Digging Up Dirt

by Pamela Hart

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with her death! God alone knows the truth of that, but I’ll swear on my Bible that Australian Family had nothing to do with it!’

  He realised just too late that the phrase ‘had nothing to do with it’ could be heard two ways; did he mean her death wasn’t politically motivated or was he being defensive about someone in the party being guilty? I changed tack immediately.

  ‘Are you worried about people like Julieanne—people who don’t have a real commitment to God—taking over your party? Diluting its goals? Playing politics?’

  ‘Matthew Carter’s not going to let that happen,’ he said stoutly.

  ‘So Carter will protect the purity of the party?’

  ‘He’ll protect our ideals, ideals which the majority of people in this country share, let me tell you!’ Yeah, right. Not according to the results of the same-sex marriage survey.

  ‘How sure can your members be that another Julieanne Weaver won’t get preselection? That whoever you choose will be worthy of their trust?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how! Because we’ve given the boot to all those image mongers, those PR advisers’—he made it sound like a curse—‘who kept trying to make us like all the rest! We don’t want to be representative and progressive if it means abandoning God’s plan for us. We’ve shot that lot out the window and they won’t be coming back!’

  Before he could get launched into another election speech, I asked, ‘Is God guiding the party, pastor?’

  He smiled, suddenly relaxed. ‘I truly believe He is, yes, ma’am, but even if He’s not, the party is in good hands.’

  The wily old fox! That was a good end line, I had to give it to him. I knew Tyler would be pleased with the stuff about the PR hacks, anyway.

  After that, the interview with Stephenson and Carter was pretty bland. As expected, they announced the candidate for North Hughes, and she joined us for the last section of the interview. Carmen Broadhurst. Fifties, Anglo, greying hair cut smartly, pale blue Chanel-style suit, hazel eyes, contact lenses.

  So, they’d thrown the other main candidate overboard, then. No loss. He’d been terrible in the interview he’d done with Julieanne.

  They’d played it very smart. A woman, so they couldn’t be accused of sexism, but a widow with grown children, so they couldn’t be accused of encouraging a mother or wife to abandon her responsibilities. And she put on a good show. Intelligent but not too sharp, womanly without being too soft. She’d been in local government as an independent for a while, so she knew the ropes and she realised, by the gleam in her eye, that she was being handed a plum.

  She didn’t look like a killer to me. Then again, what did I know about killers?

  ‘Are you relieved that the fight for preselection is over?’ I asked her.

  She shrugged, her time in local government coming in handy. ‘I’ve avoided that kind of thing as an independent,’ she said, ‘but I understand how necessary it is in party politics.’

  ‘What made you join Australian Family?’ It was a Dorothy Dixer, but I was actually curious. She seemed too sane to really subscribe to some of their ideas.

  ‘I think our politicians have ignored the needs of families for too long,’ she said. ‘They need a good sharp kick, if you ask me. And Australian Family is the only party willing to deliver it.’

  Nice. Just a touch of the common people, but not enough to disturb the air of respectability.

  ‘Are you a member of the Radiant Joy Church, Mrs Broadhurst?’

  ‘No, no. I’m an Anglican.’

  Oh, very good. Anglican sounds so respectable, although, in Sydney, it stood a good chance of meaning you were hardline.

  ‘So you subscribe to Australian Family’s attitudes to women?’

  She smiled broadly. ‘As far as I can see, Australian Family’s attitude to women is that we play a crucial, undervalued role in this society and need to be supported more by government policy.’

  ‘As long as that role is limited to wifehood and motherhood?’

  ‘Those are the aspects of being a woman which are undervalued, wouldn’t you agree?’

  I just smiled and switched my approach. ‘Did you know Julieanne Weaver, Mrs Broadhurst?’

  Carter and Stephenson both opened their mouths, but she held up a hand to stop them. ‘I’d met Dr Weaver at party functions, but I can’t say that I actually knew her. I am, of course, shocked and saddened by her death.’

  Oh, she was good. Just the right note of sincerity and sorrow. She wasn’t going to put a foot wrong in this election. I thanked her for the interview and reluctantly decided that I liked Carmen Broadhurst.

