Dirty Fracking Business (21 page)

‘Yes, Spencer.’

‘Trudy, I’m having dinner with Joe Biederman and his wife tomorrow night at the hotel. You’ll join me. I won’t require you after I turn in tonight, so I suggest you do the same.’

‘Will there be anything else?’

‘Put CNN on,’ he said, leaning back and taking a long sip of whiskey.

They touched down at Farnborough just after 2pm. After a cursory customs inspection and stamping of their passports, Harbrow and Trudy were soon walking across the tarmac to the waiting Bentley. It was damp and overcast and they pulled their coats up around their necks in a futile attempt to ward off the bitterly cold, cutting wind. Seventy-five minutes later they pulled up at the front of the beautiful old, red-brick Claridge’s Hotel. As they walked across the foyer, Harbrow was greeted by the assistant manager who informed him that his suitcase had arrived and had been unpacked. Harbrow turned to Trudy. ‘Come up to my suite at ten to seven. I don’t want to be late tonight.’

Just before 7pm they entered the Gordon Ramsay-managed restaurant done out in classic art deco style. A waiter showed them to their table, casting an admiring but discreet eye over Trudy, who could have passed for a fashion model. They had barely taken their seats before they were standing to greet the Biedermans. Joe had a genial face, was slightly overweight and without a hair on his polished dome, which matched his smooth, cherubic complexion. He warmly shook hands with Harbrow and kissed Trudy, whom he knew from earlier dinners, on the cheek. The much younger Trish Biederman was wearing a silk turquoise dress that barely contained her breasts. Harbrow kissed her stiffly, brushing his lips over her cheek, whereas Trudy embraced her warmly and complimented her on her dress. Harbrow wondered what Joe saw in his loud-mouthed wife, physically beautiful though she was, refusing to believe that her looks and proficiency in the bedroom could ever justify marriage. The men ordered whiskey while Trish scanned the wine menu, before settling on a
1998 Krug Clos de Mesnil,
that she could barely pronounce, at a mere fourteen hundred pounds for herself and Trudy.

‘What brings you to London, Spencer?’

‘Oh, there’s an opportunity to get involved in a joint venture in the North Sea that I’m looking at.’ Biederman knew this was a lie. ‘And I didn’t want to miss the opportunity of having dinner with Trish and you.’

‘You two aren’t going to talk boring business all night, are you?’ Trish pouted.

‘No darling.’ Her husband took her hand as the waiter brought their drinks.

‘A toast,’ Harbrow said, ‘to success.’

‘To life,’ Trish interjected.

Harbrow flushed. He wasn’t used to being interrupted or having his toasts changed and certainly not by a playboy bunny with plastic boobs, but he daren’t upset her husband. ‘To life and success,’ he proposed, and they clinked glasses.

An hour later they had finished their entr
é
es, the girls were onto their second bottle of champagne and the mood around the table was decidedly more relaxed. There was no subject that Trudy could not converse on and she seemed genuinely interested in Trish’s trivial chatter about what she had recently bought and how much she had spent. Biederman was gregarious, engaging both ladies in small talk, as he shovelled down his spiced lobster ravioli. Harbrow impatiently picked at his salmon, wondering if the women were ever going to ‘powder their noses’, when Trish finally said, ‘Excuse us. We have to go to the little girls’ room.’ Harbrow knew that Trudy would stay away as long as possible, giving him every opportunity to make his pitch to Biederman.

The women had barely left the table, when he said, ‘Joe, I need your support.’

‘I told you that we can’t help. The share price is tanking and you want to get rid of half the board, which will put it in free-fall.’

‘Royal’s made an awful lot of money on its investment.’

‘And so it should have. We took a huge risk backing you. I have people on my board telling me to sell your stock, that it’s peaked and it’s time to move on.’

The last thing Harbrow needed was a large block of stock on the market and he had never thought that Royal could be a seller. ‘That’d be a big mistake. The best years are still ahead of us. I’ve never asked you for a favour before, but I need you to back me.’

‘You’re not listening, Spencer. You get the share price back up and I might be able to help.’

‘That’s bullshit! There’s no way you’d support a board change then. Anyhow, I can’t increase the share price while I’m carrying three laggards.’

‘You appointed them!’

Harbrow had anticipated this remark. ‘I did, there’s no denying that. They were great appointments when the company was smaller, but they’ve outlived their usefulness.’

