Читать книгу The Snow Tiger - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 15

The participants of the hearing flooded on to the pavement of Armagh Street and began to disperse. Dan Edwards, heading rapidly beerwards, stopped when Dalwood said, ‘Who is the tall redhead talking to Ballard? The girl with the dog.’

Edwards craned his neck. ‘Good God! Now what the hell goes on there?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Liz Peterson, the sister of Charlie and Eric.’

Dalwood watched Ballard pat the Alsatian and smile at the girl warmly. ‘They seem on good terms.’

‘Yes – bloody funny, isn’t it? Charlie has got his knife so deep into Ballard that he’s in blood up to his armpit. I wonder if he knows Liz is fraternizing with the enemy?’

‘We’ll soon know,’ said Dalwood. ‘Here come Charlie and Eric now.’

The two men came out of the building, unsmiling and exchanging monosyllables. Charlie looked up and his face became thunderous. He snapped something at his brother and quickened his pace, elbowing his way through the crowd on the pavement. At that moment a car drew up and Ballard got into it and when Charlie reached his sister Ballard had gone. Charlie spoke to his sister and an argument seemed to develop.

Edwards watched the by-play, and said, ‘If he didn’t know he does now. What’s more, he doesn’t like it.’

‘And the dog doesn’t like Charlie. Look at it.’

The Alsatian’s upper lip was curled back in a snarl and Liz Peterson shortened her grip on the lead and spoke sharply to it.

Edwards sighed. ‘Let’s get that beer. The first one will hiss going down.’

Mike McGill was driving the car. He slanted an eye at Ballard and then returned his attention to the road. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Your evidence was good. Very concise.’

‘Rolandson helped; he fed me some good lines. He makes a good straight man to my comedian. You didn’t do too well, though.’

‘I’m doing all right.’

‘Wake up, Ian! That son of a bitch, Rickman, is going to deliver you bound and gagged if you don’t stop him.’

‘Save it, Mike,’ said Ballard shortly. ‘I’m too bloody tired.’

McGill bit his lip and lapsed into silence. After ten minutes he swung off the road and parked in the forecourt of their hotel. ‘You’ll feel better after a cold beer,’ he said. ‘It was goddam hot in that courthouse. Okay?’

‘All right,’ said Ballard listlessly.

They went into the hotel bar and McGill ordered two beers and took them to a discreet table. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’ He drank and gasped with pleasure. ‘God, how I needed that!’ He replenished his glass. ‘That courthouse is sure some place. Who designed it – Edward the Confessor?’

‘It’s not a courthouse – it’s a sort of provincial House of Parliament. Or it was.’

McGill grinned. ‘The bit I like about it are those pious texts set in the stained glass windows. I wonder who thought those up?’ In the same even tone he said, ‘What did Liz Peterson want?’

‘Just to wish me well.’

‘Did she?’ said McGill sardonically. ‘If she really meant it she’d operate on that brother of hers with a sharp knife.’ He watched the condensation form on the outside of his glass. ‘Come to think of it, a blunt knife might be better. The Peterson lawyer was really sniping at you this morning.’

‘I know.’ Ballard took another draught. It seemed to do him good. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mike. You and I know the evidence is on our side.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said McGill flatly. ‘Evidence is how a lawyer puts it – and talking about lawyers, what about Rickman? You know what he did to you this morning, don’t you? He made it look as though you were trying to renege. Hell, everyone in that hall thought you were trying to slip the country.’

Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘I said something to Rickman just before the hearing opened, and he got it wrong, that’s all.’

‘That’s all? That’s not all – not by a thousand miles. A smart guy like that doesn’t get things wrong in a courtroom. If he got it wrong then he meant to get it wrong. What did you say to him, anyway?’

Ballard took out his wallet and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I was leaving the hotel this morning when I got this.’ He passed it to McGill. ‘My grandfather’s dead!’

McGill unfolded the cablegram and read it. ‘Ian, I’m sorry; I really am.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘This Harriet – is she your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘She wants you to go home.’

‘She would,’ said Ballard bitterly.

‘And you showed this to Rickman?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he got up on his hind legs and, by inference, demonstrated that you are a coward. Hell, Ian; he’s not representing you! He’s representing the company.’

‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

McGill regarded Ballard and slowly shook his head. ‘You really believe what the Chairman of the Commission said, don’t you? That all they want is to get at the truth. Well, that may be what Harrison thinks but it’s not what the public want. Fifty-four people died, Ian, and the public want a scapegoat. The President of your company knows …’

‘Chairman.’

