I said: "Very unpleasant."
"How come you were there?"
"I’ll tell you when I see you."
"Dad," she pleaded.
"When I see you."
"OK. You’re going to pick me up tomorrow morning, right?"
"Yes. What time suits you?"
"Nine-thirty."
"OK. I’ll be there."
"Good. Then you can tell me everything."
I hung up and turned back to Anne, tossing beans into the pot. How could I have a drink without looking like a pisshead? I smiled and said lightly: "Umm, feel like some wine?"
She eyed me closely. "Not really."
"Well, umm, I might just have a glass."
I slid over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of chardonnay, uncorked it and poured myself a glass. A minute later, the glass was empty. God, it tasted good.
Over dinner, I polished off four more glasses of wine and had just poured another when Anne spoke up. "You’re drinking a lot tonight."
I looked innocently at the full glass in my hand. "Am I?"
"Yes."
"Mmm. Maybe you’re right. This’ll be my last."
After we’d cleared the table, Anne said: "What about another episode of West Wing?"
Anne was watching every episode of West Wing, for the second time, and usually forced me to watch with her.
"Sure."
She went over to the cabinet where we kept our collection of DVDs and opened it. Before long, she turned and gave me an accusing stare.
Paul," she said sharply.
"What?"
"You know I like to keep these in order."
I certainly did. She was addicted to neatness and hated it when I left dirty dishes in the sink or damp socks on the back of the sofa, or didn’t keep the DVDs in strict alphabetical order. Yet, this time I was truly innocent.
I said: "Don’t look at me. I haven’t touched them for weeks."
She wiggled her eyebrows. "You sure?"
"Scout’s honour."
"You got kicked out of the scouts."
"No I didn’t, I resigned."
"Bullshitter." She found the DVD she wanted and slipped it into the player.
Normally, I enjoyed The Bill. Not that night. I just wasn’t in the mood for a cop show.
I’d heard or read somewhere that, these days, when cops take you to prison, they hand you a toilet bag. However, just in case they didn’t, when we went upstairs, I gloomily packed one with everything I might need, including a new toothbrush.
I got into bed drained of every emotion except self-pity.
CHAPTER TEN
I slept for almost nine hours and woke feeling calm and refreshed.
A nanosecond later, I remembered the events of the previous day and had a full-blown panic attack. Holy fuck. I might soon be in prison, cooking and ironing for the bikie who was humping me. "Shit," I exclaimed.
"What?" Anne mumbled sleepily.
"Umm, shit, it’s cold."
She threw an arm around me. "It’s not that bad."
I glanced at the alarm clock. Almost nine o’clock. I had to pick up Rebecca at nine-thirty. Christ, why wouldn’t the world just leave me alone? Though I had my faults, I didn’t deserve this.
Dumping me was the best thing my ex-wife, Jane, ever did. Her life improved dramatically. She was now in an excellent relationship and lived in a big redbrick bungalow in Yarralumla, not far from the G-G’s residence.
I pushed the buzzer on the front door and her partner, Henry, appeared. A top mandarin in the Department of Foreign Affairs, he was in his late forties, tall and urbane, with an ambassadorial thatch of grey hair. Most Australian diplomats I’ve met can speak three or four languages and are socially inept in every one. But he was a genuinely nice guy. Jane had done well.
He smiled pleasantly, as always. "Paul. You here for Becky?"
He was too polite to mention my recent discovery of a dead body.
"Yeah, though I’d better see Jane first."
He turned and called out for Jane.
My ex-wife came up the hallway, wearing a pair of old jeans and a faded blue blouse. Though nudging forty, she would keep her looks for at least another decade. God she was gorgeous. As usual, I felt a small local disturbance in my pants which.
Henry said goodbye and diplomatically disappeared back up the hallway.
Despite the way I’d mistreated Jane, no bitterness marred her lovely face. I think she regarded me as a rather sad and comical figure still struggling to leave adolescence. How long before Rebecca shared her view?