‘I won’t help you get rid of them and that’s final.’

‘What if I could offer you something personally?’

‘I hope you’re not trying to bribe me.’

‘Of course not. Just hear me out. There’s a small private company, let’s call it XYZ, which owns some very valuable coal seam gas tenements in the Margaret Hills. It’s looking to go public and could use your expertise.’

‘Go on.’

‘The directors owe me some favours and I’ve been authorised to offer five percent of the company’s stock to the right person, and you’re on my short list.’

‘What’s it expected to list at?’ Biederman asked, expecting an answer of twenty to thirty million.

‘Five hundred million.’

Biederman could not conceal his astonishment. This could solve all his money problems. His mind went into overdrive, processing the ethics and morals of accepting. The amount was almost too large to be called a bribe. ‘How much of XYZ do you own?’

‘I don’t have any interest,’ Harbrow lied, knowing his ownership could not be traced.

‘Didn’t CEGL abort some exploration work in the Margaret Hills some years back?’

Harbrow was amazed that Biederman remembered. He ignored the question. ‘Are you interested Joe, because if you aren’t, I’ll have to find someone else.’

‘It’s risky.’

‘Bullshit! You’re a master of international finance and know you could hide your interest behind a maze of companies and trusts.’

‘Is that what you did?’

‘I told you I don’t own any shares.’

‘Yeah, you did, didn’t you?’

‘Are you in?’

‘It’s a very attractive offer, Spencer, but I have a responsibility to the shareholders of Royal and, as I told you, a messy and disruptive annual general meeting won’t help CEGL. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

Harbrow was stunned; it was beyond his understanding that anyone could reject such an offer. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?’

‘Positive.’

What was happening? For sixteen years Harbrow had got everything he wanted but, in the space of a month, his board had voted against him and the company’s major shareholder would not support him. ‘Is there anything I can do to change your mind?’

‘I might be prepared to help secure the resignations of your dissident directors after the AGM, but it would have to be handled in a low-key manner. The board can fill casual vacancies, which achieves what you want in a more convoluted but private way.’

‘Might be prepared to help?’

‘Spencer, I’ll only help if I can be sure that it will not result in any publicity that is detrimental to the company and its stock price. That shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘You want me to buy their silence with generous farewell packages?’

‘That’s obvious.’

‘I don’t need your help to do that.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Biederman grinned. ‘I expect that, despite your generosity, you could meet some resistance, and a phone call from me might help.’

‘And you want the shares in XYZ on the off-chance that you might have to make a phone call? Jesus!’

‘It’s a little more than that, Spencer. It’ll secure your future as well. Do we have a deal?’

Spencer Harbrow didn’t like being subtly threatened but he hadn’t anticipated Biederman remembering the Margaret Hills exploration and he didn’t want him sniffing around, digging up long-buried skeletons. He reached across the table and grasped the other man’s hand. ‘We have a deal, conditional on the removal of the dissidents and the appointment of my three nominees.’

He had given an awful lot for a less-than-optimum result. He would have to be patient and forget about removing the incumbents at the annual general meeting. However, he had seen something in Biederman’s face that the financier had been at pains to hide: greed, pure greed. Harbrow knew that he would not have to wait too long before he got his way. As the women returned, he beckoned the waiter over and asked for the dessert menu.

‘Joe can’t have sweets and I don’t want to get like him,’ Trish butted in, patting her wash-board stomach, ‘so none for me either, but we’ll have coffee, short black.’

Thinking of Joe and how he was being controlled by his wife, Harbrow ordered a large platter of cheese for the table and coffees all round. Thirty minutes later they said their farewells. On the way out, Harbrow muttered, ‘I’m glad that’s over. I’m having another coffee. What about you Trudy?’

‘I won’t sleep if I do. I’ll stick with water.’

She’d seen him pensive like this before. While she had not been at the table when the negotiations were going on, she knew that he had not got what he wanted. He was a strange man, slightly aloof; he never flirted with her or any of the other girls, despite the rumours that the jet was his flying bordello. He’d had some beautiful women on the plane with him, who had shared his stateroom, but in public he rarely put his arm around any of them or showed even the slightest affection. Trudy thought that he was a cold fish, driven by money but, like the other girls, she found him very sexy. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he showed no interest or perhaps it was the power he exuded. Most men in his position would be hitting on her but from him there was nothing even mildly suggestive. ‘I don’t understand how Joe let’s her walk all over him.’

