Maybe the Horse Will Talk

by Elliot Perlman

  So on this particular already dark morning for her the only saving grace to date had been the realisation that her husband had earlier left for work which was why she was alone when the doorbell rang and a man with a file filled with court documents inside an envelope asked if this was the home of Mr Mercer, Mr Michael Mercer. The envelope filled with documents was slightly torn so it was possible to see the first or uppermost document, which was Carla’s report of her sexual harassment by the woman’s husband.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, ma’am. The case has settled. Just returning the documents to your husband.’

  ‘What case?’ Mike Mercer’s wife asked Betga.

  ‘Oh, I, um . . . I’m sorry. This is a private matter . . . these are . . . for your husband.’

  From the car Carla saw Mike Mercer’s wife begin to read her report to Torrent’s HR department. She could see that the woman was learning about it for the first time and that Mrs Mercer, having long ago made her pact with the Torrent Industries executive, would believe every word Carla had written. The confidentiality clause in the settlement agreement did not contain anything to prohibit the return of the documents outlining the case against the alleged perpetrator to the man himself. So while it was unnecessary, it wasn’t prohibited.

  Betga closed the car door from the driver’s seat without saying a word. They looked through the window at Mike Mercer’s house one more time before Betga pulled the car away from the kerb, gently, without hurry or panic, and then without much conversation they headed south-west at a leisurely speed and managed to have Carla arrive five minutes early. Her psychiatrist wasn’t even there yet.

  Jessica was pivotal to what happened next. She arranged to meet Frank Cardigan in his office late one morning. He thought it was to discuss the idiosyncrasy credit test; his misgivings and her findings. But she was there to set the stage for what Betga described in a pep talk of sorts to both her and to Maserov as perhaps the greatest thing they would ever do in their professional lives.

  ‘So how do you think I’m doing with this, the idiosyncrasy credit test?’ Frank Cardigan asked her from the very same office chair she had sat in when she downloaded most of his files onto a USB.

  ‘How do you think you’re doing?’ Jessica asked him back.

  ‘Well, a lot of the guys are leaving early, aren’t they? I mean, I know this because you’ve told me and you’re watching them and because I can see it reflected in their work. Their productivity is down, in some cases way down.’

  ‘Great sign, Frank.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but I need them to be working. So it’s kind of plus-minus.’

  ‘I’m hearing you, Frank. Maybe it’s time to end the experiment. We’ve already learned a lot from it.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s staring at me like the nose on your face. We’ve proved beyond any doubt that you have leadership qualities. These men are following you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great! Because I was worried, you know, that the department was simply experiencing a downturn in productivity for no good reason.’

  ‘No, the reason is you’re leading them. You’re a leader by temperament, as we suspected. You’ve been leading them. They haven’t even known it. You’ve been doing it without even being here. It’s some of the most impressive leading I’ve seen since I left graduate school. I know it’s not possible under the circumstances but if the experts could see the way you lead them —’

  ‘To leave work early?’

  ‘Yes. My God, you’re the man, Frank. Now you know they know it. They’re on what is known in the literature as the continuum, the hero-worship continuum.’

  ‘The hero-worship continuum?’

  ‘Sshhh! You can’t let them know that you know or you’ll embarrass, even humiliate them. A good leader allows his subordinates the space and creates the ambience around him to be comfortably hero worshipped.’

  ‘Shit, I suspected they were just lazy pricks. And there they were adoring me.’

  ‘That’s the reading I’m getting. But I agree with you about the need to keep everyone working. So how about you discontinue leaving at 4 pm each day? Would you be comfortable with that?’

  ‘Well, yes, but is there more we can do . . . to manifest my leadership and test them, the guys?’

  ‘Frank, I’m so glad you asked me that, as a true leader would, because there’s a lot more we can do, a lot.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’

  ‘Frank, the leadership literature is a huge and growing body of scholarship, not all of it of equal merit or value. But some of the scholars in the area whom I most admire have come up with categories of leadership and that’s important. We need to identify your natural leadership instincts and place them into one of the categories before we go further.’

  ‘What are the categories?’

  ‘There are six. They’re fairly self-explanatory. They are: leaders as saints, leaders as gardeners, leaders as buddies, leaders as commanders, leaders as cyborgs and leaders as bullies.’

  ‘That’s a lot to choose from.’

  ‘Well, Alvesson and Spicer, the scholars who’ve identified the categories, they weren’t suggesting that you choose one but rather that you will naturally fall into one or other category.’

  ‘Yeah, but couldn’t a real leader choose which one he wanted to be?’

  ‘No, that’s not what they mean.’

  ‘But if I’m a leader, couldn’t I just choose the category myself and not have anyone impose it on me. As a leader, I sometimes see myself . . . you know, as kind of a maverick.’

  ‘Which would you choose, Frank?’

  ‘Okay,’ Frank Cardigan said, looking down at the piece of paper on which she’d written the categories. ‘I’m certainly not a saint. I don’t have the temperament and, anyway, I’m not a Catholic. Do you guys have saints?’

