Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

Jack had walked past the hockey fields on the reservoir at the top of Centennial Park and down into the pine forest, where he set Joe free to run and snuffle in the fallen cones. As he stood listening to the light breeze sigh in the needles above, he noticed a soft crackling noise from high in the trees, and when he looked up, a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos was contentedly grazing on the remaining cones. He heard the kookaburras calling across the valley and the barking of other dogs from the exercise area below.

He called to Joe, a border collie of superior intelligence and wit, and they sloped off together towards the ponds and the paperbark forest, past the pelicans and other waterbirds, and through to the unkempt, dank section of the park, away from the cyclists and the pony track. Jack half knelt to undo the lead again and found himself looking into the dog’s eyes. He took the lead in both hands and scratched behind the ears and rubbed gently up and down both sides of its neck. He could hear himself mumbling without really knowing what he was saying and Joe stared back at him as if he did.

He felt tension he hadn’t realised was stored inside him uncoil and run down through his fingers into the hair and the warm body. Then he stretched and reached his arms up over his head towards the sun. They were so close now. He would see the old lawyer on Sunday, and hand him the folder with the smoking gun. They would pass the whole stinking mess to the authorities to unravel, and he, Louise and the kids could go back to real life.

The photographers hadn’t seen him approaching in tracksuit and sneakers, cap pulled down against the angled sun, and probably wouldn’t have recognised him anyway at this distance, even though he was often recognised now, just by people in the street. It was part of the job he secretly liked-being known for something. And he quite liked the press, and felt they liked him too, his easy candour. He’d nothing to hide and the venomous pieces had been written by gossip columnists, not the serious business journalists he mixed with. He thought about turning away, buying a newspaper from the corner shop just to check before he met them, because his home-delivered one would still be in its wrapper, but then he tugged the dog forward and they walked together into the fray. chapter fourteen

Sir Laurence sat with arms folded tightly against his chest and a grimace of extreme distaste across his face. He disliked folding his arms at any time, certainly not tightly. It creased the lapels of an expensive suit and, unless one was particularly careful, risked crushing the petals of his boutonnicre. He glanced at the clock on the boardroom wall again, well aware that it would show eleven minutes past the hour. It was one minute since he’d last checked it. When the door swung open and Jack entered, he tried unsuccessfully to alter his expression, but only succeeded in unfolding his arms.

‘Sorry I’m late, Laurence. Had to run the gauntlet of the press before I could get here. No doubt you’ve been doing the same.’

Sir Laurence had been doing nothing of the kind. He did not run gauntlets. He was a non-executive chairman. Chief executives and others of their ilk were paid a great deal of money to run gauntlets. Besides, the press, if properly handled, if fed and watered regularly, if left tasty morsels on their doorsteps, didn’t do their droppings on yours. ‘I’ve rather a busy day, so let us get on. You agree? This business with Mac is most distressing. I’m sure there’s nothing in it, but it’s distressing nonetheless. To the board, to the shareholders. You agree? But before we discuss that, I am concerned to know the findings of the committee I asked you to establish to investigate any issues or irregularities on matters concerning our reinsurance contracts, balance sheet, and profit and loss account. I’m surprised, disappointed I may say, to have received no report from you.’

They stared at one another across the curved table. Jack ran his hand over the polished mahogany. He was trying to remain calm in a storm where the wind blew from all directions at once. He needed to sit quietly in the workshop with the old lawyer and listen to a logical analysis of events he couldn’t piece together, of documents he couldn’t match, of people who wouldn’t remain in the roles they had been cast for. Why was ASIC investigating Mac when Hedley Stimson hadn’t yet passed the case to them and the Global Re side letter was still in the safe at Jack’s home? Why was Sir Laurence questioning him on matters he was assumed to want to avoid? What had Jack done about a committee, if anything? He couldn’t remember. The shock of seeing that front page with the headline about Mac, of seeing it for the first time in a journalist’s hand with photographers clicking away at him-well, he was still in shock.

‘Ah, I really can’t recall, Laurence. About the committee, I mean. Did I agree to set it up? I’m not sure I did.’

Sir Laurence’s face was a picture, but more a Breughel than a Rembrandt. ‘You can’t recall? Is that what you said? Am I to understand no such committee has been formed? No progress made? No documentation is to be forthcoming on these important maters? I specifically instructed you to report directly to me on this. You agree?’

Jack loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Why he was wearing a tie today when he hated them he wasn’t sure. Somehow he felt it was important to face the world, his staff, the business community looking every inch the chief executive. The founder of the company, its biggest shareholder, was under attack from the authorities-for what, nobody knew-and it was up to the leader to lead. But where? The share price was tumbling, there were rumours of a takeover, and the chairman was asking him about a committee. Suddenly Jack saw the issues in perspective.

‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I really don’t have time to waste on this today. Frankly I don’t think you do either. We can talk about committees some other time but our shareholders and the press are expecting us to make a statement about what’s occurred and I want to concentrate on that.’

Laurence Treadmore’s face became the colour of his shirt. ‘Waste? Did you say waste? A waste of time to consider serious questions concerning matters that could profoundly affect the interests of shareholders? Questions you were instructed to examine by the duly elected and appointed chairman of a public company?’He paused, took up a crystal glass from the tray on the boardroom table and sipped delicately. The water seemed to give him strength. ‘And the reason you don’t have time for this is that you wish to rush to the press to discuss-what? Issues of which you know nothing. That Mac is being investigated, but you don’t know why. I’m sure your prepared statement will be penetrating in its wisdom and of great comfort to all.’

Jack’s resolve was shaken by the outburst. There was some force in what had been said. What could he say to the press? That he supported Mac? Hardly. That he didn’t? That he had no knowledge of the issues, that the company was in great shape? That it mightn’t be in great shape if he could ever understand the balance sheet? He settled back into the chair and examined Sir Laurence with more respect. Why did he feel he was the one on trial here when he suspected the chairman was as mixed up in all of this as anyone?

‘Appearances. They seem to be your main concern, not matters of substance.’ Sir Laurence drew a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, where he preferred to store nothing, not even a wallet, lest it disturb the line of the fabric, and slid it across the table. ‘There is no statement the company can or should make other than this.’

Jack read the wording. ‘The board of directors of HOA has no knowledge of any matters under investigation by ASIC concerning the company. Nor does it have any knowledge of the reason for or nature of this morning’s search of premises reported to be owned by one of its directors, Mr Macquarie James Biddulph. The company will cooperate fully with ASIC in any investigation related to its business if asked to do so.’