Chapter four
The windowless room was decorated in mute autumnal colours of gentle brown and yellow pastel. Ceiling lights and tall, skinny palms alternated around the edge of the room. A fireplace on one long wall had a display of roses as centre-piece, each bloom tight and pert, bought fresh that morning. Bookcases, one either end of the room, were filled with leather-bound books buffed to a shine.
A large table dominated the room, covered in a red velvet tablecloth that draped to the floor at either end. Seven high backed chairs surrounded the table, six place settings with an ornately folded napkin and an empty glass before each one, a decanter of water within easy reach. The place setting before the seventh chair was empty, the chair itself tilted against the table.
The door opened and a heavy-set man entered the room. Bishop Reginald White. He wore a scarlet red shirt beneath a black jacket, a red dog collar with white flash at the throat, status of his office as Bishop. A jewelled gold cross swung around his midrift from a long gold chain slung around his neck. He hesitated at the empty place setting, a fleeting look of puzzlement, then continued round the table, sitting heavily into a chair accustomed to his weight, and lay his hands on his generous stomach, rubbing the gold cross with his thumbs.
A second man entered the room. David Masters. Tall and imposing, he strode into the room as if walking to a platform before an audience. He stopped at an empty place setting, brushed an imaginary crumb from the ornate napkin, and pulled the chair noisily from the table. The two regarded each other silently.
Two more men entered, the hushed conversation between them ending abruptly as they realised they were not alone. Saul Anderson and Daniel MacDonald. They sat at the table in places they had sat many times before. Anderson reached for a nearby decanter of water and poured a careful measure, placing the glass directly in front of him.
The four men sat in silence, each deep in thought. They fidgeted, they hummed, they tapped fingertips on the table.
'What's the meaning of that?' asked MacDonald, nodding toward the empty place setting. Close cropped salt and pepper hair with subtle scars and dents on his face and hands marked a military past. He unbuttoned his jacket and hooked a thumb into his beige waistcoat.
'Probably why we've been called to order at this short notice, Daniel,' White snorted.
'Do you think?' MacDonald replied coldly, pulling out a silver lighter from his waistcoat pocket and snapping it open between thick, calloused fingers.
'No smoking here,' Anderson said, peering at MacDonald through heavy lidded eyes. Puffy, purple sags of flesh under each eye gave the impression that the man had not slept in weeks.
'Do you see a cigarette, Saul?' MacDonald continued to flick the lighter open and shut.
'Just a friendly reminder.'
'Friendly, my hairy arse,' MacDonald muttered, coughing into a clenched fist.
'Is this likely to take long?' The deep, enunciated voice of Masters spoke in an utterly bored tone, 'I have more pressing matters to attend to.'
'I was called to the meeting, along with the rest of you, I'm sure.' Saul replied.
'I thought you had given up politics anyway,' White said. 'Or is that the Right Honourable David Masters. No more rallies or meetings for you. Isn't that what you said?'
'Doesn't mean I don't have better places to be,' Masters said.
'Yes and we all know what better places they may be,' MacDonald sneered.
'Erm,' White raised a finger. 'What better places are those?
'None of your business, Reginald. In fact, it's no one's business.' Masters said, looking up and away at the ceiling.
'Your public life is at an end, David,' Anderson said, 'No need to be defensive.'
'Well, maybe you need to - just a little,' MacDonald said. 'The tabloids would be mighty interested in your private life and some of the parties you throw.'
'I take it,' Masters cut the line of conversation, 'from the personal verbal attacks from you amateurs that no one is aware of the real reasons we have been called here.'
'Amateurs?' MacDonald started, but Anderson's incisive tone cut through his response. 'I can't speak for the rest of the board, but I, for one, do not know why we have been called.'
The door snapped open and a sharply dressed woman entered the room, walking to the last place setting at the table. Natalie Kelly. She was followed by a black man in a dull grey suit and thick black glasses. Peter Duvalier. He walked to the head of the table and placed a briefcase in front of him. The front of the briefcase was embossed in gold lettering, 'P. D. Duvalier'.
'Good afternoon, boys,' Kelly said, seating herself at the far end of the table. No one around the table replied.
'Lady, Gentlemen, thank you for convening at such short notice,' Duvalier addressed the table. 'I have had to call this extraordinary meeting of the board of trustees, to which I note there is full attendance.' He stood behind a chair as he talked to those seated. 'I understand that you are all busy people and I won't keep you long. I am afraid that I have some very sad news. Donald Grace, one of your fellow trustees, died yesterday.'
Duvalier removed five sealed envelopes from the briefcase and walked around the table, placing one before each of the trustees. 'I have therefore called this meeting to sign over his responsibilities and to ratify a number of issues from the past few months.'
'Donald is dead? How can that be?' the bishop asked. 'How did he die?'
'As far as we know, the Police are treating the death as suicide,' Duvalier replied. 'He was discovered on the pavement outside his Docklands office, where he was believed to have fallen to his death from his office floor window.'
'Suicide? He didn't seem to be a man prone to depression.' Anderson reached for his glass of water, sipping through thin lips. 'Was he ill, do you think?'
