Laurence Treadmore sat, at dawn, in the study of his apartment and watched the sun rise over the palm groves of the Botanic Gardens. He normally rose promptly at eight o’clock and the romance of early morning light was entirely lost on him. Indeed he stood and closed both the louvres and the thick curtains over the casement windows. The dark room was now lit only by a desk lamp. Sir Laurence reached behind him to one of the twenty-two filing cabinets and withdrew a thin white folder. He’d already taken two phone calls, one from London, one from Geneva, and although these had been the purpose of his early rising, now that he was up there was no point in wasting these unwanted hours.
He looked at the name on the folder with some distaste. It was one of the burdens of his life that he had to deal with, even to promote, people of such undistinguished character. Sometimes it was necessary in order to resolve-or create-an intricate dilemma, but one hoped that one could redress the balance at a later time. How any person with a name like Popsie could expect to be taken seriously was beyond him. Of course, as the file demonstrated, she appeared not to have any desire to be taken seriously-just to be taken. She was an opportunist with money problems, some of which he’d helped to alleviate, briefly. It wasn’t a recipe for admiration, but it was for usefulness.
He read the document carefully, then wrote a name and a phone number on a notepad. He replaced the folder, opened the second drawer and removed a similar, but much thicker, file. As he slowly leafed through the file, a steady stream of entries flowed into the notepad. Nearly two hours had passed by the time he’d read and re-read the document and then distilled his note-taking onto one page. It was eight o’clock and Mavis would be bathing downstairs. She’d be surprised if he didn’t emerge shortly from his quarters, showered and dressed, and he never liked to surprise Mavis. He was unaware that he had done so many times in their early years, but not for a long time now. He rang his office number in order to leave a message for Mrs Bonython to make separate appointments for the two people he’d just been reading about. He would see them later in the morning. And he had no doubt they’d be there, even the second one. Proud, and a stiff neck he might have, but he’d be there. But first Sir Laurence would breakfast at the club. Eggs, he felt like scrambled eggs. The croissant on his desk could sit there or Mrs Bonython could have it for her dinner. On a day like this, Sir Laurence Treadmore would eat eggs in the main dining room at the Colonial Club, cholesterol be damned.
He arrived at his office only five minutes before the first of the two appointments. Mrs Bonython became flustered when told to remove the newspapers from the desk and take the croissant home. Sir Laurence was a man of strict habits and any interruption to his rituals was unusual and disturbing. As was the appearance of the woman who arrived promptly at ten o’clock. She was not the sort of person who usually entered these austere and sombre rooms, dressed expensively but showily in a frock more suited to a romantic picnic than a business meeting with a Knight of the Realm. It was also unknown for Sir Laurence not to keep a visitor waiting, but there he was at the door to his office calling, ‘Come in, dear lady, do come in,’ before Mrs Bonython could reach for the intercom. If it had been any other employer she might have thought Sir Laurence was engaged in a liaison of dubious nature, but some things were not possible.
‘What a delightful office, Laurence,’ said Popsie Trudeaux as she looked around with distaste at the bland interior. No colour. Popsie liked colour, loved colour, what was life without colour? Her present attire was ample evidence of this passion and Sir Laurence recoiled from it surreptitiously. It was still early in the day, and it was upsetting an excellent breakfast.
‘And how is your new business progressing? I only hear most impressive reports.’ Sir Laurence was seated behind the exceptionally wide desk and had pushed his chair back towards the window as if to situate himself as far as possible from both the violent kaleidoscope of contrasting hues and the sizeable bosoms encased in it.
‘Thanks to you, Laurence, it’s a triumph. I’ve been showered with work by everyone. I really can’t handle it all.’
Or any of it, thought Sir Laurence grimly. It was true the work was pouring in, his sources confirmed that, but Popsie’s ability to administrate and control costs appeared to be in inverse proportion to her ability to conjure up bizarre concepts.
‘Indeed, how wonderful. I’m so glad to have been of minor assistance. And I hear you’re bidding for some of the Grand Prix work. Now that would be a major project and a tremendous coup. The chairman of the committee happens to be a personal friend of mine. Should I mention it to him or would that be indiscreet?’
Discretion was not a consideration that had weighed heavily in any previous concern of Popsie’s. It was certainly not a factor she wished to play a part in deterring Sir Laurence from mentioning her favourably to the chairman of the Grand Prix Committee. The chairman of this committee could save her life. She’d never met him, whoever he was, but he could have it all, on a plate, if he’d just give her this contract. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. It had never occurred to her you could lose money running a successful business. The money poured in one end, a veritable tropical thunderstorm of dollars thundering into the bank accounts, but then it seemed to wash away down some stormwater drain and she was left with unpaid bills and an overdraft. At first she thought her accountant must be stealing it. After all, he was also her husband’s accountant, and now that she had pretty much told Angus to fuck off-because why would a successful, creative businesswoman need a dull lawyer husband with a limp dick hanging around?-well maybe the accountant was siphoning funds off to Angus. So she’d hired another accountant and he’d said the same thing-cost control was not one of her skills. He’d also said if she didn’t hire a professional manager and win a big contract instead of just parties and weddings, she’d be begging Angus to represent her on reduced fees in a bankruptcy court.
As these thoughts were tumbling through her mind, she examined Sir Laurence in minute detail. Was he gay? He looked gay. Neat as a hotel bed, all those pink shirts and flowers in the buttonhole. He was married, but that meant nothing. How many married men’s jockey shorts had she run her hand into only to find out they were pillow biters? Besides, no one ever saw his wife. Perhaps she didn’t exist. And yet the old prune didn’t seem to have any juice running through him at all. She was sure he was asexual, just not interested. Which made it more mysterious. What did he want with her?
‘I’ll take your silence as tacit approval to have a word with Ron Strutter. No reason he shouldn’t know of the talent on offer.’
Sir Laurence removed a sheet of paper from a drawer and placed it carefully on the bare desk. The leather surface was slippery from its morning polish and the paper slid gently towards Popsie.
‘I’ve another small matter that may interest you. From time to time clients and associates ask me to find trustworthy persons to act as directors of their private companies. I serve in this capacity myself for a few friends where the companies aren’t particularly active. But I don’t have the time for too many. There’s one on foot at present with a small private concern-a subsidiary of a company in Bermuda needs a local director, largely inactive, perhaps a little share trading or banking from time to time. They don’t pay a great deal, only fifty thousand dollars per annum in this case, but it all adds to business experience and some people find a little extra cash flow helpful. I realise money isn’t a consideration for you, but I thought you might enjoy expanding your corporate knowledge base.’ Sir Laurence smiled broadly, as he thought, and gestured to the paper on the desk. ‘This is a Consent to Act form, and really signing that and a few other documents from time to time, plus a rather nice lunch once or twice a year, is all there is to it.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, the annual visit to Bermuda. If you have the time.’
Popsie thought she would have the time. She also thought ‘extra cash flow’ was a term she could come to respect quickly. She was also aware she was being set up as a stooge for someone or something. Even Sir Laurence couldn’t think she was a complete idiot. But who cared? He wasn’t a crook, he was a highly respected doyen of Australian business. If some friend of his wanted a tame director to sign a few documents for fifty grand a year, ring Popsie. That’s what she thought.
‘How kind of you to think of me, Laurence. You really are the most generous of men. I would love to learn more about corporate life. Naturally, I’d need to read all the relevant documents and so on. Company rules and-all those documents.’
Sir Laurence waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course, dear lady, the company’s articles, balance sheet, all of that will be provided immediately.’ He waited a few moments, feigning thought. ‘Would you prefer to receive those first, or are you happy to sign this document now? Mrs Bonython could witness for you.’
The next visitor sat quietly in the waiting room for ten minutes before the phone buzzed on Mrs Bonython’s desk. Her cubicle was only partly screened from this room, containing one hard-backed chair and no reading material, but she made it a practice not to chat to Sir Laurence’s supplicants. She would be bound to say the wrong thing and, somehow, he would know she’d said it. She emerged to conduct him to the office door. ‘Sir Laurence will see you now, Mr Normile.’
It had been three years since Clinton John Normile had sat opposite this man he hated as much as any he’d ever met. No, that was wrong. He’d never hated any person before, except in the abstract. But this was a visceral, gut-wrenching emotion that caused him to recoil when he had to say the name or shake the hand. The fact that he was required, forced, to do both only added to the turmoil in his stomach and spleen, and his bowels, in the lungs that couldn’t seem to catch enough air, in the throat that wouldn’t swallow. He tried to remain still, arms folded, the unaccustomed collar and tie half-strangling his shallow breathing, eyes looking through the figure in front of him to the light beyond.
‘There’s little point in wasting time on pleasantries. You agree? Good. And how is your son?’
The Pope turned in on himself. He wasn’t in this room, there was no light blinding him behind the seated figure, he would hear no words if they were spoken, feel no pain if it was administered. He was in a very different room where he could hear too much, see too much, feel the pain of others, and especially, sickeningly, of his son. Yet, was this his son? This wasted, filthy, ragged, shivering bundle. Could this be the boy who stood erect, shining, leather straps polished, leather boots blackened, brass glinting in an afternoon sun, receiving the Winston Churchill Award as the Senior Army Cadet of New South Wales? Or the boy, man perhaps, who placed the steadying hand on his father’s arm when they stood together at a sister’s, a daughter’s, funeral?
He would save his son. It was simple. He would analyse the problem logically and solve it. That’s what he did, solved other people’s problems. There were three issues: the medical issue, the question of criminality- ridiculous as it may be to suggest these tragic, wasted waifs were criminals, but it had to be dealt with-and whatever was the underlying cause. He would deal with all three. His son would shine again.
How long had it taken him to understand some problems have no solution? It was the most jarring realisation of his life. He heard a voice far off in another world and jerked back to attention. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I merely stated that no bad comment has reached me about his behaviour, which is, in its way, good. I’m sure you agree?’
The Pope looked directly at Laurence Treadmore for the first time. Why did he hate this man? He’d no reason to do so. On the contrary, gratitude would have been a more reasonable emotion. He would be visiting a jail every Saturday instead of a halfway house if not for Sir Laurence’s intervention. But he hated being beholden to someone who literally made his skin crawl-an expression he’d never understood before he shook the limp hand. The fact that this aloof, cold mannequin even knew of his son’s predicament seemed peculiar, abnormal, to carry a portent of evil and corruption. There had been no publicity, they had no mutual friends, they nodded to one another at the club but nothing more. It was years since there’d been a passing connection in the insurance industry. Yet help of the most valuable, most essential kind had been proffered. And later, it was he, not Sir Laurence, who had vented unreasonable rage at eminently reasonable questions. If either had cause for animosity towards the other, it was the wraith he could barely see behind the desk in the glaring light.
‘He’s holding the line. He’s taken up sculpture. He’s very good at it. He started with pottery, but has since moved on to working wood and stone. It helps a great deal, but it’s not everything.’
Sir Laurence nodded thoughtfully and drew another paper from the desk drawer. ‘No, I suppose not. I confess I’m not greatly familiar with these matters.’ He paused. ‘I’ve come across something that may be of further assistance. An acquaintance of mine has directed my attention to a foundation that helps with problems of this kind. They’ve established a retreat in the Southern Highlands, away from any temptation, where long-term residency is available and where, if I recall correctly, one of the major activities is art, in particular sculpture. They’re searching for a new chairman, someone who would take a close and personal interest. I thought of you. And your son.’
There it was again. Where he should have felt gratitude and relief, only anger and suspicion reared up. The man had known about the sculpture before he mentioned it, he must have done. Why was he watching them, why was he helping? And yet it was exactly what Gary needed. Maybe it was exactly what he needed himself.
‘It’s very considerate of you, Laurence, to spend time on this. I don’t know how to thank you. I never have thanked you properly and I deeply regret the comments I made. It was a time of great stress.’
Sir Laurence waved away the words with the dust mites. ‘We all say things we don’t mean from time to time. Here’s a background paper on the foundation. They need to move quickly, so let me know before the end of the week.’
The Pope reached forward to take the document. ‘Thank you again, Laurence.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Sir Laurence stood immediately and walked from behind the desk to the door. ‘Not at all, not at all. We help where we can. I’m sure you do the same.’
The hand was extended as the door opened and the Pope, reluctantly but gratefully, shook it and walked unsteadily to the lift.
Renton Healey strolled, some might say waddled, back to his office in a comforting haze of cabernet sauvignon and garlic fumes. Life was pleasant, very pleasant indeed. He earned a great deal of money, was ferociously intelligent to the point where he could confuse directors, regulators and his wife with a few convoluted sentences, he was no longer made fun of because of his appearance, because he made a great deal of money (some women, an increasing number of women, were prepared to overlook his appearance-yes probably for the same reason but who cared), and he was comfortably full of the aforementioned cabernet sauvignon.
His secretary, Janet, who was not yet one of his women but who, he felt reasonably certain, soon would be, was not in her position outside his office when he reached it. He would scold her for that, gently. If she wanted to eat, and it was probably better that she didn’t, she could have someone bring her a salad of bean sprouts at the desk. He was about to lower himself into the high-backed chair, and nearly toppled forward with surprise when he noticed Jack Beaumont and a woman seated on the sofa behind the door.
‘Afternoon, Renton. Hope you don’t mind us waiting for you? I thought you might have been back a little earlier.’
Renton Healey was outraged; this was his sanctum sanctorum. People weren’t permitted to enter it unannounced, without a reservation as it were. Janet would never eat again. ‘Not at all, Jack. Sorry to keep you. The meeting went longer than I expected. Still, we got what we wanted.’ He attempted a wry laugh. ‘Negotiation’s all about hanging in there, isn’t it?’
Jack nodded. ‘Certainly. And were you meeting with Global Re? Renewing the reinsurance contracts? I know they’re coming up soon.’
Renton was now more than furious at the violation of his corporate space, he was at security warning level five. All his antennae were rotating to pick up danger signals. Jack Beaumont wasn’t supposed to know about Global Re, the renegotiation of contracts, or anything else of note. Jack Beaumont was an insurance neophyte, an intellectually inferior used car salesman who was sent out to sell a message to the market and the media whenever Renton, and Mac, with the blessing of Sir Laurence, decided there was a message that needed selling. Nevertheless, he was, nominally, the CEO and he was, unfortunately, here. With someone.
‘No we’re not at that point yet. Still crunching numbers. Actuarial football-you know the game.’ He gestured to the woman on the sofa. ‘But I don’t think we’ve met, or am I mistaken?’
‘This is Louise; Louise, Renton Healey. Louise is one of my assistants. But I’d like to talk about Global Re for a moment. Reinsurance seems to have quite an impact on our P amp;L. By my calculations, we would have made a loss of fifty-four million last year rather than a profit of seventy-eight million if we hadn’t had the benefit of that Global Re contract. Am I right? I don’t quite have my head around it yet, but I want to understand it a lot better.’
Renton controlled his breathing as he eased down into the leather. So the man knew nothing. He wanted to understand things better. He would understand them better. ‘Of course, delighted to lead you through the labyrinth. Horribly complicated stuff, I’m afraid, but we’ll do our best. Let me get the file together and we’ll set up an appointment. Early next week okay for you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No. I’d like to do it now. I already have the file.’
He watched Renton’s face with deep satisfaction as, finally, the smug veneer was stripped away and fear spread over the squashed pumpkin. ‘Is that my file? Where did you get that? This is quite improper, taking people’s files.’
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? But it’s not your file, Renton, it’s the company’s. And as CEO, I can view any document I want whenever I want, wouldn’t you say?’
Renton appeared dazed as he looked around the room for help. He noticed Louise taking notes. Why was she taking notes? Red wine was no longer a factor in his addled brain. His ability to brush aside alcohol was legendary. He just needed to fix on a point, as if gaining balance on a rolling deck, and then outwit the lesser intellect.
‘Yes, of course, but I can’t have people removing files at will.
I’m responsible to APRA for the integrity of these documents and if you wanted something you should have come to me, through Janet.’
‘Janet gave me the file. And I assure you it’s completely safe. I’ve already copied it, so you can have the original back.’ Jack placed a thick folder on the desk. ‘But let’s move on, Renton. I want to ask you a few questions about some of this material.’
Renton Healey stared at the papers in Jack’s hands. They were covered with highlighter colours and post-it notes, signs of extensive, diligent reading. These two must have arrived the minute he left the building. There was a great deal of complex material in that file. Just how complex, Renton couldn’t remember. Was the side letter in there or in a separate file? He needed Janet. He would deal with her indiscretions another day.
‘I’d like to help, Jack, but I think I’m pretty booked up this afternoon.’ He commenced the standing-up process. ‘I’ll just check with Janet and see how soon I can give you the time this deserves.’
‘Janet won’t be back for a while. She’s helping me out with an urgent project, hope you don’t mind. I asked her to clear your diary for this afternoon, so we’re in good shape. Let’s get going, shall we?’
When they were together later that night, the times were old, but new also. They were all knitted together again. They’d made love as soon as the kids were asleep and they were now propped up in bed with papers strewn about and wine on the bedside table.
‘How did we do, lover boy?’ Jack was bemused. She never asked questions like that. ‘Very beautiful, my love, as always.’
She snorted. ‘Not the sex, you idiot. I’m talking about the old team, on the job. Did we get the goods or not?’
He laughed and picked up her notebook, filled with pages of immaculate script. ‘I doubt Hedley Stimson has ever seen a court reporter produce as accurate a record. It was wonderful watching Renton’s face as you took all that down. Now and again he was so caught off guard by some of my questions he had to take his eyes away, but most of the time they were fixed on your flying pen. How many times did he ask for your surname? Was it two or three?’
‘Only two, I think, but no doubt he’s scouring the records of every Louise among your thousands of employees as we speak. I wonder how many there are.’
He looked at her with deep affection. There would have been no meeting without her, he knew that. He would have been planning another picnic or figuring out how to fit three spa baths and a sauna into one apartment. Had he only taken the job in the first place to impress her? Maybe. Louise and a few friends. Now he needed to impress himself.
‘Did we do the business, lover boy? Will they all hang by the neck until dead, that’s what I want to know? They’ll need a strong rope for Mr Healey, that’s for sure.’
Jack selected a page from the litter on the bed. ‘I think this is it. The smoking gun. It’s just a one-page letter written in completely obtuse language, but I reckon it’s the one. Renton nearly threw up his lunch when I referred to it and he’d hate to part with that. What was his response again?’
She took the notebook and flipped to another page. ‘I don’t recall seeing that letter before. It’s not addressed to me. The addressee is no longer with the company. Its meaning is not immediately clear. Its terms may not have been implemented. He handled it like a poisonous spider.’
‘Exactly. Only Hedley Stimson can confirm if it’s the missing piece, but I think we’ve got them.’