  ‘Us guys?’

  ‘You know . . . Indians. I mean, the indigenous . . . the . . . Indians, native . . . Is that . . .? Shit, Jessie, you know I don’t want to get it wrong. What are you called these days?’

  ‘Jessica. I’m called Jessica.’ She couldn’t control the vigour of her exhalation, equal parts carbon dioxide and contempt. ‘Okay Frank, so you’re not a saint. I won’t argue with that.’

  ‘I’m not a cyborg either. I don’t even really know what that is. I’m probably not a gardener. We have a gardener and he’s certainly no leader. Barely speaks English. Barely speaks.’

  ‘You know what, Frank? There are ways, tests, that will allow us to determine your natural leadership category and, at the same time, allow us to learn more as to where on the hero-worship continuum the other guys in the department see you. This is exciting and it’s what I’ve been waiting to talk to you about for quite some time. I’ve taken the liberty of developing a protocol for the test in line with the incredibly stringent requirements of the National Association of Psychologists, South-East Region. But you might not be willing to conduct this test.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, it takes a lot of daring. It’s pretty out there, not for everybody.’

  ‘Well, not everybody’s a leader.’

  ‘That’s true. But even so, you’d really need to be the kind of maverick you sometimes suspect you are. There’d be no fudging this.’

  ‘Do you suspect that . . . that I’m a maverick? Jessie?’

  ‘Frankly, Frank, it would be good to test it, if you’re up to it.’

  ‘I’m up to it. You know I am. What have I got to do? Is it . . . does it involve boxing?’

  ‘No, no boxing. It requires even greater daring than boxing. You would have to be willing to have your men think you’re going over the wall, going rogue to help them, that in order to make things better for them you’re willing to do something the federal police and the judiciary might even consider illegal. But this kind of leader doesn’t care what a bunch of old lawyers think. Then the guys who go with you on this will thank you for helping them out, for looking o
ut for their interests above and beyond the call of duty, and perhaps beyond the law, and we’ll know then exactly which of them would follow you into battle and how far advanced each one of them is down the hero-worship continuum.’

  ‘I’m willing to do that.’

  ‘Frank, you don’t know what it is yet.’

  ‘You tell me and I bet I’ll be willing to do it.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see. Obviously, I’ve given this some thought and have been waiting for you to show your readiness by calling off the four o’clock study. You’ve told me in the past that the company’s been working on a plan for some kind of contract extension for . . . What was it? Was it for the southern oilfields project in Iraq?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, here’s what you should do. You ask each of the guys out for a drink.’

  ‘What, the whole department?’

  ‘Yes, but one at a time. On different days, if necessary. Here’s what you need to do. You take them, one at a time, to a cocktail bar or coffee lounge, and you put the following proposition to them. This is the test. You tell them, “In a couple of weeks the company’s going to announce a major contract extension re the southern oilfields project in Iraq. When that happens, obviously, our stock price will shoot up. None of us can be seen to benefit from this information, obviously, ’cause that’s what they call insider trading. But with just a bit of care, we probably can still have a little taste. After all, we’re the guys who did the work that got the contract extension, right?”’

  ‘Jesus, Jessie! This is brilliant. It’s actually how some of us talk in real life, you know, not just as part of a scientifically valid experiment. Psychology! Christ, who knew? Science has come such a long way, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Wait Frank, I’m not finished. You tell them, “I’m in touch with a party in the UAE who will buy and sell the shares for us when we tell them to, no questions asked, for a small cut. But they’re big players and they only work with trades where the sum is big enough.” So, you tell them, “I need to know right now whether you want a piece of this and, if so, for how much?” You’ll be getting them to show their true colours right there and we’ll be recording it, seeing what they answer and how fast they answer.’

  ‘Jessie, that’s breathtaking!’ Frank Cardigan said, reaching for her hand but too slowly. ‘I didn’t know you had it . . . in you.’

  ‘Frank, you do realise I’m only proposing that you say this in the interests of science and to help you make the department in your own image. This is, of course, illegal. I’m not encouraging you to do it. You do get that, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But look where your mind went. I have to admit, I find that kind of —’

  ‘Frank, eyes on the prize! Right? You want to actualise your leadership potential. You have to think to yourself, “I really want it, I don’t just want to talk about it.”’

  ‘Who will I start with?’

  ‘Well, I guess you’d start with the most senior member of your staff and work your way down.’

  ‘That would be Mike Mercer.’

  ‘Okay, start with him. The place I’ve got in mind is perfectly set up for this experiment. It’s a chic bar called Romeo Lane. Do you know it? It’s in Crossley Street, off Bourke Street.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘That’s a great start. So, listen very carefully; you walk from Crossley Street into a passageway and turn left into the bar. Turn left again and sit at the second of two tables that abut the wall, the one closest to the window and to the right of the big circular mirror above the two tables. Are you getting this, Frank?’

  ‘Yes. And . . . I find myself excited.’

  ‘Don’t breathe too hard, Frank. I’ll have a microphone hidden in the overhanging downlight. I’ll need you both as close to it as possible.’

