The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  ‘Mac’s probably too polite to say it, Prime Minister, but it has always seemed unfair that some of our leading competitors, being foreign companies, do not have to comply with all the regulations we do.’ Sir Laurence turned to Mac as the novice turns to the guru.

  ‘Well, that’s true. I’m not one to complain. We’re happy to take on anyone. Certainly not afraid of fair competition. And happy to comply with all the regulations the government thinks are necessary to protect people. After all, that’s what we do in insurance, isn’t it. Protect people.’ They all nodded wisely. ‘But everyone should be subject to the same rules. You know, a fair go. That’s Australia.’ Mac wondered fleetingly if he had gone too far with the ‘That’s Australia’, but he’d forgotten he was talking to a politician.

  ‘Absolutely. We all want the old cliche, the level playing field. I like old cliches, actually. People understand them. So Mac, why don’t you get your people to put something together and send it to my chief of staff. We don’t want our honest citizens at the mercy of foreign pirates, do we?’ A wink accompanied this remark and then, immediately at its disappearance, a frown. ‘Private remark, not to be repeated. I must go and do my duty, the only opening I’ve ever done where I don’t have to make a speech. Just pull a lever or something apparently. Good to see you, Mac, Laurence. Keep up the good work.’

  As he strode off into the crowd with his minders trailing, Mac and Sir Laurence watched thoughtfully, respectfully, determined to indeed keep up the good work, whatever that might be. Finally, Mac turned to his chairman. ‘Laurence, I have to thank you. You’ve absolutely excelled yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t think anyone in Sydney has. It’ll be talked about for years. How did you do it?’

  Sir Laurence was beaming, although low beam was the height of his illumination. ‘Thank you, Mac. I’m delighted you’re enjoying it, but I assure you there’s a great deal more to come. I, of course, am merely the facilitator. I’ll introduce you to the woman who organised most of it later. I think you might have met her once before.’

  Sir Laurence wandered away as Mac was claimed by more admirers and there, champagne flute in hand, eyes glassed over (but not, tonight, by the champagne, more by the wonder of what she’d created), was the very woman he’d been referring to.

  ‘Popsie, my dear woman, what a triumph. You’ll be famous once it leaks out, as these things inevitably do, that you had a hand in organising this.’

  There was no chance of it leaking out that she had ‘had a hand’ in organising the party as Popsie Trudeaux knew very well, since she’d already informed everyone that she’d talked to, which was a great number of people, some of whom had turned out to be waiters, and one of whom was obviously the Prime Minister’s security man since he was wearing an earpiece and couldn’t hear her, although she was talking very loudly into his other ear, that she was the sole driving force behind every single facet of this mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime event.

  ‘I’m just so grateful to you, Laurence, for asking me to do it. I mean, I’ve only ever done my own parties, and not one of those for a while, so you were very brave to give me the job. I knew I could blow them all away, but how did you know?’

  The thin mouth curled delicately. ‘You just trust people. Pick the right person and trust them.’

  ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you. It’s been such an exciting experience.’

  ‘Dear lady, you don’t have to repay me. And besides, I think your experience is just starting. Everyone’s going to want you and only you to do their parties after this. You could build a real business. If you want to, of course. I realise money isn’t relevant, but I can see you might enjoy the challenge.’

  Popsie thought she might. She was almost certain she would. Archie Speyne had already offered her a contract for all the museum’s functions, and one of the Prime Minister’s people, not the one with the earpiece, had asked for her card. Laurence was right, they’d all want her. Oh, to be wanted, and to be paid for it.

  ‘I’m terribly grateful, Laurence. I promise I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Please, my dear, we all help one another where we can. Now I’m sure you have more surprises in store for us all, so I shall just drift away.’

  And drift away he did. Popsie followed his path, wondering. Why had he taken a risk on her? He’d always been distant with her before, polite but distant. And then this solid gold gift. Who cared? She’d made it her own and now she could fuck the whole town anytime she wanted.