She wrapped herself around him and buried her hands deep into his hair. ‘You were unrelenting and ruthless in your pursuit. I didn’t know you understood all that complex jargon. Very sexy in an odd way. The thinking warrior is quite a turn-on.’ She scratched his scalp and his eyes closed as they always did. ‘What will you do when they’re all pinned on the wall? Will you try to clean up the whole company or go back to property and lead a quiet life? Or just make love to me and live off our fat?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I actually like the insurance business and I want to make sure our policyholders don’t suffer. The shareholders will, for a while anyway, because the share price will take a big hit when all this comes out. So I’d have to stay and hold the company together for some time. But let’s not count our chickens.’
She bounced up and down on the bed like a child. ‘I want to count them. Can’t you go and see old Hedley tomorrow? I want to come.’
He laughed and put a hand on her shoulder to stop the bouncing. ‘I’ll go on Sunday, as we agreed, and I’ll go alone. I’d love for you to meet him one day when it’s all out in the open.
I don’t think it’ll be long. But we’ll wait till Sunday.’ chapter thirteen
The knocking started Mac on a long journey. He was floating over the rocky outcrops of the Kimberley, drifting above the lapis lazuli of coral reefs, darkened here and there by the black shapes of Spanish mackerel or queen fish or barramundi closer to the shore, and then, suddenly, was staring down at the white sails of the Opera House, a train snaking its way over the Harbour Bridge, a massive container vessel squeezing beneath the span. His was the deep sleep of physical contentment and mental peace. Knocking, whatever its origin, couldn’t disturb it. Besides, there could be no such knocking here. The only way to reach Bonny’s penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor was via the concierge, who would buzz. And he wouldn’t buzz, ever, before seven-thirty. Mac pulled himself back to consciousness and looked at the bedside clock through half-closed lids. Six a.m.
What the hell was going on? He eased quietly out of bed and reached for his kimono, cherry blossoms winding their way through the patterned silk. It was a present from Bonny. At first he’d thought it too feminine and pretty, but now he loved the slippery softness on his bare skin. Pushing his knobbly feet into a pair of kangaroo-skin slippers he headed for the door. There must be some problem with the security system, but why they couldn’t leave it till later was beyond him. If that concierge expected a big tip at Christmas, he’d better plan on buying his own cherries.
When he opened the door, expecting the obsequious, smiling face of James in the blue uniform, his mouth fell slightly open. There were three figures confronting him, all in drab grey, none of whom appeared obsequious or anything near it, none of whom were smiling. One stepped forward and spoke, holding something in an outstretched hand.
‘Mr Biddulph, we represent the Australian Securities and Investments Commission. We hold a duly executed warrant to search these premises. We also wish to ask you questions pertaining to a current investigation. We will now enter the premises.’
As he spoke the other two moved from behind him, past Mac, into the apartment’s foyer. Mac was still staring at the document in the man’s hand without seeing it, partly because he was stunned, partly because his glasses were on the bedside table. He was suddenly aware that he must present a slightly ridiculous, even pathetic, figure-an old man with a face creased by rumpled sheets, swaddled in a Japanese prostitute’s gown, standing with legs apart and mouth open, not quite dribbling but damn close to it. He struggled to regain composure and control.
‘Hang on. Get those two out of there. No one is searching anything until my lawyer is here and probably not then either.’ The man with the document ignored him and followed the other two into the foyer. ‘Now listen here, you’ve got no right. Get yourselves out of here and back down to the concierge’s desk. When my lawyer comes he’ll sort it out with you.’
The spokesman nodded to the other two and they moved off into separate rooms. ‘On the contrary, Mr Biddulph, we have every right. You may call your lawyer, of course, but in the meantime we will commence our search. Once you’ve made that call, we’ll require all forms of communication from these premises to be suspended during the course of our search and questioning.’
Mac heard a scream from Bonny. Obviously one of them had found the bedroom. ‘What the hell is this all about? What investigation? I have no knowledge of anything like that. Surely you have to notify me if you want some information. What does it relate to?’
The man remained motionless, unsmiling, watching Mac carefully, hands now by his side. ‘We’re not required to give you notice of a search or of the commencement of an investigation or the nature of any such investigation. We have the right, by law, to remove any documents, files, whether paper or electronic, computers, phone records, notes, recordings or any other material we consider relevant, and will do so. It’s an offence for you to interfere with or impede this process in any way.’
Suddenly Mac exploded. ‘You fucking little prick.’ His right hand, which had been clutching the kimono because he hadn’t bothered to tie the sash, jerked out to grab a collar. The man stepped neatly back and seemed more perturbed by the revelation before him than by the threat of violence. ‘I’ll fucking throw you out of the place, you little cunt.’ As he spat out the last word Bonny emerged from the bedroom in a matching, but tightly sashed, garment.
Bonny paused in front of the spokesman. ‘Charming. The whole lovely morning. Utterly delightful to be woken by a pack of nerds with bad breath and cheap suits.’ The spokesman appeared to blanch slightly at this.
Mac glared at her until he noticed her eyes were also drawn to the widespread kimono drifting softly in the air-conditioning currents. He hastily drew the folds together and double sashed. ‘I’m trying to get rid of the bastards, but it doesn’t help to have you moaning about it. Here’s Gerry Lacy’s number. Tell him what’s going on and get him over here fast.’
She took the cell phone and turned to the other man. ‘Would you mind asking your colleagues to leave my bedroom till last? I promise I won’t burn the sheets, but I would quite like to get dressed.’ She gave him a coquettish smile. ‘And if you’re very nice, I’ll give you a pair of my knickers to keep all for yourself.’
They both watched her bounce away down the hall.
Four hours later, whatever dream started Mac’s day had developed way beyond a nightmare. And not because of bad breath and cheap suits. Bonny had departed as Gerry Lacy arrived. Waving a breezy goodbye, she tucked something into the ASIC man’s pocket with a whisper: ‘Don’t forget to hide them before your wife takes the suit to the drycleaners-which, incidentally, should be quite soon.’
And then the Mexican stand-off had begun. It was surreal, Mac felt, watching his lawyer, tanned and relaxed in a cashmere sweater, chinos and loafers, discussing him with the ASIC nerd as if he were a prize heifer. The nerd was like the bankers, writing everything down, even though he had a tape recorder running on the coffee table. The nerd insisted questions would be put now, the lawyer insisted his client wouldn’t answer them in the course of the search. The nerd replied they would wait until the search was concluded. The lawyer responded that his client would reserve his rights. Mac was instructed, ‘instructed’ for Christ’s sake, not to speak at all in the ‘interim period’. The interim period had proved to be four hours. It wasn’t that big an apartment. They must have been stripping the wallpaper from the walls to be taking this long. Even though he’d gouged a discount out of Jack Beaumont, he’d probably still paid too much for the place. Jack Beaumont. The name clanged in his head like the ringer on a bell. Did he have anything to do with this disgraceful shambles? Before he knew it the question had voiced itself.
‘Did Jack fucking Beaumont put you up to this? Is that what this is all about? Some crap about corporate governance or something? I’ll kill the little prick if-’
Gerry Lacy was on his feet, hands forward in a stop sign. ‘Do not speak. You will say nothing, Mac. My client has nothing to say, you will erase that comment from your records. It is improper to put questions in the process of a search as you well know.’
The nerd barely looked up from his notebook. ‘I didn’t put a question. The comment was offered and is duly recorded.’
‘This is unlawful. This entire search is unlawful. Any material you may acquire in the course of it will not be admissible.’
Gerry Lacy was more equipped for objecting to a line call in tennis than confronting hardened government investigators. He hardly ever called ‘fore’ at golf. His forte was the civilised conference. He never appeared in court and regarded the barristers he briefed to do so as reminiscent of bullies he’d known at school. The word ‘golf ‘ jagged a thought into the mix. It was Tuesday, his golf afternoon. He always played in the Tuesday comp, he’d even won it last week. Seventeen drives in the fairway. Never achieved such accuracy before. It was the new driver, had to be. Wonderful club, enormous head. But he was keeping the left arm straighter, that was the key. It wasn’t just equipment, you had to have skills. Suddenly he realised Mac was speaking again. He’d told him not to do that.
‘Please don’t speak, Mac. I cannot stress sufficiently the damage you may cause to your case in the course of any subsequent proceedings should charges be laid. You do understand this?’
Mac stood. ‘The only proceeding I was speaking about was a visit to the toilet. Is that okay or do I need a note from Mummy?’ He nearly tripped on the edge of the kimono as he flounced off, bumping into one of the nerds who was emerging with Bonny’s notebook computer-fat lot of good that would do him, unless he wanted to learn how to tighten his buttocks and stomach muscles simultaneously.
Gerry Lacy checked his watch. He loved to have an excuse to check the time because he adored his watch. All watches were fascinating, but his watch was an artwork. He could never understand people who lavished large sums of money on great hunks of ugly gold just so people would know they were rich. This watch was a Patek Philippe Mondiconum in platinum with day date. To an ignoramus, like the appalling individual seated in front of him taking notes, who appeared to be wearing a plastic Swatch, it might be mistaken for an average, stainless-steel time-piece. The afficionados would recognise it as one of the rarest, and most expensive, chronometers on the planet. Even though Gerry received the customary thrill from his prolonged glance at the Mondiconum, he was also distressed to see the time was nearly eleven o’clock. His tee-off time was midday. Decisive action was required.
Mac was returning, wiping his hands on the kimono, leaving dark patches in the scarlet silk. Both the searching nerds were now packing notebooks and diaries into archive cartons. Mac laughed at them. ‘Oh yeah, you’ll love reading that lot. Appointments for waxing jobs and recipes for mung bean salads, you fucking idiots.’
Gerry was between Mac and the nerds in a flash. ‘My client has nothing more to say. Your search is clearly at an end and so is this conference, if it can be called that. You’ll leave these premises, as will we. My client does not reside here. He has cooperated with you in the process of your search, unlawful as it may have been, but will now attend to his business affairs. If you have questions you wish to put to him, issue the proper notice and he will respond. Not otherwise. Now, in a word, out.’
Somewhat to Gerry Lacy’s surprise, ten minutes later they were all in the street and the archive boxes were being loaded into a van. As it drove off, Mac turned to the lawyer. ‘I must say you came through there, Gerry. Never seen you so forceful. Thanks, mate, I needed those bastards out of there. I was starting to lose it, I don’t mind admitting.’
Gerry placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not at all, Mac. Glad to help. We must discuss this fully tomorrow, but I have to dash now. Important conference.’
Mac was startled. ‘What? Shouldn’t we talk about it now? Get some of your people, have a brains trust session?’
Gerry shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. They’re all at the conference. Tuesday partners’ meeting. Much better to sleep on it, anyway. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning.’
Mac stood on the footpath, dazed and dishevelled. He’d swapped the kimono for a pair of jeans and a spare shirt he kept in Bonny’s wardrobe, but he was unshaven, unshowered, unkempt. He thought he could smell himself. He hadn’t even used deodorant. He sniffed the air. At least there’d be the musky smell of sex mixed into the potion. First time in a while. Probably last time in a while, too, at least with Bonny. He glanced down at the cell phone in his hand as it began to bleep an endless stream of messages.
Tuesday. Had Gerry said Tuesday? Christ. He looked at his watch. The question would have been asked in the Senate by now. First up, he’d told Harold Wilde. Max Newsome would be starting to market the shares, which should be soaring. And he’d been locked up with a group of orang-outangs. He almost ran to his car, parked in the fucking street-car park door wouldn’t open, fucking technology-and was out of breath when Maxwell Newsome answered the call.
‘Mac, thank goodness you’ve rung. I’ve been desperately trying to contact you all morning. Are you all right?’
He held the steering wheel with both hands for support. His mouth was dry, he hadn’t even had coffee, and his odour was strong in the enclosed space. He seemed to be breathing with more difficulty than he should be just from a dash to the car. He saw his chest heaving under the shirt and he was afraid, for no reason.
‘Don’t worry about that now. What’s happened with the HOA price? What are we going to get for the shares?’
There was a long pause. ‘They’re gone, Mac. All sold. They went as soon as we put them on the market. I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘God. Just like that? The lot? I can’t believe it. What did we get?’
He heard breathing like his own on the other end of the line. ‘It’s this ASIC thing, Mac. And I couldn’t reach you. But you said to put them all on the market this morning. You said just get the best price I could on Tuesday. I wrote it down, Mac, it’s all written down. I asked you for a bottom price, but you said sell them on Tuesday.’
Mac was desperate for air. He jabbed at the window button but it wouldn’t respond. He fumbled for the key but couldn’t find it. He swung the door open and a passing cyclist swore at him as it nearly crashed into the bicycle frame. The roar of the traffic reverberated into the car’s interior and he shouted into the cell phone. ‘What are you talking about, Max? What ASIC thing? How do you know there’s an ASIC thing? They’ve only just left. Did Gerry call? Why would he call you?’ He pulled the door shut again to hear the response.
‘It’s on the front page of every paper, Mac-surely you’ve seen it. It was on the screens before the market opened. The press have been outside your house all morning. Where are you?’
Where was he? God knew. His mind was tumbling over itself, trying to sift information into logical order and failing. He opened the door again, climbed almost drunkenly out of the cavernous interior and leaned against the bonnet. He hated this car. Pretentious piece of crap Rolls-Royces were, but it had become a sort of trademark. People waved at him as he drove around, and he liked to be waved at. Usually they spat at Rollers, but not at Mac, because they knew he was just one of them who’d made it. There was no silver spoon anywhere near his mouth. His head swivelled as if searching for clues to his whereabouts.
‘I’m at Bonny’s in Potts Point.’ What did it matter where he was? That wasn’t the question he was searching for. What was it? How had the press known about the raid before it happened? How could so many shares have been sold so quickly? Why was Max talking about writing things down? No, none of that. Only one thing mattered. The price. The fucking price.
‘What did we get? What’s the price?’
‘You know the market, Mac. Anything that creates uncertainty, anything that smacks of wrongdoing, or false accounts, not that there is anything yet, or at all I’m sure, but this sort of thing spooks the market, you know it does. It’ll come back, I’m sure it will, in time, but well-you said to sell, I wrote it down.’
‘What’s the fucking price?’He could barely get the words out and the response hit him with the impact of a bullet.
‘Four fifty, average. We sold a few closer to five dollars, but average four fifty.’
Mac slumped. It wasn’t possible. The shares had been at seven dollars. With the revelation that the government was considering restrictions on foreign insurance companies, eight was an easy mark. Of course he’d told this idiot to sell the shares immediately. He couldn’t explain he knew the question would be asked in the Senate, and that he’d promised the banks they’d have the money by the end of the week. He certainly couldn’t explain to them where it was coming from before it arrived. That would have killed the share price in a minute. But it had been cut off at the knees anyway. By what? By nerds in grey suits? No, not by that. By someone knowing the nerds were coming before they came.
‘You sold them all? How could that large a parcel move so fast?’ Gradually his brain was picking through the debris of the bomb blast.
‘I don’t know. They went in three lumps virtually the minute we put them out. I mean you wanted them sold quickly, Mac, those were your instructions.’
Mac slammed the phone onto the bonnet. It made a slight dent but didn’t penetrate the eight layers of enamel. Maxwell Newsome’s voice could be heard squeaking from it briefly as it lay in the sun and then all was quiet, except for the roar of passing traffic.
Equations were swirling in front of Mac’s closed eyes.
Numbers and multiplication signs jostled with plus and minus symbols on the red surface of his inner eye. Dollars swam through the sea of black dots. A thundering headache was gripping his cranium in a vice, squeezing all the redness together until he felt it would burst out from his ears and nose and eyes. He never got headaches; he gave them. There was no humour in the thought now. He clutched at his temples to ease the pain and it was then he heard his name called.
As he opened his eyes he heard the whirr of cameras and that was the picture on page one. An old man, in pain, dishevelled, slumped on a ridiculous car, stripped of dignity and reputation, never to be restored no matter what the facts might prove.
The press had been outside Jack’s house when he returned from the park with one hand on the dog lead and the other holding the small plastic bag. They hadn’t been there when he left, but at that hour the light was only just starting to creep over the electricity cables, to illuminate the garbage bins strewn about the normally tidy street. Alice Street was anally neat, every edge clipped, every lawn shaved, except on Tuesday mornings when the garbage collectors delighted in showing these rich wankers who was really the boss. A little yelling at five a.m., a little throwing of bins and lids, off to the pub for a wake-up call or two.
Jack had walked past the hockey fields on the reservoir at the top of Centennial Park and down into the pine forest, where he set Joe free to run and snuffle in the fallen cones. As he stood listening to the light breeze sigh in the needles above, he noticed a soft crackling noise from high in the trees, and when he looked up, a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos was contentedly grazing on the remaining cones. He heard the kookaburras calling across the valley and the barking of other dogs from the exercise area below.
He called to Joe, a border collie of superior intelligence and wit, and they sloped off together towards the ponds and the paperbark forest, past the pelicans and other waterbirds, and through to the unkempt, dank section of the park, away from the cyclists and the pony track. Jack half knelt to undo the lead again and found himself looking into the dog’s eyes. He took the lead in both hands and scratched behind the ears and rubbed gently up and down both sides of its neck. He could hear himself mumbling without really knowing what he was saying and Joe stared back at him as if he did.
He felt tension he hadn’t realised was stored inside him uncoil and run down through his fingers into the hair and the warm body. Then he stretched and reached his arms up over his head towards the sun. They were so close now. He would see the old lawyer on Sunday, and hand him the folder with the smoking gun. They would pass the whole stinking mess to the authorities to unravel, and he, Louise and the kids could go back to real life.
The photographers hadn’t seen him approaching in tracksuit and sneakers, cap pulled down against the angled sun, and probably wouldn’t have recognised him anyway at this distance, even though he was often recognised now, just by people in the street. It was part of the job he secretly liked-being known for something. And he quite liked the press, and felt they liked him too, his easy candour. He’d nothing to hide and the venomous pieces had been written by gossip columnists, not the serious business journalists he mixed with. He thought about turning away, buying a newspaper from the corner shop just to check before he met them, because his home-delivered one would still be in its wrapper, but then he tugged the dog forward and they walked together into the fray. chapter fourteen
Sir Laurence sat with arms folded tightly against his chest and a grimace of extreme distaste across his face. He disliked folding his arms at any time, certainly not tightly. It creased the lapels of an expensive suit and, unless one was particularly careful, risked crushing the petals of his boutonnicre. He glanced at the clock on the boardroom wall again, well aware that it would show eleven minutes past the hour. It was one minute since he’d last checked it. When the door swung open and Jack entered, he tried unsuccessfully to alter his expression, but only succeeded in unfolding his arms.
‘Sorry I’m late, Laurence. Had to run the gauntlet of the press before I could get here. No doubt you’ve been doing the same.’
Sir Laurence had been doing nothing of the kind. He did not run gauntlets. He was a non-executive chairman. Chief executives and others of their ilk were paid a great deal of money to run gauntlets. Besides, the press, if properly handled, if fed and watered regularly, if left tasty morsels on their doorsteps, didn’t do their droppings on yours. ‘I’ve rather a busy day, so let us get on. You agree? This business with Mac is most distressing. I’m sure there’s nothing in it, but it’s distressing nonetheless. To the board, to the shareholders. You agree? But before we discuss that, I am concerned to know the findings of the committee I asked you to establish to investigate any issues or irregularities on matters concerning our reinsurance contracts, balance sheet, and profit and loss account. I’m surprised, disappointed I may say, to have received no report from you.’
