Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  Only an immense act of will kept me off my knees.

  He looked with contempt at the babbling middle-class coward before him. "Let’s go to my office and I’ll explain why I want to see you."

  At least he didn’t slap handcuffs on me and take me down to the cells for some truncheon treatment. Instead, he escorted me up to his small office on the second floor. When we entered, he pointed to a chair facing his desk and asked me to sit down, which I did.

  No tape recorder on his desk. Just a few folders. Surely a good sign. My heart skipped.

  He sat behind the desk and tapped the folders with an index finger. "I’ve been very busy since we last talked. Very busy."

  An elephant kneeled on my chest. Bile snuck up my throat and coated my tongue. I swallowed hard. It receded, leaving only the taste.

  I told myself to stay cool and be a man, to no avail. I had lost control of my tongue: "Are you going to charge me with murder?"

  "No."

  I’d braced myself for bad news and didn’t fully comprehend what he said. "No?"

  "No."

  Relief flowed, tentatively, through my system. "Umm, why not?"

  "Because I know you didn’t kill either woman."

  It was hard to accept such good news. Surely I was being set up for a sucker punch. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  A half-smile. "Yes, I'm sure." To his credit, he looked a little embarrassed.

  Wow, this was a miracle. Amazing. "Why the big change of heart?"

  "Our forensic examination of Yvonne Clarke and her house has made it clear you didn’t kill her. The DNA we found on the knife doesn’t match yours. Further, if you killed her, your clothes would have been spattered with blood. They weren’t."

  Always a smart-arse, I said: "I could have changed them?"

  "No you couldn’t. You wouldn’t have had time."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Yvonne lived in Woden, about 20 minutes south of Parliament House. We’ve looked at the Parliament House security cameras. They show you left the building about 20 minutes before you telephoned Emergency Services to report her death. So you must have driven straight to her place. You definitely didn't have enough time to kill her, clean up and then change your clothes before calling Triple-0."

  "Of course not."

  "That timetable also shows you couldn’t have killed Joanna Parker."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She lived in Campbell, about 15 or 20 minutes north of Parliament House. So, after you left the building, you wouldn’t have had time to detour past her house. Impossible."

  He picked up a pen off his desk and tapped his blotter.

  I said: "And, of course, I couldn’t have killed Joanna after I reported finding Yvonne’s body, could I?"

  He looked annoyed. "Correct. You have a good alibi after that time."

  "No. I have a perfect alibi: I was with you until about 3am."

  He frowned. "That’s right."

  The last week had been a ride through hell: I’d found dead bodies, been threatened with prison and had my manhood turn to putty in my partner's hands. But now, after descending into a dark pit of despair, I was back in the blinking sunlight. I should have been grateful for my deliverance. That would have been good for my soul. But Gilroy accused me of murder. Relief and its deformed cousins, arrogance and vindictiveness, came out to play. Time for him to feel the full weight of my awesome wrath. "Are you going to apologise?"

  "For what?"

  "Accusing me of murder."

  "Of course not." He leaned forward. "Listen, Mr Ryder, I’m not going to charge you with murder. But you’re not off the hook, because I still don’t know how your electronic diary ended up in Joanna Parker’s place."

  I wished I’d kept my awesome wrath to myself. I was sliding back into the dark pit.

  I whined: "I’ve already explained that. Someone tried to frame me. It obviously didn’t work."

  "Maybe. Or maybe you visited Joanna Parker’s apartment at some time and left your diary."

  I shook my head vehemently. "No. I’ve never visited her place."

  The big-toothed bastard grinned wolfishly. "Mr Ryder, is there something you’re not telling me?"

  I had a terabyte of information in my brain that I hadn't told him. However, this was no time to be honest. I couldn’t untangle all of the lies I’d told.

  "I’ve told you all I know," I said resolutely.

  "For your sake, Mr Ryder, you’d better have. Because if you haven’t, I’ll come down on you like a tonne of bricks."

