Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

Before these black thoughts congealed, the lean figure of the Pope strode into view through the water glare. To Jack, the Pope always looked like Clint Eastwood on holiday-spare, rather taciturn, relaxed, yet in total control of all around, knowing something he might tell you on a good day. Because the group always used the nickname at their luncheons, he’d forgotten that the Pope’s real name was Clinton Normile. It seemed an oddly formal name for this good-looking character who no one knew much about. He’d had to ring Tom Smiley to get the phone number and was amazed when the Pope had answered the call himself, rather than some secretary or personal assistant. The Pope was fabled to be wealthy beyond counting but the origins of this wealth, if it existed, were the subject of wide speculation.

‘I see you found my office.’ He glanced at the paper bag. ‘And Vera’s, I trust. Leg ham on the bone and the rye bread?’

‘Exactly as ordered.’ Jack laughed. ‘Although I must say this isn’t quite the venue I expected. Do you always hold meetings here?’

The Pope took a sandwich from the bag. ‘As often as possible and as little as possible. I don’t like meetings, but if I have to take one, as the Americans say, I might as well take it here.’

They munched silently for a while. The Pope was outstanding at silence. Finally Jack started. ‘I need your advice. Tom Smiley said you might be able to help.’ He paused. ‘What should I call you, by the way? The Pope seems a bit out of place here.’

‘Nobody calls me that except in the group. John will do fine.’

‘But I thought your name was Clinton.’

‘Nobody calls me that either. Try John.’ Jack shifted around on the park bench and recrossed his legs uneasily. He couldn’t explain why he felt so in awe of this man. He was the chief executive of one of the largest listed companies in Australia, while the Pope was-what? Maybe wealthy? Yet somehow he seemed to have taken immediate control.

‘So?’ Just the one inquiring word as the last sandwich disappeared and the Pope drained off a bottle of juice. Jack laid out his concerns-precisely, he felt, and much more succinctly than he had with Louise. The response was laconic in the extreme. ‘Facts. Documents. Where are they?’

Jack hesitated. ‘Well I’m just seeking your initial guidance, in a general way. To see if you think there’s really an issue.’

There was a long silence. Finally the Pope turned and looked Jack straight in the eye for the first time. ‘Of course there’s an issue.

You’re dealing with Mac Biddulph and Laurence Treadmore. Two piranhas in a fish tank full of money. What did you expect?’ Jack made no response. The Pope shrugged. ‘So you didn’t ask.’ He paused. ‘I owned a small reinsurance company for a while. HOA was always looking for what we call financial reinsurance. Unlike normal reinsurance, which all legitimate insurance companies have, financial reinsurance can be just a way of making the balance sheet look better. There’s no real transfer of risk involved. It’s probably illegal most of the time, and most legitimate operators won’t touch it. If you’re in the market for this stuff, you’re in the market for all sorts of other rotten fish. And you’re going to come up smelling, Jack.’

Neither spoke for a while. Finally, the Pope stood and stretched. ‘You need to know the right questions to ask. They’ll slide around you otherwise. I’ll draw up a list for you. Meet me here in a week.’

Jack laughed. ‘What if it’s raining?’

The Pope ignored the question. ‘You’re going to need legal help when you get the answers. But first get the facts, the documents. Then we’ll talk about that. I know the man to help you, if we can get him.’

He turned and loped off into the gardens before Jack could stammer out his thanks. Jack’s gaze drifted over all the unconcerned citizens of Sydney contentedly enjoying the smell of fresh-cut grass, the wafts of jasmine in the salt-filled air, the intricate beauty of the coves and bays of their lyrical city. His lyrical city. Except he was smelling old fish heads. He walked slowly through the mix of exotic and native trees, the great groves of palms, and then on to the rose garden that seemed like a remnant of the colonial past. In front of the regimented beds of the rose gardens, next to the Macquarie Street exit, was a large green board listing the directors of the Royal Botanic Gardens Trust. At its head, as chairman, was the name Sir Laurence Treadmore.

Popsie Trudeaux smiled knowingly at the attractive man standing in the bay window of the old stone mansion on the edge of the Botanic Gardens. As far as she knew, she’d never seen this person before in her life, but she always made it a rule to smile knowingly at attractive men, whoever they may be. You could always sort the wheat from the chaff later. She practised this smile in one of the many mirrors in her Double Bay penthouse. She thought of the penthouse as hers, even though her husband nominally lived there and the title was in both their names. But Angus knew it was better to spend as much time as possible travelling on business and give plenty of notice before arriving home. He also knew it was much cheaper to let things drift on as they were rather than try to seek a resolution. A lot more than the penthouse would go in those circumstances.

Popsie looked around the room with considerable satisfaction. She could see at least a half-dozen ‘wellknown Sydney business identities’, as the press called them, from where she was standing. She’d had affairs with all but one, and she wasn’t an especially beautiful woman. But she had life and electricity and a great love for fucking, which was all they wanted and weren’t getting at home. She’d even thought of fucking that old fart Laurence Treadmore once, years ago, just because he was who he was and looked as if he needed it, but then she decided the trophy phase was over and they had to be good looking or they could fuck themselves.

Popsie eased over to Sir Laurence anyway just to give him a thrill, if there were any nerve ends left to respond. ‘Lovely night, Laurie-as is anything you’re involved with.’

Sir Laurence peered at her with considerable distaste. He regarded her as a sort of female pirate who’d been doused in heady perfume, her blowzy charms were vaguely repulsive. ‘Yes, thank you, Popsie. Very kind of you to come along. Angus not here tonight? What a pity. Still, we’re very grateful to get anyone to fundraising events these days. People seem to have other priorities, do they not? But thankfully there remains a core of generous citizens who are always prepared to contribute. And the cactus garden is in desperate need of refurbishment. Have you considered adopting a plant?’

The thought of having a particularly spiky plant that flowered once a year in the middle of the night named after her had not in fact occurred to Popsie Trudeaux, and she adroitly continued her drift towards more interesting quarters. It was a vital social skill, the ability to move on at a cocktail party without appearing to do so or causing any offence, but never being trapped with some bore or ugly lump. The attractive man was no longer in the bay window. No matter. There were plenty of other windows.

Laurence Treadmore sensed her departure from the periphery of his wide vision with some relief. Talking to Popsie Trudeaux for more than a few moments was a substantial risk for a man of his impeccable reputation. Besides, she never gave any real money despite vague promises. Ah, here was more worthy company. Rupert Littlemore, on the other hand, did give substantial sums almost on request and furthermore, or hence, depending on your degree of cynicism, was also the president of the Colonial Club. The Colonial Club’s premises were located behind an unmarked door not far from Sir Laurence’s residence in Macquarie Street, and contained his favourite luncheon venue as well as quiet lounge rooms and libraries where he conducted many useful chats in peaceful seclusion.