What the hell was going on? He eased quietly out of bed and reached for his kimono, cherry blossoms winding their way through the patterned silk. It was a present from Bonny. At first he’d thought it too feminine and pretty, but now he loved the slippery softness on his bare skin. Pushing his knobbly feet into a pair of kangaroo-skin slippers he headed for the door. There must be some problem with the security system, but why they couldn’t leave it till later was beyond him. If that concierge expected a big tip at Christmas, he’d better plan on buying his own cherries.
When he opened the door, expecting the obsequious, smiling face of James in the blue uniform, his mouth fell slightly open. There were three figures confronting him, all in drab grey, none of whom appeared obsequious or anything near it, none of whom were smiling. One stepped forward and spoke, holding something in an outstretched hand.
‘Mr Biddulph, we represent the Australian Securities and Investments Commission. We hold a duly executed warrant to search these premises. We also wish to ask you questions pertaining to a current investigation. We will now enter the premises.’
As he spoke the other two moved from behind him, past Mac, into the apartment’s foyer. Mac was still staring at the document in the man’s hand without seeing it, partly because he was stunned, partly because his glasses were on the bedside table. He was suddenly aware that he must present a slightly ridiculous, even pathetic, figure-an old man with a face creased by rumpled sheets, swaddled in a Japanese prostitute’s gown, standing with legs apart and mouth open, not quite dribbling but damn close to it. He struggled to regain composure and control.
‘Hang on. Get those two out of there. No one is searching anything until my lawyer is here and probably not then either.’ The man with the document ignored him and followed the other two into the foyer. ‘Now listen here, you’ve got no right. Get yourselves out of here and back down to the concierge’s desk. When my lawyer comes he’ll sort it out with you.’
The spokesman nodded to the other two and they moved off into separate rooms. ‘On the contrary, Mr Biddulph, we have every right. You may call your lawyer, of course, but in the meantime we will commence our search. Once you’ve made that call, we’ll require all forms of communication from these premises to be suspended during the course of our search and questioning.’
Mac heard a scream from Bonny. Obviously one of them had found the bedroom. ‘What the hell is this all about? What investigation? I have no knowledge of anything like that. Surely you have to notify me if you want some information. What does it relate to?’
The man remained motionless, unsmiling, watching Mac carefully, hands now by his side. ‘We’re not required to give you notice of a search or of the commencement of an investigation or the nature of any such investigation. We have the right, by law, to remove any documents, files, whether paper or electronic, computers, phone records, notes, recordings or any other material we consider relevant, and will do so. It’s an offence for you to interfere with or impede this process in any way.’
Suddenly Mac exploded. ‘You fucking little prick.’ His right hand, which had been clutching the kimono because he hadn’t bothered to tie the sash, jerked out to grab a collar. The man stepped neatly back and seemed more perturbed by the revelation before him than by the threat of violence. ‘I’ll fucking throw you out of the place, you little cunt.’ As he spat out the last word Bonny emerged from the bedroom in a matching, but tightly sashed, garment.
Bonny paused in front of the spokesman. ‘Charming. The whole lovely morning. Utterly delightful to be woken by a pack of nerds with bad breath and cheap suits.’ The spokesman appeared to blanch slightly at this.
Mac glared at her until he noticed her eyes were also drawn to the widespread kimono drifting softly in the air-conditioning currents. He hastily drew the folds together and double sashed. ‘I’m trying to get rid of the bastards, but it doesn’t help to have you moaning about it. Here’s Gerry Lacy’s number. Tell him what’s going on and get him over here fast.’
She took the cell phone and turned to the other man. ‘Would you mind asking your colleagues to leave my bedroom till last? I promise I won’t burn the sheets, but I would quite like to get dressed.’ She gave him a coquettish smile. ‘And if you’re very nice, I’ll give you a pair of my knickers to keep all for yourself.’
They both watched her bounce away down the hall.
