pace and each demanded a different approach. In the 12 years
since Bury had left his senior post at the Australian Federal Police to set up
his one man investigative service, he had successfully solved many mysteries. In
some cases, logical reasoning proved the key. In others, a careful search of
records unearthed some tiny, overlooked detail. Conventional policing solved
most problems, but Charles Bury had inherited from his father the rare gift of
intituition. He strongly sensed that during his stay at the penthouse, the
mystery would be solved.
So it came as no surprise that around 4.15 a.m., Bury woke to see a man's shape
outlined against the bedroom window.
'Hello, Mark', he said quietly. 'I always felt you were alive.'
'Put on some clothes and we'll talk on the terrace,' Woodley suggested. 'I'll
put on some coffee.'
The night air was unsettled. The two men sat, sipping coffee as they watched the
brilliant tapestry of city lights and the dark sea of the countryside beyond.
They couldn't clearly see each other's faces, their bodies dim shapes in the
weak light cast by the bedroom light in the room beyond. There was a distant
crash of thiunder and lightning forked through the heavy clouds.
'Someone will be getting rain tonight,' Mark commented.
Bury nodded. 'Yes, it looks as though it's breaking over your home at Mt.Macedon.'
For a brief, poignant moment, Mark thought of Nicole. Was she asleep or
listening to the rain pelting into the dry, thirsty garden? Did she accept she
would never see him again and did that realisation hurt her?
Night, Mark thought, is the time for both quiet truths and whispered lies.
He turned to Bury. 'I've been watching you since you came to the penthouse. This
afternoon, you hardly stirred. You seemed to be waiting.'
Yes, I was waiting. Willing you to come.'
'How did you know I was close?'
'Well, sometimes what I will occurs, but in this case, I knew you were watching
me. I saw that tiny camera on the first day when I entered the lounge. I knew
there would be other cameras and that you were watching what I was doing. I
reasoned that if I did nothing, it wouldn't be long before you were intrigued
and came to talk with me.
'Have you also placed cameras in your house in Mt.Macedon to watch Nicole?'
'Yes.'
'Isn't it creepy spying on your wife?'
'I suppose it is. Let me explain. Eight months ago, I decided to become a ghost.
'It came to me one evening. I was sitting in the lounge here, looking at the
large painting of Kings' Canyon in the Northern Territory. I know that you like
it too. I've watched you standing in front of it for long periods.
'I've often stood there, watching, no, entering that painting. I can feel the
slight breeze of the night on my cheek, smell the cool desert sand, dive into
the deep sea of silence. That night, I understood for the first time that the
aboriginal who painted that evocative scene had something I would never have:
passion.
I had a privileged background. Wealthy parents. Education at Geelong Grammar and
Melbourne University. I was given my first sports car - an 'E-type' as a gift
when I matriculated and wrecked it during my first year at uni. I lived a life
most men only dream about. Shortly after graduation, I began my own company,
using seed money from my family. I rapidly built an empire and have never really
failed.'
'Lucky you,' Bury murmured sourly.
'No, not really. It's meant that my life, though successful, has lacked any
edge. Because everything came so easily, nothing has meant much.'
'That's tough,' Bury said unsympathetically, 'But in a city where thousands
don't have a place to sleep at night and others bed down in hovels, the whining
dissatisfaction of a spoiled, rich man doesn't cut it.'
'You're right,' Mark Woodley agreed. 'I don't expect your approval, just a
little understanding.
'It's a fact that the rich suffer from the law of diminishing returns. The more
you have, the less it means. Of course, it brings satisfaction, but generally
for frighteningly short periods of time. You feel obscurely cheated and that
makes you angry.
'You see the result of that anger all the time. Stand in a line at any airport.
Most people are flying economy. They'll be grateful if the flight is just
reasonably quiet and comfortable. Then look in the privilege lane and there's
always someone throwing a tantrum because he can't get the best of Business or
First Class. He knows everyone thinks he's an ass, but he can't control his
rage.
'Yes,' Bury agreed. 'A friend years ago told me a horrid, but true story.
'Some years ago, there was an Asian prince who was young, rich and spoilt. He
had a private golf course. One day, his game was going badly. It was as though
every stroke he made that day was cursed.Normally a fair player, that day he
tore out divots of turf, or the ball would curve off into the rough, arrow into
a bunker or splash into a lake.
'When he missed an easy putt, his caddy bent down to examine the lie of the
ball. Something about the man - perhaps his vulnerability - angered the prince.
Raising his putter, he swung it down on the man's skull. Probably, the first
blow killed the poor devil, but the prince beat the man's skull into a pulp. The
prince was never arrested and the servant's family were paid to keep silent.
