That was as far as I got. ‘Jesus,’ cut in Keogh, irritably. ‘Every man and his dog in on it now, are they? Tell Agnelli not to be so damn impatient. A day or so isn’t going to make any difference. If we withdraw the term deposits before maturity there’ll be penalties. As to the cash account balance of ’-he shuffled some papers around-‘of $207,860, that was invested in Obelisk Trust on Friday afternoon, just as Angelo instructed. Tell him he’ll have to be satisfied with that for the time being.’
My new chair was ergonomically correct, but that didn’t stop me nearly falling out of it. In itself, the idea of getting a better rate of return on party savings was a good idea. Dickhead Duncan should have done it himself, months ago. And if Obelisk paid the best rate, so much the better. Keep it in the family. But a 6 per cent boost in interest wouldn’t fill the coffers to the extent Angelo had been talking about. If he was moving this fast on basic housekeeping matters, what was he doing on the door-knocking front? What favours was he offering where the big donations were to be found?
As I struggled to digest what Keogh had just told me, Agnelli himself appeared at my door. He pulled his cuff back and tapped the face of his wristwatch. ‘Veale’s briefing,’ he mouthed. ‘Coming?’
‘Angelo’s here with me now,’ I said down the phone. ‘I’m sure he appreciates your efficiency.’ Abruptly hanging up, I made a face like a man who’d just disposed of a nuisance. Agnelli, leading off in the direction of the conference room, showed no interest in who I’d been talking to.
The Briefing-of-the-Incoming-Minister ceremony was a text-book exercise. Veale and a brace of deputy directors laid bare the ministry’s policies, resources and processes in a professional and lucid manner. Agnelli nodded sagely throughout. I took notes. ‘Any questions?’ said Veale, after an hour.
The question I most wanted to ask Veale remained unasked. The mystery of Giles Aubrey’s phone call would have to wait for a more appropriate occasion. I asked a few little ones instead, just to show I was on the ball. About the Library Services Review Working Party and the International Festival Economic Impact Task Force. About the advisory panels that recommended grants. I picked one at random. ‘The Visual Arts Advisory Panel, say. What’s the procedure governing selection and appointment of members?’
‘Individuals with expertise are nominated by the panel chairperson.’ One of Veale’s deputies answered for him. ‘Subject to the minister’s approval, of course.’
Which would be given without a second thought. No minister had the time or inclination to vet the membership of the hundred and one committees needed to keep a healthy bureaucracy ticking over. He or she was guided by the judgment of the relevant chairperson. In this case, Lloyd Eastlake.
That about wrapped up the briefing. Ange took me into his office and spread a copy of the tabloid Sun across his desk. ‘Seen this?’ he demanded.
I’d scanned the newspapers over breakfast and found nothing about the floater in the moat. For one dreadful moment I thought I’d missed something, that Agnelli was about to bore it up me for dereliction of duty. But he had the paper open at a section I never bothered to read, the social page. New cultural supremo Angelo Agnelli lends his presence to charity bash in aid of the Centre for Modern Art, said the caption. The photograph showed Ange standing between Max Karlin and Fiona Lambert, Our Home in the background.
‘How’s that for an auspicious start?’ glowed the new supremo. ‘Lining me up with Max Karlin was one of your better ideas.’
For a moment, I was tempted to inform Agnelli that I’d overheard his conversation with Duncan Keogh, that I knew he’d ordered the investment of a fair whack of the party’s fighting fund in Obelisk Trust. State my concerns and do my best to convince him that he was headed into dangerous waters. But my years of handling Agnelli had taught me that direct contradiction was a tactic unlikely to succeed. You can’t push on a rope, I reminded myself.
‘Nothing about corruption in high places, I see.’ Agnelli cast yet another admiring glance at his photograph and closed the paper. ‘Looks like that body in the moat business is dead in the water.’
The press was quiet on the subject, I admitted. ‘At the moment.’
‘Speaking of water,’ Agnelli went on. ‘I’m off on an inspection and orientation tour of catchment resources and storage facilities. The Water Supply Commission is laying on a helicopter. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.’ A joy ride into the hills, in other words. Come lunchtime, he’d be assessing the water quality of Lake Eildon from a pair of water-skis behind the official reservoir-inspection vehicle. ‘Think you can see to it that the wheels don’t fall off the Arts while I’m gone?’
Bugger the Arts, I thought. With Agnelli out of the office, the coast would be clear to escape and make the most of what little time Red and I still had together. It could be months before I saw my boy again. ‘I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy,’ I said.
‘Not too busy to write a speech for me, I hope,’ said Agnelli. ‘I see from the diary I’m booked to open some art exhibition at the Trades Hall tomorrow evening.’ By profession, Angelo was a lawyer. Early in his career, he’d specialised in industrial accident compensation cases and he still saw himself as the worker’s friend. ‘I’d like to say something about ordinary working people enjoying the benefits of high culture,’ he instructed. ‘And put in lots of jokes.’
I’d just fed Agnelli into the lift with my assurance that his speech would be a masterpiece when Phillip Veale’s secretary buttonholed me in the foyer and told me the Director would like a word. Veale looked up from behind his paperwork with the unfussable equanimity of a kung fu master. ‘Shut the door, please, Murray.’
When I turned back, he was perching on front of his desk, pinching the crease at his knee so the action of sitting down did not abrade the fabric of his trousers. ‘The minister was satisfied with this morning’s little show and tell, do you think?’
‘A polished performance,’ I admitted. ‘It will be interesting to see the impact of Angelo’s plans for a comprehensive organisational restructure.’
Veale acknowledged my little drollery with a sigh of resignation. Another minister, another restructure. At the briefing, he had been genial but proper. No ironic inflections, no knowing asides. A man with a finely honed sense of the correct demeanour. Now, pressing his fingertips together, he assumed an attitude of hesitation, as if pondering the most tactful approach to a ticklish issue. He let me share his equivocation for a moment. ‘A word of advice,’ he began, feeling his way. ‘If I may be permitted?’
Sure, I indicated. Fire away.
‘As a relative newcomer to the administration of the Arts, you, no doubt, will be learning the ropes for some time. And you will, I fully understand, be keen to cultivate diverse sources of information. In doing this, it would be wise to keep in mind just how small and incestuous the arts world can be. Egos are involved, many of them remarkably fragile. Hidden agendas abound. Insinuation and gossip proliferate.’
So far, he wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t reasonably be expected to know already. I wondered where this little chat of ours was going.
Veale got to the point. ‘Giles Aubrey rang me on Saturday. He told me that you had approached him seeking information of a confidential and sensitive nature. He enquired as to your official status. I told him that you were a member of the Arts Minister’s staff.’ One of several, the inflection suggested. Not necessarily an important one.
He paused, expecting that I might want to explain myself. Instead, I had a question. ‘Did he tell you what I wanted to talk to him about?’
A chastising tone entered Veale’s voice. ‘As I told you, Giles and I knew each other quite well, at one time. But it’s been some time since we’ve spoken and I, for my part, had no wish to encourage further conversation. Frankly, I found it hard to understand what you hoped to gain by subjecting yourself to the gossip and insinuation of anyone as notoriously self-serving as Giles Aubrey.’