  Which was more than I could say for Samuel Stephenson.

  He objected strenuously after the camera stopped filming.

  ‘Those questions weren’t in the agreement, young lady,’ he said, staring down at me as if from the heights of Mt Sinai. Did he see himself as Moses? He did have a kind of Charlton Heston look about him, all jaw and cheekbones and blazing eyes.

  I blinked ingenuously at him.

  ‘Agreement, Samuel? Oh, I don’t think my producer would have agreed to limit the scope of our interview. He didn’t tell me anything about that.’

  ‘But we understood—’

  ‘We understood that you supported our aims, Miss McGowan,’ Carter cut in.

  ‘I can’t let my personal feelings interfere with my professional responsibilities,’ I said, then I dropped my voice confidentially. ‘I think the real Daily Report people would have been a bit tougher, frankly.’

  Carter and Stephenson exchanged glances and I could almost hear their thoughts. She’s probably right, they signalled to each other.

  ‘Thank you so much for your time.’ I smiled brightly at Carter. ‘Time to get this footage back, I think.’

  Stephenson shepherded me out to the car.

  ‘You’ve never thought about standing for preselection yourself, Mr Stephenson?’ I asked while Dave and Terry loaded up the lights.

  He snorted. ‘I know my limits,’ he said. ‘I’m a good businessman, and that’s where I can be of most use to the church. I mean, the party.’

  ‘Not much difference, really, is there?’

  He was silent, a slight flush of embarrassment on his cheekbones. I could prod just one more time, I reckoned, before he snapped at me. I signalled behind my back, hoping Terry could see me, that he would start filming.

  ‘It’s about the only political party that does put religious values first,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Damn right it is! We’re the only ones prepared to state the truth, to stand up to the greenie leftie liberals who want us all to be gender neutral and have unnatural sex in front of innocent children!’

  Well. That tapped a deep spring. Eyes blazing, he stared down at me with the fervour of the fanatic. I nodded. No good arguing back at someone like that.

  Before I could figure out what to say, a woman parked her car next to us and hopped out. About Stephenson’s age, small and quick like a sparrow, dressed all in brown, sensible shoes, stockings, dress and hat. The style reminded me of my grandmother, although this woman had to be a good forty years younger.

  ‘Samuel!’ she said, her voice high and breathless. ‘You forgot your lunch.’

  Must be his wife. She came around the car and handed him an insulated lunchbox. Navy blue. Very masculine.

  Noticing me and the two men, she smiled hesitantly. ‘Hello … I’m Ruth Stephenson.’ Aha! She must be the Ruth of Ruth’s Kitchen. It was kind of nice that he’d named the business after her.

  I held out my hand. ‘Poppy McGowan.’

  She shook my hand as though it were something she didn’t do often.

  ‘Thanks, Ruth,’ Stephenson said. ‘You didn’t need to bring it up.’

  ‘Oh, it was no trouble!’ She smiled up at him sunnily, with clear devotion. ‘I was just on my way to do the shopping for the youth disco tomorrow night. I must get on. Nice to meet you, Miss McGowan.’

 
‘And you.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Stephenson said. ‘You’ll let us know when it airs?’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Dave said, ‘you’ll see the ads.’

  That didn’t seem to reassure Stephenson, but I hid my grin until he’d gone back inside the building.

  ‘Tell me you got that explosion from him,’ I said to Terry. He patted the side of his camera.

  ‘Just camera sound, but I got it.’

  I punched him on the arm in approval. ‘Yay, you. Let’s get it back.’

  Tyler was reluctantly approving of the footage. He liked the Winchester interview. He was lukewarm about the kids. He acknowledged that Carmen Broadhurst was a seasoned performer and I’d got what I could. He loved the Stephenson outburst, but wished it had been Carter who’d said it.

  ‘If we edit it right, we can put together a little montage of right wing outbursts,’ I said.

  He looked more cheerful. ‘Mmm. All right. Job done. Thanks.’

