The Butcherbird (10 page)

‘Jack, I really don’t know how to start this. I’m terribly embarrassed by it all.’

Jack looked at him in surprise. ‘Well, we’re old friends, Bruce. Whatever it is, just spit it out, mate.’

Bruce Stockford ran his hand over his eyes. ‘I’ve never encountered anything like this before. Your name is on the board at the club, as you know. That means your membership application has been through all the initial approvals and it’s there for the members to be aware of.’ He paused. ‘And here’s the thing, Jack. I’ve been asked to withdraw your nomination.’

Jack was stunned. His face was ablaze, and he reached for the shirt button and loosened his tie, so much heat seemed to be emanating from him. ‘I see.’ His mind was whirling. ‘Christ. I’m terribly sorry to put you in this situation, Bruce. Is it to do with that bloody article?’

Bruce shook his head. ‘No. The president spoke to me on Friday, before that ran. I’ve been mulling it over all weekend, trying to work out what to do about it.’

Jack grabbed him by the forearm. ‘Listen, old fellow, I won’t have you embarrassed one minute further on my account. Christ, it’s hardly a big issue, I’m already a member of just about every other club in Sydney. I don’t even particularly want to be a member, it’s just that you asked me. But it’s bizarre. I mean, half the people in the Colonial Club are good friends of mine and the other half I’ve certainly never had any problems with. To be blackballed just seems so—I don’t know—somehow low and vindictive.’

Bruce nodded and shook his head almost in one motion. ‘You haven’t actually been blackballed. I’ve been asked to withdraw your nomination and told the application won’t be successful if I persist. It’s as odd a thing as I’ve ever heard of. I can tell you, Jack, it’s left a taste in my mouth like a dead rat.’

They rose, shaking hands and looking one another in the eye, then parted.

Jack didn’t return to his office. He strolled down to Circular Quay and leaned against the railing near the ferry wharves.

Fishermen were trailing lines from old cork rolls into the slightly oily water near the wooden piles. These days the harbour was alive with fish and you could see the stubby prawn boats at night, trawling only a few metres from the Walsh Bay wharves where the theatregoers were sipping wine of undetermined origin. Behind him a swarthy, weather-beaten figure in a cloth cap was seated at a table patiently constructing a model of a Spanish galleon. He sat there most days and had done so for as long as Jack could remember, and slowly the majestic little ship had grown from the pile of matchsticks. Jack had watched a passer-by stop once to admire the work and light a cigarette. He remembered thinking to himself, ‘I hope he doesn’t throw a spark too far.’ But he wasn’t thinking that now. The sun was finding merging rainbows in the watery oil slick and he peered down into them as if looking for an equally shifting truth. What was happening to his orderly, comfortable, easy life? It seemed the plates were sliding under the earth that had always been solid and stable before, but the force was invisible. There was no cause, no reason, no noise, no shaking, no molten material to gape at. Just a queasy, empty feeling in his gut that he was no longer in control of his life.

At about one p.m. each day, as the flow of people through the garish doors of the Australian Rugby League Club’s dining room gradually increased, it was customary for many of the diners to nod to the heavyset figure with the rough-hewn face of a Gallipoli veteran seated at the table to the right of the doors.

There was a certain deference in the attitude of the few who approached to shake hands and chat briefly. He ate alone, with a book as his companion. There was no aura of holding court, and yet everyone in the room was somehow aware of his presence.

There was certainly nothing in his manner or dress to warrant particular attention. The suit was a nondescript blue and appeared to have been purchased from St Vincent de Paul, the tie was a narrow strip from the 1960s, held in the middle by a faded silver clip with a Returned Serviceman’s badge in the centre. His slab of a face was capped by a thick full head of hair, remarkable for a man of his age, but shaved up at the sides in a fashion no longer seen. There was a forward slope to the whole face, with a jutting chin, huge ears like a prize fighter’s but without the scars, and rectangular glasses that, along with the hair and the tie, stated clearly that he regarded fashion as the first sign of moral decay.

