By Peter Corris
Our d-i-v-o-r-c-e
Becomes final today
- Tammy Wynette
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he’s convinced he’s holding something back,’ Roger Carlson said.
‘Don’t wives make an ambit claim to allow for that?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Some do, but Mrs Morgan just went for a thirty-seventy split of the assets.’
Carlson was a lawyer handling the divorce between Ralph and Danielle Morgan. My solicitor, Viv Garner, had suggested Carlson talk to me about a problem he had in drafting his client’s response to the other side’s version of the settlement.
‘Seventy-thirty,’ I said. ‘That seems on the generous side.’
‘She’s a nice, intelligent woman and he’s a prick, but she acknowledges that most of the money that came in during their marriage was earned by him. Not all, by any means, but she estimates her contribution at less than twenty. She tops it up to thirty on the basis of home-making, and social and personal support.’
‘No kids?’
‘No, thank Christ.’
Carlson looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie. He was a big, athletic type who’d have looked more at home on a golf course or a boat. Just as I was thinking along these lines he loosened the tie and slid it down—maybe he fancied himself as one of those wildly eccentric Hollywood movie lawyers who don’t wear a tie and have a ponytail.
‘A sticky one?’ I said.
‘Didn’t look like it at first, at least from her end, but things took a turn for the worse. I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if there’d been custody involved. His strategy is delay, delay, delay. If there’d been a young child it’d be voting before things got finished.’
I don’t much like working for lawyers. They live in a world of their own with its own rules, most of which outsiders don’t know and wouldn’t want to know. They think and sometimes talk in subsidiary clauses and hypotheticals. Straight-talking Rumpoles are rare—I’ve never met one. Even Viv Garner has his cagey moments. Carlson was doing his best to make sense.
“Why does Mrs Morgan think he’s dudding her?’
Carlson smiled. ‘My dad used to use that expression, haven’t heard it for a while. The husband owned up to a number of bank accounts. He’s a builder so he operates a company and has various accounts—fair enough. The statement he submits says there’s twenty thousand in one account. She says that at the time of their split there was close to three hundred grand in it. She says he’s bought something and tucked it away for afters.’
‘What are we talking about all up?’
‘Not that much—a house worth maybe seven hundred thou but with a pretty heavy mortgage. Bank accounts, cars, furniture and all that, about another hundred thou. So she’s looking at about two hundred and forty thousand, with her share of the equity in the house and the other bits and pieces. Not a lot if she wants to live in Sydney. Another hundred thousand’d make a big difference—get her a decent flat anyway.’
‘Leaving him a bit light on for a builder.’
‘Part of the problem. She admits that he hadn’t been doing so well lately, but she reckons that the three hundred grand was a backstop amount and she’d kicked into it a little over the years.’
‘What does he say happened to it?’
‘Gambling losses.’
I laughed. That’d be checkable—there’d be a paper trail at the casinos or the clubs or with the bookies. People notice three hundred grand going and coming.’
‘He claims it was at private card games, and he says he can provide witnesses.’
‘Well...’
‘She doesn’t believe it. She says he never gambled— wouldn’t buy a lottery ticket or enter a sweep. He reckoned gambling was for idiots.’
I shrugged. ‘Might have got in a hole and changed his mind. Took a chance.’
‘You’re following my line of questioning exactly. She dismisses the idea, says he couldn’t play cards, never did, not even Snap. You’d have to be out of your mind to go into high-stakes card games given that.’
‘True.’
Carlson gave me a level stare. Okay, I don’t care to work for lawyers and, although I did a little divorce work back in the ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ days, I didn’t like it and hadn’t done any for years, ever since Lionel Murphy got a sane law through. But the situation intrigued me.
Carlson grinned. ‘Viv said he thought you’d be interested. I’m glad to see that you are.’
‘You’re right, but what would you want me to do?’
