The Butcherbird (5 page)

What words that tug at the core, he thought. Not we want you, but we need you. Jack was already partly lost with those words, he knew it even though he wouldn’t yet allow a decision to form. He certainly wouldn’t voice one to Louise, to anyone.

‘So what’ve you been up to with Mac Biddulph? Out on the floating girlie palace and all, I hear?’

He started at the stentorian tones of Tom Smiley. How could Tom know he’d been seeing Mac Biddulph? Was this city the glass bowl people said it was, where a thousand eyes watched every time the orb was shaken and the fake snow fell on a different branch? He tried to change the subject, to laugh off the question with a Jack-the-lad response, but if Louise could detect dissembling, the professional antenna of Thomas Smiley caught the false notes as clearly as bellbirds calling in a forest.

The barrage that followed pinned him with its forensic intensity and before he was aware of the prising open of his soul, he was spilling details of not just the weekend’s capers but the conversation in Mac’s office, his initial doubts, even the possibility, the possibility he hadn’t admitted to himself, that he might take this challenge. Yes, it was a challenge—a stretching of his abilities, a leap from being the charming property developer to the leader of a major business, a critical business for the average Australian, a business people depended on in crisis, a complex, intellectually demanding exercise that he could drive forward better than anyone else. Mac had said so. Before he knew it, all this had tumbled forth into Tom’s waiting arms where so many witnesses had relieved themselves unsuspectingly of their burdens in the past.

‘Be careful, Jack.’ The shrewd eyes assessed the rush of adrenalin sitting beside them. ‘These blokes are tough customers, Mac Biddulph and his cohorts. Have you met the chairman, Laurence Treadmore, sometime member of my esteemed profession? Very subtle character, if I can put it that way. Quite deep. You need to know what you’re getting into, Jack, if you’re really thinking about this. It would be quite a stretch from a number of points of view. A big stretch.’

Jack flashed him an angry glance. ‘Too big for me, you think?’ ‘I didn’t mean that, old fellow. It’s just that there are a lot of very complex issues in that industry and you need to work with people you can trust a hundred per cent. I’m not saying you can’t with this gang, but how well do you know them?’ He paused and saw the resentment on Jack’s face. ‘Talk to the Pope if you’re really contemplating this. He knows a bit about it. Don’t rush into anything is all I’m saying. Beware of hubris and flattery lest you slip on their greasy surfaces.’

Laurence Treadmore nodded at the doorman of the Piccadilly Apartments without actually looking at him, stepped briskly into the familiar environs of Macquarie Street and commenced the daily triumphal perambulation to his office. He liked to think of the morning walk in this way—’a triumphal perambulation’. Because it was. Every few steps some passer-by would greet him as he wandered by the Colonial Club, the Anon Club, the great office buildings that housed the heads of companies who nodded to him deferentially. The Sydney office of the Prime Minister hidden away in one, hidden but well known to Sir Laurence, the tower of the state government and the Premier—all this a few paces from his home and open and welcoming to him, if not to others; a source of honours and wealth, of comfort and privilege, to him if not to others. For Sir Laurence was widely known for his intellectual flexibility. He could understand and appreciate any point of view, particularly if significant benefits might result from it for a client. And, of course, for the advisor.

Sir Laurence had never been a lawyer in the conventional sense. His was more a ‘strategic commercial practice’, in the course of which he guided clients through the intricacies of takeover law or contract negotiations or other complex matters of a more delicate nature. This tributary of the law allowed fees to be charged of a very different dimension to those based on the simple hours of toil which the lesser members of his profession received. ‘Success fees’ and other ripe fruit fell into his basket, the harvest of a merchant banker more than a lawyer. Indeed he would have been appalled to regard himself as a ‘lawyer’—the law was merely a useful or annoying reference point, depending on the circumstances.