She said: "Hi Paul. Becky’s getting ready." Her brow wrinkled. "I saw you on tele the other night - at that murder scene. What was that all about?"
I shrugged casually. "Oh, wrong place at the wrong time."
"You knew her?"
Like Anne, she obviously suspected I’d been bonking a murder victim. Great. Still, I couldn’t blame her. After all, she still wore bruises from my infidelities.
I said: "Yeah. We had a fling a while ago, before I met Anne - not recently."
She lifted an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. "Really?"
I frowned. "Yeah. Really."
She shrugged, unconvinced. "Well, that’s nothing to do with me."
Rebecca wandered up the hallway, wearing slacks and a plain yellow T-shirt. She was tall for her age, and quite attractive on the rare occasions she didn’t slather her face with make-up. Surprisingly, today she was exposed to the elements.
Rebecca had reached that worrying age when frantic, frisky, hormonal boys start sniffing about. According to Jane, a kid called Angus kept turning up to the house. He was a pimply youth in baggy pants, trainers and a baseball cap on backwards. Though they seemed very close, Rebecca said he was "just a friend".
Having been a horny teenager myself, I knew what Angus wanted. But, for his sake, he’d better not get it. Otherwise I’d introduce him to a lump of wood.
Just in case things got out of hand, I’d asked Jane if Rebecca knew about the birds and the bees.
"Don’t worry," Jane replied, "they taught her at school, using anatomically correct dolls."
I said: "Good, though if things get too serious, we’ll get a dentist to put her teeth in braces."
Today, I was taking Rebecca horse riding. She carried a riding helmet and crop.
I said: "Hello pumpkin."
She looked annoyed. "Dad. I’m not your ‘pumpkin’ no more."
"Sorry, I forgot. My mistake."
"We’ll don’t call me that again."
"Sure."
As we got into the car, I realised this access visit had a special poignancy, because I might soon be in prison. Somehow, despite the odds, I had to enjoy myself and create a memory to treasure.
As I backed out, Rebecca looked across at me. "So Dad, tell me about it."
"About what?"
"Finding the dead body?"
"I don’t wanna talk about it."
She hung tough. "It must have been a shock."
"I really don’t wanna talk about it."
She grimaced. "Come on Dad. What happened?"
"OK. I walked in. The body lay there. I called the police."
"Dad. You can tell me more than that. What were you doing there? Come on Dad, be cool. Lots of people have been asking me about it, at school."
After a long sigh, I quickly explained how I came to find Yvonne’s body.
She said: "You don't know why she wanted to see you?"
"Nope."
"Bummer. Do the cops know who did it?"
In truth, the cops thought her dear old dad ‘dun’ it’. I tried to be open and honest with my daughter, but there were limits. "No. I don’t think so."
We drove on for a while, in silence.
"Dad," Rebecca said.
"What?"
"You don’t seem quite yourself today."
"What do you mean?"
"Usually you’re a lot more talkative. I mean, you haven’t made
me laugh once."
That’s the problem with fatherhood. Even when your life’s falling apart, you’re expected to crack hardy and do a song-and-dance routine. "Sorry. I’ve got a few things on my mind."
"Like the woman who got killed?"
God, back to that already. "No." After a long pause, I said: "OK, if you want to chat, tell me about this guy Angus who keeps turning up at the house?"
She looked annoyed. "Mum told you about him?"
"Yep."
She shrugged. "He’s just a friend at school. We sometimes hang out together."
She was cagier than a lot of politicians I’d interviewed. I half expected her to say "no comment". "Really? Just hang out?"
"Yeah. Don’t worry Dad. It’s not serious or anything."
"Good. Then he can come along with us one day?"
"No," she said determinedly.
"Why not?"
"That wouldn’t be cool. You’d just ask him lots of embarrassing questions, and he’d feel intimidated."
"I wouldn’t intimidate him."
"Yes you would. Don’t worry Dad, he’s not a problem - I know how to handle boys."
Her steely tone made me a believer.
