Digging Up Dirt

by Pamela Hart

  ‘How did Julieanne twig to it?’

  ‘It’s on the next page,’ I said. Chloe flipped and read, but I explained anyway, in case the jargon was impenetrable. ‘She was collecting information about Gerry’s management flaws, so she followed up on the fact that there weren’t any formal letters from the other institutions requesting the items.’

  ‘Probably thought he’d done a mate’s loan,’ Annie said. ‘You know, “Oh, sure, mate, I’ll organise that”, and no paperwork was done because I wouldn’t have approved it.’

  ‘She wanted his job,’ Chloe deduced. She looked at Annie, and then at Tol. ‘But when she found out, Julieanne didn’t come to you.’

  ‘Probably figuring out how to best use the information,’ Tol said sadly.

  ‘And that got her killed?’ Detective Chloe suggested.

  ‘That’s your department,’ he said.

  She hefted the file in her hand. ‘This is evidence,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a receipt.’

  ‘There’s more,’ I said, and handed over the diary.

  ‘We searched this place!’

  ‘It was stuck down one of her boots.’

  ‘I’m going to kill Carmichael,’ she muttered. ‘He should have found this.’

  ‘There’s not much there,’ I said. ‘Except …’ I pointed out the wavy lines, and especially the one on the night she died.

  ‘Hmm,’ Chloe said. ‘Still, this museum stuff is a much better motive. And more urgent. I’ll give you a receipt for both of these.’

  Which she duly did, all official.

  ‘No contact with Collonucci,’ she warned, the little bobbles on her tennis socks flicking up and down as she strode out to surprise Gerry. ‘I’ll send Martin to go through this place again. Don’t touch anything.’

  ‘The next time I contact Gerry Collonucci,’ Annie said fiercely to the closed door, ‘he’d better be in police custody, or he won’t walk away with his balls.’ Then she paled. ‘Oh, God, I have to call the Minister!’

  The current Minister for the Arts and Environment, under whose authority the museum came, was a media groupie who lived for a twenty-second grab on the nightly news. His PR hacks would have to work hard to spin this one. Normally, Annie’s boss, Tim, would have reported to him, but Tim was in Bruges at a conference and wouldn’t be back for two weeks.

  ‘Prompt and decisive action by the museum has brought this despicable criminal to justice,’ I offered.

  She smiled at me, but I could see the strain.

  ‘They can’t release anything yet, anyway,’ I said. ‘Or they risk derailing the investigation. When it’s a fait accompli, they can spin it into an anti-corruption story.’

  Tol put his arm around Annie’s shoulder and gave her a companionable hug. Astonishingly, she didn’t shrug it away.

  She sighed. ‘At least we can stop wondering who killed Julieanne.’

  That was true. For the first time in days, I felt my stomach unclench.

  ‘Gerry has an alibi,’ Tol said.

  ‘Not much of one,’ I said. ‘He faked it with what’s-his-name, the one with acne.’

  ‘Jake,’ Annie and Tol said at the same time.

  ‘How do you know?’ Tol went on.

  I shrugged. ‘It was obvious.’

  Tol and Annie smiled at each other, the indulgent smiles of parents with a clever child.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Never mind, possum,’ Annie said. ‘I’m going to the office to call the minister. You two stay and let Martin in.’

  As she left, Tol said, ‘Those marks in her diary … how far back do they go?’

  ‘Almost a year,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Back to when she first targeted Australian Family.’

  ‘So. The whole time we were seeing each other.’ His face was a mixture of distaste and something else. Anger, disappointment, resignation? I couldn’t tell. But at least it wasn’t heartbreak.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He made a movement with his shoulders, as if resettling himself. ‘Not your fault.’

  He and I spent an uncomfortable half an hour perched on Julieanne’s lounge waiting for Martin—or rather, I perched. Tol relaxed and watched the cricket on the large plasma TV he found hidden in a cabinet.

  Cricket. And up until then I’d thought he was so civilised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday

  On Sunday afternoon—early evening, really—my phone rang. Matthew Carter’s number.

