A Woman of Courage Page 6

  ‘Should we care?’

  ‘We might. For example, you might think it useful to know that Haskins Gould is back in town.’

  ‘I’d hoped we’d seen the last of him. Where’s he been hiding?’

  ‘Zurich is what I hear. Got some deal with the Stanislaus Bank. You remember? They were in with that crowd in the Bahamas.’

  ‘Mortensen Associates? They’re as crooked as a dog’s hind leg!’

  ‘Naturally. And the buzz is he’s got a couple of bottom-of-the-harbour schemes on the go as well.’

  ‘You couldn’t keep Haskins down with lead boots,’ Hilary had said. Although heaven knew she’d done her best. ‘Next time I’ll use six-inch nails on the coffin lid.’

  ‘Might be wise,’ Desmond had said. ‘He was letting fly only yesterday.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘I was at the next table but Haskins always likes the world to know what he’s thinking.’

  ‘What he says he’s thinking.’

  ‘This time he meant it.’

  Hilary was amused, or sort of. ‘Talking about me, was he?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Nothing complimentary, I’ll bet.’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said, and I quote, “I’m gunna bring that effing bitch down if it’s the last thing I do.”’

  ‘Effing? Did he really say that? Haskins never used to be so delicate in his language, as I recall.’

  ‘They come down hard on language at Cavaliers.’

  Hilary smiled. ‘That must inhibit him.’

  ‘Something else I heard him say: “I am a lion in ambush.”’

  Hilary laughed. ‘Lion? Haskins? More like hyena, I’d say. Should I be worried?’

  ‘I doubt it. Won’t hurt to keep an eye on him, though.’

  Hilary would not have been seen dead in Cavaliers, the lunch club where the champagne was imported and your status depended on whether the maître d’ condescended to take your order himself, but Desmond was the best in his business so she was prepared to tolerate his ways. In truth he was right: signals in the corporate world were always useful, however you got them.

  ‘I would like Desmond to sit in,’ she said now. Hilary turned to the young woman who was standing by her desk, dark eyes alert. ‘Morning, Janet. Please ask Mr Bragg to join us in five minutes. Bring us some coffee and hold all calls until I tell you. Martha, I want you to sit in as well.’

  Vivienne and Martha on her heels, she walked into her inner sanctum and closed the door.

  ‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ she said. ‘Vivienne, you’d better tell us what’s going on.’

  She listened, fingertips joined, face expressionless, as Vivienne obliged.

  It was a sorry saga. Acquiring Channel 12 had meant taking over the contractual baggage that came with it. Part of this had been a deal with the Lennox brothers, a two-man team in Hong Kong who had persuaded Channel 12’s previous proprietor they had an in with top Chinese officials that would enable 12 to set up its own operation in mainland China. Do that and they would be making money by the bucketload. Of course there were problems; the brothers had been disarmingly honest about the difficulties they faced in winning approval for a foreign-owned station in China and the time frame in which this could come about but 12’s management, which in those days had liked to flex its corporate ego by chucking other people’s money around, had gone along for the ride. One of the major considerations, predictably, had been the need for what they called seed money and how it could be used to eliminate what might otherwise be insurmountable problems. Channel 12 had entered into an arrangement to pay the Lennoxes two hundred and fifty grand a month to grease palms in what the brothers claimed was an unavoidable part of the commercial process in the People’s Republic.

  Hilary had been sceptical about the arrangement but had gone along because the legal costs of breaking the contract would have been gigantic. However, two years on there was still no sign of the promised bonanza and she had appointed Cheu Mun Kwong, a Hong Kong enquiry agent, to initiate enquiries. Now he had emailed a twenty-page report, which Vivienne placed on Hilary’s desk.

  ‘You need to read this,’ she said.

  Hilary looked askance at the bulky document. ‘Tell me the gist of it.’

  ‘It’s a crock,’ Vivienne said.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re down six million bucks.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come…’

  Janet brought in the coffee. Hilary gave her trademark smile. ‘Any chocky biscuits?’

  ‘I’ll get some.’

  ‘And another cup for Mr Bragg.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Vivienne said. ‘I think the whole thing is a fraud.’

  ‘Can we prove it?’

  ‘Mr Cheu thinks he can.’

  ‘Then maybe we should tell him to do that. And get the police on to it as well,’ Hilary said.

  ‘I think there could be a better way,’ Martha said.

  The other women looked at her.

  ‘How?’ Vivienne asked. ‘If Hilary is down six million…’

  Her voice was not exactly unfriendly but not warm either. It was unsurprising. Hilary said nothing, her eyes moving between her two subordinates. Different though they were, they complemented each other and she had the highest regard for them both. They were both senior directors but only one could expect to step into her shoes when the time came. Maybe neither – that would be Hilary’s decision – but a measure of rivalry was inevitable between two such high-flyers.

  ‘But is she?’

  ‘The agent seems to think so, if you read his report.’

  ‘All I am suggesting is there may be a way to turn this loss to our advantage.’

  The hint of a curled lip. ‘To get our money back? I doubt there’s much chance of that.’

  ‘Not recover the money, no. But maybe use the problem to obtain some other benefit?’

