Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  However, the lead story in the Launceston Herald was about the hiking party lost in the national park. Despite a massive search operation it was still missing. My story about the leadership struggle was at the top of page three, headed "MARTIN HAS UPPER HAND OVER PM".

  As I expected, the Canberra Times was the only paper that gave extensive coverage to Yvonne’s death. The story, at the bottom of page one, was headed "WOMAN FOUND MURDERED". But what really grabbed my attention was the accompanying picture of Special Agent Gilroy and me leaving the house together. He looked calm and confident, while I looked dishevelled, wide-eyed and furtive, as if doing a perp walk. Anxiously, I read the story.

  A thirty-year-old woman was murdered in her home in Woden last night.

  The woman, Ms Yvonne Clarke, was a policy adviser for the Minister for Employment, Dr Percival McCloud.

  Her body was found, shortly after nine o’clock by a national press gallery reporter, Mr Paul Ryder, who works for the Launceston Herald.

  A police spokesman said Ms Clarke, who lived on her own, died "from blunt force injuries to the head".

  He said that, at present, the police have no leads in their murder investigation.

  "It looks like the house has been ransacked, so this may have been a burglary that went wrong," he said. "But we are keeping an open mind."

  If the police had "no leads", I wasn’t a suspect. Relief flooded through me until I realised the cops might be pretending they had no clues while quietly building a case against me. Anxiety returned. I told myself to calm down, stop jumping at shadows. Show some intestinal fortitude. But my guts gurgled nervously.

  I pushed aside the papers, read through the press-box material and consulted my diary before dialling my editor, Dirk Tucker.

  At least, he wouldn’t know I’d discovered Yvonne’s body, nor want to know. He’d only be interested if Yvonne came from Tasmania or was murdered by a Tasmanian. So far as I was aware, neither circumstance prevailed. So I wouldn’t tell him about my excursion the night before.

  He was typically peevish: "Paul. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Where’ve you been?"

  "Sorry. Had a busy morning."

  "OK," he said gruffly. "But you should have called earlier."

  Normally, I’d have overlooked that comment. But I was in a seriously bad mood. "Don’t give me that crap. As far as I can see, you’re not interested in anything I tell you. In fact, I’m surprised you even take my calls."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I’m talking about my story in today’s paper. The biggest political story of the year is on the boil up here and you run my story on page three - page fucking three."

  "I know," he said a little defensively. "But the lost hiking party is big news down here. Huge news. It’s what our readers want to know about."

  "You mean, they’re not interested in who their Prime Minister will be?"

  "To be quite frank, no, they’re not. I mean, they don’t really care much about federal politics. They certainly don’t jump out of bed in the morning wondering what’s happening in Canberra."

  "Then why the fuck does your paper bother having me here?"

  "Isn’t that obvious?"

  "No."

  "Because your stories - even though nobody reads them - give the paper a touch of class. You get me? Having you in Canberra makes the Herald look like a real newspaper, not some suburban throw-away."

  I sounded like a carnival attraction. "That’s a fucking relief."

  "What’s happening today?"

  I sighed and told him we’d be covering pressers scheduled by the Shadow Treasurer and leader of the Greens.

  He said: "OK. What about Martin’s challenge to the PM? You going to write about that?"

  "Yeah, I’ll try. But right now neither’s saying anything publicly."

  "OK. Then write a story predicting who’s going to win."

  I looked at the ceiling and said icily: "That’s what my story on page three is about. It says Martin has the upper hand."

  "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Well, I’m sure you’ll find a follow-up," he said and hung up.

  Normally, I would have covered the scheduled press conferences. But neither would generate much news and I wanted to make a few enquiries about Yvonne Clarke. I turned to Michael and told him to cover them.

  He looked surprised. "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I’ve got a few things to do. Just remember your batteries, OK?"

  "Sure. Leave everything to me."

  Usually, those words would have sent a shiver down my spine. Now I was too tired to care. I needed a cup of coffee before I slipped into a coma. I made the coffee machine give me an extra-strong cup, carried it back to my desk and took a few bitter gulps.

