They sat in a panelled room with paintings jumbled onto the walls in the Victorian fashion. A landscape of dubious origin was resting askew above a self-portrait by one of Australia’s leading artists, which was in turn dwarfed by a nautical scene of two ships of the line, apparently about to open fire-whether on the landscape or the portrait was unclear. In all, the small dark room was generously adorned with over twenty pictures arranged, if that was the appropriate word, from eye level to ceiling with disdain for the neat and orderly ways of art galleries and, some would say, for the artists.
In truth, the committee of the Colonial Club had disdain for the ways of a great many people, mainly those who were not members of the Colonial Club. It was likely that they would have evidenced these feelings for all but one of this group gathered in the members’ reading room, had they known of their presence, but the room was booked in the name of one of the most respected of their number. Nothing more was required, except appropriate dress. And, of course, appropriate sex-females, however attired, were not permitted on the third floor.
There were only four figures huddled in the gloom, leaning forward intently as their leader, nearly invisible in a charcoal suit, only the extreme whiteness of the shirt directing the sparse light onto a shadowed face, addressed them in hushed tones. The other three had been amazed when the venue for the meeting was nominated. The last place any of them expected the Pope to be familiar with, let alone a member of, was the Colonial Club. But the aforementioned committee was well aware that the name Normile had been entered in its books for three generations and that present member Clinton had served the club in many distinguished, if not publicly recognised, ways. A great deal more than the members’ reading room was available on his request.
‘So there you have it. We’re chasing down alleys trying to pin Mac Biddulph’s colours to the wall and someone else is there before us. I can’t make sense of it, so I’m hoping better brains can see the angles.’
Murray Ingham spoke in his brusque manner. ‘We’re going to need more. It’s a puzzle where you can’t see the pieces so there’s no chance to fit them together. No facts, no story.’
The Pope nodded. ‘Fair enough. You ask me the questions and I’ll answer them as best I can. Maroubra can also fill in a few gaps.’
Tom Smiley’s voice seemed to boom out into the quiet room as he drew his chair forward and loosened his tie. ‘Are you allowed to take your jacket off in this mausoleum or do they behead you at dawn with a cavalry sabre?’ Tom dropped his suit jacket onto the floor as he spoke. ‘Let me put a few questions on two issues: first, the information we’ve gathered thus far that might implicate Mac Biddulph in wrongdoing, and second, on the facts of the robbery itself-yes?’
The Pope gestured assent and the relentless questioning of Thomas Smiley QC commenced its seemingly meandering, purposeless course, like a river twisting through deep gorges, shallow turns, silent valleys, until it straightened its line.
‘So. It seems we have a clutch of theories supported by minimal documentation. The theories fall into three broad categories. First, Mac Biddulph is draining off HOA funds to pay for personal expenses through a company called Beira Proprietary Limited which, you surmise, but cannot yet prove, is controlled by the said Mr Biddulph. Second, and more damning if proven, it is suggested that the accounts of HOA are being falsified or manipulated by the use of financial reinsurance contracts with no actual transfer of risk in order to artificially boost profits. Third, it is suggested that other directors and executives may be complicit in these alleged activities. Is that a fair summary?’
Again the Pope nodded.
‘May I ask if some legal mind other than my own is applying itself to the analysis of whatever you have gathered.’
The Pope responded quickly. ‘There is someone, but I’d rather not say who, if you don’t mind.’
Tom Smiley held his gaze. ‘I do mind. When people start breaking into houses, a line is crossed. Our friend the Judge has already excused himself from any further involvement in this matter and I’m giving serious thought to similar action. We’d all like to help Jack Beaumont, but I want to know who’s running this show and how it’s being run.’
The Pope looked down at the dark oak table and then up again at Tom Smiley. ‘Hedley Stimson.’
There was an intake of breath from the lawyer. ‘Well. And well again. How in God’s name did you bring him out of retirement? Is he planning to appear in court, if it comes to that?’
Murray Ingham broke in. ‘For those of us who don’t spend their waking hours immersed in legal gossip, a little background would help. Who is this new character in the saga?’
