The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  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 proper
ty 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.