They stared at one another across the curved table. Jack ran his hand over the polished mahogany. He was trying to remain calm in a storm where the wind blew from all directions at once. He needed to sit quietly in the workshop with the old lawyer and listen to a logical analysis of events he couldn’t piece together, of documents he couldn’t match, of people who wouldn’t remain in the roles they had been cast for. Why was ASIC investigating Mac when Hedley Stimson hadn’t yet passed the case to them and the Global Re side letter was still in the safe at Jack’s home? Why was Sir Laurence questioning him on matters he was assumed to want to avoid? What had Jack done about a committee, if anything? He couldn’t remember. The shock of seeing that front page with the headline about Mac, of seeing it for the first time in a journalist’s hand with photographers clicking away at him-well, he was still in shock.
‘Ah, I really can’t recall, Laurence. About the committee, I mean. Did I agree to set it up? I’m not sure I did.’
Sir Laurence’s face was a picture, but more a Breughel than a Rembrandt. ‘You can’t recall? Is that what you said? Am I to understand no such committee has been formed? No progress made? No documentation is to be forthcoming on these important maters? I specifically instructed you to report directly to me on this. You agree?’
Jack loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Why he was wearing a tie today when he hated them he wasn’t sure. Somehow he felt it was important to face the world, his staff, the business community looking every inch the chief executive. The founder of the company, its biggest shareholder, was under attack from the authorities-for what, nobody knew-and it was up to the leader to lead. But where? The share price was tumbling, there were rumours of a takeover, and the chairman was asking him about a committee. Suddenly Jack saw the issues in perspective.
‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I really don’t have time to waste on this today. Frankly I don’t think you do either. We can talk about committees some other time but our shareholders and the press are expecting us to make a statement about what’s occurred and I want to concentrate on that.’
Laurence Treadmore’s face became the colour of his shirt. ‘Waste? Did you say waste? A waste of time to consider serious questions concerning matters that could profoundly affect the interests of shareholders? Questions you were instructed to examine by the duly elected and appointed chairman of a public company?’He paused, took up a crystal glass from the tray on the boardroom table and sipped delicately. The water seemed to give him strength. ‘And the reason you don’t have time for this is that you wish to rush to the press to discuss-what? Issues of which you know nothing. That Mac is being investigated, but you don’t know why. I’m sure your prepared statement will be penetrating in its wisdom and of great comfort to all.’
Jack’s resolve was shaken by the outburst. There was some force in what had been said. What could he say to the press? That he supported Mac? Hardly. That he didn’t? That he had no knowledge of the issues, that the company was in great shape? That it mightn’t be in great shape if he could ever understand the balance sheet? He settled back into the chair and examined Sir Laurence with more respect. Why did he feel he was the one on trial here when he suspected the chairman was as mixed up in all of this as anyone?
‘Appearances. They seem to be your main concern, not matters of substance.’ Sir Laurence drew a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, where he preferred to store nothing, not even a wallet, lest it disturb the line of the fabric, and slid it across the table. ‘There is no statement the company can or should make other than this.’
Jack read the wording. ‘The board of directors of HOA has no knowledge of any matters under investigation by ASIC concerning the company. Nor does it have any knowledge of the reason for or nature of this morning’s search of premises reported to be owned by one of its directors, Mr Macquarie James Biddulph. The company will cooperate fully with ASIC in any investigation related to its business if asked to do so.’
Jack rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, on reflection I think you’re right, Laurence. We really can’t say more than that. I’ll have it released right away.’
Sir Laurence reached out a hand for the return of the paper. ‘It was issued at nine this morning, under my signature. While you were running gauntlets, I contacted the other directors. It is a matter for the board not the executives. Mac is one of our number.’
Again Jack felt he was somehow at fault, when he should have felt righteous. He’d wanted to appear before a press conference and make reassuring noises. He was good at that. He wanted to stroll the factory floor and embrace the workers. He was good at that. Suddenly he was cut off at the knees by a man he’d assumed was a weak second fiddle playing Mac’s tune. How was he going to spend his day now?
The prim voice interrupted his reverie. ‘I’ve called a board meeting for ten o’clock today. Your notice of this is on your desk. Most directors are able to attend, although I’ve been unable to contact Mac. Since the meeting will commence shortly, we may continue this discussion in the meanwhile. I should inform you that the subject of my instruction to you to investigate the matters referred to earlier, and your response, is a major item on the agenda. I trust your response to the board will be more forthcoming and detailed than the one provided to me.’
Finally Jack heard danger ringing in the forest of words.
A board meeting called suddenly? A discussion of his failure to follow up on instructions? How was he to answer any specific questions on material he’d obtained about reinsurance contracts, Mac’s private company or any related matter without revealing their whole case-just when he thought they’d finally nailed it? He desperately needed to speak to Hedley Stimson; waiting till Sunday night was no longer an option.
He looked up from the table at Laurence Treadmore. ‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I can’t continue the discussion at the moment. I have to make a call.’
He stood and started to walk to the door but the waspish voice stung him. ‘You will not leave this room.’ Sir Laurence’s legendary self-control was close to cracking as the words were spat out. ‘I instruct you, as your chairman, to resume your seat and answer my questions.’ Jack remained standing. ‘If you ignore an instruction from me, legally given, as chairman, relating to serious matters concerning your responsibilities as CEO, you will be in breach of your contract. Do you understand?’
Jack smiled. Now it was starting. Now the phoney war was over and the bombs would fall where they may. God help the innocent.
‘The contract I never wanted? Yes, I understand, Laurence.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll see you at ten o’clock.’
He listened to the ringing tone repeat itself as he gazed out at the squared-off shapes of the buildings surrounding his office. It was a view of angular, heavy lines; of drones, like him, sitting in boxes staring across alleys at other drones sitting in boxes. It was no view at all. He placed the phone back in the cradle as the voice came on the answering machine: ‘Hedley Stimson is unavailable. Please leave a message.’ This was the number he’d been told never to call, but the churning in his gut told him it was now or never. And not even a clerk or a secretary answered at the old lawyer’s chambers-just his own gruff voice. Jack heard a noise and swung round in his chair to see his secretary standing in the doorway. ‘Is there someone I can call for you, Mr Beaumont? Are there any other calls you’d like to make?’
This was just what he needed, this busybody inserting her pedantic presence where it wasn’t needed. Why he hadn’t insisted on bringing his own PA from his old business instead of listening to Sir Laurence carry on about corporate governance, he’d never know. ‘Thank you, no, Beryl, I make my own calls, as I think I’ve told you more than once.’
She smoothed her already immaculate skirt. ‘Of course, Mr Beaumont, I do know that. But you seem extremely busy this morning and with the board meeting in a few minutes, I thought I might be of assistance.’
Jack breathed deeply. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but I do have to make a call now. Would you mind shutting the door?’
He pushed up Hedley Stimson’s number on his cell phone screen and was about to dial it on the desk handset, when a chill fell around him, as if the air-conditioning had suddenly dropped a gust of cold air on the desk. He replaced the handset and pushed the dial on the cell phone instead, about to make another call that he had been told never to make.
This time it was a real voice, not a recorded one, but a soft, nervous voice. ‘Yes?’ No hello, just that one, almost frightened word.
‘Is that Mrs Stimson? It’s Jack Beaumont. I’m terribly sorry to call you at home.’
She sounded almost relieved. ‘Yes, it’s me. It’s all right, Mr Beaumont.’
There was pain in the voice, that was it, not fear. Somehow he wished he was alongside her again, in his car, on a lounge perhaps, where he could reach out and hold her arm. ‘Is Hedley there? May I speak to him?’
There was no answer, but he could hear her breathing. ‘He’s here, but he won’t speak to anyone. He’s more angry than I’ve ever seen him.’
‘Could you give him a message for me? Or should I try his office later?’
‘He won’t be back at his office. Just come tonight, Mr Beaumont. To the workshop. I’ll tell him you’re coming.’ There was a long silence. ‘We all read the newspapers, Jack, even silly old ladies like me can read.’
She hung up before he could tell her she was- something else. And the door to his office opened with the words, ‘It’s ten o’clock, Mr Beaumont.’
They were all seated in their customary places when Jack entered the boardroom, except for one empty chair; the chair that was always Mac’s, vacant or occupied. No one spoke as Jack took his place alongside Sir Laurence, who didn’t turn to acknowledge his arrival. The horseshoe table was completely bare, denuded of the usual clutter of board papers, notepads and coffee cups. The speakerphone from which Mac’s voice had so often echoed was also eerily absent. Only a thin white file lay in front of the chairman’s place. As Jack glanced down, he could see his own name on the cover.
Finally, the voice came. ‘It is well past the hour. As the CEO is now present, I believe we can commence. Thank you all for coming at short notice. We have, of course, no papers for this meeting. There are only two items, related items, on the agenda. The first is the alleged ASIC investigation of one of our directors, possibly relating to this company. We’ve no direct knowledge of this and, as far as I am aware, the company has received no written or verbal advice from ASIC. Perhaps the CEO can advise the board if that is correct?’
Jack was stunned. Of course, it was the first thing he should have checked, but he’d been making other calls. ‘No report has reached me of any contact from ASIC, Chairman.’
Sir Laurence sighed, very softly. ‘No report has reached you? The question was more what inquiries you have made to ascertain whether any communication has been received from ASIC, or indeed from the insurance regulator, regarding these matters. A response to that specific question would be appreciated by the board.’
Jack tried to catch the eye of each of the directors around the table, but all eyes were down. He barely knew these people, he realised. He’d made little or no effort to become close to or understand any of them, just regarded them as appendages of Sir Laurence, or captives of Mac. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had time to check directly, this morning, Chairman. I’ll follow up on it right after the meeting.’
Sir Laurence eased his chair away from the table slightly.
His eyes appeared to shift almost imperceptibly to the ceiling before they settled again on the file resting on the table. ‘Don’t bother. I have contacted your secretary. Your office has received no communication. The company secretary has received no communication, nor has the chief financial officer or the chief actuary. And as chairman, neither have I.’ He paused. ‘I believe, however, the board would appreciate a reordering of your priorities as CEO and placing this matter at the top of the list. You agree?’
There were murmurs of assent from around the table and Jack nodded. All the eyes were on him now. He felt like a rabbit caught in a dozen spotlights. And as the interrogation continued and unrelenting, specific, reasonable questions flowed from the white file, an appalling realisation fell on him. He wasn’t up to this job. Maybe all these people were neglecting their responsibilities, maybe they were complicit, directly or tacitly, in the machinations of Mac and Renton Healey- and Laurence Treadmore, if he was involved-but what about his own efforts? By his own admission he couldn’t understand the complexities of the balance sheet. Then what was he doing running the business? He had no sound relationship with any member of the board, or the chairman, or the largest shareholder. Why? Because he assumed he was right and they were all mixed up in the same muck. But other than Mac, what evidence did he have for that assumption? Maybe Laurence Treadmore was genuine in his quest for answers.
‘Do you intend to answer my question?’ Jack snapped back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, Chairman, would you mind repeating the question?’
Sir Laurence sighed again. ‘You obviously have other issues on your mind. I think it’s fair to say, however, that the board requires you to address these matters. You agree? Yes. The question I put was specific and direct. I trust the answer will be equally so. Did you remove a document from Renton Healey’s files relating to reinsurance contracts?’
Jack was a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. ‘Yes.’
‘Why did you remove this document and what relevance does it have to the inquiries that you were asked to make by me?’
There was a long pause. ‘I couldn’t say at the moment, Laurence. I’ve not had time to have it properly analysed.’
Sir Laurence steepled the fingers of both hands together very gently. ‘Analysed? By whom? Have you engaged people outside the company to examine confidential documents? If so, by what authority?’
Jack reached for the water jug and spilled freely on the table as he filled the glass. He drank it off in one long gulp, as much for the pause as the moisture. ‘I prefer not to say at this time. And I believe as CEO I have the right to engage whatever consultants I think fit within approved budgets, without the approval of the board.’
The two combatants glared at one another, but there was a hint of a thin smile on Sir Laurence’s face. ‘In the general course of business, perhaps. Not in matters concerning corporate governance, and particularly not when you’ve been directly instructed to report to the chairman. I require you, on behalf of the board, to answer.’
Jack looked around the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do so right now. I don’t want to hold anything back from the board, but I want to report in an orderly fashion and I don’t have a complete picture as yet.’
Again, the lips curled slightly. ‘Have you engaged a lawyer named Hedley Stimson to consult on these matters? If so, what is his brief?’
Jack’s face was ablaze. Blood was rushing around his body in a whirlpool and he had to stand, to move, to allow it to circulate before it burst some vessel. There was no way to answer this question. Yes. No. Both were impossible. ‘There is no brief from HOA to any such lawyer.’
‘No brief from HOA? Are we to understand from the phrasing of this response that you are briefing lawyers regarding company matters on your own account?’
‘I prefer not to answer that question.’ The silence in the room was filled with the hum of machines.
The air-conditioning could be heard grinding away, there was a faint buzz from the speakers in the roof, the electronic gear that ran the sliding screen and the computer graphics was humming softly in its cage. Jack resumed his seat.
‘I need a day or two, Chairman, before I can report properly.’ Sir Laurence closed the white file. ‘If I may summarise for the board. A series of relevant, specific questions has been put to the CEO regarding significant matters, some of which may relate to an ASIC inquiry. The CEO has either been evasive or refused outright to respond to the board. You agree?’ He paused, but not for agreement. ‘I suggest the board needs a few days to consider the critical question of whether it can continue to place its trust in the CEO. Do you agree?’
There were murmurs of assent from around the table.
‘The board will meet again at ten o’clock on Monday. The presence of the CEO will not be required. Thank you.’
Jack wandered about the car park in a daze. Where had he left the car? He couldn’t remember. He’d abolished the old system of allocated places with names and titles as part of his egalitarian push. He’d been good at all of that, hadn’t he? He knew the staff loved it, loved Jack appearing in their workspace without warning just to chat, eating with them in the canteen, even pissing with them. No more executive toilets. They even seemed to love the snide articles in the press about him. But where was the car? He clicked the key remote and was relieved to see a distant flash of tail-lights. It was too early to drive to the old lawyer’s house. His wife had told him to wait till this evening. He didn’t want to go home to Louise, but he needed to talk to someone. He rang the Pope.
As he sat with a brown paper bag on the bench by the canna lilies, the terse nature of the response came back to him. Perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a meeting at short notice, but surely the headlines would excuse it. The lean figure was beside him on the seat before he was aware of its arrival.
‘Pass the sandwiches. I don’t have much time.’ It was an uneasy conversation, or monologue, that ensued.
Jack sketched out the lines of the board meeting in broad strokes but, even to his own eye, the portrait was of a guilty suspect stuttering under the harsh light of interrogation. He described his confrontation with the press outside his house and again he could see himself as a weak reed. Why was he the victim when he should have been the aggressor? He put the question to the Pope in a variety of ways, but elicited only a series of grunts.
Finally the Pope screwed the brown paper bag into a tight ball and threw it in one clean arc into a rubbish bin.
‘This is difficult. Very difficult. But I may not be able to help you anymore.’
Jack was stunned. The day was a series of sharp blows to the stomach. ‘Christ. Why? Have I done something? Or not done something?’
The Pope shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Jack, I give you my word. It might be okay, I’m not sure. But the group did say from the start that if any of us had conflicts, we might have to walk away. I’m just warning you.’
Jack held the rough wood on the weathered bench with both hands and felt a splinter pierce his thumb. What was happening? The world was closing in on him without remorse. ‘I need you around. If you can. I really need you now.’
The Pope stood. ‘I know. I’ll do what I can, but I may have to go.’
He walked away a few paces and then turned back and held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’ chapter fifteen
When he drove past the house, the workshop was a brooding shadow in the birch groves. He was too early. They never met before eight, but he had nowhere else to go. He parked outside the gate. What did it matter who saw him now?
The street was alive tonight. Executive cars were ferrying executive persons back to the safety of their leafy driveways and the welcome of their patient wives. Buses were disgorging schoolboys weighed down with backpacks full of football gear and Catcher in the Rye. Young women in tailored skirts and blazers were returning from law firms and accountants’ offices insisting to their mothers that they wouldn’t be waiting by panelled doors with peep holes for the return of the master. Dogs were leaping for joy at the gathering of the pack and the smell of lamb roasting in the oven. All was safe, placid, pleasant in the realm of suburbia.
Jack waited for an hour, watching. It reminded him of the life he’d grown up with and the relaxed easiness of it all came back to him in a drift of nostalgia. He remembered riding his bike down streets like this, arms in the air, just balancing with the sway of his body, not a care in the world. His cell phone rang and rang out. He switched it off. The street was quiet now. Dinner was being served. Homework books were being discovered under unwashed tracksuits next to half-eaten apples.
Television was siphoning off minds into unreality. The lights went on in the workshop.
Still he lingered. He was reluctant to go in. He placed both hands on the steering wheel, expecting them to be shaking with the irregular rhythm of his breathing, but they rested calmly on the yellowy leather. It was time.
He eased open the door then closed it gently behind him, as if it were important to be quiet. Clandestine meetings that everyone knew about still required respect for the conventions. He trod carefully on the soft covering of leaf litter. There was no wind to rustle the birches tonight, no moon to silver the trunks. A possum hissed and leapt in the branches above. He hesitated on the stone path when he could see the lighted window above the workbench, and listened to the whirring of the lathe. Sometimes it screamed and yowled as it tore at the wood, but tonight it was a steady, mechanical whirr. He knocked on the heavy, ribbed door.
There was no response. The lathe whirred, the birches stood guard. He rapped with a closed fist and the door rattled against the jamb. Nothing. Normally, all sounds would cease at his first knocking and then he would hear only the soft pad of slippers on the wide boards. He reached for the forged hasp, its manufacture previously described to him in loving detail, and the door swung open. He could see the dense bulk of the old lawyer hunched over the workbench, intent on the machine before him. He called out a greeting, but there was no response. And then he knew.
He was frozen. He couldn’t approach the workbench. He had to move, but his systems wouldn’t obey. He gulped great lungfuls of air. And then, in a rush, he was at the bench and his hands were on the shoulders and the body fell forward, face down on the rough wood.
He cried out as the lathe continued its scream, dangerously close to the gnarled face. Why was it still operating? The foot pedal. He sank to his knees and grasped the ankle in the thick wool sock and pushed, hard, but the foot wouldn’t shift off the ugly contraption. It was wedged somehow, the weight of the body twisted onto it. He tried to lift the leg, to free the man from the machine, to stop the appalling noise that was now screaming into his brain. If only he could stop the noise everything would be all right.
He knelt higher, sweating under the bench, frantic, panicked, grasping at the legs and the trunk to shift the weight. He lifted and pushed simultaneously and suddenly the foot was free and the scream was stifled. He fell back in relief and sat, panting like an exhausted hound.
