They sat, all three, on the mound of a massive date palm. Jack couldn’t stop himself from staring at the evidence of Mac’s decline: the muddy tracksuit, the unkempt hair, the unshaven jowls. He checked the normally manicured nails-ragged and dirty. All this in only a couple of weeks? He could see himself here, see the kids inspecting him with pitying eyes, see Louise looking away in order to preserve some semblance of respect.
‘I’m not a crook, you know.’ Jack was startled to hear the silence broken. He’d already forgotten they were going to talk. Somehow it seemed more appropriate just to sit, to be quiet.
‘I only took what was mine. Okay, maybe some law or regulation says it should have been done a different way, or I should pay some extra tax, or whatever. But it was mine. I made it, I had the right to take it. Maybe we dressed up the accounts a little, but so what? All the shareholders benefited, didn’t they? Not just me. And now I’ve suffered more than anyone.’
Jack thought of the bronzed commander offering sweetmeats on the deck of the Honey Bear, the captain of industry in the dark cave of an office, the arts tsar at the opening of his gallery. Alongside him now was a grizzled old man, absentmindedly patting the head of a filthy dog, trying to justify himself to anyone, to no one.
‘Is that why you wanted to talk? To explain yourself?’
Immediately there was a flash of anger from the spleen of the old Mac. ‘Fuck you. I don’t explain myself to anyone. I’ve come to offer help. If you want to bite the hand, fuck you, Jack.’
There seemed to be no other people in this impenetrable section of the park. They were in the heart of a city of five million people, but alone, lost in a secret grove. A breeze rustled the swaying fronds above; a spent pod fell to the ground causing the dog to leap to its feet. Otherwise there was silence.
‘What is this help?’ Jack’s eyes drifted to the minutiae of the world around him.
A caterpillar was making its painful way across a dead frond, clambering laboriously up one leaf, down another, on and on-to where? A tiny lizard darted out into the light, stared at them briefly, darted back. Somewhere high above, a bird was crunching at a fruit on the palm, rejected fragments drifting down softly into the leaf litter. He could hear Mac’s tired voice speaking, but was somehow indifferent to what was being said.
‘I’m a tough old bastard. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll get out of this somehow. But they’re after you, too. They think you were in on the whole deal. You’ve been set up. Haven’t we all?’
Jack turned to him reluctantly. ‘What do you mean I’ve been set up?’
‘I don’t know exactly, although I’ve got a fair idea. But they’ve got tapes, documents, you name it.’
Jack stood and the dog rose with him. ‘Why should I care? I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of.’ He thought about that statement for a moment, then repeated, ‘Why should I care?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look, this isn’t just a PR issue for you. Make no mistake-they’re going to charge you.’
Jack looked down at him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Now Mac stood also, facing him, shoulders back-almost the old stance. ‘I don’t knife people in the back. You’ve got kids. You wouldn’t know how to fight, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Once they charge me, I won’t be able to speak. Same for you. Sure they’ve told us to shut up already, but that’s different to being in court. If breaking that order was all I was charged with, I’d be delighted. So.’ He placed his hands together. ‘I’m going to tell them you had nothing to do with any of this. But you need to make it public somehow. Put them on notice there’s no easy case. And quickly. You’ve got to defend yourself.’
‘And what do I do for you?’ The face was turned away from him and the voice was quiet, but a hint of the old edge crept into the words. ‘You give me that letter you took from Renton Healey’s file.’
Jack managed a short, bitter laugh. ‘How many copies would you like? The bell has rung, Mac, the game’s over.’ This time they were alone on a seat on the coastal walkway between Bondi and Tamarama. A heavy sea was thumping into the cliffs below and the rock fishermen were scurrying for safety, their cleated shoes scratching across the slippery surfaces. Louise was listening to Murray Ingham’s gruff voice intently, straining to hear the words over the roar of the surf.
‘Jack may have difficulty defending himself, but I think there’s another way. We’ve a great deal of material to work with. All you’ve told us, plus a storehouse of documents Maroubra has squirrelled away. It makes a compelling story.’
