Fugitive Australian businessman Christopher Skase fears Australian authorities will try to frame him with some of Australia's most famous and baffling murders if he returns to Australia to answer white collar crime charges.
That's just one of the shock revelations to come from the latest tapes of phone conversations by the failed entrepreneur's wife, Pixie Skase.
The Bug has obtained exclusive access to several key tapes believed to have been recorded via an intercept device attached to the phone lines of the Skase mansion on the Spanish island of Majorca.
In the tapes, the still stunning, vivacious blonde, obviously still very much in love with the disgraced business tycoon, shows her hatred of the Australian media who she claims are hounding them both to an early grave.
She talks bitterly about the attempts to frame her husband on "blue collar crimes because those silly corporate charges simply won't stick".
The Skases have been living in Spain since they fled Australia in 1991 after the collapse of their business empire, leaving behind debts of millions of dollars.
Clearly the pressure on both Skases is playing a toll on the pair - some of the tapes were recorded late at night when she was making random calls from their rented mansion after drinking heavily.

 

 

3pm, November 4, 1997: Caller believed to be Mrs Hetty Asquith-Jones, a Melbourne socialite and close family friend.

Pixie: I'm at the end of my tether, Hettie, I really am. Those wretched papparazzi are going to be the death of us both. If you could just see how poor Christopher reacts whenever these horrid people confront him is heartbreaking.
Caller: How so, dear?
Pixie: Just this morning, Christopher was playing tennis on court four with that charming old neighbour of ours when cameras popped up from just about everywhere. Well, Christopher went white! He collapsed right there on the spot and he's been in his wheelchair and on his oxygen machine ever since.
Caller: Good heavens!
Pixie: It just breaks my heart to see him have a relapse like that after all those months of sickness during the extradition thingo. And God knows where Lord Lucan is. He bolted through the bushes when the media appeared and we haven't heard from him since. Left his racquet and didn't finish his G&T or anything. I hope he's okay: he's been an absolute darling to us through all of this.
Caller: How on earth did those despicable people gain access?
Pixie: I haven't the faintest notion, Hettie. But Christopher immediately sacked the 12 security guards that a close friend had been kind enough to provide for us.

 

10am, early November, 1997: call placed to England. Woman's identity unclear.

Pixie: Well, darling, you've just got to give him time to get this silly horsey women out his mind and ... hello, hello!
Operator: Are you finished, senorita?
Pixie: No, I most definitely was not, you silly, silly man. I was having a very very important discussion with a very close personal friend of mind and then there was this almighty sound of glass crashing and a faraway scream and thud. I want to be reconnected immediately.
Operator: I'm sorry but the line seems to be working fine.

 

2pm call to Mrs Hetty Asquith-Jones in Melbourne the next day

Hettie: Oh, Pixie, wasn't that terrible news overnight about that beautiful Lady Tyron.? Apparently she died quite suddenly from septicaemia.
Pixie: That's not what I heard.

 

January 2, 1998: Call to a friend in Kew, Melbourne. Identity unknown.

Pixie: I couldn't agree with you more, Felicity-Jane. Do you know what those authorities are trying on now? They want to talk to Christopher about the Whiskey Au Go Go massacre, the Beaumont children's disappearance, the Chandler-Bogle mystery deaths and the attempted assassination of that awful Arthur Caldwell, of all things. Have you ever heard of anything more absurd? But if their aim is to break us down, it might be working. After the papparazzi scare the other day, my poor darling Christopher went straight back onto those little white sedatives of his. He had a terrible night last night and had that frightful recurring nightmare where he repeats words over and over and over: Beaumonts. Beaumonts. Belanglo. Belanglo. Wanda Beach. Wanda Beach. The sinking of the Sydney. The sinking of the Sydney.
It was really quite scary. You know, Felicity-Jane, I've never mentioned this to anyone before, but I think of my darling Christopher as my very own Forrest Gump. It's been uncanny just how close he's been to some of Australia's most famous moments. He was holidaying in Adelaide near where the Beaumont children went missing that summer, you know. Well, anyway, he looked so terrible this morning and I said: "You've never mentioned Wanda Beach before in your nightmares?". You know, Felicity-Jane, he just looked at me and said: "I was there too, Pixie. I was there." He's a silly old billy. Even so, it was nice to hear his assurance that those two poor girls were already dead well before he left the beach that day. I said to my daring, I said: How could the police suspect you of doing such horrible, ghastly things. He just slowly put a finger to his lips and went: Shhhhh! He's such a lamb. He wouldn't hurt a fly.