Lawyers make a living by scoring points. It’s in their blood. They join debating teams at school, do moot courts on the way to their degrees, sign up with Toastmasters. The smug ones, and I’ve worked for some in the past, make you feel small when they kick a goal at your expense. Carlson wasn’t like that—he just got down to business.
* * * *
Part of my brief was to follow Morgan and watch what he did, where he went, see who he met and try to get a line on what he might be up to, if anything. He lived in Randwick in a big house on a big block. Position, position, position, and he had it—close to schools, shops and transport, as the ads say. The house looked well maintained, as you’d expect, and would certainly command the sale price Carlson had mentioned.
It looked too big for a childless couple, but perhaps he had his office there. He didn’t seem to have business premises anywhere else. Maybe his wife was an artist who needed a studio. I hadn’t asked what she did. Should have.
Morgan drove a Land Cruiser that looked neither new nor old and over the course of a day he visited a few building sites: small jobs—an art gallery refit, a house renovation, repairs to a cricket ground grandstand damaged in a recent storm. He wasn’t in a big way of business. That could have been deliberate, winding down to keep the pool to be divvied up small. But builders operate with big overheads—licences, insurance, salaries, materials, equipment—and shoestring operators mostly go under. It occurred to me that he could have been trying to construct a bankruptcy, but with the house and the other assets unprotected it seemed like too much to lose for the sake of a hundred thousand. I remained intrigued as I tracked him about.
The other requirement Carlson had was for me to try to get to know Morgan if I could. Tricky, but I’ve got a few tricks. I have a friend, Dick Worth, who has a house in Clovelly. I arranged for him to allow me to contact Morgan to ask for a building inspection of the property. No skin off Dick’s nose—I’d pose as the owner thinking of selling, pay Morgan’s fee, and it’d go on my expense account to Carlson. I phoned Morgan, said he’d been recommended by someone whose name I’d forgotten, and we set a time.
Dick’s house is a freestanding number with high-growing shrubs and trees all around affording it a lot of privacy. No water view but a good location. Dick absented himself after taking me around to show me the quirks of the place and giving me a key to an outside shed and a side gate. Morgan turned up on time. ‘Cliff,’ I said as we shook.
He was small, a bit overweight with some of the muscle of earlier years turning to fat. I put him in his mid-forties— ginger hair fading, weathered complexion, strong grip. ‘Nice place, Cliff,’ Morgan said. ‘What’re you asking?’
‘Haven’t got that far yet. Give me a fair report and I’ll also be grateful for your opinion—you know, off the cuff.’
We wandered around. He had a digital camera and took pictures. He probed and prodded, squatted to look at foundations, hopped up with a bit of effort on the brick fence to take a look at the roof.
‘Seems pretty good. Could stand some paint and gutter work. What’s she like inside?’
‘Come and have a look. Fancy a drink?’
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
We sank a can each as we wandered through the house and had another out on the back deck.
He was wearing jeans, a flannie and a light jacket. He fished out cigarettes. ‘You mind?’
‘Go ahead.’
He held out the packet. I shook my head.
‘Don’t tempt me, trying to stop.’
He lit up, inhaled. ‘You said a fair inspection and an opinion. What d’you mean exactly?’
‘It’s like this ... want another beer? It’s only mid-strength.’
‘Why not?’
I brought out the cans and pulled my chair a little closer to his. ‘The wife and I have split up. Bugger of a business. We have to go halves in the house. I’ve got a bit put by and I could maybe buy her out. Save all the hassle. But I’d have to get a valuation down the lower end. Know what I mean?’
His small grey eyes went angry-shrewd. ‘Do I what! I’m in the middle of the same sort of crap myself, but she got in first and had the place valued way up. Bitch!’
He was one of those men whose tongue was easily loosened by grog, or perhaps he just needed an outlet for his grievance. He ranted on for a while about his wife’s rapacity and complimented me on my strategy.
He polished off his can. ‘You have to play it as tough as they do, Cliff. Tougher.’