The Pope gestured to Tom Smiley to respond.
‘Let me put it this way: if I was representing a client in court tomorrow, the only barrister I wouldn’t want to see acting for the other side would be Hedley Stimson. If that remark is ever repeated, I’ll deny it.’ He paused. ‘At least we know any improper behaviour hasn’t been intentional.’ He turned to Maroubra. ‘But has it been accidental?’
Maroubra shook his head. ‘No. We’ve been using our sources, but all above board. We had absolutely no involvement in the breakin at Mac Biddulph’s house.’
Tom Smiley nodded. ‘Okay. I’m greatly reassured by both those responses. And that brings us to the breakin. Nothing was taken, I gather.’
Maroubra responded. ‘A computer and a printer.’
Murray Ingham’s gruff voice cut in again. ‘That’s not what the papers said.’
Maroubra smiled. ‘The papers are wrong. A computer and a printer.’
Murray persisted. ‘How do you know that?’
It was the Pope who answered. ‘I think this is an area where we just have to accept the information we’re given as accurate without identifying sources. I do.’
There was a brief silence before Tom Smiley continued. ‘Has there ever been a breakin at these premises before?’ He was now directing the questions at Maroubra.
‘No.’
‘How was entry effected?’
‘A window was unlocked.’
‘So no force was required?’
‘No.’
‘Surely the premises were electronically secured?’
‘Switched off. Never used. I guess they figured there’d be no problem with insurance.’
‘Servants?’
‘There’s only one live-in. The others come in daily. She was given the night off. Mac and his wife were at the museum party.’
‘Ah, yes. The party. So the thief presumably picked this night because of the publicity surrounding the party?’
‘Probably. Although I think most of the publicity came afterwards.’
‘And I assume there were many more valuables lying about for the taking?’
‘Everything you can imagine and a lot of things you can’t. Jewellery by the handful, huge amounts of cash, every electronic gadget known to man, artworks-you name it.’
‘So, hence our dilemma. Someone is searching for the same information we are.’
The Pope spoke. ‘Exactly. If we can figure out who that is, who the thief is, I believe we’d fit in a crucial piece of this puzzle.’
‘Nonsense.’ It was Murray Ingham. ‘You don’t read enough novels, that’s the problem with all you logical analysts. Follow the story. Watch the characters. There is no thief. There is no coincidence. Party, no one at home, no alarm, unlocked window. The one person who couldn’t have stolen the stuff because everyone in the world knew where he was-at the party of the year-was Mac Biddulph. And he’s the one person who did. If anyone comes asking for records-regulators, lawyers, courts-he doesn’t have them. Gone. Stolen. Disappeared in a puff of wind through an open window. Neat as you like, on the record, certified by the police, incident number, and so on. And he probably makes a claim for a new computer. But you won’t find much on that, other than golf games and a letter to his dead mother.’
They all stared at Murray. Finally Maroubra spoke. ‘It makes sense. Those documents I handed over, he knows someone made a copy of them. There was no way we could avoid that and obtain them legitimately. So he decides to clear the decks. I buy it.’
Tom Smiley shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. It’s all sounding too cloak and dagger for me. Surely someone with Mac Biddulph’s resources would come up with a more sophisticated plan than a fake burglary if he wanted to destroy documents.’
‘People don’t.’ Murray’s thick brows appeared to be pushed up onto his head like an unwanted pair of spectacles. ‘People don’t do sophisticated things in these situations. They look for simple, quick solutions. When we’re threatened, we panic. Doesn’t matter who we are. The panic is the autonomic nervous system dealing with the threat, pumping some adrenalin, letting the animal take over from the logical. Mac Biddulph junked the computer. Forget about the spectre of other people ghosting our man. They’re just that-ghosts.’
The Pope pushed his chair back from the table. ‘He’s right. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it. Must be losing my touch. God that’s a relief. This matter is complicated enough without another hunter in the forest.’