  Maybe it was the coffee. I suddenly remembered the redial number listed on Yvonne’s phone. I opened my jacket, pulled out the pad I’d jotted it onto and dialled it.

  The phone kept ringing out.

  Yvonne had worked as a policy adviser for the Minister for Employment, Dr Percival McCloud. I knew the minister’s press secretary, Brian Strom, quite well because we once worked together on the Melbourne Age. I gave him a call.

  "Hello Paul," he said glumly. "I saw on TV that you found Yvonne’s body. What a tragedy. Such a nice woman."

  "Yes, she was."

  "Who killed her? Any idea?"

  I was clueless, but wanted to chat with him, face-to-face, so I played it coy. "That’s what I want to talk to you about. Can I see you in your office?"

  He paused for a few seconds. "Umm, OK. When?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "Alright, come straight around."

  I strode over to McCloud’s suite in the Executive Wing. The receptionist said Brian Strom and the Minister were waiting for me in the Minister’s office, and I should go right in.

  So the Minister wanted to see me. Very interesting.

  I pushed open a door and entered the Minister’s office. It was a large room with wood-panelled walls covered with Aboriginal paintings. Close to the door were two couches, aligned at right angles. At the far end of the office was a boomerang-shaped huon-pine desk with three television monitors embedded in the wall behind it.

  Brian sat on one of the couches, facing the door. A heavy-set man, with dark hair and a thick beard, he always looked slightly unhappy, as if his dog had just bitten him.

  As a general rule, I have absolutely no faith in press secretaries. Most will lie just for practice. But I trusted Brian more than most. He only lied when absolutely necessary, and took no pleasure in it.

  On the adjoining couch sat the Minister for Employment, Dr Percival McCloud. Tall and thin, he had a beaky nose and lank hair with a razor-sharp part. His stony features, fixed stare and metallic voice made him perfect to play a Bond super-villain, if he could persuade a Persian cat to appear with him.

  However, high political office gives plausibility and a tinge of charisma to even the most lacklustre personalities. It made his dullness seem like gravitas and taciturnity look like profundity.

  Certainly, he was very popular among right-wing voters because he strongly believed that welfare benefits stifled the potential of the unemployed and that the selfish poor should make more sacrifices for the deserving rich. A third-rate university once gave him a doctorate in economics. So, not surprisingly, his nickname was "Dr No", a tag he seemed to enjoy, to the extent he could enjoy anything.

  McCloud was one of the few Cabinet ministers with an electorate in Tasmania. So I had more contact with him than most.

  As I entered, they both got to their feet. Brian stepped forward and shook my hand. "Hello Paul. After we spoke I told the Minister you were coming around, and he said he’d like to see you as well. I hope you don’t mind."

  McCloud was obviously concerned there might be political fall-out from Yvonne’s death.

  I turned and shook his hand. "Of course not. I just wish we could meet under better circumstances."

  McCloud wore a grave-digger exp
ression. "I agree. This is a tragedy - a terrible tragedy. Yvonne worked for me for almost two years. I was shocked to hear she’d been murdered - bashed to death. How appalling. I hope you can tell us what’s going on."

  No chance of that. I was stumbling around in the dark and wanted to milk them for information.

  "I’ll tell you what I know," I said equivocally.

  They sat together on one of the couches. I sat on the other.

  Brian coughed nervously and looked at me. "Umm, before we start, I should clarify the ground rules. I hope you’ll agree this chat is entirely off the record - entirely."

  I said: "Of course. My lips are sealed."

  "Good. Well, ummm, how well did you know Yvonne?"

  I said we’d had a brief fling about a year ago. Then, yesterday evening, she summoned me to her house, to tell me something important. when I got there, she was dead.

  Brian and the Minister exchanged glances.

  Brian said: "Umm, what do you think she wanted to talk about?"

  "Not sure. Maybe she wanted to talk to a reporter and I was the only one she trusted."