  News reporters usually worked with the editors on their own stories, but Tyler didn’t trust me that much. I escaped with relief. News really wasn’t the job for me. I didn’t like conning people into telling me more than they wanted to.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I went back to work, so I could claim the day in lieu later, and changed thankfully back into my jeans.

  But I found it hard to concentrate, and Jennifer Jay found me staring into my cold mug of tea.

  ‘How’s Luna Park coming along?’ she asked, perching her hip on the corner of my desk.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, sitting up. ‘Just tomorrow, getting interviews with some of the people who work there. Then we’re ready to cut. Have you seen the rushes?’

  She nodded. ‘Not bad. I like the empty park and the rides going without anyone in them. Might be a bit spooky for the kids, though. We’ll have to put happy music over the top.’

  It always amazed me how you could change the whole meaning of a piece of film by using the right music. I had come to terms with it—it wasn’t manipulative, I told myself, it was merely a different way of communicating. A much more effective way than words.

  The Radiant Joy Church, I reflected, was famous for using modern music to draw in new members. I wondered if Tyler had covered that side of the story. I felt a suicidal urge to call him and ask if he wanted me to cover a service, but I pushed it down. I had to schedule the rest of the shooting for the archaeology program. We couldn’t get into my house (yet), but we could shoot at the museum. I clearly needed to go there right now and do a recce. Monday was the first scheduled shooting day for that episode now Jennifer Jay had delayed the recycling episode, which I’d learnt from the big whiteboard that scheduled everyone’s movements.

  This program was all arse-about, as my grandfather used to say. Normally, I would do research, preliminary interviews, archival research, recces and so on, and then come back and write a script, and together Jennifer Jay and I would come up with a workable shooting schedule. Then I would go out with the crews, get the footage, bring it back to Jennifer Jay and she would do all the post-production, which is where images really become programs.

  In other sections of the ABC, a director would be involved with the planning and go out with the crew and literally call the shots. But in education we were cash-strapped, so we only used a director for shows where we had actors. As long as I had an experienced camera operator, I could pull a documentary together as well as a director could—as long as I had Jennifer Jay to supervise the editing, FX, music … We made a good team.

  The discovery of the sheep bones had caught me without a script ready for the archaeology program. I needed to write that script and to do that, I needed to do the research I would normally have done much earlier. The fact that I already knew the museum inside and out was irrelevant. And the fact that I might see Tol … coincidence, I assured myself. Serendipity.

  So I signed myself out on the whiteboard and headed back over the bridge, feeling oddly lighthearted, enjoying the bright skies and crisp wind off the harbour. A skywriter was working over the Opera House. He’d got as far as ‘Happy’, which probably meant a birthday greeting, but I was glad to settle for just the idea of happiness floating in the sky.

  I was parking in the museum’s visitor’s spot when my phone rang. I hurriedly pulled on the parking brake and dived for the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss McGowan? It’s Eliza Carter.’

  This was interesting. Why would she be ringing me?

  ‘Nice to hear from you,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She hesitated. ‘I wondered … you’re in contact with the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘You might say that,’ I said dryly.

  ‘Do you know—have they said who they think …’

  ‘Who they think killed Dr Weaver?’ I supplied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice breathy as though she really cared.

  ‘Sure they have,’ I said, stringing her along. Then pity overcame me. ‘They think I did it.’ My heart thumped a little, as though saying it out loud made it more real.

  ‘You! Why would they—how could they—why you?’

  I bridled at the mixture of disbelief and barely concealed contempt. I might not like the police thinking I’d killed Julieanne, but being dismissed out of hand as a suspect was strangely insulting.

  ‘I didn’t like Julieanne, you know, Eliza. And she was found in my house.’

  ‘I never thought of that … Oh, that’s—that’s wonderful!’ And she hung up. Just like that.

  Wonderful? WTF?

  Bugger that, I thought. I called Detective Chloe.

  ‘Prudhomme,’ she snapped after the first ring.

  ‘This is Poppy McGowan,’ I said. ‘Eliza Carter just asked me who you suspected. When I said it was me, she said, and I quote: “That’s wonderful!”’