They poured coffee from the silver urn on the ornate sideboard and munched thoughtfully, and with some difficulty, on the club’s famous Anzac biscuits. Exactly why these rock-like discs were famous was unclear, but one member had been known to comment: ‘Few survived the battle, none will survive the biscuits.’
Tom Smiley drew the Pope to one side. ‘What does Hedley Stimson say about the evidence you’ve gathered thus far? Where are we heading?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t speak to him; only Jack does, and never at his office.’
Tom rubbed his chin. ‘This is as odd a situation as I’ve ever been in. I can’t see that we’re breaching any ethical codes at the moment, so I’ll hang in there for the time being. Let’s just say I’ll keep a watching brief.’
‘I understand. It’s complex and dangerous-mainly for Jack, I think. His whole life’s at risk and I’m not sure he understands that yet.’
They departed one by one with thoughtful faces and aching jaws, leaving the Pope alone in the panelled tomb. He sat at a small games table by the only window and began to arrange the chess pieces. He remained staring at the board for a long time, moving nothing, and then rose quickly and strode from the room.
It was black as a mine shaft when Jack gingerly picked his way through the gate from the leafy cavern of the liquidambers. The few street lights that hadn’t been pinged into darkness by the accurate stone throwing of private schoolboys in straw boaters were shrouded in dense foliage, and the moon had given up and gone home.
He never left the old lawyer’s house on a Sunday night without conflicting emotions. This time the evening had started with a lecture on the wizardry of the foot pedal that operated the lathe so that both massive hands were available to nurse the wood as the shavings flew and shapes were revealed. It was explained to him, in more detail than he needed to know, that, of course, commercial models of this nature were available for those who had neither the wit nor application to invent their own, but they were crass and insensitive devices that no true artist would consider. Hence the extraordinary contraption that lay like some primeval growth beneath the workbench, constructed, he was told, with pride from old locomotive parts from the Everleigh railway yards. He was made to sit on the tall stool, a product of this very workshop, and operate the pedal in order to experience the hair-trigger nature of the beast. It was true, the lightest touch with his foot caused the high-pitched scream of the lathe to burst forth, but for Jack, the result was more frightening than impressive.
They’d met a dozen times now, and gradually the crusty surface of old Hedley had cracked like crisp pastry and Jack had glimpsed more and more of the complex mixture beneath.
Hedley stood at the workbench like ‘an old stone savage armed’, as Robert Frost described the neighbour in the only poem Jack could ever quote from memory. He looked like the picture of Robert Frost on the dust cover of Jack’s copy of Collected Poems, and seemed to Jack to speak with the voice of a prophet, not a lawyer.
‘Anyone can work a machine, son, anyone can follow a pattern, but only the chosen can see the shapes in the wood before they’re revealed and release them into life. Would you like to try now? I can set this piece for you; it’s beautiful mahogany but only an offcut, you can’t do any harm. Sit here. Take the master’s chair.’ He felt the strong hands holding his shoulders and guiding him onto the stool. As much as he hated the machine, he wanted to try for the man.
Later, when they sat with tea and documents, only the sounds of the pages turning and the scratch of the thick pencil interrupting the Sunday peace, Jack waited for the leonine head to lift and the judgement to be delivered.
After some weeks of his material being dismissed as inadequate, he was hoping for approval.
‘Hmm. This is good stuff. We nearly have him on breach of director’s duties and related party transactions. We can’t prove he controls Beira, but the authorities, even with their limited intelligence, could track that down relatively easily. But on the big one, falsification of accounts, we’re still lost in the jungle. I’m going to write a list of questions for you, and you need to put them to that chief financial officer, Renton Healey-in person and without warning. Just turn up in his office when you know he’s there, put the questions to him and demand the relevant documents on the spot. Don’t leave without them. And take a witness, someone you can trust.’
Jack nodded doubtfully. ‘He’s as slippery as they come. He’ll try to put me off, say he doesn’t have them-anything. And who’s this witness? There isn’t anyone inside the company I can trust, and he’ll clam up completely if I turn up with an outsider.’