  ‘You’ll be recording us?’

  ‘That’s the plan. Then I’ll send you an email containing each recorded conversation and we’ll make a time to analyse them, looking for people with the special qualities of a true follower.’

  ‘Analyse them together?’

  ‘Yes, together.’

  II

  The following evening Mike Mercer found a nervous Frank Cardigan waiting for him with two craft beers in an alcove at Romeo Lane in Crossley Street.

  A tracking device, which days earlier Kasimir had placed on Mercer’s car in the underground carpark of Torrent Industries HQ, alerted Kasimir that Mercer had arrived at the bar and allowed him to remotely switch on the recording device in the alcove.

  ‘Frank, you look like shit. Did you mix your hayfever medication with alcohol? Did you do that again?’

  ‘Always sticking it to me, aren’t you, Mike? Listen, there’s something I’d like to put to you on a confidential basis.’

  ‘No, I’m not kidding, you really look like shit. What is it?’

  ‘Oh, I just haven’t been sleeping.’

  ‘No, what is it you want to put to me on a confidential basis?’

  Around the corner from the Romeo Lane cocktail bar, Betga and Acting Sergeant Ron Quinn, still in uniform, were at just that time having a coffee together at Pellegrini’s. Betga, in his capacity as his life coach, had invited him there as part of a getting-to-know-you session.

  ‘So, Ron, in order to do my best as your life coach, I need to know a bit more about you, what makes you tick, how you like to spend your free time. Do you go out much?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Not, say, to the movies?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What about the football?’

  ‘Not regularly.’

  ‘Do you have any hobbies?’

  ‘I’m a bit of a collector, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you collect?’

  ‘I collect single malt Scotch whisky. I like to think of myself as a bit of a connoisseur.’

  ‘Ron, will you excuse me for a minute?’ Betga had received a signal from Kasimir through the window that looked out onto the corner of Bourke and Crossley Streets. It meant that they now had a recording of Mike Mercer in conversation with Frank Cardigan conspiring to buy shares in Torrent Industries ahead of a public announcement that would increase the company’s share price and then to sell the shares after the announcement to their mutual profit. It was a conspiracy to engage in insider trading, which was illegal and carried a maximum sentence of ten years’ imprisonment and a fine of up to three times the value of the benefit attributable to the crime. The charge had a conviction rate of over 85 per cent. It was, therefore, statistically a lot more dangerous for the perpetrator than rape. It was almost thirty times more dangerous.

  Jessica would send an email containing the recording to Frank Cardigan from a phony email address that had been created days earlier in an internet cafe. The address was TOI-MikeMike, a combination of the initials Torrent Offshore Industries, the entity Frank Cardigan used to bribe the Iraqis, and of Mike Mercer’s secret name for his banking file.

  On receipt of Kasimir’s signal, Betga suggested that Acting Sergeant Ron Quinn and he go for a walk. It was, he explained, sometimes easier to talk while walking.

  Betga suggested what might be missing in the acting sergeant. ‘Look at that moon, Ron, almost full.’

  ‘Yes, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful, yet not quite full, almost . . . but not quite. A part of it is missing. It has no control over itself so we can’t offer it any advice. But you, my friend, are a man, a man with agency, able to appreciate the finer and more subtle beauty of single malt whisky. And yet . . .’

  ‘And yet?’ asked Acting Sergeant Ron Quinn as they walked together at a pace slower than necessary for comfort.

  ‘And yet, if you’ll forgive me, you’ve failed to take advantage of your agency.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, Ron, I don’t think you’ve lived up to your potential. I don’t think you’ve seized the day.’

  ‘W
ell, depends what day you mean. People outside the force underestimate the need to stay on top of the paperwork. There’s a spill-over effect, unintended consequences that nobody ever sees till it’s too late.’

  ‘Ron, don’t feel the need to defend yourself here. Go with me on this. Take it as the compliment it is.’

  ‘How is it a compliment?’

  ‘A man of your calibre, a man with all your gifts, should have reached a higher rank. And I think it’s because something has held you back. Now, whatever that is we can examine over time but how about each day you set yourself the task of showing us, me and you, a certain drive? Set yourself the exercise each day of finding an opportunity to unequivocally show initiative.’

  ‘What do you mean? What am I meant to do?’

  ‘You’re a cop. Solve crimes, catch people committing illegal acts. Show them that you can do it!’

  ‘Show who?’

  ‘The people above you, below you and the crime-committing public of this great state. You’re not just fighting the war against paperwork, you’re fighting crime, finding it wherever it’s committed and fighting it. Do you know how many things are illegal in this state?’

  ‘No, not the actual number.’

  ‘A lot, Ron. A lot of things are illegal in this state. Yet people think they can get away with doing them. There are crimes waiting for you to find, everywhere you look. Here, look, even here! Look inside that car, for example,’ said Betga, stopping now at Mike Mercer’s Porsche. ‘I can see what look like deal bags, probably heroin, just peeking out from under that document on the passenger seat. It’s a prohibited substance. What are you going to do about it?’