  Dr No leaned forward. "You spoke to the police after they arrived?"

  The truth be told, I spent most of the night talking to the police. But why put myself in the frame? "Yes."

  "Do they have any idea who killed her?"

  "If they do, they didn’t tell me." I glanced at both of them. "Have they spoken to you two yet?"

  Brian spoke up. "No, though I’ve had a call from the detective in charge, a guy called Gilroy. He said he’s coming over later to interview us."

  Time to start prising information from them. "Yvonne was a policy adviser, right?"

  Brian said: "Yes. She looked at proposals from the Department, or anywhere else, to train the unemployed or find them jobs. Then she advised the Minister on those schemes."

  It was hard to believe Yvonne was killed because someone disagreed with her policy advice. Nor did it sound like she was privy to sensitive political secrets.

  I said: "Was she at work yesterday?"

  McCloud hated being a wallflower and leaned forward. "I don’t know. I didn’t see her yesterday, which is quite usual. Lots of people work for me. Brian saw a lot more of her than me." He turned to Brian. "What do you say, Brian? Was she here?"

  Brian said: "Yeah. She spent most of the day in her office. In fact, now I think about it, her door was mostly closed."

  "Was that unusual?"

  "Yes. She usually kept it open, so she could chat to anyone drifting past."

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "Yes. A couple of times - very briefly - about work matters."

  "Did she seem nervous or worried about anything?"

  "Like I said, I only spoke to her a couple of times. Yet, now I think about it, she did seem a bit edgy."

  "Any idea why?"

  Brian shook his head. "Nope."

  "Did she have any enemies, in your office or outside?"

  McCloud leaned back. "I wouldn’t have a clue."

  I glanced at Brian, who shook his head again. "Not so far as I’m aware. She worked hard and was friendly to everyone."

  "Was she was seeing anyone?"

  "You mean a man?"

  "Yes."

  McCloud shrugged again.

  However, Brian flushed slightly. "You probably know more about her private life than us, though I got the impression she saw, umm, quite a few men."

  "Yeah, and who was the latest?"

  "Don’t know. She was fairly discreet, though she once joked to me that she was attracted to powerful men."

  "And you think she wasn't just joking?"

  "Yeah. I think she was a bit of a political groupie."

  Parliament House is awash with women who sleep with politicians because, corny as it sounds, power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Alan Casey often said that, in his next life, he wanted to come back as a politician, because it didn’t matter how fat, ugly or stupid he was, he could always get a root: "It’s a bit like being a 70s rock star."

  Yvonne never told me she had a penchant for politicians. But she was single, attractive, interested in politics and perfectly positioned to meet pollies. The ingredients were all there.

  I glanced at Dr No and wondered if he bonked Yvonne. True, he was married with six children, a pillar of the Anglican Church and looked like he had embalming fluid in his veins. Yet nobody is who they seem, particularly bible thumpers. If he was a tin can, the label would say "Contents under Pressure".

  I struggled to regain my focus. "Umm, who were her close friends - I mean women friends?"

  Brian said: "The only one I can think of is Joanna Parker. She’s Bob Douglas’ secretary. You know her?"

  I knew Douglas, a Government Senator from Queensland, but had never met Joanna Parker. "No."

  "She was always popping in here to see Yvonne. They often lunched together and went out for drinks after work. I think they were both single, so they had a lot in common."

  McCloud got to his feet, looking impatient. "Well, I suppose we should now leave this matter to the police."

  I wanted to ask them where they were the previous night, but that would have been a rapport-killer. "OK. Thanks for the chat. If I learn anything interesting, I’ll let you know."

  Brian and I also got to our feet.

  McCloud said: "Brian will show you out."

  As I headed towards the door, I had a thought, which spun me back around. "Umm, maybe we should look around her office, in case there’s some clue about who killed her."

  McCloud gave me his undead stare. What were people thinking, or not thinking, when they voted for this human facsimile with gimlet eyes?

  He said: "No. I think we should leave that to the police, don’t you?"