  ‘Get back to me on that,’ Hilary said.

  The door opened; Desmond Bragg was not a man to knock. He came into the room. ‘Here I am. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Sit down, Desmond. Vivienne, tell him what you’ve just told us.’

  Desmond listened. Physically he was a slob but his mind was a razor. When Vivienne had finished he smiled, teeth sharp in the soft face. ‘If it stinks like a skunk…’ he said.

  Hilary nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘How did Willy Montgomery get himself suckered into a deal like this?’ he wondered.

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Hilary said. ‘What matters is what we do about it.’ She pressed the conference button on her telephone. ‘Come in please, Janet.’

  The dark-eyed young woman opened the door. Hilary handed her the enquiry agent’s report. ‘Four copies of this document, if you please. Priority and confidential. Quick as you can.’ Hilary turned to the others. ‘Go through it line by line. I want your recommendations on my desk by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll meet at nine-fifteen and decide what we’re going to do. Now, what else is on the agenda?’

  ‘You have a finance committee meeting at three,’ Vivienne said.

  ‘Reschedule it to five-thirty. Martha and Vivienne, I want you to stay back so we can talk about what’s been happening while I’ve been away. Desmond, please send me up your report on what Channel 12 has been up to. And copy me your suggestions on the programming schedules for the next three months. Soon as you can, all right? We’ll discuss them after tomorrow’s meeting.’

  They heard the authority in Hilary’s voice. After her Asian walkabout, the boss was back and, by the sound of her, ready for war.

  Vivienne and Desmond had both adopted Martha’s name for her and all used it now.

  ‘Yes, towkay neo.’

  TEMPTATION

  Jennifer’s plane was on time. She retrieved her bag from the carouse
l and walked out of the terminal, looking hopefully to see if Mother had sent a car for her, but there was nothing. Why would she have expected anything else?

  There were plenty of taxis but the trip into town set her back a packet and she knew Davis would not be happy about that. Too bad, she told herself. These days Davis was seldom happy about anything but after her meeting with Anthony Belloc that troubled her less than it might have done before.

  The taxi drew in beneath the hotel portico. She paid the driver; a uniformed porter took her case from the boot; she climbed the steps into the imposing entrance hall and walked to the reception desk. Members of the hotel staff smiled politely, waiting to do her bidding. It was a refreshing change from how she was treated at home and she was determined to make the most of it. Anthony Belloc had also treated her with respect and – yes! – a measure of admiration. Having coffee with a friend in the middle of the day was hardly a hanging offence – but Davis would have hated it and the thought pleased her. A delightful rebelliousness stirred her blood as it had not been stirred for a long time.

  With her room door closed behind her she sat on the king-sized bed, kicked off her shoes and stared about her with pleasure. She got up and inspected the marble-tiled bathroom, checked the goodies in the bar fridge, looked at the magazines displayed on the little desk.

  She looked at her watch. Six o’clock. She unpacked; daringly she raided the fridge and helped herself to a miniature bottle of scotch; she undressed and snuggled into the luxurious bath robe she had found hanging in a cupboard; she sipped the whisky from a crystal goblet as she waited for the bath to fill; she poured in one of the essences she found on the bathroom shelf; she shed her robe and lay back in the steaming water. Bliss…

  Dreamily drifting, half-asleep, she thought back to that morning’s meeting with Anthony Belloc.

  He had chosen a side-street coffee bar where she had never been. She was glad of that; there was little chance of being spotted by anyone who knew her. She giggled drowsily; she had always had a weak head for spirits and as a result seldom dared touch them; now the whisky fumes swirled in her head as she thought what Davis would say if he had any idea his wife had been consorting over coffee and delicious cakes with another man – and one of his firm’s clients, at that!

  The giggle deepened to a laugh. She tipped in the last of the scotch, telling herself she should have told Anthony what Davis had called him. My husband says you’re a crook. She decided he would have laughed too. He might have asked whether being a crook made any difference to Jennifer’s friendship with him.

  ‘Not friendship,’ she announced to the steam-filled bathroom. ‘More like lust.’ And laughed even more heartily than before.

  It was amazing what a hot bath and a glass of whisky could do. She thought of her husband without affection. She knew in her mind she was being unfaithful to him. So what? Exactly what he deserved. Davis was a bully. Davis did not appreciate her. Anthony Belloc, on the other hand…

  A passing fantasy made her breasts tingle: of Anthony taking her in his strong arms, naked as she was, and telling her how precious, how truly wonderful, she was. She did not allow herself to pursue the vision but it created in her a moisture and warmth that had nothing to do with the bathwater. Which in any case was beginning to cool.

  She got out, towelled herself dry and dabbed herself here and there with perfume. It was strange how the thoughts she’d had in the bath – foolish daydreams with no foundation in the real world – made her fingers more sensitive to the tenderness of her skin. More than that: to the hopes, fears and desires that flowed like blood through the flesh beneath.

  She put on the towelling robe, inspected the fridge and found a second whisky miniature. Did she dare? She decided yes, she did. She unscrewed the cap, emptied the contents into a fresh goblet and carried it with her to the armchair closest to the window. It was seven o’clock and would be full daylight for another hour yet she could see lights shining in some of the rooms of an adjacent hotel. She could see no one in those rooms but had no way of knowing whether the occupants, if any, could see her.