When Rebecca was small, I could usually inveigle her into attending a Rugby Union match. But she eventually tired of watching sweaty oafs engaged in a Neolithic struggle over a leather bladder. So, in a spirit of compromise, I offered to let her caddy for me at golf. She turned me down. No, she wanted to go horse riding. So I started taking her to a riding academy just outside Goulburn. She usually rode an energetic mare called Trixie, while I mounted a consumptive gelding called Old Snowy that didn't look worth feeding.
The owner of the academy was a leathery ex-jockey called Gary Bishop. When we arrived, Rebecca asked if Trixie was available. Gary said yes and she smiled widely. I asked for Old Snowy and she looked annoyed. "Dad, Old Snowy’s half-dead."
"No he's not. He's a fine steed."
"You won’t be able to keep up with me."
"Don’t worry. He ain’t fast, but he’s got endurance."
"Yeah, he can walk for hours."
I crossed my arms. "I’m sorry, we’re a team, and that’s that."
She sighed. "Oh shit."
Gary saddled Trixie and Old Snowy in the mounting yard. Then I grabbed the pommel, threw a leg over the swayed-backed beast and dug my heels into its withered flanks. It just turned its head and gave me a rheumy stare that told me to stop being silly: I wasn’t John Wayne and we definitely weren’t gonna outrun the posse.
A couple more kicks produced a loud snort that made its bones rattle. It shuffled forward.
Rebecca and I rode slowly along a trail that wound through a large pine plantation. She told me what she was doing at school, and gave me the low-down on her teachers. I discovered who was a lesbian, who had bad body odour, who never did up his fly and who was sleeping with the school principal. She had the whole place wired.
I made some delicate enquiries about the state of Jane and Henry’s relationship and got the depressing response they were wildly happy. Rebecca was a good source of information about Jane’s life, though I often wondered if she told me everything, and what went back the other way. Was she a double agent or a triple agent? For that reason, I sometimes provided disinformation to sow confusion in the enemy camp.
After about an hour we were almost back at the academy. With about 300 metres to go, we spurred our horses forward. Rebecca galloped off. Old Snowy, who wouldn’t gallop out of a burning stable, slipped into a gentile canter.
By the time I reached the mounting yard, Rebecca had already taken the saddle off Trixie. Old Snowy cruised to a halt and I dismounted gingerly, inner thighs aching.
I said: "It’s still true."
"What?"
"I've never been thrown off a horse."
"Dad, Old Snowy’s hardly a horse."
I patted a scrawny flank. "No need to insult this noble steed."
Rebecca laughed, just like old times.
On the way back to Canberra, Rebecca turned to me. "Dad, I’ve been thinking about what I should do when I finish school."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe I should become a journo."
Most parents are delighted if their kids want to follow in their footsteps. However, if Rebecca became a reporter, it would break my heart. Good reporters are tough, rude and pushy. Rebecca had none of those traits - not yet, anyway - and I didn’t want her to acquire them.
I said: "I don’t think that would be a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Umm, well, you’d have to live in my shadow."
She giggled. "Don’t worry Dad. I’m not planning to write for a Tasmanian paper."
Wow, that put me on my arse. "Ouch."
When I pulled up outside Jane’s house, just after four, she pecked me on the cheek, said thank you and dashed inside.
As I drove off, I realised that, for a few hours, I’d forgotten my problems. Now they flooded back. By the time I got home, I was sullen and withdrawn. Anne asked me to do a few chores and I snapped at her, and she snapped back.
On Sunday, craving solitude, I went into our small backyard and acted like a real Aussie bloke: sweeping up leaves, mowing the lawn and pulling out weeds. When Anne saw that behaviour, she really got worried.
When I got a chance, I monitored the TV and radio news for items about the murders of Yvonne Clarke and Joanna Parker. The media only reported there were no new developments. The police certainly didn’t reveal that the two murders were connected.