His small, neat figure in its tailored suit from Savile Row, trademark pink shirt of a certain soft hue, and matching silk tie and handkerchief were familiar to all who were familiar, as it made its way at eight-thirty every morning to the flower stall in Martin Place. Here he purchased a boutonničre of complementary hue, contrast was not a fashion concept of which he approved, before entering his offices and arriving at a desk which would already be laid out with Earl Grey tea and a croissant from La Gerbe d’Or in Paddington. He liked to breakfast alone. In the early years Mavis had often encouraged him to start the day in conversation at their table, but he found it unsettling. After nearly forty years of marriage she’d learned to hand him his briefcase and watch his straight back walk to the lift, as she’d learned so many things. Besides, Sir Laurence was a secretive man in certain ways, and he liked to be unobserved as he took his gilt scissors and cut items from the newspapers about people who might be useful or might need his arcane skills, or deals or possibilities, or scandals and indiscretions that could cause alliances to crumble and crumbs to fall. All these clippings were pasted into albums and filed in a tall locked cupboard in the hallway leading to his office—decades of the detritus of social and business life, discarded by all except him. It was remarkable how often he fossicked through these files and turned up a nugget.

He had a deep and productive relationship with certain sections of the press. Whereas most of his colleagues and most business people he knew were cautious and wary in their dealings with journalists, if not downright hostile, Sir Laurence had a passing affection for those who fell within his sphere. These were business journalists of a serious bent, columnists of a gossipy disposition and one or two editors who saw a future role in management. The relationships were deep, in the sense that they were hidden from view, and no public hint of the source of information was ever given by those who received his calls—they were never to call him. Productive, in the sense that the chosen ones would receive information that was not otherwise available and frequently should not have been so, while Sir Laurence or those he represented would be depicted as champions of all that was right and just. It was surprising what could be achieved in this way. People could gain positions of importance, people could lose them. Government ministers could change their minds on vital issues (after all, their job was surely to represent public opinion). Institutions who’d planned to vote one way at a public meeting might vote quite differently. Productive, and no fingerprints.

At one time or another, Laurence Treadmore had been chairman of trustees of the Museum of Modern Art, chairman of the Australian Opera and the New South Wales Public Library, and president of the King’s School Foundation. Many other institutions tried to woo him to their causes but he no longer accepted simple directorships. And as to charity boards, he preferred to send a cheque. Occasionally he went to a major charity auction and made a spectacular bid or two, in which case the press contacts would be alerted beforehand. A detailed examination of his custodianship of these appointments wouldn’t reveal a record of great success—Sir Laurence was fundamentally lazy, and the hard work of planning or fundraising was not to his liking—but no such examination was ever made and his timing was always impeccable. He’d gone, moved on, leaving the next incumbent to patch up the holes.

His secretive nature was revealed in a number of almost furtive habits. While he was obsessive about order and cleanliness, he had a strange desire to observe people who lived in other ways. He would park his car near the City Mission where the derelicts and street people came to feed from the soup kitchen. He liked to watch, just watch. Or the lanes where prostitutes touted. If any approached the car, he would drive off immediately. Sex, or at least the practice of it, seemed not to be uppermost in his mind. Mavis could attest to this. And their home life was closed to public view. Few people had ever visited the apartment, although he’d owned it for decades and was intensely proud of its purist art deco décor. When the Treadmores entertained, which was seldom, it was always at the club. Mainly they were entertained by others. Besides, Mavis was nervous of people she didn’t know well and sometimes of those she did. Frequently she found her husband frightening, a fact which frightened her more when she registered it.

Mrs Bonython entered the office as Sir Laurence was picking the last crumbs of the croissant from the plate. She had never fully overcome her unease in his presence despite nearly twenty years of service. ‘Mr Beaumont is here, sir. Shall I show him in?’

The pale eyes glanced up from the newspaper. ‘Not just yet, Lois, thank you. I’m rather busy. I’ll buzz in a little while.’

It was an uncomfortable conversation that ensued when Jack was finally ushered into the beige-on-beige office. Sir Laurence rose briefly then resumed his seat behind the desk, eschewing the relaxed offering of the sofa and lounge chair by the coffee table. Indeed no coffee was served. He sat with suit jacket fully buttoned while Jack, tieless, immediately removed his blazer and slumped casually into an easy chair.