The old lawyer shrugged. ‘You figure it out, son. You’re the genius running the biggest insurance company in the universe. Get on with it. The document I want has to be there. It’s an addendum, a side letter, an email, something attached to this reinsurance contract that effectively removes any transfer of risk. So it makes it just a piece of financial manipulation, in order to artificially boost the profits. And no doubt the share price. Find it and I’ll nail these bastards.’
They talked of other things for a while-sport and books and what made men great and what diminished them. Finally Jack said, ‘How can these people live with themselves when they do these things? It can’t just be about the money. Mac’s a wealthy man, Renton Healey is paid a fortune. How can they look at themselves and know they’re stealing people’s money and breaking the law?’
‘They never think that. People like this never break the law-in their minds. It’s a stupid law, or it doesn’t apply to them or there’s another reading of it-or any other rationalisation you can think of. Everyone does this sort of thing, it’s not just me. It’s like insider trading in the share market. We all do it, all of us big businessmen. We built the companies, we’re entitled to the spoils. All those poor dumb shareholders sitting at home shrouded in cardigans and ignorance can pick up the crumbs we leave, if they’re lucky. If they want to play with the big boys, they can’t cry foul if they get hammered.’
He rose and walked to the workbench and took the piece of wood from the lathe. ‘They remove themselves from reality. They look down on the world from the sixtieth floor of an office building or some hotel where a two-hundred-dollar meal has just been delivered and maybe the thousand-dollar hooker will arrive in an hour, and all the suckers in the street below look like prey that’s there for the taking. It’s not immorality, it’s amorality, which is much more dangerous because there’s no gate into the garden. No opening where you can say, That’s the wrong path, this is the way through the trees into the paddock. They lose touch with families, with kids, with old people falling down and struggling with their memories, with splitting logs, lighting fires, cleaning shoes, with cooking their own food or cleaning up for the one who did, with dogs or horses or whatever pets they had when they were kids, with life. Their world is all slick and shiny and easy, it’s deals and limousines and boats called ships, and whatever is good for them is good.’
Hedley paused. ‘You hadn’t expected this, had you, son? Someone taught you we’re all fine citizens in the end?’ The younger man nodded. ‘Who was that?’
‘I’m not sure. Strangely, probably my mother-and certainly my wife.’
‘Ah, yes. The women who see beyond the competition.’ They sat together quietly, while the leaves of the birches rustled on the windows above the workbench. ‘It’s going to get difficult very soon, I’m afraid. You need to know that, son. We’re almost at the point where we have to take our material to the authorities. Some would say we’re there already. Certainly if we find that side letter, you’ll have to inform the Australian Securities and Investments Commission. Then all hell breaks loose. Are you ready for it?’
Jack stood and held out his hand, smiling, and then walked into the night. As he was heading out the gate he tripped and almost fell on a dead branch, and was shaking and collecting himself when the soft voice came and a hand touched his arm. He turned with a start and nearly tripped again, on the gutter. He could barely make out the figure in the dark, but it was a woman’s voice and shape.
‘I’m so sorry to startle you, Mr Beaumont.’ The use of his name and the softness of the voice was reassuring, but he was nonetheless unsettled by being recognised in a lonely street while leaving a supposedly clandestine meeting.
‘I’m Marjorie, Hedley’s wife. He’s never wanted us to meet, and I’m not supposed to know you come to the house. But I’m not entirely lost to the world of bowls and books. I need to speak to you. Is that all right?’
Jack could see her more clearly now as a shaft of light filtered through the canopy and struck her head. It was a lined, sad face capped with a halo of dense hair, permed in a way he remembered from his youth. But behind her glasses, sharp, intelligent eyes were anxiously awaiting his response. ‘Of course. I wasn’t expecting anyone out here and you used my name. Perhaps we should talk in the car, it’s just around the corner.’
He led her gently to the car, opened the door for her, and held her arm as she lowered herself, painfully it seemed, into the soft leather. Somehow he immediately felt protective of her. She even smelled like his mother in the intimate interior of the sports car.
