‘What does that mean?’ Meg asked, taking a crouton from the salad bowl and feeding it to Maggie.
‘It’s what people do when they don’t want the media or the public finding out they own a particular asset.’ He put the plate on the table. ‘The trust company is in a different name with no official link to the owner of the asset. They’ll have a contract that sits behind that, which legally identifies the asset as belonging to the owner, but that part isn’t subject to the Freedom of Information Act.’
‘So how do we find out?’
‘I already have.’
Meg laughed. ‘Of course you have.’
‘Three of the trust companies—Goodwin Investments, Greenhill Family Trust and Apollo Ventures—link back to a law firm called Purcell Partners. Goodwin Investments is also listed as the owner of a derelict hotel in the Blue Mountains, which was sold a few years ago and is now in development by Ashworth Property.’ Pete sat down and reached for his phone, finding something to show her. ‘Check this out.’
It was a photo of a group of men on a yacht, the white sails of the Sydney Opera House in the background.
‘What am I looking at?’ Meg asked. It was a long shot, the shadows dark from the bright sun directly overhead, and most of the men wore caps, obscuring their faces. She leaned in closer. ‘Is that Hugh Thorburn?’
‘It sure is, with his arm around the shoulder of Evan Purcell, the Managing Partner of Purcell Partners. See anyone else there you recognise?’
Pete waited while she studied the photo.
‘Spencer Ashworth,’ she said, slowly.
‘Yep.’
She tapped on the photo to see if they were tagged, but nothing came up. ‘How’d you find this?’
‘That’s the Instagram profile of a guy I used to play rugby with. The boat belonged to a friend of his.’
‘Interesting. It doesn’t definitively prove anything, though, does it?’
‘No, but there are too many touch points for it to be random. The likelihood that thisisn’tlinked to the Ashworths is slim to none. This story could be big, Meg.’
‘What do you reckon they’re planning?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet.’ He poured the wine, then lifted his glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’
She looked around at the little paradise Pete had created at the back of his tiny terrace in the middle of the city. The coloured lights reflected red and gold off the glasses on the table. Overhead, the sky was an inky blue. The festive sounds of a nearby Christmas party travelled over the fence. The rise and fall of voices. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. The beat of a song. The air was warm on her bare arms.
‘Impromptu barbecues on summer nights,’ she said, clinking her glass against his. ‘Let’s not talk about Mum or flatmates or the bloody Ashworths. I need a night off.’
Chapter 32
Issy pressed the brass doorbell at Kilmore and checked her lipstick in the opaque glass pane in the front door. Rouge Allure, by Chanel. She always wore a red lip on Christmas Day. Hugh put a hand on the small of her back and she felt herself stiffen.
‘Are you pissed off about something?’ he said, dropping his hand.
‘No, sorry.’ She gave him a tight smile and smoothed the brocade folds of her gold dress. She’d been trying to put aside her suspicions about Hugh’s phone call, but it seemed her subconscious hadn’t got the memo. Footsteps approached and the front door swung open.
‘Come in! Merry Christmas!’ They were ushered inside by a pretty, blonde teenager wearing a white shirt and a black apron longer than the skirt she wore under it. Who knew where Heather recruited staff willing to work on Christmas Day, but she always managed to find them.
They followed the waitress down the wide hallway, lined on either side by enormous artworks no one ever stopped to look at, to the kitchen, where Spencer and Helen stood with Heather and Cathy by the marble island bench. The steel doors behind them were open, white linen curtains billowing gently in the light breeze. On the terrace beyond, Olivia was photographing Daisy, who posed in front of the turquoise pool in a string bikini.
Heather greeted Issy with her characteristic aloofness. ‘Merry Christmas. Don’t you look lovely.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Merry Christmas, Heather.’ Hugh kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Stunning as always.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ Heather said, coyly, then dropped her voice. ‘Have you heard? Felix is bringing a girlfriend.’ She pulled a face, as though she would be less surprised if he was bringing a unicorn to Christmas lunch. ‘A handbag designer, apparently,’ she added, raising an eyebrow.