And then, before he could prevent it, the body began to slide, crashing to the floor in a swirl of sawdust and shavings. Now it wasn’t a body anymore, but a man. The face was compressed into a grimace by the neck forcing it onto the floorboards, but it was the face he’d come to trust, to admire, maybe more.
He crawled to the man and held the face in his hands and wiped the shavings away. Should he be forcing the mouth open, breathing his breath into these lungs, pounding this old heart, running, ringing, someone, somewhere? But he knew he was holding only the body, not the life. He gently turned the face away from the floor and straightened the bent legs and flayed arms. The old lawyer was sleeping now, at peace in the detritus of his life’s work, ready for the rituals of the world he’d left behind.
Jack slumped into the chair by the stove. He was shaking, shivering, still gulping air to no purpose and then, without warning or knowledge, he began to howl.
The long, haunting wail rose into the beams and rang off the iron roof and seemed never to stop.
That was how she found him, in her husband’s chair, keening over his body. She’d lost a son, and part of a husband, long ago; she knew the living had more need of her. She knelt before the chair and wrapped his head in her and gradually the howling subsided into sobbing until finally his whole body relaxed into her, and it was over.
It was late, Louise would be worried. He’d rung no one. He felt he’d never switch on the phone again. They would retreat somewhere, the four of them, cocoon themselves in a safe haven. Run away, start anew. Tasmania, perhaps. Yes, Tasmania, Louise loved it there; the great forests, the wild rivers, the cleanest air on earth, the cleanest water. That was what they needed-to be washed clean of the grime of falsity and fakery.
It was finished now. There was only the old lawyer’s funeral to come. The rest of it was buried already. He could leave any time he liked. He owed no one anything. He’d tried; it was more than most people bothered with. It was good enough.
But then there was Louise. Would she let go now? She’d have to see there was no chance without the old lawyer, have to realise their hopes lay in the sawdust on that concrete floor. She didn’t have to know about his own failure. She could keep believing he was a hero defeated by circumstance. The truth wasn’t always a necessity.
The house was ablaze with light when he drove up Alice Street. She was standing in the doorway, waiting, and ran to meet him on the path. She enveloped him and almost carried him into the house, and he was sobbing again before they reached the door.
‘How did you know?’
‘She rang. His wife. She said you needed looking after. What a remarkable woman.’
Sarah and Shane were waiting inside and the four of them held one another, wrapped together in a knot of limbs, not speaking. Finally, exhausted, they all found bed, if not sleep. He wanted to talk now, to tell her everything, even the failure, even the frailty, even his guilt. He’d killed an old man with his arrogance. He’d been warned, asked to stop, begged for compassion. But no, he’d known what was right, what was wrong, what was black and what was white. Well what did he know now? The sour taste of bile in the mouth, the rank odour of defeat and death.
She was patient with him, but pragmatic. Overdramatisation was dismissed, though gently. She would have nothing of the guilt, nothing of the failure, but when he said he wanted to walk away, she didn’t oppose it.
‘We’ll see. You’ve all your other friends helping you. The Pope or whatever his name is, and the others in the group. Talk to them. Seek their advice. That document is still in the safe, don’t forget that. Yes, it’s a tragedy this man has died. I think you loved him in some way. But be sorry for him, and his wife, not for yourself. And maybe we can make his death worth something. And if it doesn’t all resolve itself, a stone cottage by a river in Tasmania with lupins in the paddocks and salmon in the oven sounds fine to me.’
When sleep came, it was the deep, still sleep of spent emotion from which waking is the only dream.
He was being shaken, he could feel it, but he was still in the half-dream. And then the voice, the soft voice of his daughter who had never woken before him in sixteen years. ‘Dad. Dad! There are men downstairs. They want you. You have to come.’
He almost fell from the bed, but gestured for her to be silent as he saw the deep breathing of his wife under a sheet pulled half over her face. He was in the foyer before he knew it, with a robe pulled across a pair of striped boxer shorts and his feet bare on the stone floor. There were three of them, already in the house, waiting, in business suits. He looked at his watch. It was six a.m.
‘Mr Beaumont, we represent the Australian Securities and Investments Commission. We hold a duly executed warrant to search these premises. We also wish to ask you questions pertaining to a current investigation. We will now commence the search.’
He didn’t protest; what was there to protest about? He turned to Sarah and said, ‘Go back to bed, darling. It’s all right. It’s just a business thing, just routine. Don’t worry.’
But she came to him, clung to him. ‘What’s happening, Dad? Why is all this happening? I want everything to be like it used to be.’
‘I know, darling. It will be. I just have to help these people and then we can go back to our old life. I promise.’
Still she held him and he could feel the shaking.
‘They’re not after me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m trying to help them. You don’t have to worry.’ Finally she released him and he pushed her gently away down the corridor, though he could see her glancing back doubtfully as she turned the corner to her bedroom.
He sat in the breakfast room with coffee. He’d offered the remaining ASIC man a cup, but the offer had been politely refused. The man just sat there, not speaking-waiting, he supposed, to ensure no calls were made. That had been the instruction. He didn’t need an instruction. He couldn’t think of anyone to call.
The sun fell into the room in patterns on the floor just the way he’d designed it to fall. He’d stood on this site, with the model in his hand and watched the light strike the roofline and lifted the roof to imagine the shafts falling through the skylights. And now here they were, here he was, here was the ASIC man.
One of the others entered the room. ‘There’s a safe in a room out here, Brian.’
The seated man turned to Jack. ‘Would you come and open the safe please, Mr Beaumont?’
He followed tamely and dialled the combination. He sat in a deep chair and tried not to see the body fall again, tried not to see the puff of sawdust as it hit the floor, tried not to hear the dull thud.
‘What is this, Mr Beaumont?’ He looked up. There was a pile of Louise’s jewellery boxes on the table and the man was holding a paper. ‘I’m sorry, what? I didn’t hear you.’
The man handed him the paper. It was the Global Re side letter, the smoking gun, which might never fire now.
‘Why is this company document in your private safe?’ Exhaustion overcame him again. Sleep had restored no energy or, if it had, it had dissipated with his daughter’s hand. ‘It’s a long story. It’s the story you’re searching for, I think, but I’d like to tell it some other time.’
‘We’d like to hear it now, Mr Beaumont. In fact, we insist.’ They both pulled chairs towards him and the spokesman placed a small tape recorder on the arm of one. How could he explain the saga? Where to start? Was there a finish? ‘It’s very complicated. We were about to turn over a whole pile of documents to you, a whole case really. This is one of them.’
‘Who is we? Mr Beaumont?’
Jack pressed one hand to the top of his head, pressed down hard as if to prevent pain from spreading, dug his fingers into the scalp. ‘Can’t we do this some other time?
I’m trying to help you people. I’m the one who started all this, started digging into all this dirt. But I need a little time to put my thoughts in order.’
The man sat impassively and removed a small notebook from his breast pocket. ‘What dirt are you referring to?’
Jack sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want to have to call lawyers and all that nonsense. I’m on your side. Just give me some time. It’s been a rough period.’
‘You referred to we in your previous comments. Who is we?’ And so it began. He tried to outline the process, his initial concerns, his meeting with Hedley Stimson, their peculiar arrangement, his search for documents. As he sketched the lines, it sounded complex, even to him. The chief executive of a major company ferrying documents to a retired lawyer buried in the suburbs. He left out the group’s involvement; that was too hard to explain.
‘And we were nearly there. We felt we’d just about pieced it all together.’
The man stared at him. ‘I see. That’s what we normally do, Mr Beaumont, piece it all together. That’s what the Australian Government has charged us with doing. It’s not normally, or ever, the role of private citizens. Whoever they may be.’ He turned a page in the notebook. ‘Please give me the phone number and address of Mr Stimson.’
Jack hunched his shoulders up into the base of his neck and arched his head back. The tension in his skull was unbearable. He wanted to be out of this room, away from these people, running with his dog, riding bikes with his kids, away.
‘He’s dead.’
The pen remained poised over the notebook. ‘I’m sorry, your meaning is unclear. Who is dead?’
‘Hedley Stimson. The lawyer. He died last night.’ Still the pen didn’t move. ‘But you’ve told us you were going to speak to him yesterday. That you were taking this document to him.’
‘That’s right. But when I got there he was dead.’ He was starting to shake now. He could feel the tremors coursing through him. The body was falling again, slowly, so slowly. Why hadn’t he stopped it, caught it before it hit the floor? He should’ve moved, should’ve held it to him, taken the weight and lowered it gently, with love. It was a shameful thing, the worst failure, to allow that fall, to hear that thud.
‘So you replaced the document in the safe?’ He was shivering uncontrollably. The sun was on him and he was as cold as he’d ever been. ‘I killed him. I killed him with all this.’
‘That’s enough.’ It was Louise’s voice, calm, in control. ‘He’s not answering any more questions without a lawyer. We’re prepared to cooperate with you, but in a proper environment with lawyers present.’ She came down the stairs and stood behind Jack with both hands on his neck. ‘I can confirm everything he says and am happy to give evidence, but in due course. Not in an atmosphere of tension and intimidation, and I repeat, not without our lawyer.’
The ASIC man switched off the tape. ‘We have the right to ask questions wherever we wish, and in any manner we wish, Mrs Beaumont. It is Mrs Beaumont, I take it?’
She didn’t flinch. ‘It is. And we have the right to refuse. And we do so.’
‘You have no such rights, Mrs Beaumont. But your refusal is noted.’
The floor was terrazzo, the walls panelled in dark wood, the tables clothed in white linen covered by paper, the waiters in long aprons. She might have been back in Rome, where she’d lived for a year after university, scratching a living as a part-time research assistant for an American professor, except the atmosphere was Sydney cool, not Italian buzz. She’d arrived early, nervous, still shattered by the events of the previous days and the effort of holding Jack, and the children, together. The day her father had left the house forever kept flashing into her mind. Her mother had run after him into the garden, into the street, clutching at him, trying to draw him back, when only minutes before she’d seemed set on driving him away. She’d always felt her mother was wrong. She should’ve forgiven him whatever the fault. What did it matter? They could have been together with forgiveness, they could have been a family. Instead there were all those years of a mother and a daughter pretending they preferred life alone.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Louise. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’
He slid into the chair opposite her and she found she was unreasonably glad to see him. ‘You’re not late. I was early. Remind me, it is John I use on Thursdays, isn’t it?’
The Pope smiled. ‘Yes, it is.’ He waved a waiter to the table. ‘Will you eat, or just coffee? A glass of wine?’
‘I’d love something. I haven’t eaten today. The pattern of life is a little confused at the moment.’
She watched him order, take charge, and relaxed back into the chair. That was what she wanted-for someone to take charge. Everyone assumed that inside she was as strong as the shield she wore externally. But to have someone else command, take over, what a relief to be able to cast off the burden of care.
‘How is Jack?’ He saw the disappointment on her face. ‘More to the point, how are you? It must be very hard.’
She began to speak, but the tears came before the words. It was impossible, to be crying in a public place, with a man she barely knew, but it was impossible to stop. He slipped around into the chair alongside and took her hand, not speaking, just a strong hand holding hers. The waiter placed the food and water on the table and glanced at her as he did so, but still she cried. Finally the hand was withdrawn.
‘The pasta will be cold and the wine will be warm.’ He passed her a white handkerchief from his pocket and she took it gratefully. It smelled of sun and she could see his initials in blue in one corner.
‘It’s a beautiful handkerchief. Thank you.’ He laughed. ‘Please keep it, although you’d better unpick the initials or your husband might get jealous.’
‘I don’t think he’d have any case on that score, do you?’ He glanced at her quizzically. They ate in silence for a while. ‘We need help. It’s too much. Hedley Stimson’s death, ASIC, Jack’s suspension. You heard about that?’
‘Yes, it was on the screens this morning. Along with a beautifully crafted press release from Sir Laurence. The company makes no presumption of guilt regarding the investigation of the actions of its CEO, but believes the suspension of his duties pending the outcome of such investigation is in the interest of shareholders.’
She let her fork fall into the remains of the pasta. ‘I notice they didn’t suspend Mac Biddulph.’
‘You can’t suspend a director of a public company. The shareholders can vote him out in a general meeting, but the board has no power to oust a director.’
She folded her napkin and placed it beside the bowl. ‘Can you help us? I mean, can you help us more? I know you’ve already contributed a great deal, but now we need a new direction, a new lawyer-I don’t know. This is all beyond my experience.’ She leaned forward, trying to hold him with her eyes. ‘I feel we’ll never recover from this if we don’t fight. Jack’s reputation may never recover anyway. Mud sticks, doesn’t it, even though you wash it clean. It sticks in people’s dirty minds.’
He watched her carefully as she spoke and saw the turmoil beneath her struggle for composure. ‘There are enough people who know Jack’s real character to outweigh the others, if he holds on.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So will you help us?’ He took the bowls and stacked them with the side plates and gestured for the waiter to clear the table. Her heart sank as she watched him. ‘I can’t help you any longer. I’m deeply sorry.’
Somehow this seemed the worst blow of all. He’d been her secret hope, the mysterious, powerful boundary rider who would make it all come right.
‘I’m ashamed to say this to you, but I must say it.’ He reached for her hand again, but she drew it away. He nodded resignedly. ‘It’s difficult to explain, I-’
She cut in. ‘Don’t bother. You can’t help. Let’s not confuse matters with unnecessary explanation.’ She took up her handbag from the spare chair, but this time he grasped her arm before she could withdraw.
‘Please. Don’t go. It’s not like that. I’m not a fair-weather friend.’ He held her to the chair. ‘Will you answer one question for me? If you could save a child of yours or a friend of yours, but not both, which would you choose?’
She looked into his eyes and saw the pain and knew it was real. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘And I can’t explain.’ He stood and placed money on the saucer with the bill. ‘Go to the group. Go to Jack’s friends. I’m not a member anymore, but they’ll help you.’ He held out his hand. ‘One day, I hope you’ll forgive me and want to see me again. I’ll always want to see you.’
When she stumbled out into the glaring sun, she was blinded and confused. She crossed the busy road with cars hooting at her. She wandered into Hyde Park without reason or purpose. She felt old and unattractive and lost. She was a woman in an expensive suit with eyes red from crying, stripped bare of artifice or mask. She came upon a giant chess board cut into a corner of the park, with a group of men moving the pieces about the squares. She sat on a stone parapet nearby, to watch, without seeing. An old man smiled at her, but it was a smile of pity.
She walked back to the street and past a newsstand. The poster had the letters HOA and a picture of Jack with some other word, and she hurried away from it. She tried to hail a taxi but none stopped, so she just stood there, for how long she wasn’t sure, watching the traffic roar by. And then she heard the voice and focused on the taxi with the driver calling to her through the open window.
She was going home. chapter sixteen
Mac was already seated in the wicker armchair on the verandah when the dawn chorus greeted the promise of first light. First came the raucous laughter of the blue-winged kookaburras-a satirical parody of the bigger laughing kookaburra he was used to hearing in Sydney. Then the single-note contact calls and territorial screeches of the galahs, followed by the loud yodelling of the secretive black butcherbirds. He’d never seen one of these birds despite years of trudging through creek beds with binoculars at the ready. He wondered if they sometimes impaled their prey on a thorn before devouring it, like their cousins, the grey butcherbirds. But then there were so many conflicting calls ringing out through the eucalypts and bouncing off the rocky outcrops that he couldn’t distinguish one from another.
He sat very still in the chair. He loved this time of day in this place. He loved being alone here. He smiled inwardly at the thought. Most people wouldn’t believe Mac Biddulph was a nature lover, but of all the things he stood to lose, the loss of Bellaranga would hurt the most. Fishing in the rivers for barramundi, hunting for rock art in the helicopter, riding into palm-filled valleys surrounded by red rock cliffs, the dawn chorus. And the people. There was no pretence in these people; they were straightforward, blunt, as tough as the landscape. They were his sort of people-honest and hardworking.
Well, who would ever see him as honest again? All they had to do was charge you with something and your reputation was shredded forever. Not that they’d charged him with anything yet. But they would.
What would happen to his people here? Who would look after them if he lost this place? When he lost it. It was when, not if. He had to be realistic. Even if the banks didn’t take it, even if they couldn’t navigate their way through the reefs of dummy companies and legal atolls littered in their course, he couldn’t pay the bills anymore. Simple as that. Now the cash tap was turned off it was frightening how quickly the pipes blocked up. So who would look after his people?
In the half-light he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly to the windmill. He was always first up, old Frank. Too old to ride, too old for mustering or even cutting out. Reduced to gardening, but still one of his people. There were no Aborigines working the cattle anymore, all that magic horsemanship lost to welfare cheques and booze, but old Frank stayed and worked and rose at first light everyday. He was going blind now, but he could see enough.
Mac called to his dog and hurried across the lawn to catch the old man before he disappeared. Frank could disappear in a desert.
‘Morning, boss. You’re up early, eh? Not sleeping well, eh?’
‘I’m sleeping fine, Frank. I just didn’t want to miss the dawn. When you’re our age you don’t know how many you’ve got left.’
The old man cackled. ‘You’ve got a few on me, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure. You look pretty fit, Frank. But how are the eyes? Any worse?’
The furrowed black face was almost obscured by a large pair of spectacles smattered with grime and dust. ‘Not so good, boss.’
‘Maybe you need to give the specs a wash now and again.’ The cackling laugh escaped once more. ‘Tried that, boss. Didn’t do any good. Gave it up. Save the water, eh?’
Mac gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the trough. ‘Tell you what, Frank, they’re pretty good with eyes now. They can probably fix you up in a real hospital, no problem.’
‘No hospitals out here, boss. Too far for me to go, now. Just a bit too far.’
Mac stroked his chin. ‘What about this, old fellow. The helicopter will fly you up to the Mitchell Plateau and then we’ll get a plane to take you down to Perth. We can find a good man down there-fix you up in no time. What do you reckon?’
The shoulders slumped a little and the face looked down at the dirt. ‘Don’t know, boss. Don’t know any blackfellers ever been in one of them. Plane maybe, not helicopter. Bit too old, eh?’
Mac clapped him on the back. ‘Bulldust. We’re gonna do it. I’m going to fix it right now. Soon as one of those lazy bastards is up and about I’ll be onto the doctor. We’ll fix it up, Frank. What do you reckon?’
The eyes looked up at him cautiously from under the brim of a battered hat. ‘Don’t know.’
Mac laughed and jumped to his feet. He was alive and full of action now. ‘But I do, Frank. I know. That’s what you’ve got me for, to know what to do. You’ll be bringing down roos at two hundred metres before you know it.’
They walked together for a while, discussing which trees to plant before the wet, which fruit would set in the harsh environment of the Kimberley. Frank was the only one who stayed on the property in the wet season, when roads were impassable, mosquitoes and mould were ubiquitous, and life was unbearable. Mac wondered if he’d ever be back after the wet. Probably not. This was probably his last good season before the rains came and his own troubles with them.
He could hear the helicopter by the time he’d reached the homestead and he thought to himself, ‘Here they come now.’
