Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

‘I’m a tough old bastard. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll get out of this somehow. But they’re after you, too. They think you were in on the whole deal. You’ve been set up. Haven’t we all?’

Jack turned to him reluctantly. ‘What do you mean I’ve been set up?’

‘I don’t know exactly, although I’ve got a fair idea. But they’ve got tapes, documents, you name it.’

Jack stood and the dog rose with him. ‘Why should I care? I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of.’ He thought about that statement for a moment, then repeated, ‘Why should I care?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look, this isn’t just a PR issue for you. Make no mistake-they’re going to charge you.’

Jack looked down at him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Now Mac stood also, facing him, shoulders back-almost the old stance. ‘I don’t knife people in the back. You’ve got kids. You wouldn’t know how to fight, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Once they charge me, I won’t be able to speak. Same for you. Sure they’ve told us to shut up already, but that’s different to being in court. If breaking that order was all I was charged with, I’d be delighted. So.’ He placed his hands together. ‘I’m going to tell them you had nothing to do with any of this. But you need to make it public somehow. Put them on notice there’s no easy case. And quickly. You’ve got to defend yourself.’

‘And what do I do for you?’ The face was turned away from him and the voice was quiet, but a hint of the old edge crept into the words. ‘You give me that letter you took from Renton Healey’s file.’

Jack managed a short, bitter laugh. ‘How many copies would you like? The bell has rung, Mac, the game’s over.’ This time they were alone on a seat on the coastal walkway between Bondi and Tamarama. A heavy sea was thumping into the cliffs below and the rock fishermen were scurrying for safety, their cleated shoes scratching across the slippery surfaces. Louise was listening to Murray Ingham’s gruff voice intently, straining to hear the words over the roar of the surf.

‘Jack may have difficulty defending himself, but I think there’s another way. We’ve a great deal of material to work with. All you’ve told us, plus a storehouse of documents Maroubra has squirrelled away. It makes a compelling story.’

Louise stared into the grey ocean and shivered. The nor’-easter was whipping the whitecaps into scurries of flying foam and her summer blouse was no defence against the unseasonal chill. ‘Maybe. But he can’t speak, and who would believe him at the moment, anyway?’

Murray nodded. ‘You’re right, but that’s where I come in. I’m a storyteller, remember. This matter’s now significant news. I was a journalist before I became a writer. I still write the occasional opinion piece and I still know all the editors that matter. But whether I did or not, they’d publish this story. It’s got everything.’

She turned to face him. ‘You mean you’d arrange the material and pass it onto a journalist?’

‘No. I’d write it under my own name. I may not be a bestselling author, but I am at what they call the quality end of the market. The name will help.’

‘How will you do it? Won’t the authorities try to stop you? Can’t they prosecute you, or the paper?’

‘It’ll be a two-part story. The first instalment will have most of the factual material so we get that on the record before anyone does try to stop us. The second will have more of the colour, not that there are any dull moments in this saga. Our hope would be that ASIC or some other authority does try to suppress part two. There’s nothing a newspaper editor likes more than a good stoush. I’ll defend my sources all the way to a jail cell and you’ll bring me home-cooked meals. What do you say?’

This time she reached for his arm. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m terribly grateful. You’ll be putting your reputation on the line.’

He laughed. ‘Not at all. I’ll probably win a Walkley Award, and who knows, there may even be a book in it. Strangely, we storytellers always come out all right. No one ever returns to check on us if events prove we’re wrong. The messenger hardly ever gets shot in real life.’

They stood and began to walk on to Tamarama, climbing to the low walled lookout between the two beaches, the wind loading the air with salt now, as a goshawk hovered above them, hunting the cliffs. They’d met only twice and yet somehow they were friends. Louise thought of all the ‘friends’ she thought she’d had who’d disappeared into the ether of her social ostracism. Murray stopped her as she was about to walk on. ‘There may be a job for you later. What usually happens is the electronic media pick up on a story like this once it’s run in the press. But they’re looking for the people angles, not so much the facts. They might want to interview you if Jack’s not available and we’ll make sure he isn’t. Could you handle that?’

‘Would it help?’ He nodded. ‘A great deal. It helps to keep the story alive. And besides, you’re an impressive voice, not just because you’re Jack’s wife. You know some of the facts, you’ve seen some documents, you know the background right from the start. But it wouldn’t be easy.’ He paused. ‘They might ask you about personal matters.’

She sighed. ‘Ah yes, personal matters. You don’t need to worry. If it will help, I’ll be there. Let them ask any questions they want. I’ll be there.’ chapter eighteen

A brass band was playing ‘Anchors Aweigh’ on the wharf, somewhat inappropriately since the Honey Bear was securely tied to a variety of bollards and the engines were silent. The boat was at rest outside the chic restaurants of Woolloomooloo Wharf, and a long queue of Sydney’s A-list partygoers was lined up at the gangway in front of the band. The diners in the restaurants were ogling this unusual assemblage, while delicately winding saffron noodles around silver forks.

There were a number of peculiar aspects to the evening that attracted the attention of all but the most casual observer. First, there was no party on board. Waiters with drinks, women in seductive gowns, jewels glinting in the lights reflecting from the water, dancing music-all the usual festive accoutrements were absent, just the brass band playing a repertoire of vaguely nautical tunes and the A-listers in business attire, trying to appear businesslike.

The clue to the mystery lay in the outsized flags flying from the Honey Bear’s funnel and stern. Instead of the boat’s traditional gold standard with its symbol of a bear plunging a mitt into a honey pot, the rather more sombre and elegant navy and white colours bearing the Sotheby name adorned the vessel. This august appellation was also emblazoned upon the canvas sides of the gangway, lest the guests be in any doubt as to their purpose here. Bring your chequebooks and your invitation was the unspoken message. And indeed there were many chequebooks nestling in silk-lined pockets, for the range of goods to be auctioned was startling in its diversity. You could buy a magnet or a Moore. The exact use for which the magnet was designed was unknown, but it came in a brass case with velvet interior and was estimated in the catalogue at only two to three hundred dollars. To own something from the Honey Bear, from Mac Biddulph’s effects, just to be here, bidding-well, you couldn’t miss it, could you? The boat was only permitted to hold four hundred people, although Sotheby’s had squeezed in five hundred on the grounds that all their guests were slim. But the applications to attend this ‘invitation only’ auction had exceeded three thousand. Three thousand, for goodness sake. They’d had to turn away over two thousand potential bidders. It was stomach churning. Of course, a large number would have been gawkers, tyre-kickers, but the money would have been buried there somewhere. Particularly for a magnet in a brass case, if not for a Henry Moore maquette, estimate eighty to one hundred thousand dollars.