Operation Camilla Read online

  OPERATION CAMILLA

  Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

  Copyright Tabitha Ormiston-Smith 2016

  Smashwords edition

  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 www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OPERATION CAMILLA

  CHAPTER ONE

  Donald Blackman howled with outrage as the dog squatted right in the middle of his new false grass lawn. Dropping his mail and paper, he ran across the grass and aimed a kick at the beast. The big yellow dog evaded the kick, dancing just out of range, pink tongue flapping from the side of its mouth. Blackman lost his balance, skidded on the wet grass and sat heavily on his bottom. He looked quickly about to see if anyone had observed him, but the early morning street, thank God, was quiet and empty. He picked up his slightly mangled newspaper and brandished it at the dog. The dog barked once, dropped low in front in what Blackman interpreted as mockery, then lifted its head as if hearing a distant call, turned and trotted away.

  Blackman strode across his front lawn, plucking damp trousers away from his bottom. Something squelched beneath his foot, and he looked down and roared with rage, scrubbing his foot on the artificial grass and smearing the fresh dog poo more thoroughly over his suede desert boots. Seven o’clock and he could already feel the day slipping out of his grasp, sinking into the vast, amorphous expanse of wasted days that had become his life. He let himself into his semi-detached office and tossed the day’s mail and the soggy paper onto his secretary’s desk.

  In the sanctum of his inner office, he threw himself into his chair and glowered out the window. The day stretched ahead, void of client meetings, void of court appearances, void, if he were honest with himself, of work. The only files he had that were current were a couple of conveyancing matters. He had had to refer most of his regular clients to other practitioners following his trouble, when his practising certificate had been suspended for three months. None of them had come back when he’d reopened his doors. Not a single one. He was relying on his mates at Acme Real Estate for a trickle of conveyancing referrals, but they didn’t even generate enough income to cover his secretary’s wages.

  A few nice, juicy divorces, that was what he needed. High net worth individuals meant rich pickings for the family lawyer. High net worth individuals with children, he mused. Those were the best; the arguments about custody and access could drag on for years, with many court appearances. The nastier it got, the more he raked in.

  He heaved his bulk out of the chair, stumped back out to the front office and picked up his newspaper, his mind filled with dreams of golden wealth furnished by human misery. If only, he thought, there were some way to make people get divorced.

  That prat John Mills was on the front page again, accepting some award. Smug bastard. Businessman of the year. Look at him with his bloody trophy wife and his five blond children. I’d like to have you in my office fighting for your life, you smarmy git. You wouldn’t look so bloody pleased with yourself then.

  He frowned suddenly, bending over the paper to look more closely at the photograph. That wasn’t the woman he’d seen Mills with at the Commercial Club last week. She was blonde and uptight-looking. The woman he’d seen last week had been a slutty-looking brunette, with tits the size of watermelons and a skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on. Heh, heh. So Mills was playing away, was he? Dirty bastard. He chuckled appreciatively.

  There was nothing much of interest in the paper. Blackman skimmed through it, sneering at the picture of the happy children who’d found their lost dog and the one of the stupid hippy festival. The hippies were no good. They lived on their commune, didn’t own enough to bother making wills, and there were never any family law matters; they didn’t bloody get married in the first place, and they never seemed to argue over their children even if they did split up. You might get the odd criminal matter – marijuana and the like - but that wasn’t worth anything; they were always on Legal Aid, so you could only charge the scheduled fee. Someone like that Mills, that was what you wanted. An enormous asset pool with that thriving department store, probably a self-managed superannuation fund, big expensive house, probably a holiday house too. And plenty at stake, with the five kids. Yes, if only Mills were getting a divorce. If that uptight bitch ever found out about the other woman…. He drifted into a pleasant reverie, where a now-humble Mills shivered in the client chair, begging for his help. Allegations of child abuse would make it go on even longer. Sometimes, if you were lucky… of course, a discreet rumour might spark such allegations. As long as it wasn’t traceable….

  He looked up with a frown as he heard the outer door. “That you, Shelley?” he called.

  “Yes, Mr Blackman.”

  Blackman glanced at his watch. It was eight fifteen. “Get in here,” he roared. “Now!”

  His secretary crept into the office.

  “What bloody time do you call this? Hey? Hey?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr-”

  “Your hours are eight to five. That means you are here at eight every morning. Not swanning in halfway through the morning. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”

  “Yes, Mr Blackman, I’m sor-”

  “So what the hell d’you think you’re doing turning up at eight fifteen?”

  “I’m really sorry, I-”

  “Do you think that because you’re only nineteen you’re not expected to do a full job? Is that it? Think you can just loaf around and come in when it suits you?”

  “No, Mr Black-”

  “It’s not acceptable, Shelley. I pay you to be here and I expect you to be here, on time, every day. Your work’s shit, I left the Mulgrave file on your desk, the whole thing has to be retyped. If you paid a bit more attention to your work perhaps you’d be able to do a simple task without having to redo it five times. What kind of impression do you think it makes when you spell the client’s name wrong, hey? You stupid little bitch. Do you want to make me look like a fucking amateur? And you need to smarten yourself up, for Christ’s sake, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a fucking hedge.”