Gerry Lacy had never been to Bellaranga before, or the Kimberley, or Western Australia, or anywhere much in his own country. He’d been to New York and Paris and London any number of times, of course. He’d been to Rome more times than he could remember. Well, three, actually. He’d been to Tuscany, and sailed from Elba to Corsica. (Not sailed with sails, but ‘sailed’ in the normal sense, with a motor.) He’d been all over France in a rented Porsche which, while it wasn’t French, seemed entirely appropriate for driving along the Cote d’Azur. But he’d never been further than a hundred and fifty kilometres inland in Australia. What was there to see anyway except a huge rock? What would be the appropriate vehicle to drive? Some ugly Toyota with a sort of snorkel poking up from its bonnet. It was hardly a Porsche, was it? There’d be dust and flies instead of cheese and wine. And no golf.
But here he was in the Kimberley, flying around in a helicopter no bigger than a hornet, with a lawnmower motor and no doors. He shivered at the thought of no doors and cowered into the bucket seat.
He could see Mac Biddulph standing in the only patch of green as they came in to land. It was sad, very sad, what was happening to Mac. He was a client, after all. They were not really friends, socially, or anything near. Mac didn’t mix with the right people really, wasn’t a member of The Golf Club, for instance. They never named the golf club, the members-just called it that, ‘The Golf Club’. You either knew or you didn’t, and if you didn’t, there was no help for you. Mac was rich, or had been rich, but that wasn’t enough. An unpleasant thought disturbed Gerry’s ruminations. ‘Had been rich…’ was unfortunate terminology. He’d have to ask the firm’s accounts department to keep an eye on the payment of fees. No point in letting things drift too far; it would only add to Mac’s problems.
Gerry looked around nervously as the helicopter landed in swirling dust clouds. It was his own fault he was here. He’d advised Mac all his phones would be tapped and his cell phone monitored. They knew about the Honey Bear-who didn’t-and that would be under surveillance, along with his residences and Bonny’s apartment. So here they were in this godforsaken place. Two days with Mac Biddulph on a cattle property wasn’t Gerry’s idea of fun-but think of the years of litigation to follow, think of the fees. If they were paid.
‘What a remarkable place, Mac. So… so far from anywhere, so… rugged.’
Mac took the oversize golf bag from the pilot. ‘Lucky you didn’t crash with this thing on board. It must weigh a ton. Planning a couple of rounds in a dry river bed, are we, Gerry?’
‘All part of the cover, Mac. Off on a golfing weekend. We don’t want your ASIC friends snooping around, do we?’
‘You’re kidding? You don’t really think they’d come up here?’ They sat in the relative cool of the louvred verandah with tall glasses of iced tea. Gerry tried to explain the powers lined up against them. They never understood, these business types. They always assumed they were above the law, or that corporate crime was softer than shoplifting and the corporate regulators had the muscles of a midget.
‘They can legally tap your phones, run twenty-four-hour surveillance on you, subpoena you to appear whenever they want, search you and your properties and, if they develop half a case against you, freeze your assets, take your passport-the lot. Their powers are much wider than those of the police and the sanctions are severe.’
Mac nodded. ‘I know, Gerry. I do listen.’ His anger seemed to have dissipated, Gerry thought. At least that was something. ‘What are the sanctions? I mean if they ever charge me with anything, and convict me, what can I go for? Fines, that sort of thing?’
Gerry drank deeply from the iced tea, which was excellent. Just the right balance of sweet and sour. ‘I think it’s premature to discuss that sort of thing, Mac.’
‘Sure. But let’s just say they get something on me, some weird breach of some feeble law no one even knows about, what could I go for? Ban me as a director?’
This wasn’t the perfect start to close confinement under a corrugated-iron roof, Gerry felt. There were certain words in any solicitorclient discussion that were better left unsaid. He felt one of them coming on now.
‘I mean, there’s no chance of jail, is there? For Christ’s sake, they wouldn’t be trying for that, would they? Just for a few bucks out of a company I built from nothing?’
Gerry held up his hand. ‘Please, Mac, don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know. Just respond to the exact questions I put to you. And the same goes for the ASIC examination. Only answer the question put, preferably with a yes or no. Don’t add anything, don’t give anything away. That’s the art of it.’
But the unanswered question hung between them and Mac looked at him with raised eyebrows.
‘You have to understand, some potential charges are criminal offences. Certain breaches of the Corporations Act, if proven, do carry severe penalties. It depends where they go.’ He replaced the glass carefully on the low table and took up a lined pad, but Mac persisted.
‘And where could they go?’ Gerry referred to the notepad. ‘I was hoping to summarise that at the conclusion of our discussions, but if you insist.’ Mac nodded. ‘Very well. There’s the recent sale of your shares. That raises a number of questions-insider trading, failure to report, breach of directors’ duties…’
Mac cut in angrily. ‘But I lost money on the fucking sale.’
‘I’m afraid that makes no difference. Whether you profit by ten million dollars or one dollar or lose money isn’t relevant. And yes, there are potential criminal charges.’
There was silence for a few moments. ‘What else?’ ‘There are three main areas of concern. First, what we might term corporate governance matters.’ He saw Mac wince. ‘That is, matters related to the company’s accounts, reinsurance arrangements and the like, and your role as a director. Second, possible misappropriation of the company’s assets to your personal account. And third, flowing from these but not really a matter for ASIC, possible tax fraud.’
Mac rose and walked to the verandah steps. ‘Well, thank you, Gerry. That really sets me up for the day. Why don’t you get settled-Martha will show you to your room. Then we can start. I’m going for a ride.’
Gerry had to admit the fish was superb. Grilled barramundi with just a slice of lemon and a dab of macadamia pesto. He’d never had pesto made with macadamias before but it was surprisingly good. And the wine-the wine was incomparable. When the ‘94 Grange Hermitage arrived with the meat, he was in heaven.
‘This is beyond expectations, Mac. You really live very well here.’
Mac glanced at him sourly; it had been a long day. Gerry Lacy might not be his choice as a life partner, but he was thorough, very thorough. Not that five hours of questioning had improved Mac’s temper, or his confidence. It was worse than the banks-at least they couldn’t put you in jail.
‘What is this meat, Mac? It’s delicious. And the relish? Some sort of chutney, is it?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue about the relish. Ask Martha when she brings dessert. The meat’s kangaroo, killed on the old place. They don’t hang it long. Better to eat it when the blood’s still fresh.’
Gerry felt he hadn’t needed to know about the fresh blood. But the meat was tender and moist, and then there was the wine.
‘Seems bloody ridiculous. Some goddamn game of rules where you don’t know the rules.’
Gerry was startled. Somehow they’d leapt from blood to rules. ‘I’m sorry, Mac. Rules?’
‘These ASIC idiots. Running around saying I’ve broken some rule or other. What fucking rule? Where are they written down?’
Gerry took more than a sip of the wine, to fortify himself for a long debate. ‘Well, strictly, they’re written down, Mac, in laws.’
Mac pushed his plate away. ‘Laws. Who can read laws except you bloody lawyers? No offence. How does the average citizen get on? How’s the average bloke supposed to know when he’s breaking the law?’
Gerry’s gaze took in the relaxed grandeur of the homestead’s main room, the enormous cowhide sofas, the table they were dining at which could comfortably seat twenty people, the sideboard struggling to support an astonishing array of fruit, decanters, bowls of nuts and a silver dish of what appeared to be gold bonbons. He couldn’t for a moment bring to mind an appropriate response, so he sipped the wine again.
‘I mean who makes the goddamn rules anyway?’ Mac’s face was now beginning to redden, either from anger or wine, or both.
‘Well, I suppose parliament makes them, Mac.’
‘Fucking parliament. Fucking politicians. Scumbags. Arseholes. Never done a day’s work in their lives, any of them. Who are they anyway? Who do they represent?’
It was difficult for Gerry to avoid responding. There were only the two of them in this vast room. There was nowhere to hide. ‘I suppose the people. I mean, they’re elected after all. In a democracy. So they represent the people.’
Mac’s fist crashed into the table and sent a shower of cutlery onto the floorboards. ‘Don’t lecture me. All goddamn day I’m being lectured. By who? By a fucking lawyer.’
He stomped to the verandah door, then turned and walked back to stand over the seated figure. Gerry Lacy flinched visibly at the unbridled belligerence on the face glaring down at him.
‘That’s why you like golf, isn’t it, Gerry? Rules. All the fucking rules in the world. The Golf Club. Pretentious place for pretenders like you. Lawyers and wankers and people with a map of their family tree on the living room wall. They blackballed me, you know? Did you know that? No, I can see by your face you didn’t. Years ago, some snide prick, even though they say there’s no blackballing. One word to the committee-that’s all it takes. Probably thought I was a Jew. They don’t like Jews at The Golf Club, do they Gerry? But they can’t say it; only in the locker room. Let the Jews have their own golf club. I probably am a Jew, for all I know. My dad drifted all over the world and washed up here. I never looked it up. Never gave a damn what I was, what anyone else was. Just what they did. And I don’t give a fuck for your rules either.’
He slammed the screen door and then there was silence. Gerry sat quite still for a moment. He’d been afraid there might be a physical attack on his person. His appetite had almost departed with the fury that stormed out the door. Although it would be a shame to waste the wine. He sipped. Perhaps a taste of the meat to complement that rich back flavour. He wondered if there’d be cheese-much more appropriate than anything sweet with a wine of this quality.
As Mac stumbled onto the lawn, his dog ran from its kennel under the steps. It was a working dog, a kelpieblue heeler cross, never allowed inside the house. It brushed Mac’s leg gently with its tail and waited for instructions. He bent down and rubbed its head. ‘G’day, you mongrel. Just a mongrel like me, aren’t you, Bluey? Come on, mate, let’s have a walk.’
They left the house lights washing onto the soft lawn and trod, morosely in Mac’s case but joyfully in the dog’s, into the blackness of the Kimberley night. Once they were a short distance from the homestead and all the artificial light had vanished, the stars were as bright on the horizon as they were directly above. But there was no moon and the ground was rocky and uneven.
He was surprised to fall. It seemed unfair to be lying on your own ground, on a track you’d walked a hundred times, with pain in your leg and a rock under your hip. He tried to roll to one side and then the pain screamed at him from his hip. He cried out at the intensity of it, but there was no one to hear except the dog. Where was the dog? Off chasing roos or rabbits. No, here it was, licking his face and then stepping back to watch him. Christ, the pain was awful.
‘Jesus, Bluey, this is crook, old feller. Mac’s not so good.’ He tried to sit up and gain leverage to stand but fell back with another cry. ‘No good, mate, no good at all.’
He lay there, panting, with the dog walking around him now, sniffing. It whined quietly when he didn’t move and then snuffled and licked at his legs. It was cold lying on the ground and he began to shiver with the night air and the pain. The dog came to his face again and licked his head and neck, and he didn’t brush it away. He moaned quietly as he tried to ease the hip. The dog walked away a few paces and watched him, its head on one side. It came back and nudged at his body with its snout. He didn’t move. It sat alongside him, watching, listening.
He was very cold now, and frightened. The Kimberley temperatures could be like a desert. No one would come for him till morning. He often walked at night, although usually with a torch. Martha would leave, Gerry was useless. They’d be here all night.
He felt the dog sniffing him again and tried to reach out a hand to pull it near him, for its warmth. But as he did so, he felt the whole body step over him and lower itself gently onto his body, with its face below his chin.
Frank found them that way after dawn, one on the other.
There were four of them this time. The three who’d come to Bonny’s apartment and a newcomer. He looked different, the new one. Not just because he wasn’t in a grey suit; the navy blue jacket, white shirt and the black shoes weren’t enough in themselves to make a difference. There was something else Mac couldn’t pin down. He was polished at the edges somehow, someone to watch, someone to fear.
‘Good morning, Mr Biddulph, Mr Lacy. My name is Todd Gamble. I’m assisting the Australian Securities and Investments Commission in this investigation.’
There it was-an American accent. Gerry Lacy leaned forward immediately. ‘Assisting? What is this? Are you an employee of ASIC, a lawyer assisting-what is your status?’
The nerd who had been the leader in the search, the nerd who’d had Bonny’s knickers nestling in his suit pocket, interrupted. ‘Mr Gamble is a consultant who’s been employed by ASIC under the terms of the Act. We have a right to seek expert advice from wherever we choose. Mr Gamble was formerly a senior investigator with the FBI.’
Mac felt a shiver run down his spine. Shivers actually ran down spines? He’d only read about that in books or heard about it in movies. But it happened. He’d heard plenty about FBI agents in movies. And now they’d sent one after him. Jesus.
‘My client reserves the right to object to the admissibility of any evidence obtained in this examination. It seems quite improper to have outside persons, people from other jurisdictions, involved in an Australian process.’
The nerd just smiled. ‘This isn’t a court hearing, Mr Lacy. There’s no judge to object to. Now can we get on?’
Gerry placed a sheet of notepaper in front of Mac with one word handwritten on it in black letters. In their briefings Gerry had said: ‘We’re claiming legal privilege for each answer you give, Mac. That positions us better in any subsequent court proceedings, but you have to claim it yourself before each answer. You have to say the word privilege before each and every answer, otherwise that particular answer doesn’t have legal privilege attached to it. You understand?’
Gerry could see him nodding now at the word on the notepaper. ‘My client will be claiming privilege for each of his answers. This is not an admission of any guilt but merely the result of legal advice.’
The nerd gestured to the ex-FBI man and switched on a tape recorder.
There was no way they’d make him sweat, not even for a minute; Mac had sworn that to himself. He’d been in training in the Kimberley for weeks after Gerry had left, leading a monastic life, in training to beat the bastards. At first he’d been embarrassed when there was only bruising from the fall, but then he’d risen with the dawn every day, ridden before breakfast, eaten well, drunk only water and coffee, lost three kilos. He was fit and alert. He was Mac Biddulph. He’d been playing in the big time when these bastards were still on the teat. There was no way they’d make him sweat.
But it was stifling in the interview room. There were no windows and the air-conditioning, if they had any, wasn’t working. After the first hour, he was dry in the mouth, even though the questions had all been anticipated in his sessions with Gerry. He gulped more water from the paper cup and tried to focus on the FBI guy. He was asking something about Renton Healey.
‘Did you instruct Renton Healey, the chief financial officer at HOA, to initiate discussion with Global Re regarding a new form of reinsurance contract?’
This wasn’t something they’d covered in the briefings. How could they know about the Global Re contract? Well, of course they’d know about it, it’d be listed in the company’s filings with APRA. But that’s all they’d know. They couldn’t know about the side letter and they certainly couldn’t know what he had or hadn’t said to Renton Healey.
‘Privilege. No.’ He smiled at the FBI man. It was a ‘fuck you’ smile.
‘Did you discuss with Renton Healey the subject of a hole in the balance sheet that would have to be filled?’
‘Privilege. No.’
‘Did you suggest to Mr Healey that the profit and loss account for last year needed short-term support?’
‘Privilege. No.’
‘Did Laurence Treadmore inquire of you whether you had had such discussions with Renton Healey and did you give him assurances that the Global Re contract was kosher?’
‘Privilege. No.’ A wider smile spread across Mac’s face. They had nothing. But the FBI man just stared blankly at him.
‘Let me play you this recording, Mr Biddulph.’ Gerry Lacy was on his feet in an instant. Gerry seemed to have been in training also, as if he sensed a second breath in his legal career. Maybe he could be a killer if he wanted to and, suddenly, he wanted to. ‘Recording? What recording? I object most strenuously. Is this a recording made without Mr Biddulph’s knowledge or consent? This is outrageous.’
‘You’re objecting to a recording you haven’t heard, Mr Lacy. Why don’t you listen?’
The FBI man pushed the button on the tape recorder. Laurence Treadmore’s voice squeaked thinly from the machine followed, unmistakably, by Mac’s. Gerry stepped forward and punched the stop button.
‘We’re not participating any further in this discussion until you explain the nature of this recording, the circumstances in which it was made, whether Mr Biddulph had knowledge that he was being recorded, and by what authority you are in possession of the tape.’ He glared at the FBI man, but it was a faint glare.
Mac cut in. ‘I never authorised anyone to tape me-not even you bastards.’
‘Privilege, Mac. Privilege.’
Now it was the FBI man’s turn to smile. ‘This is a recording made in the boardroom of HOA of a meeting between Sir Laurence Treadmore and Macquarie James Biddulph on September eighteenth last year. It was made with your permission, Mr Biddulph.’
Mac rocked back in his chair and was about to respond but Gerry Lacy spoke first. ‘Leave this to me, Mac. My client had no knowledge of any such recording being made. You’re perfectly well aware you can’t use material obtained in this way.’ And then, as an added thrust, ‘Even the FBI can’t use illegally obtained recordings, can they, Mr Gamble?’
The FBI man resumed his expressionless mask and placed a document before Mac. ‘Are you familiar with this document, Mr Biddulph?’
‘What is this? What document? We object to the document-’ but Mac cut him off.
‘Shut up, Gerry. Let me look at the fucking document for Christ’s sake.’
He reached for the paper. It was headed ‘HOA. Corporate Governance Committee. Policy for Security and Integrity of Information.’
‘I’ve never seen this before in my life.’
‘Privilege, Mac.’
‘Really, Mr Biddulph. Would you turn to the last page, please. Is that your signature?’
Gerry was poised over Mac’s shoulder. ‘We object, most strenuously. This meeting is at an end.’
‘It’s not a meeting, Mr Lacy. You’re here in response to a legal notice to attend, and the examination is just beginning. Now, is that your signature, Mr Biddulph?’
‘Don’t answer, Mac, I instruct you not to answer.’
‘Shut up, Gerry. Privilege. If it is my signature, I never read the document.’
‘Do you sign many documents you don’t read, Mr Biddulph?’
‘Sometimes. Fucking privilege. Sometimes. When they’re crap like this. What does it say, anyway?’
The FBI man recovered the document. ‘It authorises recording of all discussions held in the HOA boardroom between directors or senior officers of the company, whether during the course of board meetings or otherwise. It further authorises the use of such recordings in any legally constituted investigation or court proceeding relating to the company’s activities. It’s been signed by all directors, including yourself.’
The sweat was dribbling down the Mac frame now, oozing from the neck under the shirt collar, trickling onto the Mac chest-hairy at the moment, no waxing in the Kimberley-pooling in his navel, soaking through his non-sweat shirt, Sea Island cotton, hand made, initials on the pocket, double cuffs, wide gap for the big Mac wrists, wide tuck to the shoulders. It was reaching the linen boxer shorts made from pure Irish linen by his man in Jermyn Street, to his own design, to let things breathe, to let the big Mac prick breathe and flex and have a life of its own.
There was nothing to say. He was skinned, skewered, hung out to dry.
He stood and walked out of the interview room, heedless of the gaggle of protests he left behind. chapter seventeen
She arrived at the restaurant early and parked outside to wait.