Nothing I heard toppled me as the prime suspect. Fear corroded my stomach lining and loosened my bladder. I even started to wonder if I did kill the two women, and my mind had repressed both incidents. Maybe the truth lay hidden in my unconscious; maybe I was a savage killer with a split personality. Or maybe I needed to get a grip before I went nuts.
On Sunday night, Anne and I climbed into bed together, and she tried again to bridge the gulf between us.
She said: "Paul, are you alright?"
"Why do you ask?"
"For the last few days, you haven’t been your normal happy self. In fact, you’ve been very shitty."
I wanted to throw my head between her breasts and explain what was twisting my guts. Yet, how could I reveal that I’d found two bodies and was now the prime suspect in a murder investigation? I kept to the script I’d been following. "I’m just tired. I’ve had a bad week."
"OK," she said, sympathetically. "I understand."
To re-establish some intimacy, she tugged my penis. But I was too tired and overwrought for sex. No amount of yanking would bring my cock to life. For the first time in our relationship - in my life - I couldn’t get a woody. Now my dick’s sole function was to connect my bladder with the outside world. I was, effectively, a eunuch. I hadn’t felt so depressed since I got beaten up on my first day at primary school.
I said: "Sorry, I’m just not in the mood."
"That’s OK," she said with a strange mixture of forgiveness and contempt.
She turned off the light and rolled away.
For a long while, I stared into the darkness, feeling hopeless and alone. I’d shamed myself and insulted Anne. My dick was useless. But despite that, the way my luck was running, the cops would probably charge me with rape.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I got about six hours of sleep, in three instalments. After the last, I woke bathed in greyish light. Fear jangled my nervous system and made further sleep impossible.
I remembered my launch-pad flameout the night before and glanced over at Anne, thankfully, still asleep. What if she woke and demanded my services. My confidence was shattered. To avoid further embarrassment, I slunk into the bathroom.
Later, we breakfasted together in complete silence. She was obviously annoyed with me, and it wasn’t because I was perfect. I spied some crumbs I’d left on the bench-top the previous evening and wondered if they would form a casus belli. Instead, she scoffed some t
oast, grabbed her handbag and left without even saying goodbye.
At eight-thirty, I climbed into my battered Volvo and turned the key. It groaned and moaned - surly as usual - before kicking into life. I headed for work. Fortunately, Alan Casey hadn’t asked for a ride and I didn’t have to detour past his place.
As I crossed the Captain Cook Bridge, my mobile rang. I put it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Mr Ryder. This is Special Agent Gilroy."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Not him again. My heart stopped and blood froze solid. Steel hoops squeezed my chest. Shit. Was the sadistic prick about to arrest me for murder?
A squeak emerged. "Yes. Umm, what can I do for you?"
"I want another chat."
"What about?"
"I’ll explain when you get here."
Panic gripped me. The phone grew hot. I was about to hit the front page of newspapers in a way I never imagined. A headline jumped into my head: "Journalist Arrested For Murder". My car drifted into another lane. A horn blared. I swerved back.
Gilroy said: "Mr Ryder, you still there?"
"Yeah. When do you want to see me?"
"As soon as possible."
I couldn’t avoid seeing him. So I base-jumped into the canyon of fate. "Alright. I can be there in fifteen minutes."
"Good. See you then."
He hung up.
Christ. What should I do? Making a run for it? Fake my own death, then change my identity and move to another city?
I knew I was being ridiculous. I wasn’t equipped to be a fugitive from justice. I knew no criminals, dodgy plastic surgeons or document forgers. I’d stick out like a sore thumb. And hell, I was innocent. That must count for something.
I walked into AFP Headquarters on rubbery legs and presented myself, once again, to a uniformed constable on duty. He picked up the phone and summons Gilroy, who soon emerged from the lifts.
I told myself to stay calm. Play it cool. Maybe he wouldn’t arrest me; maybe he just wanted to ask a few more questions or sell me tickets to the Police Ball.
However, I’d been running on the rims for a long while and suddenly reached breaking point. "What’s this about?" I blurted desperately. "I’m being set up, you know. Set up."
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