Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

Sir Laurence eased his chair away from the table slightly.

His eyes appeared to shift almost imperceptibly to the ceiling before they settled again on the file resting on the table. ‘Don’t bother. I have contacted your secretary. Your office has received no communication. The company secretary has received no communication, nor has the chief financial officer or the chief actuary. And as chairman, neither have I.’ He paused. ‘I believe, however, the board would appreciate a reordering of your priorities as CEO and placing this matter at the top of the list. You agree?’

There were murmurs of assent from around the table and Jack nodded. All the eyes were on him now. He felt like a rabbit caught in a dozen spotlights. And as the interrogation continued and unrelenting, specific, reasonable questions flowed from the white file, an appalling realisation fell on him. He wasn’t up to this job. Maybe all these people were neglecting their responsibilities, maybe they were complicit, directly or tacitly, in the machinations of Mac and Renton Healey- and Laurence Treadmore, if he was involved-but what about his own efforts? By his own admission he couldn’t understand the complexities of the balance sheet. Then what was he doing running the business? He had no sound relationship with any member of the board, or the chairman, or the largest shareholder. Why? Because he assumed he was right and they were all mixed up in the same muck. But other than Mac, what evidence did he have for that assumption? Maybe Laurence Treadmore was genuine in his quest for answers.

‘Do you intend to answer my question?’ Jack snapped back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, Chairman, would you mind repeating the question?’

Sir Laurence sighed again. ‘You obviously have other issues on your mind. I think it’s fair to say, however, that the board requires you to address these matters. You agree? Yes. The question I put was specific and direct. I trust the answer will be equally so. Did you remove a document from Renton Healey’s files relating to reinsurance contracts?’

Jack was a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. ‘Yes.’

‘Why did you remove this document and what relevance does it have to the inquiries that you were asked to make by me?’

There was a long pause. ‘I couldn’t say at the moment, Laurence. I’ve not had time to have it properly analysed.’

Sir Laurence steepled the fingers of both hands together very gently. ‘Analysed? By whom? Have you engaged people outside the company to examine confidential documents? If so, by what authority?’

Jack reached for the water jug and spilled freely on the table as he filled the glass. He drank it off in one long gulp, as much for the pause as the moisture. ‘I prefer not to say at this time. And I believe as CEO I have the right to engage whatever consultants I think fit within approved budgets, without the approval of the board.’

The two combatants glared at one another, but there was a hint of a thin smile on Sir Laurence’s face. ‘In the general course of business, perhaps. Not in matters concerning corporate governance, and particularly not when you’ve been directly instructed to report to the chairman. I require you, on behalf of the board, to answer.’

Jack looked around the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do so right now. I don’t want to hold anything back from the board, but I want to report in an orderly fashion and I don’t have a complete picture as yet.’

Again, the lips curled slightly. ‘Have you engaged a lawyer named Hedley Stimson to consult on these matters? If so, what is his brief?’

Jack’s face was ablaze. Blood was rushing around his body in a whirlpool and he had to stand, to move, to allow it to circulate before it burst some vessel. There was no way to answer this question. Yes. No. Both were impossible. ‘There is no brief from HOA to any such lawyer.’

‘No brief from HOA? Are we to understand from the phrasing of this response that you are briefing lawyers regarding company matters on your own account?’

‘I prefer not to answer that question.’ The silence in the room was filled with the hum of machines.

The air-conditioning could be heard grinding away, there was a faint buzz from the speakers in the roof, the electronic gear that ran the sliding screen and the computer graphics was humming softly in its cage. Jack resumed his seat.

‘I need a day or two, Chairman, before I can report properly.’ Sir Laurence closed the white file. ‘If I may summarise for the board. A series of relevant, specific questions has been put to the CEO regarding significant matters, some of which may relate to an ASIC inquiry. The CEO has either been evasive or refused outright to respond to the board. You agree?’ He paused, but not for agreement. ‘I suggest the board needs a few days to consider the critical question of whether it can continue to place its trust in the CEO. Do you agree?’

There were murmurs of assent from around the table.

‘The board will meet again at ten o’clock on Monday. The presence of the CEO will not be required. Thank you.’

Jack wandered about the car park in a daze. Where had he left the car? He couldn’t remember. He’d abolished the old system of allocated places with names and titles as part of his egalitarian push. He’d been good at all of that, hadn’t he? He knew the staff loved it, loved Jack appearing in their workspace without warning just to chat, eating with them in the canteen, even pissing with them. No more executive toilets. They even seemed to love the snide articles in the press about him. But where was the car? He clicked the key remote and was relieved to see a distant flash of tail-lights. It was too early to drive to the old lawyer’s house. His wife had told him to wait till this evening. He didn’t want to go home to Louise, but he needed to talk to someone. He rang the Pope.

As he sat with a brown paper bag on the bench by the canna lilies, the terse nature of the response came back to him. Perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a meeting at short notice, but surely the headlines would excuse it. The lean figure was beside him on the seat before he was aware of its arrival.

‘Pass the sandwiches. I don’t have much time.’ It was an uneasy conversation, or monologue, that ensued.

Jack sketched out the lines of the board meeting in broad strokes but, even to his own eye, the portrait was of a guilty suspect stuttering under the harsh light of interrogation. He described his confrontation with the press outside his house and again he could see himself as a weak reed. Why was he the victim when he should have been the aggressor? He put the question to the Pope in a variety of ways, but elicited only a series of grunts.

Finally the Pope screwed the brown paper bag into a tight ball and threw it in one clean arc into a rubbish bin.

‘This is difficult. Very difficult. But I may not be able to help you anymore.’

Jack was stunned. The day was a series of sharp blows to the stomach. ‘Christ. Why? Have I done something? Or not done something?’

The Pope shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Jack, I give you my word. It might be okay, I’m not sure. But the group did say from the start that if any of us had conflicts, we might have to walk away. I’m just warning you.’

Jack held the rough wood on the weathered bench with both hands and felt a splinter pierce his thumb. What was happening? The world was closing in on him without remorse. ‘I need you around. If you can. I really need you now.’

The Pope stood. ‘I know. I’ll do what I can, but I may have to go.’

He walked away a few paces and then turned back and held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’ chapter fifteen

When he drove past the house, the workshop was a brooding shadow in the birch groves. He was too early. They never met before eight, but he had nowhere else to go. He parked outside the gate. What did it matter who saw him now?