‘It’s simple. He loves her.’

‘Why?’

‘Who knows what makes two people fall in love.’

‘All men have at least one weakness,’ he said. Then, thinking about himself, added, ‘Nearly all men.’

She didn’t respond, wondering whether this man ever let his guard down for even a second. As if reading her mind, he said, ‘Phone the captain and tell him I want to be out of this godforsaken place by nine o’clock and, Trudy, we’ll be checking out at seven, so you’d better get to bed.’

The foyer of the Paisley Town Hall was decked out in multi-coloured roses and ribbons with a large, red banner announcing
Welcome to the Lord Mayor’s Dinner Dance
affixed to the wall. The last time Steve and Sandi had been at the town hall was when the
gas-man
had run amok, and they had hardly known each other then. Now she was clinging to his arm, wearing a full-length black dress, backless to just above the cleavage of her bottom. She loved the dress, but it was so daring that she had wrestled with herself, trying it on three times before finally plucking up the courage to buy it. The door attendant checked the invitation and gave her an admiring glance; he then looked at Steve with a
how did you ever end up with her
face? ‘You’re on table twenty-six, just to the left as you enter the hall.’

The tables were elegantly draped, bearing silver candelabras with matching cutlery. A six-piece band was belting out an old Sinatra number at the front of the hall next to three tables reserved for VIPs. Steve and Sandi were a little late and most guests were already seated.

‘How come we aren’t up the front?’ Sandi pouted.

‘Are you rich and powerful?’ Steve responded, catching the pleasing sight of Charles and Faye Paxton laughing and chatting with the mayor. Rumour had it that they had been near separation after Charlie’s death, but maybe they were trying to get it together again.

As they located their table, a small man, built like a bull, stood up and said, ‘Hello Steve.’

Steve’s hand went involuntarily to his nose. ‘G’day John,’ he responded begrudgingly. He glanced around the table and saw that he knew nearly everyone; they were all finance and accounting types.

‘I’m John Leckie,’ the squat, oily-haired man said, extending his hand to Sandi. ‘And you are?’

‘Steve’s partner,’ she responded coldly, sensing that her boyfriend didn’t like this brash man.

Steve squeezed her hand. ‘Sandi Carlisle,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to take any financial or taxation advice off this lot.’ Then he introduced her to everyone at the table.

‘What do you do for a job, Sandi?’ Leckie asked.

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘You can handcuff me anytime you like,’ Leckie guffawed.

She took no notice of him, instead bringing his wife into the conversation, ‘That’s a stunning ring. Is it a sapphire?’

‘If only.’ She smiled. ‘It’s topaz.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Steve interrupted. ‘Let’s dance.’

As they walked to the dance floor, he saw Norris and Bettina Scott-Tempy, Moira Raymond with a man he didn’t know, and Donny Drayton and Bianca sitting at the table to the right of the Mayor’s. He surmised that all those at that table were coal seam gas supporters, while those at the table to the left, where Charles Paxton and Tom Morgan were sitting, were passionate haters.

He held Sandi close to him and she rested her head on his shoulder. Her perfume intoxicated him as they swayed to the beat of the music. She fitted perfectly against his body and moved with an instinctive rhythm; he felt himself becoming aroused.

‘You don’t like that creep, Leckie, do you?’

‘He broke my nose playing football years ago when I wasn’t looking.’ He was enjoying the feel of her supple body. ‘Let’s not talk about him.’

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a pimply-faced young man in his early twenties asking to cut in. He wanted to tell him to get lost but, instead, stood aside for a respectable two minutes before cutting back in. He had barely got back into the swing when someone else tapped him on his shoulder. Sandi looked at Steve and shrugged as if to say
what can I do?
He stood watching and wondered whether he’d be lucky enough to get another dance with her.

As Donny and Bianca took the floor, he felt a tinge of jealousy, which he forced himself to resist. Bianca was glowing and he thought how fortunate he had been, being her lover for so many years. What could she possibly see in the anaemic, harmless Donny? He knew how demanding she could be, and he wondered how Donny was coping. The thought was almost too much for him: she had probably given the lucky little weasel instructions, something she had never needed to give him. He tapped Donny hard on the shoulder who turned around and gave him a weak smile before slinking off to his table.