  Maybe. But right now, he couldn’t pin anything on me. So my vindictiveness returned. "I gather, from what you’re saying, that you’ve got no idea who murdered Yvonne Clarke or Joanna Parker?"

  He nodded sorrowfully. "I’m afraid so."

  "Then I suggest you stop harassing decent citizens like me and try to find the real killer." I stood up and glared. "Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

  "No."

  "Good. Then I’ll be on my way."

  He didn’t show me to the door.

  I left the building floating on air. Whoever tried to frame me as a double-murderer almost succeeded, and ultimately failed. I wouldn’t be charged with murder or sent to gaol. I was free as a bird.

  My only remaining problem was the lack of lead in my pencil. I would fix that. Tonight, I would exercise my droit de seigneur - if Anne let me.

  I walked into the bureau an hour late. On my desk were a large pile of mail and a bundle of newspapers. Michael could have shown some initiative and looked through the mail. Instead, he sat at his computer playing Thermonuclear Destruction.

  However, nothing could dent my good humour. "Sorry I’m late. What’s happening?"

  "You’d better look in The Sydney News."

  I extracted The Sydney News from the bundle of newspapers and looked at the front page. The splash headline said it all:

  SENIOR MINISTERS

  DESERT PM

  Exclusive

  By Alan Casey

  National Political Correspondent

  A delegation of senior Ministers has told the Prime Minister to resign and let the former Minister for Defence, Vincent Martin, become prime minister.

  A delegation comprising the Treasurer, Michael Smallwood, the Finance Minister, Douglas Bannon and the Health Minister, David Perez, approached the Prime Minister in his suite at Parliament House yesterday evening.

  According to a reliable source, they advised the PM that his support among backbenchers had slipped and he would lose the leadership ballot due to be held on Friday.

  They said that, in the interests of party unity, he should relinquish the prime ministership.

  However, the PM told the delegation that he intends to fight for his position on Friday.

  The delegation’s approach to the PM is a serious blow to his chances of holding onto his office, because it indicates a serious erosion of support in Cabinet…

  You could cash Alan's stories at the bank. So the future looked bleak for the PM. He was in the Last Chance Saloon, at closing time.

  I glanced through the other papers. All, including the Launceston Herald, had missed Alan’s story. At least Michael and I had a good excuse: we didn’t work on Sundays; our paper relied upon wire services. If Dirk Tucker wanted to blame anyone for getting scooped, he should blame them.

  And even if I was at work, it’s highly unlikely the "reliable source" would have given me the story. Political insiders rarely leaked big stories to provincial publications like the Herald.

  And even if I got the story, Dirk Tucker probably would have buried it in the back of the paper. Indeed, that morning the front page was again spattered with stories about the hikers lost in the National Park, who'd finally been rescued. Their deliverance did not make the paper rejoice. Its editorial demanded they pay the cost of the whole rescue effort.

  I glanced at Michael. "If the PM didn’t already know he was neck-
deep in shit, he certainly does now."

  "Yeah, we got an e-mail from his office this morning. He’s gonna hold a press conference in half-an-hour, in the Ministerial Courtyard."

  My pulse rate lifted. "Really? Did his office mention why?"

  "Yeah. He’s gonna announce some program to put more computers in secondary schools."

  Though that was the ostensible reason, he obviously wanted to respond to the story in The Sydney News.

  I said: "OK. I’ll cover it."Michael went back to fighting the Azurian Federation and I read through the mail before calling Dirk Tucker. He was grouchy, as usual. First he complained about me being late for work, then about getting scooped by The Sydney News.

  I explained that all of the other major metropolitan dailies missed the story, and Michael and I didn’t work on Sundays.

  "It would have been nice to get it."

  "Why? So you could chop it to ribbons and stick it in some obscure part of the paper?"

  "That wouldn’t have happened."