  When Dr No says "no", he means it.

  I said: "OK. You’ve got a point."

  After leaving their suite, I headed back towards to my bureau. Halfway there, I decided to visit Joanna Parker, to see what she knew.

  I strolled around to Bob Douglas’ suite, on the ground floor of the Senate Wing. The receptionist was typing on a computer. She was in her early twenties, with short-blonde hair and a sun-scorched face. In a few more years her skin would have the pliability of shoe leather and she’d need a permanent tan to hide the damage already done. She wore a sleeveless top that exposed bony shoulders and sinewy arms. The unfortunate girl was obviously a fitness addict. Nothing would cure her except muscular dystrophy.

  I said: "Hi there. Joanna Parker in?"

  She glanced up. "No, not yet."

  "When’s she going to arrive?"

  She looked annoyed. "I don’t know. She hasn’t called. That’s why I’m doing her typing."

  "Have you tried to call her?"

  "Of course. She didn’t answer."

  "OK. Thanks. If she comes in, will you ask her to give me a call?"

  I handed her my card. She glanced at it. "You’re a journo?"

  I smiled. "And proud of it."

  A thin-lipped smile. "OK. I’ll let her know you called."

  I strolled around to the lifts. When the doors opened, I found myself staring straight at Thomas Bilson, that virus with shoes who got me kicked off the Age. My hatred of him felt deep and old, inscribed on my DNA.

  Since the editor of the Age asked me to take a long walk on a short plank, I’d often bumped into the Bilsons around Parliament House.

  The first time I saw Angelica, I scowled. "I thought our affair was supposed to be a secret."

  "It was."

  "Then why the fuck did you tell your husband, my boss, about it?"

  She looked deeply unconcerned. "Sorry about that. I got incredibly pissed off with him - I mean, he’s such an arsehole - and told him everything."

  Her eyes glinted with madness. How did I escape this woman without getting stabbed in my sleep, fed rat-poison or falsely accused of rape? Losing my job was a small price to pay.

  I said: "You cost me my job."

>   She shrugged and stared at my tie. "I said I’m sorry." A lurid half-smiled. "You know, you boys shouldn’t have fought over me."

  Fought over her? Jesus, who the fuck did she think she was: Helen of Troy? In fact, in the harsh light of day, without my hormones in overdrive, she looked a bit gristly. What a hide. "You're crazy? I didn’t fight over you."

  "That’s not what I heard."

  "Then you heard wrong. I was very happy to hand you back. Unfortunately, before I could, he attacked me."

  She scowled. "You’re a pig."

  "No, I’m an idiot, for getting involved with you."

  Her look said the gloves were off. "Well, if you really want to know, you were a lousy root."

  Bitch. "Not my fault. You didn’t exactly inspire me."

  "Fuck you," she said and stomped off.

  I subsequently heard that the Bilsons somehow patched up their differences and stayed together, even though she often taunted and belittled him in public.

  My post-Age encounters with Thomas Bilson were even frostier. We snarled and glared, and said nothing. Now we had to talk, unfortunately.

  I stepped into the lift and the doors shut behind me.

  A malicious smirk. "Hello Paul. See you’ve been in the news recently."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Finding the body of that woman. Hope you’re not in any trouble."

  "Why would I be?"

  He shrugged. "Oh, you know the cops. They sometimes go off the rails and accuse the wrong people. I know a few good lawyers if you need help - pricey, but good."

  My blood boiled. If he was on fire, I would have used him to light a cigarette. "Where do you get the energy?"

  He frowned: "What energy?"

  "To be a prick all the time. The effort would wear out most men."

  His face reddened. "Fuck off."

  "No, you fuck-off."

  "No, you fucked off."

  It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that we were professional wordsmiths. We would have kept trading puerile insults if the lift doors hadn’t opened.

  I stepped out and fired a parting shot. "Look, Thomas, if it’s any consolation, I won't be going near Angelica again. I shagged her until my dick almost fell off. Now I've lost interest."