  She was crying now, he saw with satisfaction, doing her best to hide it but he could see the telltale shine in her eyes, and hear the muffled sniffs. Good; serve her right.

  “Get me a coffee,” he snapped. “At least that’s something you can do properly.”

  He was engrossed in the paper again when she came back out, carrying a tall porcelain mug. She set it carefully on the corner of the rosewood desk, sliding a coaster under it as she’d learned to do when he’d stopped her wages to pay for its refinishing.

  “What’s the matter, Shel?” His tone now was kindly, avuncular. Keep them off balance, that was what you did. They worked twice as hard that way, and besides, it was fun. “Boyfriend playing you up? Sit down and tell me about it. Get yourself a coffee, too.” She flinched as if he’d pointed a gun at her head. “Ah, come on, Shel, you don’t want to pay too much attention when I go off at you. Come on, get yourself a cuppa and sit down.”

  Over coffee, employing the client interview skills he’d honed over thirty years of legal practice, he elicited the information that Shelley’s boyfriend had dumped her the previous evening. Pleased with this information, Blackman probed further, encouraging her to tell the full story of the relationship.

  She’d met him through an online dating agency, it turned out. Blackman pr
essed his lips together to repress a snigger. They had gone out for dinner and to films a few times, and had slept together after their fifth date. Blackman bit back a yawn. The crisis had come last night, after she’d been seeing him for three months. He had taken her to a really flash restaurant, and it had all been so romantic, blah blah blah…. She’d thought he was working up to propose, and then when she went back to his place…. At this point Shelley broke down in helpless sobs.

  Blackman was bored with the story and wanted to get back to his own work, such as it was, but he felt that as he’d invested nearly half an hour, it ought not to be a total waste. Whatever had prompted the breakup would be a major trigger for the girl, which could be subtly played on for his amusement and profit. So he made sympathetic tut-tutting noises, fetched tissues and a glass of water, and generally behaved like a kindly old uncle. It was good to keep his hand in at this crap anyway; family law clients often needed a lot of sympathy, especially the women.

  Patience paid off when she finally finished snuffling and snorting. And what a payoff! Blackman had to hold his breath for twenty seconds so as not to burst out laughing. Instead of the engagement ring the silly bitch had expected, waiting for her in her boyfriend’s bedroom had been a leash and collar, and a whip! When she’d demurred, he’d taken the moral high ground by reminding her that her profile on the dating website had said she liked to try new things. Even better, she’d apparently tried to go along with it, but had evidently failed to perform satisfactorily as a dog, and had broken down completely when he demanded that she eat food out of a dog bowl on the floor. Now she felt used, she felt dirty, blah blah blah.

  Blackman could no longer restrain himself, and dissolved into giggles that felt unmanly, but were unstoppable. He sat jiggling in his chair, tears of laughter rolling down his face, gesturing helplessly with one hand. After a shocked gasp, the girl resumed howling and fled into the lavatory. The sound of her sobs cut off abruptly as the soundproofed door closed behind her. Blackman subsided into chuckles as he opened the McAllister file. Lead and collar, he murmured to himself, shaking his head. Yarralove.com. God almighty.

  ***

  Tammy sighed as she booted up her computer. Writing a novel was turning out to be a lot more work than she’d imagined, and a lot less fun. She’d been at it for three months now, and it was turning out to be rather a slog. After she’d been instrumental in Ben’s catching that horrible drug dealer, she’d decided she was a natural to write detective fiction, what with her Fine Arts degree and her practical experience, but as it turned out, you needed a lot more than a good idea and knowing your way around Proust. She’d got off to a good start, with the basic book drafted in six weeks, but when she had read through it, she’d been horribly disappointed. Not only did it not read well, but it was far too short for a full-length novel. Now she was adding another skin to the onion, layering in subplots and character exposition, and her initial enthusiasm had waned to the point where, some days, she didn’t even look at it. The worst of it was that the book seemed to have swallowed up her whole life. She hadn’t done any more work on her awful fixer-upper house since she’d started writing it, and it had been a whole three months now. She hadn’t even finished the sitting room; it was painted, but that was all, and her bedroom, where she now sat, was furnished only with a mattress on the floor and a still-packed cardboard box to hold her alarm clock, besides, of course, the cheap card table and folding chair where she was presently sitting. Perhaps it was her surroundings that were the problem.