I nodded. ‘Got any other suggestions, Ralph?’
He winked sloppily as he got up. ‘I’ll mail you a report you can do something useful with—no worries. But you said you had a bit in reserve. Invest in art, mate. Invest in art.’
The art gallery, had to be a connection.
* * * *
Two days later Morgan’s men had finished their work on the gallery and the place was open for business. I went in for a look-see. I know less than nothing about art. I like the Impressionists and the Heidelberg School, Goya and a few others like Francis Bacon. I suppose I can see what Picasso had going for him, but I can do without Andy Warhol and religious art of all kinds.
I wandered around with the catalogue. The sculptures mostly left me cold except for a few done in wood that I thought I could live with. Not on, with the prices the way they were. I was looking at a big piece of carved and shaped driftwood mounted on a plinth when I saw him. Morgan sauntered into the gallery, nodded to the attendant, an attractive young woman, and stood in front of a couple of large daubings that I hadn’t given a second glance. He moved slightly to gauge how the light fell, checked the catalogue and nodded his approval. He looked so proprietorial I thought he might take out a handkerchief and whisk away a speck or two of dust.
I kept well hidden and he didn’t see me. No chance of that really—the paintings, and presumably their position and the prices, were all that interested him. After he left I checked the catalogue. Items 12 and 13 were Imbroglio and Lassitude by Thomas L Matthiesson. The notes said Matthiesson was a renowned abstract artist who’d exhibited in Paris, London and New York.
The paintings were for sale at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars each. The attendant, who apparently doubled as a saleswoman, approached me because I’d been standing in front of the pictures for several minutes and paying close attention to the catalogue.
‘Superb, aren’t they?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Superb.’
‘Bound to appreciate.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, dear old Tommy’s on his last legs. He’ll die any day and a dead artist fetches more than a live one, generally speaking. Are you interested?’
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
She looked puzzled but still gave me a bright smile. ‘You’re welcome.’
* * * *
I phoned Carlson and told him what I’d learned.
‘That’s great work. I’ll let Mrs Morgan know. She’ll be very pleased. Send in your account, and thank you.’
Three days later he phoned and asked me to come in for a meeting with Mrs Morgan. That was a turn-up.
‘What’s wrong? I thought she’d be pleased to be getting a hundred thousand.’
‘She’s pleased as punch, but she’s not getting any money. She wants to explain it herself, to both of us. I don’t know what’s going on.’
I went to Carlson’s office in Coogee. He told me that, although Mrs Morgan was living in a flat above a shop nearby, she was always late for their appointments. She arrived and apologised. She was a nice-looking woman, in her late thirties at a guess. Casual in jeans and top, a bit ill-kempt but in an attractive way. She couldn’t stop smiling and I couldn’t help liking her and being pleased she was happy, without having the faintest idea why.
‘I’m a picture restorer,’ she said, ‘that’s my job.’
I nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘I went to that gallery to look at the Matthiessons. I know about paintings—Australian pictures anyway. They’re fakes. I happen to know that the original of Imbroglio is in private hands in Brisbane. Don’t know about the other one but it’s a fake, too. The tones and the brush-work are wrong.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Carlson said.
She laughed. ‘No, it’s great. Ralph and I fell out a long time ago. One of the reasons was his resentment at my doing the course that got me into this line of work. I don’t make that much money but I love it, just love it, and I’m pretty good at it. Ralph hates what he does and he’s not good at it anymore. When he decided to hide that money he must have enjoyed the thought of doing it this way. The art world’s full of crooks and shysters. Someone would have told him how to work it on the quiet.’
‘He’s deprived you of a lot of money,’ Carlson said.
She shook her head. ‘You keep saying that, but I would only have gone for thirty per cent, as with the rest of the assets. I wanted to be fair but he tried to dupe me and I can’t help a bit of malice. Poor Ralph, he’s blown the lot.’