7pm, January 3, 1998: call placed to the Skase's family's Sydney-based solicitors.

Pixie: Well, you talk to him then, Charles! He won't listen to me. Why Christopher would even want to continue to communicate with that dreadful Ivan Milat after everything that's happened is beyond me. He must know how bad it makes us look with our society friends even if they did get to meet so many nice young people from all over the world.
Male voice: It'll be frowned on in the proper circles, you know.
Pixie: Do you think I haven't tried to tell him that! You know, he looks back fondly on those shooting expeditions with Ivan before this other business came to light. That dear, dear husband of mine even seems to have forgotten that big fight in the forest that afternoon when Ivan sent him backpacking with nary a how do you do.

 

10am, January 10, 1998: call placed to a number in Double Bay, Sydney. Male person unidentified.

Male voice: So, how's Christopher?
Pixie: Not the best. He always gets depressed around this time of the year what with the Granville Rail disaster anniversary and everything. He was there the day it happened, you know. We were seeing each other a bit in those days and he came to my Enmore flat looking all dusty and dishevelled. He said : "Pixie, my darling, I've just done a terrible, terrible thing!"
Voice: Really?
Pixie: Yes, it turns out that just the day before that horrible, horrible disaster, Christopher had used up all his spare money to buy shares in that big manufacturing firm .... what was its name? Goodness, where's my mind today? You know, that big firm that used to have the NSW Government contract to replace damaged rolling stock.
Voice: That doesn't sound all that terrible. Sounds like good business acumen to me, old girl.
Pixie: That's what I thought. He made quite a killing that day. But do you know, Stanley, to this day he still believes he did a terrible, terrible thing in not buying that florist shop opposite Granville station.

 

3am January 17: Believed to be a wrong number in Des Moynes, Idaho.
Pixie: Things are rather peachy now but that extradition bid by Australian authorities in 1994 had us both at our wit's end.
Voice: Excuse me?
Pixie: Christopher survived the legal manoeuvre in a Spanish court largely by claiming any flight back to Australia could kill him because of that lung condition he suffered at the time. Luckily, he's fine now- no health problems at all - none, not a one, cero. He’s fit as a fiddle and could fly to the moon if he wanted.
Voice: I'm sorry, do I know you?
Pixie: I suppose what hurts us the most it the claims that we just bribed people izquierda, derecha and centre. That we could do it because we have lots and lots of money stashed away over here - millions and millions in fact. Well, sure, that's right. I want the whole world to know that we’re just rolling in it - literally. I was down in the basement rolling in it just a few minutes ago, wasn't I?

 

11pm January 19: Majorcan Pizza and Spare Ribs.

Pixie: Sorry about that. Now where was I? Oh, yes. I don't think I told you about Christopher's desire to undergo plastic surgery. He wants to get a face-lift, a butt tuck, scrotum lift and a penis enlargement. Luckily we've got a really nice friend who has offered to pay for the treatment. Christopher's never been happy with the size of his Mirage Missile, as he calls it. And quite frankly, neither have I – es demasiado pequeno!

 

2pm January 15: call to Mrs Hettie Asquith-Jones in Melbourne

Pixie: You know, Hettie, of all those dreadful media vultures, the people from Channel 7 are the worst. They'd had cameras set up 24 hours a day for the past two weeks trying to pry into our private lives. It would have simply been unbearable except for the fact they're doing it in Portugal.

 

January 17: 1998: Phone call to a Majorca Real Estate.

Male voice: You seem in fine spirits today, Pixie?
Pixie: I am, Juan. I am. That beautiful, beautiful husband of mine has just told me he's met another business friend who's sympathetic to our plight and who's going to put up the cash to buy that place up on the point overlooking the harbour. It'll be nice to move out of this dilapidated squalor.

 

3am: January 20, 1998: Phone call placed to the talking clock in Australia.

Pixie: You know, darling, La Noria was not the original name of our lavish Majorcan compound that some very very good friends have let us use for a few years now. Chris first named the house La Noriega after his good friend General Manuel Noriega. You know, he’s the former Panamanian dictator who’s now serving time in the United States on some trumped-up international drug-running charges. Chris really liked Manuel.
They were very close and would talk on the phone for hours – especially when they were planning large-scale shipments of heroin and cocaine, as Christopher used to put it. I think I love Christopher as much for his ironic humour as anything else, you know.
Anyway, Chris liked the sound of La Noriega, but was afraid it might draw too many flies.
Yes, I know it’s two fifteen and twenty seconds.”