'These matters are best left to the Police to evaluate.' Duvalier pushed his black-rimmed glasses up the ridge of his nose, 'They are well placed to make the correct judgement.'
'Well, if he was pushed then there may have been witnesses. Perhaps the gossip hound has the scoop? What do you say, Natalie?' Masters, shot a glance at the woman at the end of the table.
'I've read the Police report,' Kelly admitted, taking hold of a glass of water and drinking it with two oval pills. 'His secretary was bringing him some water and saw him open the window, stand on the ledge and take the leap of faith. No sign of foul play.'
Anderson sighed. 'Must you suspect foul play in every little thing?'
'I'm a journalist. I'm always looking for the dark side of a story,' Kelly said.
A snort of laughter erupted from further down the table as MacDonald slapped his palm against the wood, 'You don't call that glossy tat you own journalism, do you? It's full of gossip, tripe and soap reviews. If a celebrity picks their nose, you have the scoop, in all its lurid finger-full.' He shook his head, continuing to flick his lighter open and closed.
'I didn't know Donald socially,' Anderson remained talking about their late colleague, sensing the tension spike between the two trustees. 'But he didn't seem the depressive type. Did he leave a note? Any clue as to why he should take his own life?'
'None,' Kelly glowered, refusing to rise to the barbed comments. 'Which in itself is very strange. Most people do want to leave some explanation, or message. And Donald? He had so much.'
'He will be answering for his deeds now,' the bishop added quietly.
'Very droll,' Masters picked up a pen and squeezed the thick envelope in front of him.
Each of the trustees removed the documents from their envelope and reviewed them. The next few minutes were spent in silence, watched on by the grey suited lawyer.
'And then there were five.' MacDonald coughed into his hand, sliding his completed documents into the centre of the table.
'What is the meaning of that?' White frowned.
'The meaning, if I have to spell it out to you, is that there is now a shift in the voting rights of the trust. Old allianc
es died along with dear old Donald, and the way is open for a little boardroom manoeuvring.'
The bishop gasped as the realisation dawned. 'I demand the Beijing Resolution be reconsidered and put to the directors of the board immediately.' Spittle gathered at the edges of his mouth, his face reddening as he spoke.
'Unfortunately, that is not possible.' Duvalier smoothed the papers into his briefcase. 'As you know, that resolution was put to the board and a decision reached. You will have to redraft the resolution though the normal channels.'
'But that will take months.' White shook in his chair, 'If I act quickly I can still make the investment cut-off date.'
'Reginald, old boy, I think you will find that that resolution will still not get board approval, considering that the board sits at this table. Old alliances may indeed be shifting, but you are not about to squander over one hundred million of trust funds on an ingratiating gesture to the Vatican.' Masters slowly shook his head, watching the bishop from below gorsebush brows.
'But . . . but . . .' White cast around the table, imploring each of the trustees, only to be met with a derisive stare or downcast gaze. 'This would have benefited the trust. I absolutely proved it. The portfolio is foolproof.'
'Try to see it from the board's point of view,' Anderson said. 'We are all paid a ridiculously large stipend to sit on the board as Directors. And your proposed resolution smacked a little too much of, how can I say . . .'
'. . . of ass kissing in the first order,' MacDonald completed the sentence. 'You can't expect us to sit back and watch you squander a portion of the trust.'
'No?' Natalie arched an eyebrow. 'Not when there are small wars to be funded around the world, hey Daniel.'
'That was a legitimate request for military aid and intervention.' MacDonald's heckles rose at the slight. 'And more valid than the drip feed we've plugged into your failing media empire.'
'Enough, please.' Anderson raised his hands in placation. 'We have all used the trusts resources to better ourselves and fund certain interests.'
'Now hold on,' said White, raising his head from where it lay slumped moments before, 'You can't suggest that I have attained my position in the church through the Trust? I am here through the grace of my family responsibilities, and any funds I have withdrawn from the trust have been for purely unselfish reasons!'
'Do not play the pious,' Masters felt a bite and played out the line. 'You make some well-placed donations and suddenly your favour in the church goes heavenward.'
'What utter contempt you have of my regard in the eyes of the church.'
'And what irony,' Masters said. 'If the Vatican knew how the trust was founded, perhaps they would not be so eager to accept the generosity. But let's not fool ourselves. We have all used the trust to our own ends.
'Why else do we have these hereditary Trustee positions if not to use and abuse the position,' he continued. 'After all, I'm very pleased with my position. Saul has a shiny new science lab where he can blind as many bunnies as he likes.'
'Leave me out of this.'
' . . . a magazine doesn't come cheap and old Sergeant Slaughter here can buy his private Army any time he has a nasty little insurgence.'
'So why did Donald throw himself off of a ledge?' Kelly asked. 'An attack of conscience?'
'Oh, who cares? We've come around for another signing session, learnt of the passing of a dear, old, mostly hated colleague,' MacDonald said. 'Now if we have all finished with our mutual appreciation of the passing of the stockbroker, I'm just about done.'