It was the quintessential Sydney summer day. The Bondi surf was rolling in with a series of long, even lines of white foam breaking along the curved beach; a line of athletic bodies in singlets and running shorts puffing past her car window, so close she could smell the sweat and suntan oil; the fragrant aroma of spiced meat sizzling on a barbecue drifting up from the grassed area above the sand; the sweet, tangy smell of freshly cut grass; and the languorous feeling of wellbeing on the faces of the tourists and surfers and posers who flocked to claim a towel’s width of territory on the white sand. She breathed it all in but, for once, it failed to move her. It was her place, where she’d grown up, had her first almost everything, met Jack, breathed free. But she couldn’t enjoy it today.
She waited for them to go in. But after half an hour, only two men had entered the restaurant and it was well past the appointed time. She pushed open the door and approached the pair seated at the long table. One came forward. ‘Mrs Beaumont? Louise? I’m Murray Ingham.’ She shook his hand and tried to avoid staring at his eyebrows. ‘This is Maroubra. Please sit down.’
It felt very lonely, to all three, to be huddled at one end of a table for twelve with nine empty chairs staring at them with vacant seats.
‘Where are the others?’ She felt it was a question no one wanted asked, so she put it on the table before the pleasantries. Murray Ingham shifted in his seat. ‘The Pope said you were direct.’
‘Did he?’ She placed her hands flat on the table as if to steady herself. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be equally straightforward with me, Mr Ingham.’
Maroubra spoke for the first time. ‘We’re here to help, Louise. We’ve been trying to help already, and we’re going to press on if we can.’
She nodded and gave him a weak smile. ‘Where are the others?’
Murray Ingham leaned forward, perhaps to take one of her hands, but she drew back and folded her arms tightly across her chest. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, in a room where there was no one to overhear. ‘I’m afraid we’re all there is. You have to understand, when we started it was agreed anyone could drop out if a conflict of interest arose.’
She waited for him to finish, but there was no more. Her eyes travelled over the empty chairs. ‘And a great number of conflicts have arisen?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed to press her arms tighter against her body and to draw back as if to protect herself. ‘The Pope said there was a lawyer in the group who would help us. Are either of you lawyers?’
‘No.’
She sagged almost imperceptibly. ‘I don’t really know much about the group. Jack doesn’t even know I’m here. Can I ask what the two of you do when you’re not lunching?’
Maroubra answered. ‘I’m a salvage operator. Murray is a writer-novelist, biographer, that sort of thing-as you probably know.’
She began to laugh, too hard. ‘God help us. A salvage man and a storyteller. That’s what we have left. We’re dead, Jack, we’re dead and buried.’
Now she was sobbing, and Murray Ingham rose and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. No one spoke. Gradually she regained control and her hands flew to her face. ‘God, I’m so sorry. That was unforgivable. You’re trying to help us and I was rude beyond reason. Please…’
Murray cut her off and held her before she could draw away.
‘It’s all right. You’re entitled.’ He waited until she looked up at him. ‘You can call me a storyteller anytime. And Maroubra has been called more names than he can remember. The only insult you could throw his way would be coward, and I don’t think you’ll find cause for that.’ He smiled and released her hands. ‘We may not be much, but we’re here.’
When she finally began to talk, the words poured out, tumbling over one another in a disconnected series of scenes and snapshots: the death of the old lawyer, the ASIC raid, their meeting with Renton Healey, the document in the safe, the old lawyer’s wife, Jack’s determination, Jack’s lack of determination, her commitment. All were jumbled in a kaleidoscope of shifting pieces, out of context, out of chronology, beyond order. But they let her run on, allowed the catharsis of the outpouring to take its course. Finally she staggered to a halt, almost breathless, and looked around dazedly.
‘Is there water? Please, could I have water?’
Maroubra rose and disappeared through the kitchen door. Louise and Murray sat in silence until he returned with a glass. She drained it off. They waited.
‘The lawyer from the group, what’s his name? Why can’t he be here?’
Maroubra answered. ‘Tom Smiley.’ He paused. ‘He’s accepted a brief as Mac Biddulph’s barrister.’
‘Oh, God.’ Now her body slumped down. She shook her head. ‘The whole world’s against us, isn’t it? He said it would happen this way, the old lawyer. It’s just as he predicted. He told Jack everyone would run for cover once the bombs started falling, and they have, haven’t they?’
‘Not quite.’ Murray Ingham drew a small black notebook from his breast pocket and snapped back the elastic strap from its cover. ‘Why don’t you tell us the story again? Sometimes stories are more powerful than you imagine. Let’s see if we can weave a warm coat from what seems cold comfort.’
She shivered at the words, although the day was humid and the empty restaurant was airless and lifeless. ‘Did you meet him, Hedley Stimson, the old lawyer?’
Murray shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Nor did I. But Jack put all his trust, all his hopes, in him and I came to also. And then, when he died, I turned to Clinton Normile.’ She saw their vague expressions. ‘The Pope. And he brushed me aside. Now this other lawyer abandons us for Mac Biddulph. Where am I to go?’
Maroubra spoke. ‘Try us. We’re not sloping off anywhere. I know a bit more about this than you might imagine. I had people working on it for the Pope. Tell Murray the story again. His brain works differently. You might be surprised.’
And so she began. The sun patterned the yellow floorboards as the pen moved relentlessly across the lined pages. On and on she went, only stopping to clarify in response to a question or to drink when Maroubra returned with more water. As she watched the notebook fill with her words, with their life, her hopes rose. Unreasonably, illogically, she began to believe there was a power in those pages that would save them. When she stepped out into the sun again, leaving the two men at the table as they had been when she’d entered three hours earlier, her spirits lifted with the roar of the surf and the smell of salt. She wanted to run down onto the sand, into the breakers, fully clothed-to feel the grip of the water, to wrestle with the waves. But she turned away, to the car, to Jack. What news did she have to bolster him with? Pages in a notebook. She’d make something of it.
Jack wasn’t at home when Louise returned to Alice Street. He was deep in the paperbark forest in Centennial Park, staring blankly at the peeling sheets of white-pink bark, listening to Joe sloshing through the reedy swamp. The dog was where it shouldn’t be, in the pungent mud of Lachlan Swamp, but then so was everything else where it shouldn’t be. He walked slowly along the raised boardwalk, counting the slats as he went, for no reason. He had nothing else to do, no office to go to, no speeches to make, no conferences to attend, no meetings to take, no plans to draw, no colleagues to converse with, no accolades to accept, no reports to read, no orders to give-nothing. Just the trees and the swamp and a dog mired in rotting compost. He came to a clearing in the forest and leaned against the pulpy surface of an ancient trunk. The sheets of fibrous bark compressed under the weight of his body and he let his head fall back into the softness. The tree was alive in its skin, welcoming, comforting, giving. You could strip great sheets of its bark and make vessels or carrying bags or wrappings as the Aborigines had, or just hold the skin and let the life flow into you, as he was now. He spread his arms around the trunk, three trunks really, melded together in a fluted pillar. He closed his eyes and let the sun fall through the dense canopy onto his hair and face.
When he opened his eyes, both Joe and a small group of Japanese tourists were staring at him with some interest, obviously intrigued to see a genuine Australian tree-hugger in a native forest. He wondered if they’d taken pictures. He called to the dog and they emerged from the paperbarks, heading towards a wooden bridge.
As they did so, he noticed the figure of a man he remembered seeing earlier in their walk. He was wearing a dark tracksuit and a peculiar cap with an unusually long brim. Jack glanced at him quickly then strode off at a brisk pace towards the ponds. He didn’t look back until they’d reached the kiosk where the bike-riders came to refuel on Saturday mornings. He couldn’t see the man and was relieved. Somehow he’d felt he was being followed. Paranoia was creeping into his psyche. He had just clipped the malodorous dog back onto the lead, when he noticed a familiar shape near the queue at the kiosk. There was the peaked cap.
He tugged at Joe’s lead and they almost ran between the two ponds and into a dense palm grove. Why he should be running from anyone he wasn’t sure, but panic was upon him. The dog sensed the change in mood and whined and pulled at the lead. He released him now they were clear of the waterbirds and the animal darted in and out of the palms, chasing shadows and sunbeams, looking back now and again to check if his master was still intent on a mad dash through the fallen fronds. Jack couldn’t see the dark tracksuit behind him, but he could hear someone crashing through the brush. He was sweating, panting, dry in the mouth and, he suddenly realised, a ridiculous figure. What was he running from? Who could be following him? What harm could they do him in a public place? Well, not so public here, in this lonely dark grove, but who would want to harm him anyway?
He stopped, breathing heavily, and stood behind one of the palms to wait for whatever was coming. The dog also halted its insane careering about and stood to one side, a gothic hound covered in a coat of drying mud and attached debris. Jack could hear his pursuer’s laboured breathing now as he made heavy weather through the thick matted fronds. And then, suddenly, the familiar shape with the long peak over the face emerged only a few metres away. Jack stepped from behind the trunk.
‘Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?’ The figure let out a startled cry, looked up from the ground in surprise, and as it did so, tripped and crashed into the crackling brush. The dog, growling at this bizarre disturbance, rushed at the fallen figure, snarling over the face. A man’s voice called out from the ground.
‘Jesus Christ. Get it away, for Christ’s sake. It’s me, Jack. It’s Mac. Call the dog off.’
Now it was Jack’s turn to cry out in surprise, but he had the presence of mind to clip the lead onto Joe’s collar and pull it away. ‘He won’t hurt you. He’s only frightened.’
He leaned down to help the bulky mass regain its feet. The cap had disappeared somewhere into the broken fronds and he could see the face clearly. There was stubble on the chin and a vague, uncertain look in the eyes. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you following me?’
Mac was brushing the sticks and leaves from his clothing, watching the dog warily. ‘It’s a long story. Can we sit somewhere quietly and talk? I’ve been trying to get you in a place where no one’s about, no one’s listening.’
Jack examined him doubtfully. ‘We’re not supposed to talk. The instructions from ASIC are we’re not to talk to anyone else involved in their investigation, not to discuss the matter at all.’
Mac nodded. ‘I know, believe me I know. But I need to talk to you. I’m trying to help you.’
Jack snorted. ‘Sure. Who isn’t? The trouble is your sort of help’s likely to land me in jail. No thanks.’
Gradually Mac’s breathing was returning to normal. He stood erect, drew air deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. ‘It’s not like that. I’m not what you think I am. I don’t hang people out to dry. I don’t stab in the back. If I’m coming for you, you’ll see me. Please, just talk for a while.’
They sat, all three, on the mound of a massive date palm. Jack couldn’t stop himself from staring at the evidence of Mac’s decline: the muddy tracksuit, the unkempt hair, the unshaven jowls. He checked the normally manicured nails-ragged and dirty. All this in only a couple of weeks? He could see himself here, see the kids inspecting him with pitying eyes, see Louise looking away in order to preserve some semblance of respect.
‘I’m not a crook, you know.’ Jack was startled to hear the silence broken. He’d already forgotten they were going to talk. Somehow it seemed more appropriate just to sit, to be quiet.
‘I only took what was mine. Okay, maybe some law or regulation says it should have been done a different way, or I should pay some extra tax, or whatever. But it was mine. I made it, I had the right to take it. Maybe we dressed up the accounts a little, but so what? All the shareholders benefited, didn’t they? Not just me. And now I’ve suffered more than anyone.’
Jack thought of the bronzed commander offering sweetmeats on the deck of the Honey Bear, the captain of industry in the dark cave of an office, the arts tsar at the opening of his gallery. Alongside him now was a grizzled old man, absentmindedly patting the head of a filthy dog, trying to justify himself to anyone, to no one.
‘Is that why you wanted to talk? To explain yourself?’
Immediately there was a flash of anger from the spleen of the old Mac. ‘Fuck you. I don’t explain myself to anyone. I’ve come to offer help. If you want to bite the hand, fuck you, Jack.’
There seemed to be no other people in this impenetrable section of the park. They were in the heart of a city of five million people, but alone, lost in a secret grove. A breeze rustled the swaying fronds above; a spent pod fell to the ground causing the dog to leap to its feet. Otherwise there was silence.
‘What is this help?’ Jack’s eyes drifted to the minutiae of the world around him.
A caterpillar was making its painful way across a dead frond, clambering laboriously up one leaf, down another, on and on-to where? A tiny lizard darted out into the light, stared at them briefly, darted back. Somewhere high above, a bird was crunching at a fruit on the palm, rejected fragments drifting down softly into the leaf litter. He could hear Mac’s tired voice speaking, but was somehow indifferent to what was being said.
‘I’m a tough old bastard. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll get out of this somehow. But they’re after you, too. They think you were in on the whole deal. You’ve been set up. Haven’t we all?’
Jack turned to him reluctantly. ‘What do you mean I’ve been set up?’
‘I don’t know exactly, although I’ve got a fair idea. But they’ve got tapes, documents, you name it.’
Jack stood and the dog rose with him. ‘Why should I care? I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of.’ He thought about that statement for a moment, then repeated, ‘Why should I care?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look, this isn’t just a PR issue for you. Make no mistake-they’re going to charge you.’
Jack looked down at him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Now Mac stood also, facing him, shoulders back-almost the old stance. ‘I don’t knife people in the back. You’ve got kids. You wouldn’t know how to fight, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Once they charge me, I won’t be able to speak. Same for you. Sure they’ve told us to shut up already, but that’s different to being in court. If breaking that order was all I was charged with, I’d be delighted. So.’ He placed his hands together. ‘I’m going to tell them you had nothing to do with any of this. But you need to make it public somehow. Put them on notice there’s no easy case. And quickly. You’ve got to defend yourself.’
‘And what do I do for you?’ The face was turned away from him and the voice was quiet, but a hint of the old edge crept into the words. ‘You give me that letter you took from Renton Healey’s file.’
Jack managed a short, bitter laugh. ‘How many copies would you like? The bell has rung, Mac, the game’s over.’ This time they were alone on a seat on the coastal walkway between Bondi and Tamarama. A heavy sea was thumping into the cliffs below and the rock fishermen were scurrying for safety, their cleated shoes scratching across the slippery surfaces. Louise was listening to Murray Ingham’s gruff voice intently, straining to hear the words over the roar of the surf.
‘Jack may have difficulty defending himself, but I think there’s another way. We’ve a great deal of material to work with. All you’ve told us, plus a storehouse of documents Maroubra has squirrelled away. It makes a compelling story.’
Louise stared into the grey ocean and shivered. The nor’-easter was whipping the whitecaps into scurries of flying foam and her summer blouse was no defence against the unseasonal chill. ‘Maybe. But he can’t speak, and who would believe him at the moment, anyway?’
Murray nodded. ‘You’re right, but that’s where I come in. I’m a storyteller, remember. This matter’s now significant news. I was a journalist before I became a writer. I still write the occasional opinion piece and I still know all the editors that matter. But whether I did or not, they’d publish this story. It’s got everything.’
She turned to face him. ‘You mean you’d arrange the material and pass it onto a journalist?’
‘No. I’d write it under my own name. I may not be a bestselling author, but I am at what they call the quality end of the market. The name will help.’
‘How will you do it? Won’t the authorities try to stop you? Can’t they prosecute you, or the paper?’
‘It’ll be a two-part story. The first instalment will have most of the factual material so we get that on the record before anyone does try to stop us. The second will have more of the colour, not that there are any dull moments in this saga. Our hope would be that ASIC or some other authority does try to suppress part two. There’s nothing a newspaper editor likes more than a good stoush. I’ll defend my sources all the way to a jail cell and you’ll bring me home-cooked meals. What do you say?’
This time she reached for his arm. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m terribly grateful. You’ll be putting your reputation on the line.’
He laughed. ‘Not at all. I’ll probably win a Walkley Award, and who knows, there may even be a book in it. Strangely, we storytellers always come out all right. No one ever returns to check on us if events prove we’re wrong. The messenger hardly ever gets shot in real life.’
They stood and began to walk on to Tamarama, climbing to the low walled lookout between the two beaches, the wind loading the air with salt now, as a goshawk hovered above them, hunting the cliffs. They’d met only twice and yet somehow they were friends. Louise thought of all the ‘friends’ she thought she’d had who’d disappeared into the ether of her social ostracism. Murray stopped her as she was about to walk on. ‘There may be a job for you later. What usually happens is the electronic media pick up on a story like this once it’s run in the press. But they’re looking for the people angles, not so much the facts. They might want to interview you if Jack’s not available and we’ll make sure he isn’t. Could you handle that?’
‘Would it help?’ He nodded. ‘A great deal. It helps to keep the story alive. And besides, you’re an impressive voice, not just because you’re Jack’s wife. You know some of the facts, you’ve seen some documents, you know the background right from the start. But it wouldn’t be easy.’ He paused. ‘They might ask you about personal matters.’
She sighed. ‘Ah yes, personal matters. You don’t need to worry. If it will help, I’ll be there. Let them ask any questions they want. I’ll be there.’ chapter eighteen
A brass band was playing ‘Anchors Aweigh’ on the wharf, somewhat inappropriately since the Honey Bear was securely tied to a variety of bollards and the engines were silent. The boat was at rest outside the chic restaurants of Woolloomooloo Wharf, and a long queue of Sydney’s A-list partygoers was lined up at the gangway in front of the band. The diners in the restaurants were ogling this unusual assemblage, while delicately winding saffron noodles around silver forks.
There were a number of peculiar aspects to the evening that attracted the attention of all but the most casual observer. First, there was no party on board. Waiters with drinks, women in seductive gowns, jewels glinting in the lights reflecting from the water, dancing music-all the usual festive accoutrements were absent, just the brass band playing a repertoire of vaguely nautical tunes and the A-listers in business attire, trying to appear businesslike.
The clue to the mystery lay in the outsized flags flying from the Honey Bear’s funnel and stern. Instead of the boat’s traditional gold standard with its symbol of a bear plunging a mitt into a honey pot, the rather more sombre and elegant navy and white colours bearing the Sotheby name adorned the vessel. This august appellation was also emblazoned upon the canvas sides of the gangway, lest the guests be in any doubt as to their purpose here. Bring your chequebooks and your invitation was the unspoken message. And indeed there were many chequebooks nestling in silk-lined pockets, for the range of goods to be auctioned was startling in its diversity. You could buy a magnet or a Moore. The exact use for which the magnet was designed was unknown, but it came in a brass case with velvet interior and was estimated in the catalogue at only two to three hundred dollars. To own something from the Honey Bear, from Mac Biddulph’s effects, just to be here, bidding-well, you couldn’t miss it, could you? The boat was only permitted to hold four hundred people, although Sotheby’s had squeezed in five hundred on the grounds that all their guests were slim. But the applications to attend this ‘invitation only’ auction had exceeded three thousand. Three thousand, for goodness sake. They’d had to turn away over two thousand potential bidders. It was stomach churning. Of course, a large number would have been gawkers, tyre-kickers, but the money would have been buried there somewhere. Particularly for a magnet in a brass case, if not for a Henry Moore maquette, estimate eighty to one hundred thousand dollars.
Everything that wasn’t bolted down was to be sold, no reserves.