  ‘Hi, Matthew!’ I answered.

  ‘We need to see you.’ Abrupt. Not at all the smooth, conciliatory tone he’d used before.

  ‘Why?’

  There was a short silence. He hadn’t expected me to question him. Really, that man was surrounded by sycophants.

  ‘We need to discuss Amos.’ Oh ho! Amos, indeed. For a moment, I was worried that Mum had let some of our talk slip and it had hit social media, but no. I would have heard about that; and I knew I could trust her.

  ‘All right. Where do you want to meet? Should I bring a camera crew?’

  ‘No! Definitely not. Can you come here?’

  ‘Here being where?’

  ‘My home.’

  Hmm. On the one hand, I didn’t feel inclined to obediently toddle out to Carter’s place to suit his convenience. On the other hand, I really wanted to know why they wanted to talk and who ‘they’ were.

  ‘Okay. In an hour or so.’

  ‘Good.’ And he hung up. Arrogant bastard.

  I pulled on my jeans and a cotton top. No more dressing up for Mr Nice Church Man. But, because I’d seen an awful lot of cop shows, I called Annie before I left and told her where I was going. Because Mr Nice Church Man might be a murderer, although I didn’t expect him to do anything to me at his own house.

  ‘They’ turned out to be Carter and Stephenson, in shortsleeved shirts and chinos. Eliza was nowhere in sight—it was Sunday, after all, she was probably doing something down at the church with Winchester. Was that why they’d chosen now to talk to me? Because they could be sure he was out of the way?

  Carter showed me through to the lounge.

  I sat on one of the Italian leather sofas and smiled until both of them gave up looming over me and sat down. My phone was in my pocket, recording everything. Now was the time to stop being the nice little girl who supported their goals. See how they liked that.

  ‘Amos has had a talk to us about how you accosted him,’ Carter said.

  Stephenson just sat and glowered. It was odd, having one very handsome and one quite good-looking man scowl at you. I was conscious, suddenly, that I was alone in the house with them, and that one of them might well be a murderer. Or could it be both? I swallowed, and raised my chin.

  ‘Accosted? I doubt very much that he used that word, because that would be a lie.’

  ‘He was worried that you were about to, to—’

  ‘To try to destroy us,’ Stephenson cut in. ‘Like the disgusting muckraker you are.’

  I got up and began to walk to the door.

  Both men sprang to their feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Carter demanded.

  I just glared at him and kept walking.

  He grabbed my arm.

  Fear swept through me, cold and nauseating. ‘Let go of me.’

  He didn’t. ‘We have to talk about this.’ He gave me a little shake, as though I were a recalcitrant child. Fury erupted in me but, unlike every other time in my life, I let it. There were no tears, only an icy rage.

  ‘If you don’t let go of my arm, I will charge you with assault.’

  He let go and fell back, astonished.

  I turned to face them. ‘If I were going to defame Mr Winchester, I would have done it by now. I came in good faith. I have met with hostility and physical violence. Give me one good reason this shouldn’t be on the news tonight.’

  Stephenson laughed at me. ‘You have no proof.’

  My rage mounted, but I smiled. Just smiled.

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nbsp; His laughter faltered and he lunged forward. ‘She’s bloody recorded us!’

  Carter swept an arm out, keeping Stephenson from me, but then advanced on me himself with deliberate menace. ‘If you have been recording this conversation, you have to know that that’s illegal.’ He was attempting to go back to his normal smooth voice, but it wasn’t working.

  I smiled nastily at him. ‘No, actually, it’s not. If a person has a fear that they may be harmed in the course of the conversation, it’s perfectly legal for them to record it. Telecommunications Act 1997.’

  His face changed. The nostrils flared and whitened, and the lines connecting nose and mouth deepened. His eyes hardened, his fists clenched. For the first time, Matthew Carter looked like a dangerous man. Like someone who could have killed Julieanne.

  ‘Give me the phone.’

  My anger still buoyed me and stopped me from giving in to fear. I wanted to hit him. If I’d had a bat, I might have used it. But all I had were words.