‘I know you’ve indicated to Mac that you’re keen to sign on with us as CEO, which is welcome news, but you and I must conclude the matter between us. That is only right and proper in a publicly listed company, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ No pause was allowed for the agreement as Sir Laurence ploughed on. ‘The relationship between the chairman and the chief executive is a vital one in the success of any company. I’m sure you agree. And it must be clear that the CEO reports to the board through the chairman. That is clear. In this company, of course, we have a significant shareholder who is also a director and, in some ways, the founder or perhaps foster father of the business. This can raise certain complications. These are best left to me to solve as chairman, so that you may be free to manage the business side of things. I’m sure you understand. If any such matters arise, simply raise them with me and worry no more about them. That’s what I’m here for.’ An attempt at a thin smile flickered across the grey lips. ‘Now, as to your contract and its details, I understand you have a basic agreement with Mac. I will incorporate this into a formal document and execute it with you.’

Jack shifted uneasily in the chair that had looked comfortable but was designed for no more than looks. This meeting was the opposite of his discussions with Mac.

‘Don’t bother, Laurence.’ There was a slight flinch at the lack of the Sir. ‘I don’t need a contract, a handshake is fine. If we’re happy together, I’ll stay. If we’re not, you don’t want your shareholders having to pay me out.’

Laurence Treadmore’s mouth tightened as if he’d just eaten a particularly sour fruit. In a couple of sentences Jack had sneered at the three fundamental principles on which his life was based. The first was a love of money. The man appeared to be dismissive of the potential gain that might accrue to him. The second was a basic distrust of all persons except those who were bound to you by necessity. And the third was the absolute requirement to, and vicarious enjoyment of, drafting, honing and redrafting a legal document that would deprive the recipient of rights that he or she assumed to be self-evident, without this being evident. He coughed unnecessarily. ‘I’m afraid in corporate life these days it is common practice to document these matters. Indeed good corporate governance suggests we advise shareholders of the details. I’m sure you can understand that the description of a handshake’—the word was almost chewed as it emerged—’would not sit comfortably in an annual report.’

The meeting edged from topic to topic as the manicured finger ran down the embossed notepaper. Sir Laurence was contemptuous of all forms of modern technology, even the cell phone—the public use of which he regarded as a particularly invasive form of bad manners—so when Jack’s BlackBerry appeared from his pocket, buzzing and vibrating in an obscene display of uncivil interruption, their antipathy towards one another was complete.

‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I’ll have to dash. Didn’t realise we were going to be so long; thought it was just a quick hello. But I hear what you’re saying and, of course, I’m new to public company life. I’ll certainly think about it all.’

The farewell handshake sealed their pact, leaving one gently massaging an imaginary bruise and the other hoping to wash away the clamminess.

When Jack strode with relief into the sun and clean air of Sydney’s mildly polluted streets, it was Mac Biddulph’s name that flashed up in his message window. He didn’t return the call but went back to his office in the old Pyrmont warehouse and sat staring out at the incongruous collection of public amusements spattered over the former railway yards. He’d loaded goods trains there as a part-time job in the university holidays when he was nineteen and remembered the area as ugly but honest. Now it was full of shops selling sweaters that looked like Jackson Pollock’s worst nightmare or cute marine artefacts that had never seen a ship. Why was he even contemplating leaving the familiar, safe harbour of a business he liked, was successful in, and was handsomely remunerated for running with a modicum of effort? He looked around at his team of bright, attractive, talented, likeable young people working away happily in the huge space flooded with natural light and salt-filled air. He’d be crazy to leave. He’d ring Mac right now and tell him so.

The direct line rang on his desk. Only Louise and a couple of close friends had the number, but when he answered it was Mac’s voice on the line.

‘G’day, Jack. Hope I’m not bothering you sitting down there counting your money. How did you get on with my chairman? He can be a bit of an old woman sometimes.’

Jack cautiously began to express his reservations, but Mac broke in.