In the Fifth Season

  #

  On the journey north, Rob led their conversation all over the place. "I think I might look for something else when we get back," he said at one point.

  "Like what?"

  "Well, I always fancied opening up a left wing book shop, somewhere quiet like Exmouth – or maybe a place selling fishing requisites. Or why not both? Rods 'n' tackle on the right hand side, Marx 'n' Engels on the left."

  "Are you serious?"

  "No, not really. I might have been once upon a time, but this trip has reminded me how much I hate small towns, run by their little Masonic mafias. I guarantee if you scrape the surface in Exmouth you'll find some dodgy conspiracy at work."

  Toni laughed. "Been watching too much TV again, have we?"

  "Maybe. But all that business Morgan Washburn tried to sell us about Orion Park being just an idea Artemis was toying with was crap. There were full on plans for a huge property development. I should know, I signed the petition against it."

  "What?" Toni wasn't sure she him heard right. "Did you say you signed the petition?"

  "Yes. Of course I did."

  So he could still surprise her. "How could you sign the petition when you don't live in Exmouth?"

  Rob looked as puzzled as Toni felt. "I always sign petitions," he said. "In fact, I wrote on it 'Fuck off back to La La land, and leave your dollars behind'."

  "I suppose I should ask why."

  "The whole development was aimed at rich Californians looking for a nice safe bolthole once all their water has run out."

  "What?"

  "Artemis – I can't believe it was Owen – had figured out sooner or later all the water in California would be used up. So, Exmouth has more rain in a year than the Amazon jungle, and that means the one thing it's never going to run short of is water."

  "How do you know all this?" she said.

  "Owen can't keep his mouth shut, especially with you out of the room. Remember, he thinks I'm his best mate. He even told me about an abandoned mineshaft in the forest they were going to convert into a nuclear shelter. There was big money involved. I mean the standing timber is all native, and that alone is worth millions, even if they only cleared a fraction of the estate."

  "So, no bullshit," she said. "Do you think Dr Washburn killed Artemis to stop the development going ahead?"

  "Look, that does seem to be the likely conclusion to me but, if that is the case, why isn't Owen screaming bloody murder from the rooftops. Why hasn't your cute detective arrested him?"

  "He wasn't my detective."

  "OK, why haven't the police arrested him? It must have been even more obvious to them than it is to us."

  "Maybe we should go back and talk to them again. Surely, the fact that Owen is getting the proceeds must make a difference."

  Rob mulled this over. "No. The business of Owen having an interest in the policy matters to us at the Dependable because he's an employee. But we don't have proof anyone has done anything wrong beyond Owen breaching his contract. Without proof of suicide or some solid non-disclosure, we have to pay up and shut up. We can go home, forget about it and not look back." He sighed. "And I doubt whether either of us will ever come here again."

  "But I thought this was one of your favourite places," she said.

  "It was," Rob said softly, "it's all ruined for me now though."

  "Is it me? Have I ruined it all for you?"

  "In a way, I suppose, but only because you made me face up to things, maybe made me grow up a bit. And that's good."

  Toni drove on. Rob started rambling again. Once he gets home, she guesses, he probably won't speak to another sober person until Monday.

  "When you think about it," Rob said, "memory is all a lot of crap, isn't it? I don't understand why we humans ever evolved to have long-term memory. Obviously short term memory is important, for remembering where you've put your car keys – and hey–" He reached across and lightly touched Toni's knee in a gesture she knew was sexually innocent, and added, "We'd have to keep introducing ourselves every five minutes."

  Rob sat back savouring his joke. "Remembering the long past, though, what's the point of that? If I hadn't come back here now, it would have all stayed pristine in my memory, like it was when I was a kid. And I suppose that would have been a happy illusion but an illusion all the same. But one thing, coming back here has made me think about how well Chris and I got on as kids, and maybe, with the folks gone, I need to put a bit more effort in that direction – families are important, you know."

  Driving more slowly today, Toni could take in the scenery. At Exville she asked Rob if he wanted to stop. He said it was a pit and they drove on.

  "Rob, I've just thought of something. Did you tell Adam why we were in Exmouth?"