‘Hi Bianca, you look great,’ Steve said, unable to stop his eyes dropping to her ample cleavage. Whether it was her flashing eyes or her seductive smile, she flaunted her sexuality like no other woman he had ever met.

‘Thanks,’ she responded coolly, making sure he did not get too close.

‘Did Norrie enjoy the article I had published in the
Advocate?’

‘If you must know, he threw it in the rubbish bin without reading a word.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? How’s he doing in the gas business? Has he managed to rob any more downtrodden farmers lately?’

He felt her stiffen. ‘You really are odious, Steven, and if you’re going to make unkind remarks about Daddy, you’ll be dancing by yourself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said sarcastically. ‘How come you’re still going out with that loser? You can do far better.’

‘Not that it’s your business, but Donny treats me really well and, unlike you, respects my father and values his opinions. We’re getting engaged at Easter.’

‘God, what’s he got that I can’t see?’

‘Don’t be vulgar. You had your chance.’

‘You always said I had no future and yet you’re going to marry some dimwitted land access consultant who’s got no prospects. And you know he can’t satisfy you.’

‘That’s how much you know. Donny’s been working closely with Moira Raymond and, when she takes over as CEO of CEGL, he’s going to be her assistant, Mr Smarty Pants. Anyhow, you can’t talk. It’s hardly like that skinny, underdressed clothes horse you’re with is ever likely to be Chief Commissioner,’ she sniggered.

‘Envious, are we? Unlike Donny, Sandi’s sexy and savvy.’

‘Touchy about her, aren’t you?’

‘Why don’t you tell me about this big promotion of Donny’s,’ he said, ignoring her barb. ‘When’s this big move going to happen?’

‘A lot sooner than you think.’ She paused and looked concerned. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. No-one else knows. You won’t say anything, will you?’

‘You know me,’ he said, as Donny tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for the dance, Bianca.’

There were more than fifty couples dancing and he caught sight of Bettina dragging old Norrie around the floor. Her movements were fluid and rhythmic while her husband looked bored to tears and had all the finesse of a wooden plank. It took Steve a few seconds to find Sandi, who was in the middle of the floor trying to restrain the groping John Leckie. He pushed through the crowd, grabbed Leckie by the shoulder and pulled him away. ‘Get away, you bloody schmuck,’ he said, eyes blazing.

‘Settle down, Stevie. We were just having a little fun. That’s right isn’t it, honey?’

‘Don’t make a scene, Steve. He’s not worth it.’

‘Yeah, and you know what happened to you the last time you took me on.’

Steve had never been a fighter, but he was trembling and dying to smash his fist into Leckie’s smirking face.

‘Dance with me, Steve,’ Sandi said, as Leckie swaggered off the dance floor. ‘I shouldn’t have worn this silly dress, but I knew Bianca was going to be here and I wanted to show you I could be sexy too.’

‘You look fantastic. You’re the sexiest women in the hall and, don’t worry, I’m not leaving your side for the rest of the night.’

‘You’re sweet, but I don’t want to stay. That creep’s going to keep drinking and making foul comments and you’ll end up hitting him. I don’t want to have to arrest you. Why don’t I go back to the table and get my bag? Then we’ll split.’

‘I’ll get it, but what are we going to do?’

‘We could go back to your place and watch a DVD.’

‘That sure leaves this for dead.’ He grinned.

When he returned with her bag, after wearing a few parting smart-arse comments from Leckie, she was chatting to some of the young men whom she had danced with. He took her elbow and steered her through them to the foyer and out onto the street.

‘For someone who’s worried that she’s not sexy, you sure know how to attract a crowd.’

‘I’m sorry for spoiling your night,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him. He put his arms around her and hungrily crushed her full, inviting lips to his.

‘Not here, Steve. Let’s go to your place.’

Five minutes later, bodies entangled, they stumbled up the two flights of stairs to Steve’s apartment. ‘Have you got anything to drink?’

‘I thought you said you didn’t drink?’

‘I don’t, but sometimes I get the urge.’

‘Me too. I’ve got a bottle of Johnny Walker and a semillon. What do you prefer?’

‘I’ll have wine.’

‘So will I,’ he said, taking two flutes from a shelf.

She kicked her shoes off and curled up on the sofa with her feet under her. ‘How was your old girlfriend?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay? You seemed to be engaged in pretty intense conversation.’