  Maroubra peered nervously through the shrubbery at the Botanic Gardens. He didn’t like gardens, their neatness, their artificiality, their suggestion of rules, of places to walk and places not. He liked the bush, where tracks appeared because animals had found a path to water or because the ground fell evenly for padded feet. The only cut grass should be on ovals where rugby or cricket were played, where rules were necessary so crafty people could break them with a cuff to the ear or an elbow on the stomach. But no eye gouging or biting. And definitely no fingers in orifices where they didn’t belong, like that disgusting rugby league oaf had done a few years ago. Many disgusting oafs played rugby league, whereas gentlemen, like Maroubra and his son Gordie and various other men of character, only played rugby union. Somehow he felt the eyes on the back of his neck and he turned with a start to find the Pope a metre away.

  ‘I fucking told you none of that Mafioso crap with your fucking lowlife mates. I told you everything had to be clean, kosher. Again and again. How many fucking times do I have to tell you?’

  The Pope threw a newspaper down on the park bench, but Maroubra didn’t look at it. He’d never heard the Pope swear before. He always spoke directly, definitely, and never with a vocabulary that was anything but specific and spare.

  ‘It wasn’t us, I swear to God. I heard it on the radio just before I got your text. None of my people were in it. No way.’

  The Pope remained in attack mode. ‘Coincidences aren’t my thing. Here we are searching around for stuff on Mac Biddulph, very specific stuff that’s not in the average file drawer, here you have a brief from me to get it, then someone breaks into the Biddulph home while he’s at the party of the year and it’s not you?’ Maroubra returned the angry stare in kind. ‘Okay. I’ll accept you didn’t order it, but obviously one of your people got overzealous. Who the hell are they all, anyway?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. And no one got excited. I checked the lot on the way here. We’re not involved. One hundred per cent.’

  The Pope searched his face, nodded slowly and held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have doubted you, but-Christ, what does it mean?’

  Maroubra shook the hand. ‘No problem, mate. When I heard it this morning, I thought the same thing- someone’s jumped the fence.’

  They sat together and read through the newspaper story. On the front page was a large photo of Mac and the Prime Minister accompanied by a gushing story on the party that had run in all the editions-only this late edition had a small box on the breakin. According to the scant details, nothing appeared to have been taken.

  ‘That’s why I thought it was you.’ The Pope folded the paper. ‘When it said there was no real burglary.’

  ‘There was; they took a computer and a printer, but left the more valuable stuff lying around everywhere.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Friends. You don’t want to know. But it definitely wasn’t anything other than pros looking for the same sort of stuff we’d be after.’

  They stared out at the harbour for a while.

  ‘But we’re supposed to be the only ones looking. We’re running the game. Mac’s our target. Who the hell else is out there?’

  Maroubra shrugged. ‘How can I know? You tell me the parts you want to tell me. I don’t know where they fit in the jigsaw and I don’t want to.’

  The Pope closed his eyes, tried to see the patterns in the red-black. He was a chess player, he could see patterns before they formed. He
could see where the pieces would rest before they arrived at their destinations, the positions people would take before they realised themselves. It was the skill of his life-not just of his business success, but his whole life. When he was a young boy, nine or ten, the chessboard had become a defining world of challenge, of fascination, of intellectual stimulation and, not unimportantly, of conquest. He learned from his grandfather. They would work together in the terraced vegetable garden that sustained the old man in his declining years, not with vitamins and minerals, but with the nourishment of usefulness. His grandfather would weed and prune and mound the soil, and he would follow with a hessian bag full of dead leaves and cuttings and the flat cane basket for the picked crop. When the basket was full and they were sitting together with ginger beer gazing contentedly at the neatly balanced pile of carrots and leeks and crisp pea pods, the gnarled old hand would hug his shoulder and the voice he loved would say, ‘Keep the wolf from the door, hey?’

  It was only three years before he could win the chess contest some times and then most times, and then, because he could see the patterns of life, not just those on the board, deliberately lose enough to sustain the other’s dignity. Someday, maybe, his grandson would humour him this way, or some other and he wouldn’t know, the brain cells or the synapses or whatever wouldn’t register the subtler tones of life anymore.

