The Butcherbird by Geoffrey Cousins Read Free Book Online

to fall. All these clippings were pasted into albums and filed in a tall locked cupboard in the hallway leading to his office—decades of the detritus of social and business life, discarded by all except him. It was remarkable how often he fossicked through these files and turned up a nugget.
    He had a deep and productive relationship with certain sections of the press. Whereas most of his colleagues and most business people he knew were cautious and wary in their dealings with journalists, if not downright hostile, Sir Laurence had a passing affection for those who fell within his sphere. These were business journalists of a serious bent, columnists of a gossipy disposition and one or two editors who saw a future role in management. The relationships were deep, in the sense that they were hidden from view, and no public hint of the source of information was ever given by those who received his calls—they were never to call him. Productive, in the sense that the chosen ones would receive information that was not otherwise available and frequently should not have been so, while Sir Laurence or those he represented would be depicted as champions of all that was right and just. It was surprising what could be achieved in this way. People could gain positions of importance, people could lose them. Government ministers could change their minds on vital issues (after all, their job was surely to represent public opinion). Institutions who’d planned to vote one way at a public meeting might vote quite differently. Productive, and no fingerprints.
    At one time or another, Laurence Treadmore had been chairman of trustees of the Museum of Modern Art, chairman of the Australian Opera and the New South Wales Public Library, and president of the King’s School Foundation. Many other institutions tried to woo him to their causes but he no longer accepted simple directorships. And as to charity boards, he preferred to send a cheque. Occasionally he went to a major charity auction and made a spectacular bid or two, in which case the press contacts would be alerted beforehand. A detailed examination of his custodianship of these appointments wouldn’t reveal a record of great success—Sir Laurence was fundamentally lazy, and the hard work of planning or fundraising was not to his liking—but no such examination was ever made and his timing was always impeccable. He’d gone, moved on, leaving the next incumbent to patch up the holes.
    His secretive nature was revealed in a number of almost furtive habits. While he was obsessive about order and cleanliness, he had a strange desire to observe people who lived in other ways. He would park his car near the City Mission where the derelicts and street people came to feed from the soup kitchen. He liked to watch, just watch. Or the lanes where prostitutes touted. If any approached the car, he would drive off immediately. Sex, or at least the practice of it, seemed not to be uppermost in his mind. Mavis could attest to this. And their home life was closed to public view. Few people had ever visited the apartment, although he’d owned it for decades and was intensely proud of its purist art deco décor. When the Treadmores entertained, which was seldom, it was always at the club. Mainly they were entertained by others. Besides, Mavis was nervous of people she didn’t know well and sometimes of those she did. Frequently she found her husband frightening, a fact which frightened her more when she registered it.
    Mrs Bonython entered the office as Sir Laurence was picking the last crumbs of the croissant from the plate. She had never fully overcome her unease in his presence despite nearly twenty years of service. ‘Mr Beaumont is here, sir. Shall I show him in?’
    The pale eyes glanced up from the newspaper. ‘Not just yet, Lois, thank you. I’m rather busy. I’ll buzz in a little while.’
    It was an uncomfortable conversation that ensued when Jack was finally ushered into the