after him. Jesus.
‘My client reserves the right to object to the admissibility of any evidence obtained in this examination. It seems quite improper to have outside persons, people from other jurisdictions, involved in an Australian process.’
The nerd just smiled. ‘This isn’t a court hearing, Mr Lacy. There’s no judge to object to. Now can we get on?’
Gerry placed a sheet of notepaper in front of Mac with one word handwritten on it in black letters. In their briefings Gerry had said: ‘We’re claiming legal privilege for each answer you give, Mac. That positions us better in any subsequent court proceedings, but you have to claim it yourself before each answer. You have to say the word privilege before each and every answer, otherwise that particular answer doesn’t have legal privilege attached to it. You understand?’
Gerry could see him nodding now at the word on the notepaper. ‘My client will be claiming privilege for each of his answers. This is not an admission of any guilt but merely the result of legal advice.’
The nerd gestured to the ex-FBI man and switched on a tape recorder.
There was no way they’d make him sweat, not even for a minute; Mac had sworn that to himself. He’d been in training in the Kimberley for weeks after Gerry had left, leading a monastic life, in training to beat the bastards. At first he’d been embarrassed when there was only bruising from the fall, but then he’d risen with the dawn every day, ridden before breakfast, eaten well, drunk only water and coffee, lost three kilos. He was fit and alert. He was Mac Biddulph. He’d been playing in the big time when these bastards were still on the teat. There was no way they’d make him sweat.
But it was stifling in the interview room. There were no windows and the air-conditioning, if they had any, wasn’t working. After the first hour, he was dry in the mouth, even though the questions had all been anticipated in his sessions with Gerry. He gulped more water from the paper cup and tried to focus on the FBI guy. He was asking something about Renton Healey.
‘Did you instruct Renton Healey, the chief financial officer at HOA, to initiate discussion with Global Re regarding a new form of reinsurance contract?’
This wasn’t something they’d covered in the briefings. How could they know about the Global Re contract? Well, of course they’d know about it, it’d be listed in the company’s filings with APRA. But that’s all they’d know. They couldn’t know about the side letter and they certainly couldn’t know what he had or hadn’t said to Renton Healey.
‘Privilege. No.’ He smiled at the FBI man. It was a ‘fuck you’ smile.
‘Did you discuss with Renton Healey the subject of a hole in the balance sheet that would have to be filled?’
‘Privilege. No.’
‘Did you suggest to Mr Healey that the profit and loss account for last year needed short-term support?’
‘Privilege. No.’
‘Did Laurence Treadmore inquire of you whether you had had such discussions with Renton Healey and did you give him assurances that the Global Re contract was kosher?’
‘Privilege. No.’ A wider smile spread across Mac’s face. They had nothing. But the FBI man just stared blankly at him.
‘Let me play you this recording, Mr Biddulph.’ Gerry Lacy was on his feet in an instant. Gerry seemed to have been in training also, as if he sensed a second breath in his legal career. Maybe he could be a killer if he wanted to and, suddenly, he wanted to. ‘Recording? What recording? I object most strenuously. Is this a recording made without Mr Biddulph’s knowledge or consent? This is outrageous.’
‘You’re objecting to a recording you haven’t heard, Mr Lacy. Why don’t you listen?’
The FBI man pushed the button on the tape recorder. Laurence Treadmore’s voice squeaked thinly from the machine followed, unmistakably, by Mac’s. Gerry stepped forward and punched the stop button.
‘We’re not participating any further in this discussion until you explain the nature of this recording, the circumstances in which it was made, whether Mr Biddulph had knowledge that he was being recorded, and by what authority you are in possession of the tape.’ He glared at the FBI man, but it was a faint glare.
Mac cut in. ‘I never authorised anyone to tape me-not even you bastards.’
‘Privilege, Mac. Privilege.’
Now it was the FBI man’s turn to smile. ‘This is a recording made in the boardroom of HOA of a meeting between Sir Laurence Treadmore and Macquarie James Biddulph on September eighteenth last year. It was made with your permission, Mr Biddulph.’
Mac rocked back in his chair and was about to respond but Gerry Lacy spoke first. ‘Leave this to me, Mac. My client had no knowledge of any such recording being made. You’re perfectly well aware you can’t use material obtained in this way.’ And then, as an added thrust, ‘Even the FBI can’t use illegally obtained recordings, can they, Mr Gamble?’
The FBI man resumed his expressionless mask and placed a document before Mac. ‘Are you familiar with this document, Mr Biddulph?’
‘What is this? What document? We object to the document-’ but Mac cut him off.
‘Shut up, Gerry. Let me look at the fucking document for Christ’s sake.’
He reached for the paper. It was headed ‘HOA. Corporate Governance Committee. Policy for Security and Integrity of Information.’
‘I’ve never seen this before in my life.’
‘Privilege, Mac.’
‘Really, Mr Biddulph. Would you turn to the last page, please. Is that your signature?’
Gerry was poised over Mac’s shoulder. ‘We object, most strenuously. This meeting is at an end.’
‘It’s not a meeting, Mr Lacy. You’re here in response to a legal notice to attend, and the examination is just beginning. Now, is that your signature, Mr Biddulph?’
‘Don’t answer, Mac, I instruct you not to answer.’
‘Shut up, Gerry. Privilege. If it is my signature, I never read the document.’
‘Do you sign many documents you don’t read, Mr Biddulph?’
‘Sometimes. Fucking privilege. Sometimes. When they’re crap like this. What does it say, anyway?’
The FBI man recovered the document. ‘It authorises recording of all discussions held in the HOA boardroom between directors or senior officers of the company, whether during the course of board meetings or otherwise. It further authorises the use of such recordings in any legally constituted investigation or court proceeding relating to the company’s activities. It’s been signed by all directors, including yourself.’
The sweat was dribbling down the Mac frame now, oozing from the neck under the shirt collar, trickling onto the Mac chest-hairy at the moment, no waxing in the Kimberley-pooling in his navel, soaking through his non-sweat shirt, Sea Island cotton, hand made, initials on the pocket, double cuffs, wide gap for the big Mac wrists, wide tuck to the shoulders. It was reaching the linen boxer shorts made from pure Irish linen by his man in Jermyn Street, to his own design, to let things breathe, to let the big Mac prick breathe and flex and have a life of its own.
There was nothing to say. He was skinned, skewered, hung out to dry.
He stood and walked out of the interview room, heedless of the gaggle of protests he left behind. chapter seventeen
She arrived at the restaurant early and parked outside to wait.
It was the quintessential Sydney summer day. The Bondi surf was rolling in with a series of long, even lines of white foam breaking along the curved beach; a line of athletic bodies in singlets and running shorts puffing past her car window, so close she could smell the sweat and suntan oil; the fragrant aroma of spiced meat sizzling on a barbecue drifting up from the grassed area above the sand; the sweet, tangy smell of freshly cut grass; and the languorous feeling of wellbeing on the faces of the tourists and surfers and posers who flocked to claim a towel’s width of territory on the white sand. She breathed it all in but, for once, it failed to move her. It was her place, where she’d grown up, had her first almost everything, met Jack, breathed free. But she couldn’t enjoy it today.
She waited for them to go in. But after half an hour, only two men had entered the restaurant and it was well past the appointed time. She pushed open the door and approached the pair seated at the long table. One came forward. ‘Mrs Beaumont? Louise? I’m Murray Ingham.’ She shook his hand and tried to avoid staring at his