Four hours later, whatever dream started Mac’s day had developed way beyond a nightmare. And not because of bad breath and cheap suits. Bonny had departed as Gerry Lacy arrived. Waving a breezy goodbye, she tucked something into the ASIC man’s pocket with a whisper: ‘Don’t forget to hide them before your wife takes the suit to the drycleaners-which, incidentally, should be quite soon.’
And then the Mexican stand-off had begun. It was surreal, Mac felt, watching his lawyer, tanned and relaxed in a cashmere sweater, chinos and loafers, discussing him with the ASIC nerd as if he were a prize heifer. The nerd was like the bankers, writing everything down, even though he had a tape recorder running on the coffee table. The nerd insisted questions would be put now, the lawyer insisted his client wouldn’t answer them in the course of the search. The nerd replied they would wait until the search was concluded. The lawyer responded that his client would reserve his rights. Mac was instructed, ‘instructed’ for Christ’s sake, not to speak at all in the ‘interim period’. The interim period had proved to be four hours. It wasn’t that big an apartment. They must have been stripping the wallpaper from the walls to be taking this long. Even though he’d gouged a discount out of Jack Beaumont, he’d probably still paid too much for the place. Jack Beaumont. The name clanged in his head like the ringer on a bell. Did he have anything to do with this disgraceful shambles? Before he knew it the question had voiced itself.
‘Did Jack fucking Beaumont put you up to this? Is that what this is all about? Some crap about corporate governance or something? I’ll kill the little prick if-’
Gerry Lacy was on his feet, hands forward in a stop sign. ‘Do not speak. You will say nothing, Mac. My client has nothing to say, you will erase that comment from your records. It is improper to put questions in the process of a search as you well know.’
The nerd barely looked up from his notebook. ‘I didn’t put a question. The comment was offered and is duly recorded.’
‘This is unlawful. This entire search is unlawful. Any material you may acquire in the course of it will not be admissible.’
Gerry Lacy was more equipped for objecting to a line call in tennis than confronting hardened government investigators. He hardly ever called ‘fore’ at golf. His forte was the civilised conference. He never appeared in court and regarded the barristers he briefed to do so as reminiscent of bullies he’d known at school. The word ‘golf ‘ jagged a thought into the mix. It was Tuesday, his golf afternoon. He always played in the Tuesday comp, he’d even won it last week. Seventeen drives in the fairway. Never achieved such accuracy before. It was the new driver, had to be. Wonderful club, enormous head. But he was keeping the left arm straighter, that was the key. It wasn’t just equipment, you had to have skills. Suddenly he realised Mac was speaking again. He’d told him not to do that.
‘Please don’t speak, Mac. I cannot stress sufficiently the damage you may cause to your case in the course of any subsequent proceedings should charges be laid. You do understand this?’
Mac stood. ‘The only proceeding I was speaking about was a visit to the toilet. Is that okay or do I need a note from Mummy?’ He nearly tripped on the edge of the kimono as he flounced off, bumping into one of the nerds who was emerging with Bonny’s notebook computer-fat lot of good that would do him, unless he wanted to learn how to tighten his buttocks and stomach muscles simultaneously.
Gerry Lacy checked his watch. He loved to have an excuse to check the time because he adored his watch. All watches were fascinating, but his watch was an artwork. He could never understand people who lavished large sums of money on great hunks of ugly gold just so people would know they were rich. This watch was a Patek Philippe Mondiconum in platinum with day date. To an ignoramus, like the appalling individual seated in front of him taking notes, who appeared to be wearing a plastic Swatch, it might be mistaken for an average, stainless-steel time-piece. The afficionados would recognise it as one of the rarest, and most expensive, chronometers on the planet. Even though Gerry received the customary thrill from his prolonged glance at the Mondiconum, he was also distressed to see the time was nearly eleven o’clock. His tee-off time was midday. Decisive action was required.
Mac was returning, wiping his hands on the kimono, leaving dark patches in the scarlet silk. Both the searching nerds were now packing notebooks and diaries into archive cartons. Mac laughed at them. ‘Oh yeah, you’ll love reading that lot. Appointments for waxing jobs and recipes for mung bean salads, you fucking idiots.’