  "You mean, you wouldn’t have run it at all?"

  Annoyed, he said: "Look, stop pulling my chain and tell me what’s gonna happen today."

  "OK. The PM’s finally broken cover: he’s going to hold a press conference in about half an hour - so we’ll probably get a good story from that."

  "OK. Let me know how it goes."

  In the Ministerial Courtyard a lectern stood inside a roped off area. Outside the rope were several rows of collapsible chairs. However, most of the hundred-odd reporters gathered in the courtyard stood in clusters, chatting excitedly, or playing with their mobiles. The major topic of discussion was the story in The Sydney News. Many predicted the PM was about to accept the inevitable and fall on his sword. However, I doubted that. Few politicians retire gracefully. Most have to be dragged from office, kicking and screaming. They only fear being nobody.

  I looked around for Alan, wanting to congratulate him on his scoop, and couldn’t see him.

  Shortly after eleven-thirty, the PM emerged from the building and stationed himself behind the lectern. The assembled media rushed to their seats.

  The PM gave a short speech announcing a Federal Government program to spend $300 million providing computers to secondary schools. However, as soon as he asked for questions, the media pack got down to business. A male reporter up the front asked if it was true that a delegation of senior Ministers advised him to resign.

  The PM replied: "I don’t intend to talk publicly about any discussions I’ve had with my Ministers or anyone else in the Government."

  A female radio reporter chimed in: "Do you expect to win the ballot on Friday?"

  "Yes. I’m confident the party will support me."

  The same reporter squeezed in another question. "What if you only narrowly defeat Mr Martin? Will you stay on as PM?"

  That was a good question, because if the PM only beat Martin by a few votes, his aura of invincibility would be shattered and Martin’s credibility would skyrocket. The PM had to win decisively. Otherwise, he was done.

  The PM forced a smile onto his face. "One extra vote will be enough for me."

  He obviously realised he’d tarried too long and put up his hands. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your questions. That's all."

  He turned and strode back into the building.

  Martin didn’t react publicly to the PM’s speech, not wanting to be accused of openly damaging the Government for personal gain. However, his lieutenants circulated around the Press Gallery backgrounding that the PM was "delusional", "out of touch" and "heading for a fall".

  Until now, nobody else had announced their candidacy. Indeed, several no-hopers had grabbed some cheap publicity by declaring they would not be standing. However, a little later in the day, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Derek Haddon, called a press conference to announce that, on Friday, he would be throwing his hat in the ring, making it a three-cornered contest. He was putting his name forward to give Government MPs "a wider choice".

  Haddon had a small rump of support, though nowhere near enough to win the top job. It was hard to believe that he was so deluded that he thought he could win. But I eventually convinced myself that he was.

  Hoping to find out what was really happening behind the scenes, I telephoned the Minister for Administrative Services, Kevin Medlow, my best contact in the Government, and asked if he’d see me again.

  "What for?" he snapped.

  "Oh, nothing in particular. I’m just trying to be sociable."

  "You mean you want to talk about the leadership fight?"

  "Definitely."

  He sighed. "Alright, come around. I can only spare you a few minutes."

  Five minutes later, his secretary showed me into his office, where we sat on couches, facing each other.

  I said: "I assume you saw the PM’s press conference?"

  "Yeah, on closed-circuit."

  "What did you think? Can he hold on?"

  Kevin shook his head. "He’s whistling in the dark. When three senior Cabinet Ministers tell a PM his time is up, it’s fucking well up."

  "So the story in the News, about the delegation visiting him, is true?"

  "Yeah, according to what I’ve heard."

  "And he hasn’t picked up any support?"

  "If anything, his supporters are deserting him."

  "Then why’s he hanging on so desperately?"

  Kevin looked bemused. "Because he loves waking up every morning knowing that, for the rest of the day, everyone will kiss his arse and tell him he’s a political genius. He’s scared to death that, one day, all those brown-nosers and flunkeys will disappear. Then he’ll have to spend all day with someone he’s never really liked."