  She let her eyes glaze over, forgetting the unfinished book as she thought about how she’d like her bedroom to be. All white would be lovely and peaceful. She’d buy some paint on Saturday, she decided. Having done the sitting room, painting was one thing she really knew how to do. And paint was cheap, unlike furniture and curtains. She certainly had enough cash to buy a big tin of white and some primer. She could move her makeshift bed into the second bedroom while she did it, and that would keep Tom away from the work too; she didn’t need black fur floating through the air and sticking to wet paint. Perhaps she could get Ben to help? It was such a couples thing to do, painting a room together. But he was leaving on Sunday night to go on that computer crime course, and would be away for three weeks, so if she wanted him to help, she wouldn’t be able to get started until after that. Tammy liked to get on with things as soon as she thought of them. She could have it all finished, easily, by the time Ben got back, and the mattress moved back in. Perhaps she could paint the floor white, too. Could you get paint for floors? Well, she would start with the walls and think about that later.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blackman arrived back at his office at half past three, feeling mellow after a bottle and a half of Cabernet Sauvignon. He had told the story about Shelley’s boyfriend to three of his cronies at the Commercial Club, to roars of laughter. No doubt it would get about, but what the hell – she was a miserable whiny bitch anyway, and he didn’t suppose it would make a lot of difference to her constant snivelling.

  That wasn’t the best thing, though, although he’d had a fine time at lunch. The best thing was the idea he’d had as he was driving unsteadily back from the club. The idea that would rejuvenate his ailing practice. The idea that would generate family law matters, and more family law matters, pretty much, as far as he could see, on demand.

  Ignoring the still-weepy Shelley hunched over her desk, he went into his office and closed the door. Pressing the intercom button on his phone, he barked, ‘No calls this afternoon.’ He settled back in his chair, crossed his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling. There were a number of details to be worked out.

  First and foremost, of course, he would need a computer expert. The degree of computer skill necessary to this project was, he knew, far beyond him. He knew where to get one, though. His nephew, Josh, had graduated from RMIT last year, and was now working at PCs R Us, just three doors down from the Commercial Club. With the right cover story, he might not even need to pay him.

  That would take a bit of thought, though. Josh was a smart boy, very smart, and it would take something special to get him to work free. Something idealistic, he thought. All these young kids were all about saving the planet, and all that goody-goody rubbish. But at the same time it had to be cool. That was what young people cared about. Being cool. He gazed around his messy, cluttered office, looking for inspiration. His eye fell on the paperback he was reading. Ah yes, now he had it. That would get him. He reached for the telephone.

  ***

  Ben leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. “Ahhhh. Best thing I ever did, moving in here. You keep this up, you minx, I’m gonna have to spend every night in the gym.”

  Tammy eyed him fondly. He certainly could eat for England. How nice it was to have someone demanding third helpings every night. Ben’s uncritical appetite made her feel like Nigella Lawson. “I don’t think you’re putting on weight, Ben. You look great to me.”

  They enjoyed a sappy moment. Then Tammy rose to start on the dishes. “Haven’t you got packing to do?”

  “Shit, yeah.” He leaped up. “Nearly forgot. Shit, three whole weeks. I’m going to miss you, Tam. And your cooking. And you, you little scoundrel.” He bent to lift Tom to his shoulder. “You won’t forget to worm him, will you, Tammy? It’s due on Friday.”

  “No, Ben, I won’t forget to worm him. And I won’t forget to feed him. And I won’t forget to give him cuddles. Go on, get out of here.” She flicked the dish towel at him as he exited the kitchen, Tom draped around his neck like a black fur scarf.

  ***

  “… a matter of national security.”

  Josh regarded his uncle sceptically. “Seems odd they don’t have their own computer people, though. I mean, a big organisation like Asio.”

  Blackman tapped the side of his nose. “It’s a black op, Josh. Full freedom, but no support. I’m on my own with this. And I need the help of someone I can trust. I need your help, Josh.
For the children,” he finished, with a significant look.

  “Children? What children?”

  Damn, he’d laid it on too thick. “Figure of speech, mate. I mean the security of our nation, and the country our children are going to inherit, see what I mean?”

  “Alright, Uncle Don. What was it you wanted me to do?”

  “I need you to hack into a website. This website.” He passed over a slip of paper. “I want to know everyone they have dealings with.”

  Josh stared at the paper. “Uncle Don, I know this site. It’s a dating agency.”

  “Ostensibly. Huh? Huh?” He waggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a meaningful way.

  “I want to know everyone who’s on their list, and the codenames they’re using. If you can get copies of their communications in and out, that would be ideal.”

  “But Uncle Don, a dating agency?”

  “Think about it, Josh. Communications going in and out all the time. People using code names. Meetings being arranged. Think about it. We want to know where and when those meetings are taking place.”

  He had him now. The kid’s eyes were shining.

  “Can you do it, Josh? Remember, no risks. I may risk my own life for my country, but yours is not on the table.”

  “Let me see what I can do, ’kay?”

  “And no talking about it on the phone. If you see me anywhere but here, don’t say anything. This room’s been swept for bugs, but…”

  Josh nodded. “Say no more, Uncle Don. My lips are sealed.” He made a zipping gesture across his mouth.

  “We’ll meet back here in, say, a week. If anyone asks, I was having some trouble with my computer. Everyone knows I’m a technophobe. It’s useful for them to know that, if you know what I mean.”

  “Geez. Do you have, like, a Batcave under here?”