Those who summoned the courage to stop by his table as he chewed slowly on his cutlets, chips and peas or, on Fridays, fish, chips and peas, were a rich stew of harbour creatures. Book-makers, rugby league footballers and sometimes those from other codes—businessmen, politicians from state parliament or from local councils, a judge or two (although they mainly nodded from a distance), and others on the make. He was happy to talk about sports or politics or events of the day, but cut off any attempt to discuss legal matters by returning to his book. He was said to be a formidable powerbroker in the right of the New South Wales Labor Party, but how and through what channels this power was wielded no one seemed to know.

His chambers were nearby in Phillip Street, and there a very different stream of supplicants passed through. It was rare for Hedley Stimson QC to appear in person in a courtroom these days, but he still rendered opinions of great force and clarity for others to plead. As he spoke, the body was slumped back in the chair but the face and the attitude leaned forward, intent, alert. His hands waved slowly with the words like a conductor, and they commanded mesmerising attention because they were enormous, out of proportion with the rest of his body, like the ears. But with his final opinion about to be delivered, the hands ceased moving and one finger came up with the words ‘therefore …’ No solicitor who had ever briefed Hedley Stimson had failed to learn that once the finger was raised and the ‘therefore’ produced, the meeting was concluded.

When Jack and his solicitor entered this inner sanctum he remained seated. ‘Good morning, Kemp. And this is obviously Mr Beaumont, about whom I have been reading with such interest.’ Jack stiffened, thinking of the newspaper articles, of which there’d now been three. ‘I refer, of course, to the documents you have provided and the brief from Mr Kemp, which is, as always, succinct, but in this case slightly mysterious. You have no court case on foot, Mr Beaumont. No one is suing you; you are suing no one; you are not being pursued by any of the authorities for heinous offences;you have not, apparently, for I’m sure Kemp would have noted it, murdered anyone. In short, none of the driving forces which usually herd people into this small, but I hope you agree, distinguished room appear to be in play. So how can I help you, Mr Beaumont?’

Jack felt he presented his case with force and confidence.

Facts and documents were in the brief and he, with the Pope’s help and analysis, understood most of them. Sometimes the linking patterns between one factor and another slid away from him when he re-read them at night in the study at the top of the house. This business was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. You could produce almost any profit, legitimately, just by changing a few assumptions on risk or by tweaking a judgement on reserving policy or turning a dial on ‘smoothing’. The line between right and wrong was shrouded in grey mist on a distant horizon. Just when he held it clearly in sight, it merged and shifted and slipped away from him. But it had to be there—somewhere. And he was holding it firmly in sight now as he laid out his concerns in logical sequence to the impassive, watchful figure of Hedley Stimson QC.

The eyes of the old lawyer never left him throughout the nearly forty minutes of his exposition, the meat-pie hands were motionless on the desk. At one point Jack nearly lost his train of thought as he focused on those hands, rough and black under the nails, the hands of a working man, not a lawyer. It was in the workshop at the back of the house in Wahroonga, where he’d lived for the past twenty-five years, that Hedley Stimson formed the opinions that were the foundation of his legendary reputation, as the lathe whirred and shavings and sawdust flew onto the cracked concrete floor that was never swept.

Finally, Jack puttered to a halt. The lack of any visible or verbal response other than that unrelenting stare was too much. The old lawyer nodded at him. ‘Most impressive, Mr Beaumont. You have garnered an understanding of a series of most complex issues in a relatively short time. I’m sure you would greatly impress any jury if, of course, you were permitted to address them uninterrupted for a mere half-hour or so. But we have no jury, do we Mr Kemp? A great pity, it is true, for I have ultimate faith in the wisdom of juries—if only we could extend this excellent system into the world outside the sterility of courts. Fewer arguments, less war, more justice? What do you think, Mr Beaumont?’ Hedley Stimson paused briefly but in such a way as to block any response. ‘Regrettably, however, we must deal with the conventions of our time. You’ve raised a number of interesting concerns, but it’s unclear to me what actions you expect to flow from your inquiries. Are you seeking to raise these matters with the regulatory authorities, take civil actions against distinguished citizens, to terminate your contract or to alleviate your conscience?’

