seems a bit out of place here.’
‘Nobody calls me that except in the group. John will do fine.’
‘But I thought your name was Clinton.’
‘Nobody calls me that either. Try John.’ Jack shifted around on the park bench and recrossed his legs uneasily. He couldn’t explain why he felt so in awe of this man. He was the chief executive of one of the largest listed companies in Australia, while the Pope was-what? Maybe wealthy? Yet somehow he seemed to have taken immediate control.
‘So?’ Just the one inquiring word as the last sandwich disappeared and the Pope drained off a bottle of juice. Jack laid out his concerns-precisely, he felt, and much more succinctly than he had with Louise. The response was laconic in the extreme. ‘Facts. Documents. Where are they?’
Jack hesitated. ‘Well I’m just seeking your initial guidance, in a general way. To see if you think there’s really an issue.’
There was a long silence. Finally the Pope turned and looked Jack straight in the eye for the first time. ‘Of course there’s an issue.
You’re dealing with Mac Biddulph and Laurence Treadmore. Two piranhas in a fish tank full of money. What did you expect?’ Jack made no response. The Pope shrugged. ‘So you didn’t ask.’ He paused. ‘I owned a small reinsurance company for a while. HOA was always looking for what we call financial reinsurance. Unlike normal reinsurance, which all legitimate insurance companies have, financial reinsurance can be just a way of making the balance sheet look better. There’s no real transfer of risk involved. It’s probably illegal most of the time, and most legitimate operators won’t touch it. If you’re in the market for this stuff, you’re in the market for all sorts of other rotten fish. And you’re going to come up smelling, Jack.’
Neither spoke for a while. Finally, the Pope stood and stretched. ‘You need to know the right questions to ask. They’ll slide around you otherwise. I’ll draw up a list for you. Meet me here in a week.’
Jack laughed. ‘What if it’s raining?’
The Pope ignored the question. ‘You’re going to need legal help when you get the answers. But first get the facts, the documents. Then we’ll talk about that. I know the man to help you, if we can get him.’
He turned and loped off into the gardens before Jack could stammer out his thanks. Jack’s gaze drifted over all the unconcerned citizens of Sydney contentedly enjoying the smell of fresh-cut grass, the wafts of jasmine in the salt-filled air, the intricate beauty of the coves and bays of their lyrical city. His lyrical city. Except he was smelling old fish heads. He walked slowly through the mix of exotic and native trees, the great groves of palms, and then on to the rose garden that seemed like a remnant of the colonial past. In front of the regimented beds of the rose gardens, next to the Macquarie Street exit, was a large green board listing the directors of the Royal Botanic Gardens Trust. At its head, as chairman, was the name Sir Laurence Treadmore.
Popsie Trudeaux smiled knowingly at the attractive man standing in the bay window of the old stone mansion on the edge of the Botanic Gardens. As far as she knew, she’d never seen this person before in her life, but she always made it a rule to smile knowingly at attractive men, whoever they may be. You could always sort the wheat from the chaff later. She practised this smile in one of the many mirrors in her Double Bay penthouse. She thought of the penthouse as hers, even though her husband nominally lived there and the title was in both their names. But Angus knew it was better to spend as much time as possible travelling on business and give plenty of notice before arriving home. He also knew it was much cheaper to let things drift on as they were rather than try to seek a resolution. A lot more than the penthouse would go in those circumstances.
Popsie looked around the room with considerable satisfaction. She could see at least a half-dozen ‘wellknown Sydney business identities’, as the press called them, from where she was standing. She’d had affairs with all but one, and she wasn’t an especially beautiful woman. But she had life and electricity and a great love for fucking, which was all they wanted and weren’t getting at home. She’d even thought of fucking that old fart Laurence Treadmore once, years ago, just because he was who he was and looked as if he needed it, but then she decided the trophy phase was over and they had to be good looking or they could fuck themselves.
Popsie eased over to Sir Laurence anyway just to give him a thrill, if there were any nerve ends left to respond. ‘Lovely night, Laurie-as is anything you’re involved with.’
