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14: Plan B
Jacinta stood at the head of the boardroom table and waited, eyes locked on Malcolm. She had a majority, they didn’t need his yes vote, but it was a good politics to get it.
“This does not make up for blowing the takeover deal,” he said.
“It comes close, Malcolm,” said Henry, and she could’ve crawled down the length of the table to kiss him. She stifled her smile, but it was impossible not to imagine the shock she’d cause, and poor, proper Henry, with his mop of white hair and the crispest shirts money could buy, would’ve died of the humiliation. Still, launching into some raunchy music video action on the tabletop would be less shocking that what she was about to propose.
It’d taken most of the week to make the decision. Once Malcolm capitulated and Plan B was officially the new Plan A she’d make her move, present the facts, outline the options and suggest everyone take a weekend to think about it. A weekend during which she’d lobby each board member so hard they’d be wishing all she’d done was hands and knees it down the table, showing too much cleavage and a lot of arse.
Malcolm gave a curt nod. On the inside she punched the air.
“One more item, Mr Chairman,” she said to Henry.
“Go ahead.” Henry nodded.
“Is it necessary? It’s been a long meeting and I don’t want to keep the board from their weekend,” said Malcolm.
“I believe it is,” she said.
“Timetable whatever it is for next month, Jacinta.”
It took a second to realise Malcolm wanted out of the room, so would be offside before she even opened her mouth, but this wouldn’t hold a month, it might not hold the weekend. “It won’t wait.”
“If it was so urgent why didn’t you notify the board of a new issue?”
“I should’ve done that.” Better to give Malcolm a point scored. “To be honest I’ve been wrestling with it.”
“Wrestling?” said Henry.
“It’s a moral dilemma for me and I believe it will be for you as well.”
Malcolm closed his leather binder. “We can do moral dilemmas next month or never.” He stood up.
Henry’s hand shot out. He was playing his role well. She might not have added the issue to the agenda, but she wasn’t stupid enough to shanghai the chairman. “Malcolm, wait. Unless you have pressing personal business, I’d like to hear this.”
Malcolm sat. The idea that he might let anything personal interfere with business was such an anathema to him, he had no alternative but to capitulate. “Of course, Henry, as you wish.”
Fourteen pairs of eyes turned back to her. At least half the board were appointees Malcolm had manipulated into the role. He was assured of their support. Fortunately Henry was no one’s puppet. She passed a single sheet of paper around. On it was a diagram of Wentworth core businesses, subsidiaries, majority shareholdings and minority interests. It was a familiar graphic. What was different was the overlay that showed the links to the marathon bomber, right the way down to his empty savings account.
“What is this?” Malcolm snapped. He was last to take a page as the pile passed the other way around the table, and first to react. “A joke?”
“Roger Kincaid was a troubled man. And in no way am I suggesting his crime is anything but abhorrent. I am—”
Malcolm stood up. “Wasting our time.”
“I believe you’re suggesting there is a link, however tenuous, between our businesses and this man’s actions,” said Henry.
“That’s right.”
“It might as well be science fiction, Henry,” said Malcolm.
“It’s real.”
Malcolm tore the page in half. “Only in this room.”
“It would not take a good journalist long to discover this,” said Constance Graves, the one female member of the board, no friend of Jacinta’s but no toady of Malcolm’s either. She’d been the CEO of a rival bank for years. The media called her The Undertaker, a play on her name and her utter lack of either warmth or humour.
“Any substance to that?” Henry asked.