  ‘Mr Carter, you have two options here. You let me walk out of this house unimpeded, and hope I can’t be bothered to send this recording to the police. Or you physically take my phone away from me, which will be a criminal act. I will report you. People know where I am, so if you have any intention of killing me the way you killed Julieanne—’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘—I’d think twice, if I were you.’

  Carter was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to risk that assault charge. He took one step towards me and I turned to run—and there was Patience, in the doorway.

  We all stopped dead.

  ‘Dad?’

  Carter was very still. His face struggled to find the right expression, moving between anger and sadness and a false jollity. Patience looked at him as if worried he was having a stroke.

  ‘Let her go,’ Stephenson said heavily. ‘She’s right. If she was going to take Amos down, she’d already have done it.’

  ‘Amos?’ Patience asked. Her gaze flicked from one of us to the other, seeking an explanation.

  ‘Don’t worry about Amos, Patience,’ I said. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to him.’

  Carter visibly relaxed and pulled himself together. ‘Miss McGowan was just leaving.’

  I smiled at Patience as I went by. ‘Nice to see you.’

  She smiled back uncertainly, and I winked at her.

  ‘Remember? Not everyone likes your father. And your father, for one, doesn’t like me.’

  I closed the door very gently, because I wanted to slam it as loudly as I could. My hands shook with relief, and as I sat in my car seat, my legs started shaking too.

  I’d thought of Carter as a possible murderer before, obviously, but that had been in a theoretical way. I rubbed my arm. Now, I absolutely believed he could have killed Julieanne. And he had two possible motives: his own reputation and Winchester’s. Maybe both. The church and the party. Just how good was his alibi?

  On my way home, I pulled into a park and called Chloe. Played her the recording.

  ‘Not much there for us, unfortunately,’ she said. ‘What’s all this about Amos?’

  ‘He’s gay.’ If I’d had any doubts, their reaction had finished them. If Winchester were straight, that confrontation would never have happened.

  ‘No!’

  ‘I have it on good authority. Gay, but celibate.’ I still felt obliged to be fair to the pastor. Possibly because he’d given up so much to live by his beliefs.

  ‘Well, well.’ A pause. ‘Did Julieanne know that?’

  ‘I have no evidence that she did.’

  ‘But they met a few times, just the two of them, right?’

  ‘That’s what my source told me.’

  ‘He’s got an alibi.’ Chloe sighed. ‘This case … it’s dragging on. Are you going to charge Carter with assault?’

  I thought about it. It would probably hurt him politically. And could he still serve as an MP if he was convicted? Probably—it would only be a misdemeanour assault, not a felony (a felony would mean he was unfit to be an MP and he’d lose his place in Parliament). And I would be a target. The social media pile-on alone would be horrendous. I could vividly imagine how that harridan from his office would call up a Twitter mob on me. I’d get doxxed, and I was living at Mum and Dad’s house …

  ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘It’s not worth it.’

  ‘Probably wise, but annoying.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘Winchester, eh?’ Chloe said. ‘Thanks.’ And hung up.

  I needed to decompress, so I went lap swimming at Leichhardt Pool. To get all that lactic acid from the consuming rage out of me. From the consuming fear.

  Carter. No matter what happened with Julieanne’s death, I might well put some time into bringing him down. From behind the scenes. I tucked that thought away for later, and did a tumble turn to start another lap.

  Afterwards, still unsettled, I went to my sister Carol’s place and played with her kids.

  Carol was the nice sister—where Theresa was quite prepared to fight with anyone in order to defend her beliefs, Carol just wanted everyone to be happy. She was as tough as Theresa, though. It just didn’t show unless her kids were involved. I don’t go to her house all that often because her husband and I don’t get along, but he was out of town on a business trip.

  Her eldest was twelve and in his first year of high school, having trouble with English, so I spent a half-hour explaining a couple of poems to him before dinner.

  ‘You’re good with kids. You’d make a great teacher,’ Carol said as she served up homemade pizza. With peas. Carol had been a teacher before she had kids. Now she says she’s ‘just a housewife’, which infuriates me. Her job is a lot harder than mine.