Sir Laurence peered at her with considerable distaste. He regarded her as a sort of female pirate who’d been doused in heady perfume, her blowzy charms were vaguely repulsive. ‘Yes, thank you, Popsie. Very kind of you to come along. Angus not here tonight? What a pity. Still, we’re very grateful to get anyone to fundraising events these days. People seem to have other priorities, do they not? But thankfully there remains a core of generous citizens who are always prepared to contribute. And the cactus garden is in desperate need of refurbishment. Have you considered adopting a plant?’
The thought of having a particularly spiky plant that flowered once a year in the middle of the night named after her had not in fact occurred to Popsie Trudeaux, and she adroitly continued her drift towards more interesting quarters. It was a vital social skill, the ability to move on at a cocktail party without appearing to do so or causing any offence, but never being trapped with some bore or ugly lump. The attractive man was no longer in the bay window. No matter. There were plenty of other windows.
Laurence Treadmore sensed her departure from the periphery of his wide vision with some relief. Talking to Popsie Trudeaux for more than a few moments was a substantial risk for a man of his impeccable reputation. Besides, she never gave any real money despite vague promises. Ah, here was more worthy company. Rupert Littlemore, on the other hand, did give substantial sums almost on request and furthermore, or hence, depending on your degree of cynicism, was also the president of the Colonial Club. The Colonial Club’s premises were located behind an unmarked door not far from Sir Laurence’s residence in Macquarie Street, and contained his favourite luncheon venue as well as quiet lounge rooms and libraries where he conducted many useful chats in peaceful seclusion.
‘Rupert, it’s wonderful of you to come. Is there any good cause you don’t support? None that I know of. How is Beryl? Any better? Ah, it’s a great burden to you, old chap. We all think of you, you know.’
Rupert Littlemore was a well-presented septuagenarian with a fine mane of silver-grey hair and a very ill wife. He looked like, and was, a retired naval commander, but was also a successful businessman with a considerable fortune derived from his family’s rural properties. He spoke in a clipped, direct manner, but when he smiled-which was, unusually, when he was genuinely pleased-his face came alive with joyful creases.
‘Very nice party, Laurence. Cheque’s in the mail. How’s that new CEO of yours? Up for the club. Name’s just gone on the board. Assume he’s a great fellow, otherwise you wouldn’t have him.’
Sir Laurence raised his thumb and forefinger to his chin in a gesture that a few people knew particularly well. It seemed to indicate deep thought but in fact was equivalent to a cobra eying a small rodent. ‘Really? I’d missed that. I usually check the board. I see.’ He withdrew the hand and checked the alignment of his pocket handkerchief. ‘Well nominated is he?’
Rupert Littlemore took half a pace back. ‘What? What do you want to know for? Of course-Stockford’s put him up. No problem, is there?’
Laurence Treadmore seldom answered questions of this nature directly. ‘You just took me by surprise, old fellow. Let me think about it. I only really know him in business. I’ve never even been to his home. Let me make some inquiries.’
Rupert’s thick black eyebrows shot up. ‘Not at all. Not necessary. I only asked because he’s your chief.’
‘It’s no trouble, don’t give it a thought. Now come and meet our new director. She’s the first woman ever to run these great gardens. You see how we’re moving with the times.’
Later that evening Sir Laurence sat in his study on the second floor of his two-storey apartment in The Piccadilly. He looked out over the Botanic Gardens, past Stone House where the party had recently wound up, to the black harbour beyond. The sky was lit only by a quarter moon but he could still see the thousands of birds wheeling in the neon lights of the city buildings. His was the antithesis of the book-lined study. There were no books. Sir Laurence found the reading of novels a great waste of time, there were few biographies that appealed since they rarely contained the type of information he was looking for and historical tomes, by definition, failed to deal with the most important moments in history. Sir Laurence was interested in the present and the future, particularly his present and future, and those of persons who might make these a little brighter. This was not, as he saw it, selfish thinking. If everyone took care of life with this focused view, there would be no need for welfare payments, charities, church raffles, soup kitchens and other annoying lead weights hanging from the sturdy belt of society. Let people look after themselves, keep their noses in their own business, and all would prosper.