  But not now, surely. And yet there was no emerging pattern in this dilemma. What unseen hand was at work in the puppet show of which he was the supposed master? A breakin at Mac Biddulph’s, a stolen computer? There was another predator in the hunt, a grey shadow running fence lines, skirting waterholes, hiding in hollows and rock piles, taking small prey, waiting for something more. He had to flush it out. Apply pressure, beat the bush. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see Maroubra still sitting quietly beside him.

  ‘It’s not all bad news. I’ve got something for you.’ Maroubra handed him a fat envelope. ‘I don’t know exactly what it means but there’s a lot in there on the Beira Company and a flow of transactions to a Swiss bank. No doubt you’ll work it all out.’

  The Pope took the envelope. ‘Thanks. But I’m not sure I will. I think it’s time we got some fresh minds on this. I don’t like the feeling I’m about to lose a game before it’s started.’

  chapter ten

  They sat in a panelled room with paintings jumbled onto the walls in the Victorian fashion. A landscape of dubious origin was resting askew above a self-portrait by one of Australia’s leading artists, which was in turn dwarfed by a nautical scene of two ships of the line, apparently about to open fire-whether on the landscape or the portrait was unclear. In all, the small dark room was generously adorned with over twenty pictures arranged, if that was the appropriate word, from eye level to ceiling with disdain for the neat and orderly ways of art galleries and, some would say, for the artists.

  In truth, the committee of the Colonial Club had disdain for the ways of a great many people, mainly those who were not members of the Colonial Club. It was likely that they would have evidenced these feelings for all but one of this group gathered in the members’ reading room, had they known of their presence, but the room was booked in the name of one of the most respected of their number. Nothing more was required, except appropriate dress. And, of course, appropriate sex-females, however attired, were not permitted on the third floor.

  There were only four figures huddled in the gloom, leaning forward intently as their leader, nearly invisible in a charcoal suit, only the extreme whiteness of the shirt directing the sparse light onto a shadowed face, addressed them in hushed tones. The other three had been amazed when the venue for the meeting was nominated. The last place any of them expected the Pope to be familiar with, let alone a member of, was the Colonial Club. But the aforementioned committee was well aware that the name Normile had been entered in its books for three generations and that present member Clinton had served the club in many distinguished, if not publicly recognised, ways. A great deal more than the members’ reading room was available on his request.

  ‘So there you have it. We’re chasing down alleys trying to pin Mac Biddulph’s colours to the wall and someone else is there before us. I can’t make sense of it, so I’m hoping better brains can see the angles.’

  Murray Ingham spoke in his brusque manner. ‘We’re going to need more. It’s a puzzle where you can’t see the pieces so there’s no chance to fit them together. No facts, no story.’

  The Pope nodded. ‘Fair enough. You ask me the questions and I’ll answer them as best I can. Maroubra can also fill in a few gaps.’

  Tom Smiley’s voice seemed to boom out into the quiet room as he drew his chair forward and loosened his tie. ‘Are you allowed to take your jacket off in this mausoleum or do they behead you at dawn with a cavalry sabre?’ Tom dropped his suit jacket onto the floor as he spoke. ‘Let me put a few questions on two issues: first, the information we’ve gathered thus far that might implicate Mac Biddulph in wrongdoing, and second, on the facts of the robbery itself-yes?’

  The Pope gestured assent and the relentless questioning of Thomas Smiley QC commenced its seemingly meandering, purposeless course, like a river twisting through deep gorges, shallow turns, silent valleys, until it straightened its line.

  ‘So. It seems we have a clutch of theories supported by minimal documentation. The theories fall into three broad categories. First, Mac Biddulph is draining off HOA funds to pay for personal expenses through a company called Beira Proprietary Limited which, you surmise, but cannot yet prove, is controlled by the said Mr Biddulph. Second, and more damning if proven, it is suggested that the accounts of HOA are being falsified or manipulated by the use of financial reinsurance contracts with no actual transfer of risk in order to artificially boost profits. Third, it is suggested that other directors and executives may be complicit in these alleged activities. Is that a fair summary?’

