Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

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.’

They all stared at Murray. Finally Maroubra spoke. ‘It makes sense. Those documents I handed over, he knows someone made a copy of them. There was no way we could avoid that and obtain them legitimately. So he decides to clear the decks. I buy it.’

Tom Smiley shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. It’s all sounding too cloak and dagger for me. Surely someone with Mac Biddulph’s resources would come up with a more sophisticated plan than a fake burglary if he wanted to destroy documents.’

‘People don’t.’ Murray’s thick brows appeared to be pushed up onto his head like an unwanted pair of spectacles. ‘People don’t do sophisticated things in these situations. They look for simple, quick solutions. When we’re threatened, we panic. Doesn’t matter who we are. The panic is the autonomic nervous system dealing with the threat, pumping some adrenalin, letting the animal take over from the logical. Mac Biddulph junked the computer. Forget about the spectre of other people ghosting our man. They’re just that-ghosts.’

The Pope pushed his chair back from the table. ‘He’s right. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it. Must be losing my touch. God that’s a relief. This matter is complicated enough without another hunter in the forest.’

They poured coffee from the silver urn on the ornate sideboard and munched thoughtfully, and with some difficulty, on the club’s famous Anzac biscuits. Exactly why these rock-like discs were famous was unclear, but one member had been known to comment: ‘Few survived the battle, none will survive the biscuits.’

Tom Smiley drew the Pope to one side. ‘What does Hedley Stimson say about the evidence you’ve gathered thus far? Where are we heading?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t speak to him; only Jack does, and never at his office.’

Tom rubbed his chin. ‘This is as odd a situation as I’ve ever been in. I can’t see that we’re breaching any ethical codes at the moment, so I’ll hang in there for the time being. Let’s just say I’ll keep a watching brief.’

‘I understand. It’s complex and dangerous-mainly for Jack, I think. His whole life’s at risk and I’m not sure he understands that yet.’

They departed one by one with thoughtful faces and aching jaws, leaving the Pope alone in the panelled tomb. He sat at a small games table by the only window and began to arrange the chess pieces. He remained staring at the board for a long time, moving nothing, and then rose quickly and strode from the room.

It was black as a mine shaft when Jack gingerly picked his way through the gate from the leafy cavern of the liquidambers. The few street lights that hadn’t been pinged into darkness by the accurate stone throwing of private schoolboys in straw boaters were shrouded in dense foliage, and the moon had given up and gone home.

He never left the old lawyer’s house on a Sunday night without conflicting emotions. This time the evening had started with a lecture on the wizardry of the foot pedal that operated the lathe so that both massive hands were available to nurse the wood as the shavings flew and shapes were revealed. It was explained to him, in more detail than he needed to know, that, of course, commercial models of this nature were available for those who had neither the wit nor application to invent their own, but they were crass and insensitive devices that no true artist would consider. Hence the extraordinary contraption that lay like some primeval growth beneath the workbench, constructed, he was told, with pride from old locomotive parts from the Everleigh railway yards. He was made to sit on the tall stool, a product of this very workshop, and operate the pedal in order to experience the hair-trigger nature of the beast. It was true, the lightest touch with his foot caused the high-pitched scream of the lathe to burst forth, but for Jack, the result was more frightening than impressive.

They’d met a dozen times now, and gradually the crusty surface of old Hedley had cracked like crisp pastry and Jack had glimpsed more and more of the complex mixture beneath.