  "No. Why should he be interested in what we were doing?"

  "He might not be – but we might be interested in what he's been doing."

  "Uh?"

  "Look," she said, "you yourself said Adam grew his own dope."

  "Careful now. I was only speculating."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. But let's say he does. Do you think he might have supplied Artemis?" She waited for the inevitable 'crap' or 'bollocks'.

  Rob slapped the dashboard. "God, I bet you're right."

  Toni thought he might climb out his seat with excitement.

  "And more than that," he said, "Maia told us she'd had a terrible loss recently. She must have been a friend of Artemis."

  "Have we got time to go back to talk to them?"

  "I think we have to," Rob said and added with a straight face, "even if it means staying for another month. You could try Starboard this time. No. What am I thinking? We must try to keep on the right side of Accounts – we'll share."

  Toni laughed. "Phone Adam. And put him on the loudspeaker."

  "Yes, ma'am." Rob dug out the Five Seasons card from the sheaf of receipts in his wallet, and dialled. "Hello, Adam. It's me, Rob Hamilton – we booked out this morning."

  "Did you forget something, mate?"

  "Well, yes, in a way,” Rob said. “Adam, we never told you why we were down in Exmouth."

  "That's none of my business, mate."

  "Actually, we're from the Dependable insurance company, we're investigating the death claim for Artemis Washburn – Adam, are you still there, mate? Did you perhaps supply Artemis with any, um–"

  There was a catch in Adam's voice; then he was resolute. "Maia told me Artemis was dying of cancer. She'd had it before years ago, but she said she couldn't go through all the pain again. She knew it was going to be the end this time."

  "That's it. Oh, thanks, Adam mate. I promise this will stay between us."

  He exchanged glances with Toni. She said what they were both thinking. "But she wasn't dying, was she? She was given the all-clear after the tumour was removed."

  After this news, neither could speak for a while. Toni was first to speculate. "Owen might have been able to fix the information supporting the application so it looked as if the tumour was benign. Maybe Dr Washburn helped him."

  "No. The medical information came directly from the hospital, not from Huntly or Washburn." Rob sighed. "There is an explanation but it's not very nice." He rested his hand on Toni's, as she gripped the gear stick. "You told me Washburn was an oncologist but I didn't think about it at the time. I'm sorry, because if had, we'd probably have worked it out sooner." He pressed her wrist. "Washburn told us Artemis had been his patient before they got married. So, although she'd had the all clear for her latest tumour, if Washburn, as her oncologist who'd cured her all those years ago, could persuade Artemis the hospital was wrong, and this tumour really was malignant, perhaps he knew she'd kill herself."

  Toni turned the air con up into the red. "Oh my god, that’s so horrible."

  "Yes, it is, isn't it? But it all makes sense. If Artemis is dead, Washburn inherits Arcadia. Now he can make it into a reserve, and it will never be developed. Although Huntly loses the money he would have made on the development
, he gets compensation through the policy his company owns. Everyone's happy."

  Toni sniffed and said, "Except Artemis Inglewood Washburn – death claim."

  "Ah yes, that small detail," Rob said.

  Toni noticed how Rob took his hand from hers to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  They drove for more than twenty minutes in silence, each of them trying to come to terms with this human vileness. Eventually, Rob laughed without conviction. "Look on the bright side; you've saved your employer $2 million dollars."

  "Me?" she said. "Why me, not you?"

  "I've already got what Andy Wu wants – Owen Huntly's head on a plate. Failing to reveal his interest in the policy proceeds is an immediate sacking offence. And, if he's sacked for misconduct, he loses all rights to future commissions. The shark is basically dead in the water."

  "He'll still get the money from the policy though, won't he?" Toni said.

  "No, actually he won't. This is one declinature I'll be happy to go to court on. And if he wins in the High Court, we'll appeal it. He'll never see a cent of it. I promise you that."

  Rob held out his right hand. "Put it there, partner." Without taking her eyes from the road, Toni shook.

  "You know something, Tones?" he said. She glanced at him – only Johnny had ever called her that – but he was oblivious and added, "We make one hell of a good team. And this is going to make our Mr Wu a very happy man."