Louise stared into the grey ocean and shivered. The nor’-easter was whipping the whitecaps into scurries of flying foam and her summer blouse was no defence against the unseasonal chill. ‘Maybe. But he can’t speak, and who would believe him at the moment, anyway?’
Murray nodded. ‘You’re right, but that’s where I come in. I’m a storyteller, remember. This matter’s now significant news. I was a journalist before I became a writer. I still write the occasional opinion piece and I still know all the editors that matter. But whether I did or not, they’d publish this story. It’s got everything.’
She turned to face him. ‘You mean you’d arrange the material and pass it onto a journalist?’
‘No. I’d write it under my own name. I may not be a bestselling author, but I am at what they call the quality end of the market. The name will help.’
‘How will you do it? Won’t the authorities try to stop you? Can’t they prosecute you, or the paper?’
‘It’ll be a two-part story. The first instalment will have most of the factual material so we get that on the record before anyone does try to stop us. The second will have more of the colour, not that there are any dull moments in this saga. Our hope would be that ASIC or some other authority does try to suppress part two. There’s nothing a newspaper editor likes more than a good stoush. I’ll defend my sources all the way to a jail cell and you’ll bring me home-cooked meals. What do you say?’
This time she reached for his arm. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m terribly grateful. You’ll be putting your reputation on the line.’
He laughed. ‘Not at all. I’ll probably win a Walkley Award, and who knows, there may even be a book in it. Strangely, we storytellers always come out all right. No one ever returns to check on us if events prove we’re wrong. The messenger hardly ever gets shot in real life.’
They stood and began to walk on to Tamarama, climbing to the low walled lookout between the two beaches, the wind loading the air with salt now, as a goshawk hovered above them, hunting the cliffs. They’d met only twice and yet somehow they were friends. Louise thought of all the ‘friends’ she thought she’d had who’d disappeared into the ether of her social ostracism. Murray stopped her as she was about to walk on. ‘There may be a job for you later. What usually happens is the electronic media pick up on a story like this once it’s run in the press. But they’re looking for the people angles, not so much the facts. They might want to interview you if Jack’s not available and we’ll make sure he isn’t. Could you handle that?’
‘Would it help?’ He nodded. ‘A great deal. It helps to keep the story alive. And besides, you’re an impressive voice, not just because you’re Jack’s wife. You know some of the facts, you’ve seen some documents, you know the background right from the start. But it wouldn’t be easy.’ He paused. ‘They might ask you about personal matters.’
She sighed. ‘Ah yes, personal matters. You don’t need to worry. If it will help, I’ll be there. Let them ask any questions they want. I’ll be there.’ chapter eighteen
A brass band was playing ‘Anchors Aweigh’ on the wharf, somewhat inappropriately since the Honey Bear was securely tied to a variety of bollards and the engines were silent. The boat was at rest outside the chic restaurants of Woolloomooloo Wharf, and a long queue of Sydney’s A-list partygoers was lined up at the gangway in front of the band. The diners in the restaurants were ogling this unusual assemblage, while del
icately winding saffron noodles around silver forks.
There were a number of peculiar aspects to the evening that attracted the attention of all but the most casual observer. First, there was no party on board. Waiters with drinks, women in seductive gowns, jewels glinting in the lights reflecting from the water, dancing music-all the usual festive accoutrements were absent, just the brass band playing a repertoire of vaguely nautical tunes and the A-listers in business attire, trying to appear businesslike.
