The Butcherbird (21 page)

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&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.’