  48

  Andy was still smarting from Samantha's snapping at him. It was only the third time he'd phoned this morning to check everything was all right. But the newsletter for expectant executives he'd subscribed to had warned him that the little hostess could become unusually temperamental in the first trimester.

  "Andy." Cynthia took his jacket from the coat stand and held it open for him. "Two minutes to go. Sir Gerald has already gone through." As Andy slipped his arms into the sleeves she whispered, "Good luck," and left him.

  Andy went to the window to touch the pebbles on the air con, one by one. They wobbled but kept their position. He breathed deeply three times and pictured the directors gathered in the Dependable boardroom. Most of the non-executive directors – the retired appellate judge, the liberal professor of economics, and the dame who's a champion of worthy causes – would pass for the members of an august civic body, perhaps the trustees of a generously endowed school or a commission of inquiry. They were worthy, earnest and good. Yet Andy suspected they must all the same be secretly thrilled to be rubbing shoulders with big money, and there was no mistaking who'd claimed that. When he'd first Googled Sir Gerald Leet after the head hunters contacted him, the phrases 'ennobled carpetbagger', 'capitalism, red in tooth and claw', 'insider trader suspect' had come up several times. Andy had ignored them.

  In the boardroom, Andy greeted each of his fellow directors, and took his place to the left of Sir Gerald at the head of the boardroom table. Andy knew it would be a breeze to deal with the issues dear to the civic worthies – compliance couldn't faulted, social investment was up, cultural awareness never so alert – but he was not so sure about issues of money. And rightly so too, because soon it would become clear this meeting would not be a convivial exchange of mutual respect, a cross pollination of catholic ideas, followed by an excellent lunch. Rather, the two financiers, for whom there could be no greater concern than money, and no more heinous blasphemy than its slighting, intended to use the occasion to hold Andy Wu's arraignment, trial and, execution.

  Sir Gerald skipped the usual opening courtesies. "Let's get to the key point. I've had a brief look at the numbers, Andrew, and frankly they don't look very impressive." He turned to his right. "Michael, you've done a bit of analysis."

  On this cue, Michael piled in. First, he warned off the company secretary, with her fingers poised above the keys of her laptop, as though she were a pesky paparazza. "Don't you minute this." Then he pointed at Andy. "Have you been smoking something you shouldn't? Otherwise, I just don't get it. I mean, are you trying to wreck this company? And what's all this outsourcing to China crap? We won't have anything left of the company if we go the way you're proposing."

  With the slightest movement, Sir Gerald touched Michael's arm. Michael shoved his board papers away, and sat back in his chair, arms folded. Andy noticed a twisted wire of a vein appear at Michael's temple.

  "Mr Chairman," Andy said, "if I may talk to that point." He turned to the company secretary, smiled and said, "You may minute this". Certain he had the eye of the retired judge, he then said, "First, I can assure my fellow members of the board I am not on drugs of any description." This elicited some appreciative smiles and even a titter amongst the worthies. They were on his side but that didn't count for much. The other board members had been invited as witnesses, to make up the quorum and act as mute chorus; they would not be required to participate today.

  Andy now alternated his gaze between the Chairman and his deputy; the time for courtesy to the others was over. "Second, I wish to confirm my strategy aims for superior growth, not immediate short-term gains that cannot be sustained in the longer term. And, as a key element of this strategy, it is my contention, that, by outsourcing non-core functions, we will be freed up to concentrate our efforts on more profitable core functions." Andy wished Samantha was here to listen to him.

  For the briefest moment, Michael seemed lulled by Andy's eloquence but then said, "Profitable? Don't make me laugh. You and your gang of MBAs have wiped out any profits we might have hoped for."

  "Michael does have a point there, Andrew," Sir Gerald said, as though he were an honest broker between them.

  "With respect, Mr Chairman, I think one quarter is an unrealistically short period to judge a long-term strategy," Andy said.

  "If we give you any longer, we won't have any more quarters to report on." The vein on Michael's temple had swollen, incipiently varicose. Andy couldn't take his eyes from this throbbing embossment and a cruel thought came to him: was there any chance it might rupture and give him some respite? Not yet, and Michael continued, "I mean, have you seen our share price today?"