Jack stared back into the pools of the deep-set eyes but didn’t flinch, as so many witnesses had over the decades. These were the same questions Louise had put to him when the ice had finally thawed between them. He’d been faithful always—almost. Their fights, and there were few, were about him arriving home late without a call, or disappearing at a party for longer than a drink. No more than that.

She’d sensed a conspiracy immediately when he had told her about his exclusion from the Colonial Club, about the greasy slipperiness of it all. ‘These things don’t just happen, Jack. We’ve never before had an article about us in the press that wasn’t complimentary, and then you get blackballed. There are no coincidences. Someone is out to get you.’ And then, as her focus shifted to the perpetrators of this evil, so did her anger. She was there to defend him, to fight for their world, to attack. Louise on the hunt was as relentless a beast as he’d ever seen. So when he wavered about taking his worries to Hedley Stimson, as the Pope had suggested, she stiffened his back in minutes. ‘Darling, there’s a link between these attacks on you and all the questions you’ve been asking at HOA. There has to be. You know in your heart these people are up to something, and you have to pin the bastards, whoever they are—or you’re not the man I know you to be.’

What was the answer to the question being put to him in this book-lined room? What actions did he expect to flow now that he’d summoned the resolve to introduce legal opinion into the equation? He looked back across the desk for what seemed like minutes before answering.

‘I don’t know. That’s what I need your advice on. It’s certainly not about protecting me. I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t want anyone’s money. But what we do at HOA affects people’s lives whether they’re shareholders or policyholders. We’re not selling baked beans or a night at the movies. I’m concerned that if the company gets into trouble through improper practice, or even mismanagement, if that’s what it is, we could hurt thousands of people. And if it’s being done to profit someone else, then yes, I want to bring them to justice.’

The gnarled hands remained flat on the desk, the eyes held his.

‘I see.’ Hedley Stimson closed the folder in front of him. ‘In order to prove what you suspect, you’d need not only the primary documents—and we’re talking about dozens of confidential company documents, not just the few you have here—’ he tapped the folder, ‘you’d also need deep actuarial and accounting assessments from the best practitioners. The support you could expect from the regulatory authorities, despite all kinds of comforting statements, would amount to very little. The forces brought to bear against you, on the other hand, would include a barrage of legal manoeuvres, and the most damaging attacks on your reputation and credibility—not only during the course of any proceedings, but continuously for the rest of your professional life, should you have any, as well as concerted and probably successful attempts to ruin you financially, aided in part by the extraordinarily high fees you would have to pay me and Mr Kemp here, over a very long period, a period we could extend almost indefinitely, given a chance. Therefore …’ there was the slight raising of the brow and the one hand was slowly lifted with the raised index finger, ‘I must advise you in the strongest terms not to consider proceeding with any of these matters in a formal legal framework. You may choose to handle them by negotiation and discussion within the company and its board, or to resign your position. That is a matter for you and not within my purview. This is the advice I must give you.’

Jack stood and began to pace the room. He had to move when he was uncomfortable, it had always been like that. But now at least he was not uncertain. Some of Louise’s anger had transferred itself to him.

‘But there is stuff here that’s wrong, isn’t there? Some of this could be a monumental fraud, couldn’t it? Are you saying there’s no breach of the law here, nothing to pursue? Are you saying—’ Jack stopped in mid-flight to scrutinise the books on the shelves. ‘These aren’t law books.’ He took one down. ‘They’re all novels.’ He turned to the old lawyer with the book still in his hand.

Hedley Stimson smiled at him gently. ‘Yes, Mr Beaumont. Every student clerk and second-rate solicitor has read the law books. You’re not going to win cases by seeking wisdom in their dry pages. Sooner or later the law’s about human behaviour, about motive, about greed, about lust and power and love and violence, about trust and the breaking of it. That’s all in these books. If they make any new laws, I read about them. Otherwise, I stick to life.’

Jack nodded. ‘And the people you admire in these books, they just give up, do they? They don’t question or probe or struggle? They just turn their backs and walk away? If you tell me I’m being paranoid and I’ve misconstrued all this, okay. But is that what you’re saying?’