The clue to the mystery lay in the outsized flags flying from the Honey Bear’s funnel and stern. Instead of the boat’s traditional gold standard with its symbol of a bear plunging a mitt into a honey pot, the rather more sombre and elegant navy and white colours bearing the Sotheby name adorned the vessel. This august appellation was also emblazoned upon the canvas sides of the gangway, lest the guests be in any doubt as to their purpose here. Bring your chequebooks and your invitation was the unspoken message. And indeed there were many chequebooks nestling in silk-lined pockets, for the range of goods to be auctioned was startling in its diversity. You could buy a magnet or a Moore. The exact use for which the magnet was designed was unknown, but it came in a brass case with velvet interior and was estimated in the catalogue at only two to three hundred dollars. To own something from the Honey Bear, from Mac Biddulph’s effects, just to be here, bidding-well, you couldn’t miss it, could you? The boat was only permitted to hold four hundred people, although Sotheby’s had squeezed in five hundred on the grounds that all their guests were slim. But the applications to attend this ‘invitation only’ auction had exceeded three thousand. Three thousand, for goodness sake. They’d had to turn away over two thousand potential bidders. It was stomach churning. Of course, a large number would have been gawkers, tyre-kickers, but the money would have been buried there somewhere. Particularly for a magnet in a brass case, if not for a Henry Moore maquette, estimate eighty to one hundred thousand dollars.
Everything that wasn’t bolted down was to be sold, no reserves.
And everyone wanted a piece of this story. It reminded the Sotheby’s vice-president, visiting from New York-because how many auctions were held on boats, anywhere, and because this story of corporate fraud had even found its way into the New York Times, causing him to book a flight at uncomfortably short notice, in the sense that only business-class seats were available-it reminded him of the Andy Warhol auction. There was a madness in the air, a wonderful sense of irrationality that would cause people to spend money they had no intention of spending. The intrinsic value of the goods would bear no relation to the prices paid. It was an auctioneer’s dream. The vice-president shivered at the wonder of it all. It was vital to be here, no matter what the discomfort required.
The other eagerly awaited thrill for the lucky invitees was the vicarious, guilty pleasure of rifling through the personal belongings of a famous, or infamous, person while he was still alive. This was living history-or a peepshow. Either way, it was irresistible. Virtually everything but the underwear was for sale and there were surprises in every corner for those with an eye for detail, and there were many such eyes on hand.
In a small study off the main saloon, for instance, was displayed a vast array of books of unexpected variety. There was an extensive collection of poetry in signed first editions, ranging from Shelley to Keats, from the American poet Elizabeth Bishop to the famous Australian expatriate Peter Porter. It was the collection of a serious reader and, by the look of it, had been read. Surely it wasn’t Mac Biddulph’s? He was known as a connoisseur of more basic pleasures. So whose were the books? His wife’s? But she was said to barely speak, let alone to read. It was most curious and intriguing. There was a fine collection of biographies of political leaders, adventurers, scientists and inventors, but none of business people.
And then there were the artworks. Of course the Moore had been expected, and the gem of a Matisse, but they were trophy pieces that were assumed to have been acquired through a consultant. Yet here was a wide variety of drawings and artefacts, small sculptures, paintings by lesser-known Australian artists, and a fine collection of Aboriginal works from Arnhem Land and Kalumburu and Ramingining. Many were not of great value, but all were of high quality, all had been selected with a discerning eye. Whose eye? The leading dealers were here; none had any knowledge of some expert buying for Mac Biddulph. A few recognised works they’d sold, but not to Mac; some they’d seen bid for by telephone at one auction or other. None of it seemed to fit with their knowledge of the man who’d owned all of this.
If, of course, he had owned any of it. Nowhere in the catalogue or the provenance of any of the works was the name Macquarie James Biddulph mentioned. The banking syndicate had insisted on its omission, apparently despite the strong objections of the Sotheby’s claque, who’d suggested that its absence would depress sales. The bank seemed to have been right-there was no chance of anything depressing the irrepressible spirit of this auction.
It was rumoured that the doyenne of party organisers, Popsie Trudeaux, had supplied the guest list for the evening, although Sotheby’s denied this. They said they had no need for anyone’s list except their own. But other than the art dealers, the crowd was suspiciously similar to that in attendance at the party of all parties, the opening of the Biddulph Gallery.