‘I made a few comments about her father that she didn’t like, that’s all.’

‘Do you still love her?’

‘No, but I still care for her.’

‘Good answer. Come and give me a cuddle.’

He did not need to be asked twice. It had been a long time since he’d had anything resembling romance in his life and she felt good. They kissed passionately and, when she eased him away to take a sip of wine, he was breathing heavily.

‘Slow down. We’ve got all night. Let’s not spoil it.’

He was flushed and his forehead had broken out in a light sweat. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long time since ...’

‘Me too, that’s why I want to take it slowly.’

In their half-a-dozen dates she had said very little about herself, but he was sensitive enough to detect that she felt like talking. She was an only child, her family lived in Coffs Harbour and she had an arts degree from Newtower. She drained her glass and Steve quickly refilled it, as he listened to her talk about the man she had loved and spent two years with in Sydney. He was a big businessman working on complex security systems for ASIO and the Pentagon, and it was impossible for her to phone him while he was supposedly on one of his numerous interstate or international trips. They had talked about having children, building a house and spending the rest of their lives together. Then, one day in the waiting room of her dentist, she flicked through an old copy of the
Woman’s Day
and there he was with wife, kids and dog. It had nearly killed her and she quit her job, vacated her apartment, got a new mobile phone and disappeared. Looking for something to ease the pain, she had joined the police force for the excitement, only to end up directing traffic and doing paperwork. The bastard could have found her had he wanted to, but she never saw or heard from him again. She would have rejected any advances but it exacerbated her hurt, knowing that he had not even bothered looking for her.

‘That’s some story.’ Steve gently put his arm around her. ‘What an arsehole.’ He had been right; her outwardly confident manner was a mask to conceal her hurt.

For a few minutes her smile and vitality disappeared. ‘I just want to ask you one question,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

‘Who’d marry someone with a honker like this?’

‘It suits you; very Owen Wilson-like if you ask me.’ She uncurled her legs and stood alluringly in front of him. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Five weeks out from the election, the polls were grim for Labor. Nick Gould, despite the urging of Clarrie Driscoll, was only campaigning half-heartedly, knowing that the conservatives had an insurmountable lead. Whiskey in hand, he looked up at the big screen on his office wall to see the leader of the conservatives berating the government and prattling on about what he was going to do to fix roads and public transport. ‘Have a look at the little prima donna, Clarrie. I’d like to swat him.’

‘You can still win, Nick, if only you’d campaign. The people think the party stinks but they still love you.’

‘No-one could ever accuse you of being a pessimist.’ The Premier laughed. ‘Nah, we’ve had our day. You saw the polls after that lunatic’s performance in Paisley. We’re dead, mate, dead as a doornail.’

‘I just wish you’d have a go,’ Clarrie responded, glancing at the screen. Then, in astonishment, ‘Have a look at who’s just entered the auditorium!’

The screen showed the
gas-man,
fully attired in white boilersuit and gasmask.

‘So what? He’s not shouting and screaming like he was when he went after me. He’s probably supporting that little weasel.’

That is what the conservative’s leader must have thought, because he came down from the stage and, playing up to the viewing audience, put his arm around Dean and said, ‘Here’s an example of Labor’s policies. This poor man is being chased off his property by the big gas companies, aided and abetted by this avaricious government.’

Dean forcefully shrugged the little man’s arm from his shoulders. ‘Get away from me, you prick. Your policies about
big-gas
are no different to the government’s, so don’t try and paint yourself as the saviour of us landowners. Why don’t you tell the audience how much the gas companies contributed to your campaign?’

There are times in most politicians’ lives when they wish they hadn’t said or done something and the leader of the conservatives was regretting the second he had left the stage. ‘Uh-uh that’s not right, we’re going to protect landowners.’

‘Liar! How much money did those plunderers put in your pocket? How much?’

One of his minders came to the rescue and steered the beleaguered politician back to the stage, but the damage had been done. Nick Gould had his feet up on his desk and his body shook with mirth. ‘Can you hear the talkback jocks and see the newspapers in the morning, Clarrie? They’re going to slaughter him and we might just be back in the race. Where are we campaigning tomorrow?’

‘You’re speaking in five marginal electorates, you’ve got one radio interview after the midday news and two minutes on
Australia Today
tomorrow night
.’