‘What a lovely car.’ She laughed nervously at her own remark. ‘What a stupid thing to say. You don’t want to hear me talk about your car at this time of night. Or any time, I suppose.’ She looked around wistfully. ‘It is lovely, though.’ Her hand stroked the leather and then pulled away quickly as if she might damage it. ‘I shouldn’t be here at all. He’d be furious if he knew. But even he needs looking after. And I’m the only one. Everybody else just wants something from him, even though they pretend otherwise.’ She looked at Jack. ‘But he likes you, really likes you. I know, even though I’m not supposed to know anything.’
Jack reached across the gearstick and held her wrist gently for a second or two before drawing his hand away. ‘Please tell me why you want to talk to me.’ Then he added, ‘I really like him, too. He’s a great man.’
Her half-stifled, nervous laugh came again. ‘Yes. He is. Most people don’t realise that. They think he’s clever and knowledgeable, but they don’t see the breadth and the depth.’ She paused. ‘But he’s also frail. Very frail. That’s another thing you can’t see. He looks and talks strength and power, but it’s all show. He’s a weak, frail old man and this thing he’s doing for you is going to kill him. You mustn’t let him go back into the courtroom.
He’s planning to, I know he is. It’s all running through his body again like it used to. The doctors said it would kill him if he continued, and they’re right for once.’
The words had been rushing out as if she wanted to be rid of them, to expel them before they contaminated her body, but now she stopped for a moment and looked straight at Jack, almost challenging him. ‘I wanted you to know.’
Jack saw her mouth quiver as the words struck him and he reached out to hold her hand firmly, and to keep holding it. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Mrs Stimson. Is he ill? I thought he gave up appearing in court because he was bored with it.’
She withdrew her hand and sat, drawn inwards now, with arms folded tightly as if to warm herself. ‘That’s what everyone’s meant to think. But it’s his heart. They say it’s hereditary, or that diet or exercise or fish oil or some such will fix it. But it can’t be mended. It’s split in half by something that happened a long time ago. Instead of healing, the split’s just widening.’
Jack felt he was struggling for air in the enclosed space and he lowered his window a crack. ‘He told me about your son.’
He could see she was shocked as her head jerked up from the floor and she grasped the door handle. ‘Did he? He never talks about it to anyone, not even me. I sit with my quilts, he sits with his wood. We lie awake in the night, but we don’t talk. It’s not how we started. He’s very funny, you know, when he wants to be; he could always make me laugh. But he doesn’t want to anymore.’
They sat, not talking, looking straight ahead as the mist of their breath gradually cleared from the windscreen. Finally Jack spoke. ‘I’m not sure what you want of me. He seems completely wrapped up in pursuing these matters.
I think he’s more committed to nailing the hides of any wrongdoers on the courthouse door than I am. I don’t know if I could stop him, even if I wanted to.’ And then he turned to her. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I want to.’
She smiled resignedly, a smile of knowing defeat, a practised smile. ‘I know. It’s stupid of me. I’m a silly old woman. I shouldn’t have spoken.’ But then she added determinedly, ‘If someone else could handle the court work. He gets very emotional in court. No one knows. It’s all inside-and that’s where the damage is.’
She opened the car door and Jack hurried around to help her out. ‘I’ll take you back to the house.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll just say I went for a walk. I do that often. Thank you.’ She had already turned to go when she spoke again, softly. ‘You must be a fine man, Mr Beaumont. Good luck.’
He watched as she disappeared into the shadows. She seemed incredibly brave to him, as if to venture into a suburban street outside her own home on a quiet Sunday night required courage. Yet he knew that surviving the life she was reduced to required endurance he mightn’t have.
He waited until she must have reached the house and then drove slowly past. There were no lights in the studio and only one lighted, curtained window in the main house. Were they talking as they prepared for bed? Was he already lying there, reading? Did he ask, politely, ‘Did you have a pleasant walk?’ Did she reply, politely, ‘Yes, thank you.’ Would they lie awake, not speaking, in the dark, each listening to the breathing of the other?