  "I think you'll find the whole market is down," Andy said but had forgotten the current share price. He'd meant to check market data before the meeting, instead he’d phoned Samantha. She apologised for snapping at him. She felt fine now the nausea has passed. They were pretty much settled on 'Victoria' for a girl and 'Robin' for a boy. Andy playfully asked Samantha how Robin was behaving today.

  "Victoria has been a model of good behaviour."

  Andy said nothing more. He held the receiver to his dumb, smiling mouth when he could have been checking essential financial information. Now he battled to retrieve an image of his computer screen: there were columns of prices, historical highs and lows. The numbers were in blue Courier but he can't remember whether the values were in cents or dollars.

  "No, it is not," Michael said. His eyebrows resembled two black cats arched in spitting fury. They probably made him look angrier than he really was – perhaps not. "The market is way up, and we're way down. Let me educate you about our share performance," Michael said and reached into the briefcase by his feet. His face took on a purple tinge as he bent. "I've got a slide here that plots our share price."

  Andy glanced at Michael's apoplectic head and thought, He can't be much over forty, but I wouldn't insure his life.

  As the transparency wobbled in Michael's hand, ripples of light were cast onto the table. "Do we have an overhead projector handy?" he said.

  Over there by the telex, dinosaur. "There's a digital projector built into the table." Andy said, as if helpfully. "You don't you have an electronic version do you?"

  "No, I bloody well don't." Michael stood and held up the slide. "Look here."

  There were axes with minute gradations and, hand-drawn between them, blue and red lines, closely parallel then diverging, all but unintelligible against the candy stripes of Michael's shirt and tie. "We're red, a notional composite index of quoted insurance companies is blu
e. Look, historically we're running with the pack, and, here, we're even a bit ahead but, there," Michael pointed smudging the line, "you take over, and it's all down hill." Michael flicked the evidence towards Andy.

  Blue ink from the transparency was smeared like a daub of woad on Michael's forehead. If she were here, Samantha would stare ingenuously at the mark until Andy could no longer hold his laughter in check. Instead, he said, "Research has shown that obsessing about the day-to-day share price is strategically counter productive. That's old paradigm thinking."

  Sir Gerald's mouth pursed in disapproval when he heard Andy's apparent disregard for money; it was the look of a presbyter eying a scanty collection plate. "I really think you need to make yourself clear on that point," he said. "Do I understand you right – you don't care about the share price?"

  "Not at all, Mr Chairman," Andy said. "It goes without saying that increasing shareholder value is my principal concern. Simply, in my opinion, we shouldn't compare our short term share performance with traditional insurance companies."

  "What do you think we should compare it with," Michael said, "the price of cocoa futures?"

  No one laughed.

  "I'm simply saying the market needs to understand our strategy is different from a traditional life insurer. We need to educate investors and analysts about the new paradigm we're forging and, once they understand, I'm confident the share price will reflect our real market value, with a premium, of course, for being market leaders." In the lengthening silence that followed, Andy realised his eloquence had not won over the decision-makers. Sir Gerald looked down at his papers as if in prayer. Then, oblivious to the shudder of disapproval that went around the boardroom table like a Mexican wave, Michael said, "Do you really not understand? This is not a dot fucking com start up we're talking about here, mate – it's a hundred and twenty year old institution."

  Perhaps to postpone his deputy's imminent detonation, Sir Gerald now spoke. "Yes, Andrew, we need to get something clear. The shareholder consortium invested in an established insurance company – if we'd wanted something else we would have bought that. Frankly I've lost a lot of money by investing in the Dependable under your leadership."

  "With respect, Sir Gerald," Andy said, "I hardly need to remind you that you won't lose any money unless you sell your shares."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Michael said. "Don't try to give us Finance for Dummies. We made more money before breakfast than you'll make this year."

  Andy didn't react. "May I continue, Mr Chairman? I accept the share price may have fallen – temporarily – but I repeat, I am confident our strategy will more than compensate for this setback in the medium and long term."

  Michael slipped his leash once more. "Hold on a minute. Let's get one thing straight here – whose strategy are you talking about?"