And everyone wanted a piece of this story. It reminded the Sotheby’s vice-president, visiting from New York-because how many auctions were held on boats, anywhere, and because this story of corporate fraud had even found its way into the New York Times, causing him to book a flight at uncomfortably short notice, in the sense that only business-class seats were available-it reminded him of the Andy Warhol auction. There was a madness in the air, a wonderful sense of irrationality that would cause people to spend money they had no intention of spending. The intrinsic value of the goods would bear no relation to the prices paid. It was an auctioneer’s dream. The vice-president shivered at the wonder of it all. It was vital to be here, no matter what the discomfort required.
The other eagerly awaited thrill for the lucky invitees was the vicarious, guilty pleasure of rifling through the personal belongings of a famous, or infamous, person while he was still alive. This was living history-or a peepshow. Either way, it was irresistible. Virtually everything but the underwear was for sale and there were surprises in every corner for those with an eye for detail, and there were many such eyes on hand.
In a small study off the main saloon, for instance, was displayed a vast array of books of unexpected variety. There was an extensive collection of poetry in signed first editions, ranging from Shelley to Keats, from the American poet Elizabeth Bishop to the famous Australian expatriate Peter Porter. It was the collection of a serious reader and, by the look of it, had been read. Surely it wasn’t Mac Biddulph’s? He was known as a connoisseur of more basic pleasures. So whose were the books? His wife’s? But she was said to barely speak, let alone to read. It was most curious and intriguing. There was a fine collection of biographies of political leaders, adventurers, scientists and inventors, but none of business people.
And then there were the artworks. Of course the Moore had been expected, and the gem of a Matisse, but they were trophy pieces that were assumed to have been acquired through a consultant. Yet here was a wide variety of drawings and artefacts, small sculptures, paintings by lesser-known Australian artists, and a fine collection of Aboriginal works from Arnhem Land and Kalumburu and Ramingining. Many were not of great value, but all were of high quality, all had been selected with a discerning eye. Whose eye? The leading dealers were here; none had any knowledge of some expert buying for Mac Biddulph. A few recognised works they’d sold, but not to Mac; some they’d seen bid for by telephone at one auction or other. None of it seemed to fit with their knowledge of the man who’d owned all of this.
If, of course, he had owned any of it. Nowhere in the catalogue or the provenance of any of the works was the name Macquarie James Biddulph mentioned. The banking syndicate had insisted on its omission, apparently despite the strong objections of the Sotheby’s claque, who’d suggested that its absence would depress sales. The bank seemed to have been right-there was no chance of anything depressing the irrepressible spirit of this auction.
It was rumoured that the doyenne of party organisers, Popsie Trudeaux, had supplied the guest list for the evening, although Sotheby’s denied this. They said they had no need for anyone’s list except their own. But other than the art dealers, the crowd was suspiciously similar to that in attendance at the party of all parties, the opening of the Biddulph Gallery.
And that was the other piece of delicious gossip tantalising the unnaturally pursed lips of every Botoxed woman in the saloon. Was it true, could it be true, that the museum trustees were plotting to remove the Biddulph name? Surely not? He had given the money, after all. Perhaps it wasn’t his to give, but did that matter? If someone coughed up, surely they were entitled to expect what was promised. It was only decent behaviour; otherwise there was anarchy-you couldn’t rely on anyone. The general consensus was that the name should stay. After all, there were many other institutions and university chairs and whatnot named after brigands and bounders and bankrupts, weren’t there? Someone in the crowd began to draw up a list of such persons to present to the chairman of trustees, who was standing at the front of the room, but soon realised it was unwise. The list was long.
Naturally, the subject of all this speculation, this delicious lip-pursing chin-stroking gossip, the former master of this proud vessel, which was itself to be humbled in another auction the next day, a show auction admittedly since the buyer was already identified, this ghost who may have browsed through these poetry books, have rubbed these bronzes with loving hands, he was a presence by his absence. But everyone else was here.
And there was a party mood, despite the lack of alcohol, despite the lack of real music. This was a festive occasion. It was true one of their number had fallen. That was, in its way, sad. But there were two mitigating factors. First, he’d never really been one of them, not really. Second, they hadn’t fallen.
Whether Popsie Trudeaux had provided the guest list or not, she was intent on providing as much of her ample bosom as possible, to anyone who wanted it. Particularly to the Sotheby’s vice president from New York. He was travelling alone. She’d ascertained that in the first thirty seconds of their conversation. He was visibly under fifty and came from an old Boston family.
New York was apparently merely a useful place of commerce for him. Old Boston families were rich, at least in the books Popsie read, which admittedly were few. And, surprisingly, he appeared to be interested in women. Not necessarily in her yet, but the man needed to relax, to have the tensions of travel eased away. She would do what she could. He was in conversation with Archie Speyne, who was said to be here to direct the museum’s bidding on the Matisse, but she drew the vice president away to ask his advice on certain artworks, on which she had no intention of bidding. People melted when asked for their advice.
And they always gave more of it than you really needed.
There was one other notably absent figure. The distinguished presence of Sir Laurence Treadmore, a presence that was known to have graced these rooms in better times, was nowhere to be seen. The Sotheby’s folk were bitterly disappointed. Desperate phone calls had been made to any number of his intimate acquaintances, of which he had none, in order to lure this bird into their bower, but to no avail. They hadn’t desired Sir Laurence as a bidder-they were aware he was seldom that-but as a phenomenon of the moment, as someone who had transcended mere public recognition and risen into the social firmament. For Sir Laurence was the only member of the cast in the HOA tragedy who had been lionised in the press as a messiah, a possible saviour, a man of integrity who had tried to hold back the forces of fraud and manipulation and trickery that were threatening to engulf the company. He’d spoken out for the shareholders, all the shareholders-why he was even buying shares himself, as an expression of confidence in the future of the company. He’d committed to remaining as chairman and had temporarily taken over an executive role until a new chief executive could be found. What more could be asked of a busy man?
It was said there were recordings of Sir Laurence pleading with Jack Beaumont and Mac Biddulph to investigate possible wrongdoing, more than once it was rumoured, but nothing had been done. For obvious reasons, in Mac’s case. The question of Jack Beaumont’s behaviour was more complex. The recent articles in the press, one headlined ‘A Corporate Gladiator’, had thrown confusion over what had seemed another unfortunate, but oddly satisfying, fall. People rose, people fell. But they seldom rose again; the resurrection was not a popular social phenomenon. Yet a great deal of factual material, cogently argued, had been presented in those articles, the second of which the authorities had tried to ban. The paper had won a court battle in order to publish, which had apparently boosted its circulation considerably.
And then there was the wife. She’d appeared on ‘60 Minutes’ and had been, well, majestic. Everyone said it. When the interviewer tried to badger her with intrusive, personal questions, unnecessary, irrelevant questions, she’d batted them away to the boundary. She’d just looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Is this a stone you’re sure you want to throw? Would you like to tell your wife now, on camera, that you’ve never looked at another woman? Or would you rather ask me questions of substance? It’s up to you.’
God, she was wonderful. Everyone knew Tony Playford was a pants man from way back, but to pin him like that, on television, it was riveting. And she’d only cried once, at the end, and not in self-pity. She was being asked about some lawyer who was helping them, who’d died, who she’d never met, and she cried when she was speaking of him, let the tears roll down her face, never tried to brush them away. That was the picture the papers ran the next day. And her final line, it was almost Shakespearean, as if someone had written it for her, and yet she’d delivered it from the gut. ‘The world is not cloaked in grey, not stained with soot. There are still those who can distinguish black from white. My husband is one such man.’ It ran as the caption under her picture. It was a triumph.
But also confusing. Were they now in or out? Prime-time television and front pages, flattering ones that is, were not to be sneezed at, but there was still a lingering odour. Better to wait and see. Anyway, they weren’t here and hadn’t been invited.
Popsie Trudeaux had been abandoned, temporarily she assumed, by her charming vice president and had scooped up Archie Speyne to fill in the time. ‘You can tell me, Archie dear, what’s really happening with the Biddulph Gallery. You know I’m always discreet.’
Archie knew something rather different, but then discretion was not a quality he admired in anyone. Where would he be with it, he always thought. However, the question of the naming of the gallery was causing him some concern. He’d argued for naming rights in perpetuity and the trustees had overridden him. Now it seemed they had been proven right. Besides, if the Biddulph name was removed, Mac would hardly be likely to sue. Maybe Archie could sell the rights again and keep the original donation as well. But there were other donors whose names were on galleries who were nervous, upset at any suggestion these could be summarily removed. What did they have to hide, Archie wondered.
But back to discretion. How much to let slip to Popsie, how much to hold back? Art was all very well in its place, namely in his museum, but these were the dilemmas that sent Archie’s heart racing. ‘You know I can’t say anything, Popsie, but if the trustees did decide to make a change, to preserve the museum’s integrity, not that I’m saying they will, but if they did, where would I find another philanthropist as generous as Mac Biddulph? Or whoever’s money it was. You see what I mean?’
Popsie did see what he meant. She saw it very clearly. It was a sparkling diamond in a dull crowd, a jewel in a sandbox. How to sift it from the dross, set it in platinum and wear it for the world, that was the question.
‘Yes, I imagine it’ll be very difficult for you particularly, Archie, having brought Mac Biddulph in with such a fanfare. A great coup at the time, but things change, don’t they?’ She saw Archie blanch at these remarks and felt pity for the little fellow.
She should comfort him, help him. ‘I’ve one or two thoughts on a suitable replacement. Perhaps not quite the same money up front, but then you’ve finished the gallery now, the roof is on so to speak. You don’t really need the money anymore, do you? But to have an impeccable name, someone you can put forward to the trustees the minute they decide, if they decide. Don’t you think that would be preferable?’
When they parted, Archie virtually skipped across the polished boards in search of a bar from which to order champagne, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t sniff a bubble before the Matisse was on the block. But of course there was no bar, no bubbles. Sotheby’s wanted everyone sober tonight.
The room hushed as the auctioneer stepped, or more accurately leapt, to the podium. He was so charming, so athletic, always immaculately dressed, so knowledgeable and likeable, a few had even invited him to their homes, and not only for valuations. He was the manager of Sotheby’s in Sydney and, in an unusual arrangement, would handle the auction jointly with the striking blonde woman standing beside him. She had hair that fell to her wrists and eyes that, once they were locked onto yours in a bidding frenzy, reached deep into your pockets. She would handle the middle section of the vast list, but the manager was their favourite.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, what a pleasure to enjoy your company on such a night.’
They applauded. They actually applauded the arrival of an auctioneer, as if he were a conductor. The stage was set. It was only a matter of how high the prices might soar. The answer was soon known. The first few items were modest paintings by mid-career artists. They were knocked down for more than double the estimates. The Aboriginal works brought three and four times the highest estimate and the sculptures likewise. The Henry Moore maquette, a small bronze no more than eight inches high, went for a hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Someone bought a marble desk set of vaguely Italian origin, estimated at six to eight hundred dollars, for nine and a half thousand dollars. An ashtray went for nine hundred dollars. By the time a short break was called for the changeover at the podium, the room was abuzz. Sydney had never seen anything like it. It was Jackie Onassis, it was Andy Warhol-it was Mac Biddulph. And he was alive.
Maxwell Newsome felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the Pope standing beside him. ‘Hello, John. I didn’t expect to see you here. This isn’t your sort of scene normally, is it?’
‘No. But I’m interested in some of the sculptures. For my son. He’s a sculptor.’
‘Is he indeed? Wonderful to have creative blood in the family. I’m afraid all we know how to do is make money.’ Max laughed at his own witticism, but received no encouragement. ‘Sad occasion, though, in many ways. Very sad. Distressing to me, obviously. Mac’s an old friend.’
The Pope leaned towards him. ‘Yes. I gather you traded for him a good deal?’
Max’s body stiffened under the cashmere, but his facial expression changed not at all. ‘Occasionally. Mac kept things pretty close to the chest.’
‘I’m hearing, Max, that all those shares he sold might have been consolidated into one entity. That HOA might have a new significant shareholder. Have you heard anything to that effect?’
Max’s smile remained as Madame Tussaud would have wished. ‘Very unlikely, old chap. They’d have to file a notice if that was so. Nothing’s come to light. Certainly not known to me.’
The Pope nodded. ‘I just thought you might have heard a whisper.’ He turned to leave but Max held him with a question.
‘What’s your interest, John? Are you into HOA?’
‘No. I just like to keep in touch. Good luck for the rest of the evening.’
Seats were being resumed for the final session of the auction. It would commence with the Matisse. Even though Archie Speyne was about to spend someone else’s money, even though he wasn’t bidding himself, his legs were shaking, his stomach was hollow, and he was sweating under the light jacket with the ivory buttons-but he loved it. The thrill of the chase, the despair of losing, the fear of winning. It was all around the room. Adrenalin and testosterone, no ice, shaken not stirred.
But it soared, the Matisse, took flight into the outer reaches of Archie’s budget in five bids, hands flying from the telephone bidders, cards flapping around the room. What would he do? They had to have it, the museum, it was theirs by rights. It should have been gifted, by Mac, by the banks, by someone. He looked to his chairman of trustees in the front row. One more bid? A nod of approval. The museum’s stooge raised the bidder’s card. A responding call from the telephone desk. It was gone.
He was sickened, gutted. It was indecent. Nouveau riche people throwing money at things they had no real knowledge of, no deep love for. It should have been his; he meant the museum’s. He stumbled into the night in search of sustenance, physical or emotional.
But no one else left, even though the lesser items were now on the block, even though stomachs were rumbling and not even a hipflask had been sighted. How could you afford to leave? Who knew if something unexpected might spring from a lacquered box?
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to a special item. A rare collection of poetry books. A connoisseur’s item, this one. We have the perfect audience for it, I believe. All first editions. All signed by the authors. To be sold in one line, ladies and gentlemen. What shall we say for it? One hundred thousand to get started? Do I have eighty? Eighty then. Eighty to get on. Thank you, sir, eighty.
Ninety? Ninety it is then. One hundred? Thank you, madam. A hundred and ten? On the phone. A hundred and ten. Against you, madam. One twenty? New bidder. Thank you, sir, one twenty. It’s one twenty in the centre here. Against you, madam. Against you, sir, at the front. Do I have one thirty? Are we all done? Any further from the phone? I’m going to sell then. At one twenty, one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, all done, all-’
‘One fifty.’ The voice rang through the panelled room, ricocheted off the domed roof, seemed to cut the strings of the jerking marionette on the podium so that its arms flopped, its mouth fell open. Every head turned to see where its eyes were fixed.
He stood as he’d always stood on the decks of this boat-as if he owned not just the vessel but the ocean it sailed on. The feet were planted wide apart, the face was tanned and healthy, the suit looked as if the tailor had fitted it that evening. There was not a person in the room who couldn’t pick that voice just from a radio interview, there was no one in Sydney who didn’t know Mac Biddulph’s squared-off face.
The charm of the auctioneer was lying on the floor somewhere under the podium. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way he could accept a bid from Mac Biddulph. He had no money. That was the whole point of the auction, wasn’t it? So the banks could harvest whatever was left on the stalks. But this was an auction. A bid was a bid. He looked around the room, desperate for guidance. He caught the eye of the vice president from New York, who shrugged. He probably didn’t even recognise Mac.
‘One fifty then. At the back. Do I hear one sixty? One sixty anyone? Going once at one fifty, twice, I’m selling then, all done at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, sold to… to you, sir.’
Not a foot shuffled on the boards, not a cough escaped, not a catalogue rustled. For a moment, there was absolute silence.
And then, slowly at first, but building quickly like a wave flowing around the room, applause rang out. They dropped what they were holding-pens, papers, hats, whatever-and clapped like a crowd possessed. Mac smiled, let his eyes travel slowly over the faces, waved, and walked from the Honey Bear for the last time. chapter nineteen
They walked arm in arm, bodies rubbing gently, legs swinging in unison, unconsciously wrapped together. The ground was covered with an indigo haze of crushed jacaranda petals. The scent of jasmine and gardenias mingled in the humid air. The faintest brush of a light sun shower drifted about them and the kookaburras were already calling the end of the day.
They entered the forgotten park through a rusted gate, jammed forever open. No one came here. They’d stumbled on this lost tangle of exotic plants gone wild on one of their long rambles. It was their favourite release now, to wander together along the harbour foreshore, or through the lanes and alleys of Paddington, past the nineteenth-century terraces and the art galleries and bistros, or to discover one of the myriad public pathways or open spaces that led down to the water.
Their park-it was their park now-had the ruins of a stone building buried in its undergrowth, the huge hand-cut, roughly pecked blocks of the city’s convict past. Sometimes they sat on these tumbled monoliths and ate sandwiches or drank tea. But this evening they made their way to a sandstone shelf jutting out over the cliff, with the harbour lapping virtually beneath, and Jack drew a bottle of white wine and a block of cheese from his small backpack. They sat in the melting dusk, the shadows of the eucalypts falling around them.
Green and yellow ferries scurried back and forth across the golden harbour. Soon their lights would form rippling columns in the black water, but as yet the sun held to a faint promise. The birds fell silent, even the kookaburras left the stage to the animals of the night. They sipped in the deep congeniality of lovers who no longer needed to fill silences. Suddenly Jack thought he could make out a moving shape in the water. It disappeared. He followed the path that might have been. A great head rose from the swell and then a rounded smaller shape alongside. He stifled a cry and pointed for Louise. The whale and its calf swam calmly beneath them, beneath the houses and apartments of the lawyers and merchant bankers and chief executives.
‘I love this city, ‘ Jack said. ‘They say whales won’t swim where the water isn’t clean, but here we are in a working port, surrounded by millions of people and still they come. Somehow it means we haven’t wrecked the world quite yet.’ He turned to her. ‘I want to go back to making beautiful things. Someone else can rule the business world. I want to design houses for ordinary people, houses that don’t cost millions but are simple and functional and elegant. This place has given me another chance and I want to take it.’ He held her forearm. ‘Well, you’ve given me the second chance. No one else. But I’ve learned there are more good people than otherwise and now I’ve met a lot of the good ones. People come up to me in the streets, shake my hand, even shopkeepers-it’s humbling. And, of course, there are the others. But we don’t care about them, do we?’
They walked along the track by the cliffs and peered into the dark water, but the whales had vanished. ‘Will you work with me again? Just the two of us and a couple of young graduates, the way we used to be? Will you walk on with me?’
He couldn’t see her face but he felt the arms wrap around him and the breath in his hair. ‘What do you think, lover boy?’
It took them over an hour to walk back to Alice Street. It was a long while since they’d been so relaxed. They chatted occasionally about the good times to come, the black times past. The landscape had transformed before their eyes when the press articles ran and the other media picked up the story. It was as if a breeze had blown thick fog from the hills and suddenly it was clear the sun had always been warming the valley ahead. They’d heard nothing from ASIC or any other authority, although Mac had been charged, as had Renton Healey. Louise stopped him at one point and said, ‘I told you the good guys always win.’ Jack laughed and held her to him.
As they entered the small front garden through the wrought-iron gate, they didn’t notice the man standing beneath one of the street trees until he spoke.