  Again the Pope nodded.

  ‘May I ask if some legal mind other than my own is applying itself to the analysis of whatever you have gathered.’

  The Pope responded quickly. ‘There is someone, but I’d rather not say who, if you don’t mind.’

  Tom Smiley held his gaze. ‘I do mind. When people start breaking into houses, a line is crossed. Our friend the Judge has already excused himself from any further involvement in this matter and I’m giving serious thought to similar action. We’d all like to help Jack Beaumont, but I want to know who’s running this show and how it’s being run.’

  The Pope looked down at the dark oak table and then up again at Tom Smiley. ‘Hedley Stimson.’

  There was an intake of breath from the lawyer. ‘Well. And well again. How in God’s name did you bring him out of retirement? Is he planning to appear in court, if it comes to that?’

  Murray Ingham broke in. ‘For those of us who don’t spend their waking hours immersed in legal gossip, a little background would help. Who is this new character in the saga?’

  The Pope gestured to Tom Smiley to respond.

  ‘Let me put it this way: if I was representing a client in court tomorrow, the only barrister I wouldn’t want to see acting for the other side would be Hedley Stimson. If that remark is ever repeated, I’ll deny it.’ He paused. ‘At least we know any improper behaviour hasn’t been intentional.’ He turned to Maroubra. ‘But has it been accidental?’

  Maroubra shook his head. ‘No. We’ve been using our sources, but all above board. We had absolutely no involvement in the breakin at Mac Biddulph’s house.’

  Tom Smiley nodded. ‘Okay. I’m greatly reassured by both those responses. And that brings us to the breakin. Nothing was taken, I gather.’

  Maroubra responded. ‘A computer and a printer.’

  Murray Ingham’s gruff voice cut in again. ‘That’s not what the papers said.’

  Maroubra smiled. ‘The papers are wrong. A computer and a printer.’

  Murray persisted. ‘How do you know that?’

  It was the
Pope who answered. ‘I think this is an area where we just have to accept the information we’re given as accurate without identifying sources. I do.’

  There was a brief silence before Tom Smiley continued. ‘Has there ever been a breakin at these premises before?’ He was now directing the questions at Maroubra.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How was entry effected?’

  ‘A window was unlocked.’

  ‘So no force was required?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely the premises were electronically secured?’

  ‘Switched off. Never used. I guess they figured there’d be no problem with insurance.’

  ‘Servants?’

  ‘There’s only one live-in. The others come in daily. She was given the night off. Mac and his wife were at the museum party.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The party. So the thief presumably picked this night because of the publicity surrounding the party?’

  ‘Probably. Although I think most of the publicity came afterwards.’

  ‘And I assume there were many more valuables lying about for the taking?’

  ‘Everything you can imagine and a lot of things you can’t. Jewellery by the handful, huge amounts of cash, every electronic gadget known to man, artworks-you name it.’

  ‘So, hence our dilemma. Someone is searching for the same information we are.’

  The Pope spoke. ‘Exactly. If we can figure out who that is, who the thief is, I believe we’d fit in a crucial piece of this puzzle.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ It was Murray Ingham. ‘You don’t read enough novels, that’s the problem with all you logical analysts. Follow the story. Watch the characters. There is no thief. There is no coincidence. Party, no one at home, no alarm, unlocked window. The one person who couldn’t have stolen the stuff because everyone in the world knew where he was-at the party of the year-was Mac Biddulph. And he’s the one person who did. If anyone comes asking for records-regulators, lawyers, courts-he doesn’t have them. Gone. Stolen. Disappeared in a puff of wind through an open window. Neat as you like, on the record, certified by the police, incident number, and so on. And he probably makes a claim for a new computer. But you won’t find much on that, other than golf games and a letter to his dead mother.’