  "The strategy I have crafted for the company in conjunction with the NST."

  "What the hell's 'the nasty' when it's at home?"

  "The New Strategy Team."

  Michael shook his head and laughed. "With respect, mate, I think you'll find it's the board's prerogative to set strategy, not you and a bunch of kids wet behind the ears, straight out of business school."

  Andy felt a rising urge to punch Michael in the face, but he'd never done that to anyone before, and Michael, who had aggression in his blood as naturally as others have haemoglobin, was an unlikely candidate for his first victim.

  "I understood the board had delegated strategy to me," Andy said.

  "I'm afraid that's not my understanding, Andrew," Sir Gerald said. "Certainly, it was your call to bring in the consultants – and, of course, you are accountable for that decision."

  "I'm happy with my decision," Andy said. "I am confident we have applied bleeding edge business practices to turn the Dependable around."

  Michael pointed an accusing finger at Andy's face. "Hey, let me tell you something, sinking a company is not the same as turning it around. This is a not a computer game you're playing. It's not Sim bloody insurance company. You can't press 'new game' once you've cocked everything up. This is real life, and it's all about real money."

  An elegant voice came from the far end of the table. "And real people."

  For a moment it seemed that Michael might turn on the heckler, but Sir Gerald intervened. "Indeed, Dame Ngurua, real people too, but our current concern lies with the financial aspects of the business." He gave her a cold look, then turned back to his deputy, and said, "So, Michael, tell us what changes to strategy would you recommend?"

  Michael was clearly well prepared and could, no doubt, pull another scrappy but incontrovertible transparency from his brief case. "First of all we need to stop all this outsourcing to China crap, I mean, how the hell are we supposed to take a turn on assets when someone else has got their hands on them?"

  Andy raised his hand. "Mr Chairman, I wish to have it minuted that if the board changes the strategy I have spearheaded, I will have no option but to resign as CEO."

  "Well, that should boost the share price," Michael said with a snort.

  Sir Gerald gave his deputy a reproving glance, and lightly touched Andy's arm. "Principle is a very nice thing for a young man to have, Andrew," he said, then added, "as, of course, is a good severance package." Turning back to Michael, Sir Gerald said, "What do you think about getting Ralph Gisborne back in as a caretaker CEO, Michael, while Christopher and the boys make up their mind about buying in?"

  "He's a good man Ralph Gisborne – old school. And he knows the business inside out." Michael pondered the suggestion as though they hadn't made up their minds the day before. "And the market does always like that story about the wise old head brought out of retirement to save the company from the cowboys. Yep, that sounds good to me." Andy must have become invisible to them, because Michael added, "And we won't get any of this business school playground crap with Ralph Gisborne."

  49

  Owen Huntly sat in the same plump armchair in Morgan Washburn's study that Toni Haast had sat contemplating adultery. Owen would have liked the coincidence, had he known. He leant forward. "Here's a copy of the share transfer certificate of your interest in Artmor Investments." He slid the papers across the coffee table. "And here's the surrender of all my rights in Orion Park."

  "So we're all settled then?" Washburn said. "And this ghastly business is finally dead and buried."

  "Looks like it." Owen sat back and stretched his legs. "Pity about Orion Park, though," he added and grinned. "It really could have put Exmouth back on the map."

  "Well, you know my views on that. If I'd had my way, Exmouth wouldn't have been on the map in the first place." Washburn rose from his chair and walked to a decanter on a silver tray. "Scotch?"

  "Ok, why not? I don't pocket two mill every day."

  "Water?"

  "No, that's fine," Owen said and reached out for the tumbler. He took a sip, before he noticed that Washburn has poured himself only water. "Aren't you having one yourself?"

  "No, no, I must go down to check on the fledglings – and we both know how hazardous the cliff path can be."