McGill waggled his hand. ‘To hell with semantics. The Chairman of your company knows that, too, and he’s making goddam sure the company isn’t the goat. That’s why he’s employed a sharp cookie like Rickman, and if you think Rickman is acting for you then you’re out of your mind. If the company can get out from under by sacrificing you then that’s what they’ll do.’

He thumped the table. ‘I can write the scenario right now. “Mr Ballard is new to the company. Mr Ballard is young and inexperienced. It is only to be expected that so young a man should make unfortunate mistakes. Surely such errors of judgment may be excused in one so inexperienced.”’ McGill leaned back in his chair. ‘By the time Rickman is finished with you he’ll have everyone believing you arranged the goddam avalanche – and the Petersons and that snide lawyer of theirs will fall over themselves to help him.’

Ballard smiled slightly. ‘You have great powers of imagination, Mike.’

‘Oh, what the hell!’ said McGill disgustedly. ‘Let’s have another beer.’

‘My round.’ Ballard got up and went to the bar. When he came back he said, ‘So the old boy’s dead.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, Mike, it hit me harder than I thought it would.’

McGill poured more beer. ‘Judging by the way you talked about him, I’m surprised you feel anything at all.’

‘Oh, he was a cantankerous old devil – stubborn and self-opinionated – but there was something about him …’ Ballard shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What happens to the parent corporation … what’s it called?’

‘Ballard Holdings.’

‘What happens to Ballard Holdings now he’s dead? Is it up for grabs?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. The old man established a trust or something like that. I never really got the hang of it because I knew I wouldn’t figure in it. I imagine that things will remain pretty stable, with Uncle Bert and Uncle Steve and Uncle Ed running things pretty much as they are now. Which is to say badly.’

‘I don’t see why the shareholders put up with it.’

‘The shareholders don’t have a bloody thing to do with it. Let me tell you a fact of financial life, Mike. You don’t really need fifty-one per cent of the shares of a company to control it. Thirty per cent is enough if the other shares are fragmented into small parcels and if your lawyers and accountants are smart enough.’ Ballard shrugged. ‘In any case, the shareholders aren’t too unhappy; all the Ballard companies make profits, and the kind of people who are buying into Ballard companies these days aren’t the type to inquire too closely into how the profits are made.’

‘Yeah,’ said McGill abstractedly. This was not really of interest to him. He leaned forward and said, ‘Let’s do some strategy planning.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been figuring how Harrison’s mind works. He’s a very logical guy and that works in our favour. I’m going to give evidence tomorrow about the meeting with the mine management. Why me?’

‘Harrison asked if you’d been present during the entire meeting – and you had. He picked you because you were already on the stand and it was quicker than calling another witness. That’s what I think, anyway.’

McGill looked pleased. ‘That’s what I think, too. Harrison said he’d take evidence in chronological order, and he’s doing just that. Now what happened after the mine meeting?’

‘We had the meeting with the town council.’

‘And what will Harrison ask me?’

‘He’ll ask if you were present during the whole of that meeting – and you’ll have to say no, because you left half way through. So?’

‘So I want to pick the next witness, and knowing how Harrison’s mind works, I think I can swing it.’

‘Who do you want for the next witness?’

‘Turi Buck,’ said McGill. ‘I want to get on record the history of Hukahoronui just to ram things home. I want to get on record the sheer stupidity of that goddam town council.’

Ballard looked broodingly into his glass. ‘I don’t like doing that to Turi. It might hurt.’

‘He wants to do it. He’s already put himself forward as a voluntary witness. He’s staying with his sister here in Christchurch; we’ll pick him up tomorrow morning.’

‘All right.’

‘Now, look, Ian. Turi is an old man and may be likely to become confused under hostile cross-examination. We’ve got to make sure that the right questions are asked in the right order. We’ve got to cover the ground so thoroughly that no one – not Lyall nor Rickman – can find a loophole.’

‘I’ll make out a list of questions for Rickman,’ said Ballard.

McGill rolled his eyes skyward. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick skull that if Rickman questions Turi it will be in a hostile manner.’

Ballard said sharply, ‘Rickman is representing me and he’ll follow my instructions.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘If he doesn’t then I’ll know you’re right – and that will free me completely. We’ll see.’ He drained his glass. ‘I feel sticky; I’m going to have a shower.’

As they left the bar McGill said, ‘About that cablegram. You’re not going back, are you?’

‘You mean running home to Mamma?’ Ballard grinned. ‘Not while Harrison is Chairman of the Commission. I doubt if even my mother could win against Harrison.’

‘Your mother isn’t Jewish, is she?’ asked McGill curiously.

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, it’s just that Jewish mothers are popularly supposed to be strong-willed. But I think that your mother could give a Jewish mother points and still win.’

‘It’s not a matter of a strong will,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘It’s just straightforward moral blackmail.’