  "Who? His wife?"

  "No, himself. He’ll do almost anything to hang on - anything."

  That afternoon, Alan Casey telephoned me. I quickly congratulated him on his scoop that morning.

  "Oh, that?" he said nonchalantly. "That was nothing. I shake stories like that out of my sleeve."

  "Congrats anyway."

  "Thanks. But that’s not why I called. I was wondering if you want to have a drink after work. I’ve got some interesting news to impart."

  "What news?"

  "I’ll tell you over a beer."

  We arranged to meet in the Safari Bar, in Manuka, just down the hill from Parliament House.

  After hanging up, I called Anne at work and said I’d be home a little late.

  "Why?"

  "I’m going to have a few drinks with Alan."

  "A few? You two always get pissed. But do what you like. And if you get a chance, buy some washing powder, OK? We’ve run out."

  "Sure," I said, without opening a mental file for that request.

  So that evening, after writing a story about the PM’s and Derek Hatton’s press conferences, I drove down to the Safari Bar.

  The bar had dark walls, a glass-brick bar and grey-granite topped tables, all bathed in crepuscular light. It was a favourite watering-hole for the Parliament House crowd: politicians, political staffers and reporters stood in clusters, drinking and lying to each other.

  Alan sat on a stool at the bar, a half-empty schooner at his elbow. "Ah, Paul. What’ll you have?"

  "A Fosters."

  Alan drained the rest of his glass, turned to the bartender and held up two fingers. "Fosters, duo, por favor."

  The bartender put two schooners in front of us and Alan paid him.

  Alan said: "Let’s find a table."

  We picked up our beers and weaved through a sea of cynicism to a table in the corner, where we sat facing each other.

  I said: "That was a good story in the paper this morning. Who was your source?"

  He smiled. "Love to tell you. Unfortunately, he’s a very shy chap: doesn’t want any publicity."

  "Fair enough. I bet the PM was stunned when three senior ministers told him to pack his bags."

  "Yeah, though he recovered quickly. According to
my source, he called them a bunch of pricks and told them to fuck off." Alan sipped his beer. "Enough of that. You heard anything more from the cops about the woman who got murdered?"

  "No."

  "Strange, isn’t it? Bob Douglas’s secretary also got killed last week. There seems to be a murder epidemic at the moment."

  Not my favourite topic. "Yeah. We live in dangerous times. You said you’ve got some news to impart."

  "Oh, yeah, that’s right. It’s that soon there’ll be a vacancy for a senior political reporter on The Sydney News."

  Alan was the Chief Political Correspondent of the News. Beneath him were several senior political reporters.

  "How come?"

  "Vince Poulson’s going back to Sydney."

  "Why?"

  "His wife’s sick of living in Canberra. Hankers for the bright lights of a big city."

  "Fair enough. How does this affect me?"

  "I want you to apply for the job."

  My mouth went a little dry. Becoming a senior reporter on the News would be a big step-up from my present job. I would also get a much bigger salary and a fat expense account. Plenty of potential for plunder.

  I said: "Me? You must be kidding?"

  "No. You’ve got the experience and the ability. You’re just the right man for the job."

  "Yeah. But they won’t pick me. Not after the way I got booted off the Age."

  Alan waved his hand dismissively. "Forget about that. It’s history. And, if you do apply, you’ll have a big edge over the other candidates."

  "Really? What?"

  Alan leaned forward conspiratorially. "Me. I’ll have a big say in who gets the job."

  It was a very tempting offer. "Who else has applied?"

  "Oh, a few people, including your old mate Bilson."

  Just hearing that dead-shit’s name made my beer taste sour. "That prick. Why does he want the job?"

  "I hear he’s annoyed a lot of people at the Age. That’s one of his special talents. He wants to jump ship, before he’s pushed."