  A thought struck her, so startling she could barely believe it had entered her head. She wondered what any unseen watchers would think if she stood up now – she did so – went close to the window – she did so – stripped off her towelling robe and stood there in the window for the world to see. Stark naked, free of constraints and unashamed. Defiant. Here I am. See me for what I am.

  She would never do it, of course. She took a mouthful of scotch and laughed, shaking her head. Never in a million years… Her hand toyed with the towelling belt that secured the robe. One gentle pull… Her fingers tightened.

  The telephone rang.

  Jennifer paused, caught in the moment that divided fantasy from reality. The tension that until that moment had tightened every sinew relaxed. For an instant she staggered, barely able to stand. Then she turned back into the room and picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Lander. Hilary asked me to check that you were safely booked in.’

  It was that Chinese woman who worked with her mother. Martha something. ‘Please tell Mrs Brand I am fine.’

  ‘I shall indeed.’

  Jennifer detected something in the voice. Surely the girl was not laughing at her?

  ‘The Seven Stars at eight-thirty,’ the Chinese woman said. ‘Hilary –’ was there the tiniest emphasis on the first name? – ‘asks me to say we’ll send a car to pick you up. Eight-fifteen. Is that OK?’

  ‘That will be fine.’ She spoke clearly, separating each word so the woman would be able to understand. Perhaps the whisky might have had an effect also.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Lander? You sound –’

  ‘I am fine,’ Jennifer said. ‘Perfectly fine.’

  And put down the phone.

  Nearly did a strip tease in front of half Sydney but nothing to worry about. Just losing my mind, that’s all.

  Perhaps that second whisky had been a mistake. She decided she would lie on the bed for half an hour to help clear her mind for the evening ahead.

  She did so. She dozed – something she had warned herself not to do – and it was ten past eight when she came to with a headache and a foul taste in her dry mouth.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ said Jennifer.

  She brushed her teeth, which helped a little but not enough. She inspected her unpleasantly red eyes and put in some drops, hoping they would do the trick. She was getting dressed when once again the phone rang.

  ‘Reception here, Mrs Lander. Your car is waiting for you.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be down directly.’

  She slapped on make-up, stepped into her dress and forced her feet into too-tight shoes. Ten minutes later than intended, she took the lift to the ground floor.

  Sitting in the rear of the big Mercedes – black as night and shining like the moon – she watched as the driver manoeuvred her way through the traffic. A woman driver; trust Mother to do things differently. Jennifer drew a deep breath and tried to collect herself. She asked herself whether she would have the courage to carry out the favour that Anthony Belloc, smiling at her across the coffee-shop table that morning, had asked.

  ‘It’s a simple enough question,’ he had said. ‘A loving daughter’s natural concern. Who could take exception to that?’

  She had said nothing at the time but now permitted herself a cautious grimace. Who could take exception? Mother could; she had never welcomed anyone prying into her affairs.

  The car came down the hill towards the harbour, the sails of the Opera House luminescent in the darkness, and Jennifer had another thought. How typical of Mother not to send someone to meet her at the airport but arrange a car to bring her to the restaurant. Jennifer might have wanted to walk or pop into a shop or two – anything. But no. Mother had to have her way even in this. It wasn’t good enough.

  Was it the whisky that had given her this sudden feeling of independence? I
t was certainly an unfamiliar frame of mind for someone who as long as she could remember had been treated as a doormat by just about everybody, but did her new-found courage excite her or scare her half to death? Or both?

  Confused and apprehensive, Jennifer sat on the edge of her seat as the vehicle drew to a stop in front of the Seven Stars.

  The uniformed driver got out and opened the car door. Jennifer stepped out into the warm night air and saw her sister crossing the car park.

  DEFIANCE

  1

  At the studio Sara spent the morning developing that night’s stories. She liked to come in hard at the start of her interviews, pose a question designed to rock the person being interviewed. She always spent time working on that and on a choice of follow-up questions depending on the initial response. She thought of it as polishing her sabre. That night her first interview was with the professor whose recent statements implied that politics could justify rape. She checked out his biography and the sensationalist utterances that over the years had become his trademark. God, he was a snake: but their sort of snake, at least in Millie’s view.

  ‘He’s by way of being a mate,’ Millie said. ‘So go easy on him, OK?’

  No way, Sara thought. Opinions like that could not possibly be justified. She was not going to let him off the hook, whatever Millie might say. Her opening question laid out the battlefield. Professor Wilkins, do you believe that murder of the innocent is justifiable? Whether he answered yes or no, she’d got him. Because rape was murder of the soul, was it not, and could never be justified by any society that had the remotest claim to being civilised. Professor Wilkins, a man, trying to justify the gang rape of Sydney teenagers? She would take him apart.

  If Millie didn’t like it, tough. Because Leanne, Sara’s best friend, had been raped on her way to Sara’s fifteenth birthday party. Her attacker had never been caught and Leanne had never recovered. Twelve months later she had walked under a bus.