  There was silence for a long moment.

  ‘She could be just relieved that her husband isn’t a suspect.’ But her voice was thoughtful.

  ‘That’s a lot of relief.’

  ‘Yes,’ Chloe said. ‘Thanks.’ She hung up. What, no one says goodbye any more?

  My stomach growled, so I rang Stuart, who worked nearby.

  ‘Lunch?’ he said, sounding harassed. ‘Sorry, I brought my lunch in from home today. If you’d given me notice …’

  Fine. If leftovers were more important than seeing me, then screw him.

  I went into the museum, grabbed a sandwich at the café, and then spent a solid hour writing up a shooting schedule for Monday. I checked out the vaults, the displays, the public spaces, the offices. I decided to use Gerry’s office for the interviews (all those bricks made great props), and organised with the curatorial assistants to have the right pieces from the collections available for filming in Annie’s office, which had the best natural light. Annie was out at a conference all day, so I abandoned the idea of a nice soothing chat with her. Tol was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Dr Lang?’ the curatorial assistant said. ‘He’s at a meeting at Sydney Uni. Something about his Jordan dig.’

  Of course. Jordan.

  Time to go home and double-check the schedule.

  I got back in the car and ten minutes later found myself, without thinking about it, on the expressway that led north-west. Right to Eliza Carter’s door. I had her address from the initial briefing Tyler’s researcher had done for me.

  I’d been expecting a McMansion, one of the huge project homes which occupied swathes of land which in my childhood had been peach and dairy farms. But no, not a one-size-fits-most house for the Carters. They lived on the top of a hill in one of the original farmhouses. At least, I assumed it was original; it had been so tarted up and tidied and painted and landscaped that I doubted its first owners would have recognised it. There was a swing set on a very green side lawn, but that was the only sign that children occupied the place.

  Patience answered the door. Maybe I’d been longer than I’d though
t at the museum. I checked my watch. No, it was still school hours, just. She looked pale, but not sick enough to be at home.

  ‘Hello!’ she said, half-pleased and half-suspicious.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Your mother called me. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Patience said, leading the way through a Vogue Living formal room. No cute farmhouse décor here, this was serious money. Carter had gone for the Oriental-antique-meets-modern-Italian look, and if a professional designer hadn’t been in charge, I’d be very surprised. I even saw a Brett Whiteley on the wall. He didn’t get that kind of money from being a member of parliament, and I wondered what slice of the church’s income came his way, and how he justified it to himself.

  The kitchen, Eliza’s domain, was another matter. Admittedly, it had every conceivable appliance in stainless steel, but it was rose pink and country styled. Corn dollies on the wall. Patchwork cushions on the window seat. Eliza Carter was at the bench, kneading dough. She had an apron on, but other than that she looked like she’d just walked out of the beauty salon. Not a smudge of flour, even. She looked less stressed than the last time I’d seen her—perhaps cooking was her hobby. Or perhaps the knowledge that I was the prime suspect was enough to bring that light to her eyes.

  I didn’t have to fake the annoyance in my voice when I said, ‘“That’s wonderful”? Why is it wonderful that the police suspect me?’

  Her hands gripped the bread dough convulsively and she stared at me. Her cheeks flushed. With shame, or anger? Anger would be more interesting. Would she abuse me for invading her home?

  But she took a deep breath and let it out again. Then another. Determined to get control of herself before she said anything.

  ‘Mum?’ Patience asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  Eliza summoned a smile. ‘Of course I am, darling. Miss McGowan just startled me.’ She turned to me, smooth as milk. ‘I was just pleased that the police had turned their attention away from the Party,’ she said. She looked down at the dough and frowned before reshaping it and beginning to knead again. ‘We’re at a crucial stage. It’s relatively easy to get one member in parliament. That’s like standing as an independent.’ She began to weave the dough into a complicated plaited loaf. ‘But once you put two candidates up, the public is more suspicious.’ She looked up and flushed again. ‘At least, that’s what my husband says.’ Shame this time, definitely, about being caught theorising about men’s business.