Beyond the Horizon Read Free

garden weeds. And what was to stop him? After all, he had reached halfway across the world to have his sister, Fenella, murdered.
    â€˜Where does that leave my son?’ George asked without turning around.
    â€˜Er, um, Donald assumes his control of an equal third when he turns twenty-one,’ Dwyer answered and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘On your demise, the family companies come under the dual control of your son and that of your late brother. However, you are a man of good health, Mr Macintosh, and I am sure you will be at the helm, guiding your son and nephew, for a long, long time to come.’
    George turned, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Thank you for your briefing, Mr Dwyer,’ he said in a flat voice.
    â€˜If that is all, Mr Macintosh, I will pay my respects and return to the office,’ Dwyer said, placing the papers back in his briefcase and rising from his chair. ‘Before I depart, I should alert you to a matter that will arise at the next directors’ meeting.’
    â€˜What matter is that?’ George asked sharply.
    â€˜It appears the auditors are puzzled by a large amount of money that was transferred to a Swedish bank account last year without authorisation from the board. They are nervous as the bank has a reputation for dealing with the Germans and fear that if such a transfer were to leak to the newspapers it would raise embarrassing questions. I’m sure there is a simple explanation but I thought I should warn you that the matter has been added to the agenda.’
    For a brief moment George experienced a chill of fear. The money had been used to purchase shares in Germany’s chemical industry, which in turn had produced some of the horrific gas weapons being used against the Allies. Many Australian soldiers had died or been crippled by those gases on the Western Front. It would look bad, George knew that, but he was a businessman and such morality had no place in the making of money. After all, were not some of America’s biggest industries doing the same thing?
    â€˜Thank you for the warning, Mr Dwyer,’ George said calmly. ‘Your information confirms you in my eyes as the best legal representative in this town.’
    Dwyer nodded once and then left.
    George slumped into his leather chair and stared at the wall. In the hallway the old grandfather clock chimed eleven. That damned will and testament had turned up in the mail weeks earlier, after a tortuous voyage from the battlefields of France. It had arrived long after news of his father’s death. His gaze fell on a barbed spear adorning the wall and for some reason he recalled that there was a story in the family of an ancient curse brought down on the Macintosh name after a horrific slaughter of Aboriginals living on land now known as Glen View Station. But that had been over fifty years ago and George knew it was nothing but a silly story handed down by his superstitious great-grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh.
    George poured himself another Scotch. After lunch he had a meeting in town with the police inspector, Jack Firth. Firth was well known and feared by the city’s criminal underworld for his ruthless disregard for the rules of evidence; he preferred to manufacture his own evidence to ensure successful prosecution. But he was a popular figure in the press for his apparent clean-up of the streets of petty criminals. He was a colourful character, built like a brick wall, and even in his early forties he was a man who could handle his fists in any street brawl.
    George was slightly concerned that his key ally in the military intelligence world had been abruptly returned to his previous duties in criminal policing. This was a move that had pleased Detective Inspector Firth as he had never considered gathering intelligence about the German and Austrian residents of New South Wales as anything but a pointless diversion. Jack Firth was happiest hunting real criminals in