'The man who told me the story was the caddy's son. The money meant he could
attend an Australia university. He vowed that one day, he would avenge his
father's murder.'
'Did he?'
Bury shook his head. 'No, the prince died of heart failure. Probably, a mixture
of rich food and stress. I imagine my friend felt cheated out of satisfaction,
but his life would have been torn apart if he had murdered the prince. As it is,
he's now one of the foremost judges in his country. His father didn't die in
vain.'
Mark Woodley sighed. 'Yes, its that rage of the rich. I found myself becoming
irritable, even angry at the smallest thing. I realised I was bored and restless
and it was destroying me.'
'Did you discuss this with Nicole?'
'Woodley gave a bitter laugh. 'I tried, but she's bought the whole package.
Successful husband. Affluent lifestyle. It's not that I don't love her anymore.
It's just I can't see how I can keep her happy if I'm miserable.
'I know you think I'm selfish, but I've also done everyone a favour. If people
knew I had gone off to lead another life, they would probably think either
Nicole was to blame or my business was crooked.
'Disappearing also means that people are less likely to search for me. I don't
want people forever hounding me for an explanation. You're good at finding
people. I don't want to spend my life, looking over my shoulder, expecting you
there. In fact, I'm hoping you'll tell Nicole there's no chance my disappearance
will ever be solved and she's better to go on without me.'
There was a long rumble of thunder and lightning crackled across the dark sky.
'The rain's drawing closer,' Bury noted.
Mark continued quietly. 'I began to question my life. How would people react if
I was no longer here? Most of us like to think our departure would have a
profound effect on at least some people's lives. I decided to discover the
truth.
'I began my experiment by ensuring Nicole would be well provided for when I
disappeared. I didn't want her waiting years before I was officially declared
dead to gain access to my estate. Any regret she feels about my disappearance
wont be because she's lost her meal ticket.
'Then I appointed a very able successor in the business. He's been training
beside me for months now and Wildmarsh wont miss a beat because I'm no longer in
control.
'Having provided for others, I planned my future as a ghost. I obtained a false
passport, so I could travel at will. I secreted money in overseas bank accounts
- my own money, not funds siphoned from the firm. I can live in simple comfort
for the rest of my days.
'Several weeks ago, I was sitting in a small trattoria in Portofino, watching
the sun set over the bay, when I felt for the first time free and contented. I
knew then I had done the right thing. Life isn't a prelude. It's short, precious
and should never be squandered.
'I installed security cameras to observe how Nicole was coping with my loss. I
was always interested in electronics - built my first television set when I was
14. It was easy to circumvent the security system at Mt.Macedon. Sometimes, I've
stood in my bedroom, watching Nicole sleep.'
Mark recalled with pain the temptation to reach out and touch his wife's smooth,
warm shoulder and kiss her soft hair spilling onto the pillow.
He hurried on, ' People seem to live very easily without me. Did you know Nicole
now has a lover? It's that odious Spencer Brandon. I did enjoy watching the run
in that you two had. I can't admire her taste, but their affair won't last.'
'What did you expect from your wife?' Bury said severely. 'That she'd stay
celibate, while you spy on her? What you're doing is wrong. You've disrupted
many people's lives. Anyone who cared about you has suffered. You've also wasted
police time. Do you really think they haven't anything better to do than
investigate the disappearance of a rich man who enjoys playing creepy games?
Perhaps you better stay a ghost. Nobody will welcome you back.'
'You're very hard on me,' Mark Woodley sighed. 'But you're probably right. It's
better I stay a ghost. He laughed ruefully, 'It's pleasing people can get on so
well without me, but it's disappointing to realise I'm so replaceable. Will you
tell Nicole you spoke to me?'
'I don't know. She paid me to discover the truth, so I'm reluctant to lie. At
the same time, its better you disappear from their lives. Imagine the confusion
and anger
if you return.'
'My coffee's cold,' Mark said. 'Would you bring the plunger out?'
When Charles Bury returned to the terrace, it was empty. A moment later, he
heard the front door to the penthouse quietly close.
He sat, watching lightning dart across the city. The first, heavy drops of rain
began to fall.
Then he returned to bed. He thought about Mark. Imagined him, walking along the
city pavements as the rain pelted down. The only man who was not sheltering
under an umbrella or hurrying to shelter. A man who was smiling.Walking,
drenched but happy through the city. Walking toward another life.
After a while, Bury slept.
The rain eased to a fine mist. It whispered twisted stories about men who, for
noble, selfish or mad instincts, one day set out to chart a different course.
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