And that was the other piece of delicious gossip tantalising the unnaturally pursed lips of every Botoxed woman in the saloon. Was it true, could it be true, that the museum trustees were plotting to remove the Biddulph name? Surely not? He had given the money, after all. Perhaps it wasn’t his to give, but did that matter? If someone coughed up, surely they were entitled to expect what was promised. It was only decent behaviour; otherwise there was anarchy-you couldn’t rely on anyone. The general consensus was that the name should stay. After all, there were many other institutions and university chairs and whatnot named after brigands and bounders and bankrupts, weren’t there? Someone in the crowd began to draw up a list of such persons to present to the chairman of trustees, who was standing at the front of the room, but soon realised it was unwise. The list was long.
Naturally, the subject of all this speculation, this delicious lip-pursing chin-stroking gossip, the former master of this proud vessel, which was itself to be humbled in another auction the next day, a show auction admittedly since the buyer was already identified, this ghost who may have browsed through these poetry books, have rubbed these bronzes with loving hands, he was a presence by his absence. But everyone else was here.
And there was a party mood, despite the lack of alcohol, despite the lack of real music. This was a festive occasion. It was true one of their number had fallen. That was, in its way, sad. But there were two mitigating factors. First, he’d never really been one of them, not really. Second, they hadn’t fallen.
Whether Popsie Trudeaux had provided the guest list or not, she was intent on providing as much of her ample bosom as possible, to anyone who wanted it. Particularly to the Sotheby’s vice president from New York. He was travelling alone. She’d ascertained that in the first thirty seconds of their conversation. He was visibly under fifty and came from an old Boston family.
New York was apparently merely a useful place of commerce for him. Old Boston families were rich, at least in the books Popsie read, which admittedly were few. And, surprisingly, he appeared to be interested in women. Not necessarily in her yet, but the man needed to relax, to have the tensions of travel eased away. She would do what she could. He was in conversation with Archie Speyne, who was said to be here to direct the museum’s bidding on the Matisse, but she drew the vice president away to ask his advice on certain artworks, on which she had no intention of bidding. People melted when asked for their advice.
And they always gave more of it than you really needed.
There was one other notably absent figure. The distinguished presence of Sir Laurence Treadmore, a presence that was known to have graced these rooms in better times, was nowhere to be seen. The Sotheby�
�s folk were bitterly disappointed. Desperate phone calls had been made to any number of his intimate acquaintances, of which he had none, in order to lure this bird into their bower, but to no avail. They hadn’t desired Sir Laurence as a bidder-they were aware he was seldom that-but as a phenomenon of the moment, as someone who had transcended mere public recognition and risen into the social firmament. For Sir Laurence was the only member of the cast in the HOA tragedy who had been lionised in the press as a messiah, a possible saviour, a man of integrity who had tried to hold back the forces of fraud and manipulation and trickery that were threatening to engulf the company. He’d spoken out for the shareholders, all the shareholders-why he was even buying shares himself, as an expression of confidence in the future of the company. He’d committed to remaining as chairman and had temporarily taken over an executive role until a new chief executive could be found. What more could be asked of a busy man?
It was said there were recordings of Sir Laurence pleading with Jack Beaumont and Mac Biddulph to investigate possible wrongdoing, more than once it was rumoured, but nothing had been done. For obvious reasons, in Mac’s case. The question of Jack Beaumont’s behaviour was more complex. The recent articles in the press, one headlined ‘A Corporate Gladiator’, had thrown confusion over what had seemed another unfortunate, but oddly satisfying, fall. People rose, people fell. But they seldom rose again; the resurrection was not a popular social phenomenon. Yet a great deal of factual material, cogently argued, had been presented in those articles, the second of which the authorities had tried to ban. The paper had won a court battle in order to publish, which had apparently boosted its circulation considerably.
And then there was the wife. She’d appeared on ‘60 Minutes’ and had been, well, majestic. Everyone said it. When the interviewer tried to badger her with intrusive, personal questions, unnecessary, irrelevant questions, she’d batted them away to the boundary. She’d just looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Is this a stone you’re sure you want to throw? Would you like to tell your wife now, on camera, that you’ve never looked at another woman? Or would you rather ask me questions of substance? It’s up to you.’
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