  ‘I am a teacher,’ I said, with a mock high-minded air. ‘I teach through the new and innovative medium of television.’

  ‘Aunty Poppy, can I have your peas?’

  Emma, Carol’s baby, was three, and obsessed with peas. Don’t ask me why.

  ‘What do you say?’ Carol prompted.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Sure, bub.’ I transferred most of my peas to her plate and she ate them solemnly, one by one, with intense concentration.

  ‘Why do you like peas, bub?’

  Emma turned her cute little face up to me. All Carol’s children are gorgeous. Emma has deep auburn hair and pale skin and warm brown eyes, like a Rossetti painting. ‘They squish.’

  Hard to argue with that.

  ‘You were good on The Daily Report. You should do news.’ Carol smiled at me. Sisters. Always trying to improve you.

  ‘What’s wrong with the job I do now?’

  ‘You’re so clever! Kids’ TV isn’t exactly rocket science. It seems a waste.’

  This was the same attitude that believed that raising children was a ‘just a housewife’ job. But the trick to arguing with sisters is knowing the things they can’t disagree with.

  ‘There’s nothing more important, though, than helping children grow up well.’

  She shrugged and nodded and wiped the face of the second youngest, Jackson, who inevitably had cheese all over him.

  The oldest girl, Mia, was sleeping over at a friend’s and going to school from there.

  ‘Next weekend,’ I said, ‘let Damon look after the kids and we’ll go away. Or at least to the movies.’

  Flustered, Carol cast a look at her kids as though I’d said something disturbing. ‘Oh, I don’t know … Damon doesn’t like …’ She couldn’t finish that sentence without telling her children that their father didn’t want to spend time with them. There’s a reason I don’t like Damon. I let her off the hook and dropped the subject.

  It made me consider Julieanne’s baby. Had anyone wanted that poor bub? Had Julieanne? It was possible.

  But it was clear that, whoever the father was, he hadn’t been grief-stricken enough to reveal himself. Was it the father of her child who’d killed her?

/>   Emma crawled into my lap and I cuddled her thankfully. I couldn’t stop worrying over Julieanne. Part of me, I was afraid, would never feel safe in that house unless her murderer was caught. And part of me just wanted justice for Julieanne, cast down into the pit.

  Now that was a thought—could that have been a Biblical reference? A symbolic sending of her to Hell?

  Everything I thought of led back to Radiant Joy Church.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday

  Fortunately for the Minister, the police decided not to publicise Gerry’s arrest until Interpol had picked up all of his customers overseas. That was expected to take a couple of days, Annie told me early on Monday morning when she called to fill me in on the latest. But Gerry hadn’t been arrested for Julieanne’s murder. I debated telling Tyler everything and letting him run with the new angle before it became sub judice, but I decided that although my loyalty to the ABC was strong, my loyalty to Annie was stronger.

  ‘Thanks, possum,’ she said.

  ‘Someone’s going to leak it sometime today when Gerry doesn’t show up for work,’ I warned her. ‘One of the students or staff at the museum, probably. I’ll have to fill Tyler in then.’

  ‘I’m having a meeting with the Fraud Squad and ICAC this morning,’ she replied. ‘If I can get through that and show that the museum was squeaky clean, it won’t matter so much. The Minister can talk about us being partners in the investigation, blah blah blah.’ She sighed. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’

  I drove to Artarmon, barely noticing the beautiful clear skies or the shining sails of the Opera House. I put my head down and did some much-needed paperwork, made phone calls to set up interviews for the program after next—‘People who help us: paramedics’—and worried about Annie.

  Just after eleven, she rang.

  ‘All clear,’ she said, the relief plain in her voice. ‘Your Detective Chloe was there, too, but she says that they haven’t got enough evidence to arrest Gerry for murder. Yet.’ She hesitated. ‘The Minister’s policy adviser wants us to take control of the media storm when the police announce the arrest tomorrow. I—er—I told him I could organise a friendly interview.’