  Owen thought this may be a hint about Artemis and glared at Washburn's back. Three paces across the room and with one strong fist, he could have pinned Washburn to the wall and throttled him until he spilled the beans about her death. Owen weighed up the heft of the lead glass tumbler in his hand. Right now, in one blow, this cold, scrawny man could be dead. And if he knew Washburn had killed her, he would have no choice. He would have to take revenge if he knew because when he was with Artemis he'd never looked over her shoulder at passing women. After sex he'd never imagined himself in the forest, fast after the quarry. But of course he didn't know Washburn had anything to do with her death and he didn't want to know. Artemis had called it his life force, his unstoppable urge to push on through. No one, she told him, had a life force to match his.

  Owen had led Artemis up through the forest paths to an outlook. He took off his Swanndri and spread it over
a mossy log the earth was reclaiming. He sat next to her, and looked down at the humus, aware, as she was not, of the business of death and decay taking place beneath the leaves.

  "I've killed too many animals. My heart must be dead inside me."

  "No, my love." She gripped his curls. "You are Orion the hunter. Every death has given you more life."

  Owen smiled as he remembered a particularly athletic coupling in this very room but his head dropped as he thought, I would swap every woman I've ever had just for one more night with you, Artemis – my love.

  Washburn brought Owen back from his reverie. "Did my wife ever tell you how the legend of Orion the hunter ends?"

  Owen felt uneasy. There had always been something creepy about Washburn. He'd never said a word about their affair. Perhaps, the old bugger really had poisoned the scotch. After all, it was Orion, not Artemis who died in the legend. Well, if Washburn had poisoned him, Owen would make sure there would be two bodies to be picked up.

  "No." Owen cleared his throat. "No, she didn't."

  "Pity."

  "Um, after Artemis – the goddess – found Orion's body, she turned him into some stars – that's the belt of Orion. Didn't she?" Owen said, hearing himself the trepidation in his voice.

  "Quite right, she did. That's not all, though." Washburn paused, no doubt relishing Owen's unease. "Once he became a constellation, the hunter soon recovered from his loss and spent the rest of eternity chasing the Pleiades, seven beautiful nymphs in the constellation of Taurus."

  Owen relaxed. "Only seven?" he said and broke into such a belly laugh that even Washburn couldn't resist joining in.

  50

  The soundtrack of their journey to Nelson consisted of Rob's broken talk about so many different things and Toni's distracted 'Yeahs?' and 'Reallys?' as she concentrated on the road. Near the airport, the same bird she saw on the way down hovered above the road and Rob told her it was an Australian harrier before she might ask him. They passed beneath its shadow, over fossilised road kill. From the charts on Washburn's study wall, Toni now knew the bird's name but she didn't correct him.

  Rob guested Toni into the Koru lounge and made sure they sat together on the plane but she spent most of the flight observing through the window. She had no idea if or when she might fly this way again and wanted to take everything in. It was not so clear today, but Farewell Spit, the inlets of the Sound, a ferry ploughing the strait, an imagined glimpse of Taranaki snow would inform her dreams for years to come. The clouds thickened as they approached Wellington, the sea became flecked white and winds buffeted and shunted the plane around. The fuselage was shaken as though someone was trying to break in. They were rocked in their seats, but in parallel, not touching. It would have been the most natural thing in the world to hold hands now, but they resisted the urge.

  After they’ve landed and the thought of parting became real, Rob speculated on ways to delay separation. The best he could manage was to offer Toni a ride in his taxi.

  "Thanks, but Johnny is coming to pick me up. We could give you a lift too if you like," she said, but they both know how freaky that would be and could imagine the pathetic comedy of the situation.

  "So, I'm sure we'll bump into each other tomorrow at the office," Rob said.

  "Yeah. It'll seem strange though."

  "Yes."

  "Oh, it's Friday today. So it'll only be on Monday."

  Kiss, publicly copulate, shake hands, or walk away without a sign of recognition: in the fifth season, surely they would have known the right way to part? They settled on a hug, made clumsy by their bags.

  "Rob." Toni called him back. "I was thinking. You know when your dad told you about the five seasons, well, maybe he meant you could go through five seasons in one day."

  "You mean moods?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "Maybe. Thanks – I'll think about that. Um, Toni, I need to tell you something. It was me – I was driving when my parents were killed."

  She swallowed. "I realised that."

  Toni watched Rob as he turned to look at her through the back window of the taxi. She waved, but her mind was now with her husband and their children.