‘Mr Beaumont? Mr Jack Beaumont?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a subpoena for you, sir. And Mrs Beaumont, is it? One for you also, madam.’ He disappeared into the night as quickly as he’d emerged and they were left staring blankly at the documents in the half-light.
The whales had left the bays and coves of the eastern harbour now and were swimming slowly outside the shipping lane towards the heads. The mother nudged the calf gently to one side if it strayed towards the marker buoys. They felt the currents of the incoming tide and pushed on into the open sea, turning to the north to join the migration to warmer waters. Just five hundred yards from the shore, but well outside the surf line, they made their way past Manly and Harbord, edged out to sea to clear Long Reef, resumed their line by Mona Vale and Bilgola and Whale Beach, and then swam through the punctuated flashes of the Barrenjoey Lighthouse, leaving Sydney and its sleeping citizens well behind.
Maroubra set the cruise control on the steering column and let his mind, too, slip on to autopilot as the heavy frame of the four-wheel drive ploughed into the air currents. The course was set for Bowral, more than an hour’s drive south-west of Sydney, a place he’d never visited before or even considered for a wet weekend. He thought of it vaguely, if at all, as the retreat of those who rode horses early in the morning-or at least wore clothes that looked as if they rode horses-and then spent the remainder of the day in vast gardens cluttered with daffodils and other colourful objects that sprang unexpectedly from bare ground. Maroubra disliked horses, at least horses that were groomed and cosseted and pranced about in arenas, ridden by people in tight jackets and ridiculous helmets. If they were afraid of falling off, why did they get on? He felt he might appreciate wild horses if he saw a herd of brumbies thundering down a gorge, but this wasn’t an experience that had passed his way.
Yet here he was in the land of leather-patched elbows, searching for a name on a gate. At least you couldn’t miss the gates here. They were all enormous structures of stone and wood or wrought iron, with English names emblazoned on them that sounded as if the Duke of Barwick Feld had slipped away to the colonies for a short break and was taking tea, and a muscular serving wench, just up the garden path. He pushed the accelerator down hard as the engine struggled up the thousand-foot climb through the dense eucalypt forest on the slopes of Mount Gibraltar. The towns of Bowral and Mittagong lay below, but Maroubra’s eyes were searching for the name BLACKBUTT LODGE on a fence or gatepost.
It had been a curious, disturbing call that had brought him here. Late at night, on his home phone, his wife asleep, him dozing, asleep but awake as he often was now, jerked into consciousness by the night call that always rang of disaster. He hadn’t recognised the voice at first. He was attuned to voices, always knew if a friend was sick or troubled from the voice, or if a lie was sliding down the line, or a hand reaching into his pocket. And there were few words to decipher; just ‘Come tomorrow. Bowral, on the mountain, look for Blackbutt Lodge. Be there at eleven.’ But it was the Pope’s voice, flat and strangled and lifeless, nothing like the steady, calm tone he’d heard for so many years-there was no mistaking the timbre underlining the half-whispered instructions.
He saw it now, the name, not on a pretentious assemblage of inappropriate grandeur, but on the cross-pole of a simple frame of undressed trunks. He drove slowly down the steep road of crushed granite and parked in a turning area. No buildings were visible but he could make out strange shapes hiding in the dense copses, organic shapes or twisted, contorted metallic-looking objects. The view through the clearing was a hundred kilometres or more across to a hazy mountain range with honey-coloured escarpments. He stopped to drink in the colours and shapes. Suddenly he realised he was looking through the Jamison Valley to the Blue Mountains, without a structure or a road or any sign of human presence, other than the ghosts lurking in the trees, to interrupt his view.
He didn’t hear or see the spare figure step from behind the tree until the voice startled him. ‘You can look a long time.
There’s a lot to see.’
Maroubra turned at the familiar voice, stronger than it had been in the dark hours, and saw the lean face, lined with tension. ‘Yes. It’s a surprise after all the clipped grass and rose gardens.’
The Pope attempted a smile, but it was thin and unconvincing. He was dressed more warmly than seemed necessary, in a thick woollen jacket and knitted cap, although Maroubra realised the breeze carried a sharp chill here on the mountain. ‘Let’s walk. I’ll show you some sculptures. We won’t go to the lodge, if you don’t mind. I’d rather we weren’t seen together.’
He led the way through the tall, straight trunks, rising thirty feet before the first leaves kissed a branch. Maroubra could see the shapes more clearly now, decipher the forms of something he might expect in an art gallery, if he ever went to an art gallery. They stopped in front of a commanding piece, claiming its right in the centre of a wide clearing, a bronze mask atop a tall wooden totem staring out into the mists of the valley. The base was a roughly cut block of granite, but where the stone met the wood even Maroubra’s untrained eye could discern the skill in the fitting together of the two. The Pope stood back, waiting for a response.
‘It’s a wonderful thing. I don’t know anything about sculpture, but even I can feel its presence.’ Maroubra reached down to rub the joining places with his bare hands. ‘And this work, it’s alive somehow, the way this is done.’
Now the Pope’s face broke into a wide smile as he came forward. ‘It’s morticed, you see. The stone is cut almost like the joints in a fine drawer. And look here at the pinning. They’re cast bronze, cast to fit exactly.’ He also knelt to place his gloved hands on the cold stone. Maroubra raised his brows inquiringly. ‘It’s my son’s. It’s his best piece so far. And he’ll do better things yet. He’s in his stride now, works all day from before breakfast till the light’s gone. He’s mastered the technical skills, now it’s all the images springing up, all the emotion emerging through the hands into the wood and the stone and the bronze.’ He rose and turned to Maroubra. ‘You’re right. They’re alive. And so is he.’
It was the longest speech Maroubra had ever heard from the Pope, almost feverish in its intensity. He felt there was nothing to say, so he rose quietly and they both stared at the sculpture. He could hear the wind in the high trees but there was no other sound, not even a bird call, as the two men stood, almost like carved figures themselves, on the sloping ground.
Finally the Pope shook himself, as if emerging from hibernation, and took a folded envelope from his coat pocket. ‘Here. Take this. Use it for Jack and Louise.’
Maroubra opened the envelope. He could see it was the corporate filing for a company, listing its headquarters, directors, assets and liabilities, but the name was unfamiliar to him. ‘What is this?’
‘Just take it. I saw they were charged.’ Maroubra examined the document more closely. ‘Your name is here as a director.’ He read on and looked up at the Pope in surprise. ‘And that Trudeaux woman. What in God’s name would you be doing on a company board with her?’
The Pope held up one hand. ‘No questions. You take that and you follow wherever it leads you. Whether you’ll find the person you want in a way that will pin him to the wall, I don’t know. It’s the best I can do.’
Maroubra watched his face as he spoke and read the strain. ‘And what will happen to you if I do pursue it to the end?’
The Pope shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now. Get on with it, and quickly.’ He turned to go. ‘I have to teach a class.’
Maroubra stopped him, shook his hand, then watched him walk away into the forest. He remained in the clearing, staring into the distant mountains. He knelt and ran his hands again over the joints in the stone and wood before stuffing the envelope into his trouser pocket and hurrying back to the car, shivering in the thin air.
Popsie Trudeaux was in heaven. At least she assumed heaven would largely resemble this haven of pink houses with white roofs; with suntanned, attractive people strutting about in excitingly cut shorts; with dark waiters carrying colourful drinks on glass trays; with bougainvillea cascading over white walls and oleanders hiding money behind high hedges. The whole place was pink and white and rich. The smell of money was stronger than the scent of the flowers.
She’d loved it from the minute she’d arrived at the cute little airport and been escorted through customs by a handsome, young, darkish man who told her he was there to look after her during her stay. How thoughtful of her host, whoever he was. She’d really no information about him other than a name and the name of a boat and a time to meet. She loved the idea that the board meeting would take place on a boat. She loved everything about this company Sir Laurence had introduced her to. They paid their directors fees in advance and all she had to do was sign a few documents, share transfers and bank drafts, and come to Bermuda. The hardships of corporate life were bearable. Obviously it was a cover for someone who wanted to stay hidden. Fine. She hoped he’d stay that way forever. Although, probably, he’d be on the boat tomorrow.
Her hotel suite was pink and white-oceans of pink and white. Although the ocean itself was, of course, blue. It was spread before her through the tall French windows and the sun jazzed from it when she lay on one of the pink and white striped lounges on her vast terrace. She looked down on people below who did not have such vast terraces, but did not feel sorry for them. Try harder was all you could say.
She barely needed to try at all anymore. What a delicious feeling of comfort and security to know you could do absolutely nothing for the rest of your life except eat chocolate and have massages. What a sense of accomplishment. The money poured in and now the bucket stayed full. She’d won the Grand Prix contract, hired the most wonderful manager who produced graphs and accounts and full buckets, and wasn’t bad looking either-although she’d vowed never to fuck him. No distractions for that little moneymaker.
She, however, was very much distracted by all the waiters and houseboys wandering about in their crisp uniforms, white shorts on dark legs. They were all that sort of light chocolatey colour, not black at all. Absolutely edible.
The last few months had been the most exciting time of her life. She’d barely had a minute to speak to Angus, not that she would have had much to say if a spare minute arrived. Angus was irrelevant. She was a woman of complete independence now, with her own business, her own money, carefully sequestered away from any joint assets in her own accounts, beholden to no one. Although she was terribly grateful to Sir Laurence for the chance to arrange the Biddulph Gallery opening party. And the suggestion to start her business. And that help with the Grand Prix contract, not to mention being here in Bermuda. Yes, all in all, she owed a great deal to Laurence Treadmore. She would find an opportunity to repay him, she was sure. Indeed she was anxious to see Sir Laurence. Not least because he would have the inside story on the latest with the Mac Biddulph opera. It was an opera, with great arias and sweeping scenery and even some bad acting. All of Sydney was in its thrall. The auction had merely confirmed it as the number-one news story of the year. Popsie had drunk in every minute of the auction night, despite the absence of any beverages. She’d even bought a small Aboriginal painting she’d had no intention of buying and didn’t much like. It had some sort of serpent twisting across a brown background covered with small yellow dots. Perhaps she’d hang it in a toilet.
When Mac Biddulph himself had bid on those books, well no opera, soap or otherwise, had ever produced such drama. All sorts of serious academics and do-gooders had analysed the contents of the poetry books he’d bought, or re-bought, and suggested this was a truly cultured man, a man of taste and sensibility, morals, ethics even; that no one who appreciated those exquisite tomes, who understood the sentiments within, could be the callous fraudster painted by the authorities. And to want to keep only these from among all the other grander possessions on offer, this was the final proof of his complex character. And then an editor of a computer magazine claimed he’d found the very same books offered for sale on eBay just ten days after the auction. A newspaper rushed to buy the books, hoping to expose Mac or the magazine editor or anyone else it could implicate, but the items were withdrawn from sale. No one could track the email address and the mystery remained unsolved.
Popsie needed to be able to speak with authority on issues of this kind, important social issues. It was part of her persona now, as a doyenne of Sydney society, a sort of duchess of the dinner table, a diva of the cocktail circuit, to know more than anyone else about people who mattered, or at least to be able to appear to know. A wink, a nod, a nudge-maybe two nudges. Why, they might even ask her about it on the boat tomorrow. It would be embarrassing not to have inside information at her first meeting with these generous fellow directors. She’d called Sir Laurence several times, her lovely Laurence as she thought of him now, but his secretary, who Popsie disliked intensely, said he was away for two weeks.
After a light lunch-well not so light, but healthy, surely, in that it contained some fish and a great deal of lobster-she decided she would make her way to Hamilton Harbour to check on the whereabouts of the boat she was to sail on the next day. In fact, she wanted to measure the boat, more than find its mooring. She believed, and was firm in this belief, that it paid to know the size of a person’s boat before you met them.
The afternoon was blessed with a light zephyr to keep the temperature perfect as Popsie wandered along the dock admiring the phalanx of handsome craft and their equally well-equipped crew. No wonder people came here to avoid tax; although obviously one had to be prepared to travel to less pleasant parts for the same reason. But the combination was heady. Perhaps she should have a residence here herself. A cottage on a hill, pink and white of course, with a couple of chocolate houseboys, one firm, one soft. She giggled at her own wit and sashayed further past more and larger boats. They seemed to be arranged in some ascending order and clearly her boat, the Butcherbird (a curious name, she felt), would be at the apex of the boat hierarchy.
But what was this? There, nestled in a vast berth between two suitably enormous craft, was a mere pup of a boat-a whimpering, cowering, snivelling puppy amidst all these magnificent beasts. And disappointingly, horribly, the name on its tiny rear bore the word she was looking for: Butcherbird. Certainly it was a pretty little thing in its own way. But a navy hull and cream canvas and polished brass, no matter how attractively presented, couldn’t make up for lack of substance. Length was what mattered in boats. Popsie resisted the obvious parallel thought-she was not a vulgar person.
She sighed. She normally preferred not to sigh because that could be seen as a vulgar habit also. People who sighed a great deal were expressing cynicism, or resignation, or disgust or some other negative sentiment. It was better to express energy and sex. Those were the two characteristics Popsie admired most. She’d been in readiness to express both in a devastating manner on the decks of the Butcherbird tomorrow, but she doubted if it could contain her performance. Oh, well. It would have to suffice. Perhaps the mysterious owner was indifferent to boats and flew his own 747 instead. That was a gripping thought. Just one long reception room, one cocoon of a bedroom and a huge spa bath off it-now that would make up for this disappointing sprat bobbing about in front of her. She wandered back along the marina consoled by this image. Next time she flew into that cute little airport she’d be fresh off Air Force One or whatever it was called, and feeling very relaxed.
When she returned to the hotel and lay on one of her four lounges, she found she was anything but relaxed.
The evening stretched before her in blank monotony. What was she to do? She knew no one in Bermuda and could think of no visible activity that interested her. People seemed to be either playing tennis or riding about on those little mopeds. Popsie disliked any activity that made you sweat, and the idea of puttering about on a motorbike to no great purpose was extremely unappealing. There appeared to be no places to visit on Bermuda; no art galleries, museums, theatres-no cultural life of any kind. Not that cultural life was all it was cracked up to be, but at least it was something. You couldn’t lie about on lounges all your life.
She rang for a bottle of champagne. It arrived with a box of chocolates, so to speak. She thought about that while the cork was being twisted gently from its resting place. Why not?
‘Do you massage?’
‘You would like a massage, madam? I could ask the concierge to arrange it, of course.’
She sipped. How to phrase it delicately, so as not to offend. ‘No. I don’t like all those people with folding tables and smelly oils. I just want someone to relax me. Surely you can do that?’
And he could, and did. And when she woke in the morning she felt refreshed and ready for her board meeting. She dressed in a businesslike yet nautical fashion. Navy linen blazer, white slacks, no shirt. That was the point of difference-no shirt. The blazer covered most of her perfectly tanned breasts, but not quite all. And then the strand of South Sea pearls glistening above. Subtle, yet obvious. Disappointingly, there were no board papers to carry to the meeting. She rather fancied arriving with a sheaf of important-looking documents, but she was carrying a slim leather briefcase in any event, even though it was empty except for a spare handkerchief and a new BlackBerry which she hadn’t yet learned to switch on.
She arrived at the dock exactly on time. Whoever these people were they would soon learn they weren’t dealing with an amateur. Professionalism in all things was her new motto. She strolled confidently to the Butcherbird and waved to a crew member.
‘Mrs Trudeaux? Good morning, madam, and welcome. Please come aboard.’
It really was a pretty little thing when you examined it closely, Popsie decided. What it lacked in length and breadth, it partly made up for in the beauty and luxury of its fittings. Everything was of the highest quality and in exquisite taste. No doubt the plane would be the same. She lifted her arms above her head to stretch her muscles, or where she assumed muscles should be, and sipped her freshly squeezed juice. The crew seemed to be readying the boat for a departure but so far she was the only one aboard. She called out to the nearest sailor, ‘Are we meeting here at the wharf, or moving somewhere?’
‘I’m sorry, madam?’
‘Are we picking the others up somewhere else?’
‘The others are already on board, madam.’ This was very confusing. She looked around the saloon. The boat simply wasn’t large enough to hide her fellow directors on the face of it. Perhaps there was another level below. But why wouldn’t her host come to greet her? Was he going to spring from a secret panel or something? She hoped so. It was mysterious and exciting-particularly now that the boat had slipped its moorings and was winding its way slowly through the maze of other craft. And then, when it was clear of the marina, it seemed to almost leap into the air in a surge of power and plane away at impressive speed with a great plume of spray behind. Popsie could restrain herself no longer. Gauche it may be to ask too many questions, but gauche it would have to be.
‘Excuse me, but we are to have the meeting on the Butcherbird, are we?’
‘Yes, of course, madam. The meeting is on the boat, as arranged.’ This was not illuminating. ‘I see. And the others are on board?’ ‘Yes, madam.’ There was no help for it. ‘Where are they exactly?’
Now the young crewman, immaculate in his whites, appeared as puzzled as she was herself. ‘I’m not sure, madam. On deck, I imagine.’
Popsie looked about. There was no deck they could possibly be on unless they were invisible. ‘On this boat? On the Butcherbird?’
His wonderful brown face cracked at the seams and a mouthful of the whitest teeth were presented in a wide smile. ‘Oh, this isn’t the Butcherbird, madam. This is just the tender. The Butcherbird is out there.’
She followed the brown arm to the brown finger. There, on the horizon it seemed, was a wondrous sight. A casual glance might have suggested some ocean liner was anchored in the harbour, but Popsie’s glance was anything but casual. The vessel her gaze was directed to was clearly the largest private motor yacht she, or anyone else, had ever seen. Why the Honey Bear, previously her gold standard for size (and she’d paced it herself from stem to prow on the night of the auction), would sit on the top deck of this fabulous monster.
And the closer they zoomed, and they were zooming, the bigger it looked. Forget the plane. Who cared if there was a plane? Probably there was a fleet of planes if he had a boat like this. But this was it. This was life. This was what mattered. Length and breadth and, probably, depth, for all she knew. This was what the game was all about. You could say it wasn’t, if you weren’t in the game. Or if you were a trier who hadn’t made it. Or a Mac Biddulph who’d lost it.
But this was what everyone wanted, like it or not. To be the biggest, the richest, the most powerful. It was the law of the jungle. Popsie knew it, even if the losers didn’t. She sighed despite herself, but it was a sigh of deep satisfaction. She was racing to her destiny with a triumphant shower of spray in her wake.
The tender, her charming tender, she’d grown to love the word, eased back into the water as it approached the shadow of the great ship in its path. Crew persons were scurrying back and forth over its innumerable decks and she could just make out a group of guests under a long canopy at the stern. She must be the last to arrive. Excellent. She loved making an entrance. She checked her clothing and stroked her pearls for luck. Somehow stepping on board this boat would take her into a new life. She could feel it. You’d sell your soul for this.
And then, as they pulled alongside, a familiar voice drifted down from above.
‘Come aboard, dear lady, come aboard.’