Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  I smiled. "Hah. I bet the editor now wishes he kicked out Bilson instead of me."

  "No, he wishes he kicked both of you out."

  "You can’t let Bilson get the job."

  He smiled. "I know. But if you don’t apply, he might get it."

  "OK then, I’ll apply."

  "Good. And I’ll see what I can do. But you’ve got to promise me one thing."

  "What?"

  "If you get this job, you'll behave yourself: no acting like a prick."

  "I never act like a prick."

  A jaundiced stare. "And no arguing with everybody."

  "OK, OK."

  I bought another round of beers and carried then back to our table. I handed one to Alan, who quickly drained half and said: "Thanks cobber. You know, while on the subject of Bilson, have you heard the latest gossip about him?"

  "What?"

  "He’s having an affair."

  "You’re kidding."

  "No."

  Christ, the hypocritical bastard got me kicked off The Age for having an affair with his wife. Fucker. A strange emotion seized me, which I eventually realised was moral outrage. "What a fucking fraud."

  "Thought that might be your reaction."

  "Christ. Who’s he bonking?"

  Alan smiled: "Hah. The story gets even better, because - wait for it - he’s shagging an MP."

  "You’re kidding? Male or female?"

  "Tut, tut. Female, of course."

  "Who?"

  "The Member for Baxter, Maureen Hogan."

  Hogan was a shrill left-winger from Western Australia with a helmet of bullet-proof platinum hair and cement-like make-up. She paraded around Parliament glowing with ambition and scalding people with her tongue. If she swam in the Amazon, the piranhas would head for dry land.

  I said: "God. He must be mad. What does he see in her? She looks like a female impersonator."

  "I know. He seems to like tough, domineering women."

  "True. How do you know they’re bonking each other?"

  "One of my impeccable sources saw them rendezvous, mid-afternoon, at a motel in Yarralumla."

  "Which one?"

  "The Florida Motor Inn."

  "The little snake. Why are you giving me this information?"

  Alan waved nonchalantly. "Oh, I thought you might use it to your advantage."

  "How?"

  "That’s up to you."

  I shrugged. "You know, though I hate the little shit, it’s probably time to let bygones be bygones."

  Alan frowned. "I’m surprised you’d say that."

  "Why?"

  "I hear he’s been telling people that, during your little scuffle, he, umm, cleaned your clock. In fact, he uses those exact words."

  "Cleaned my clock?"

  "Yup."

  "Bastard. Who told you that?"

  "Another impeccable source."

  Now I was deeply annoyed. During our confrontation, I certainly didn’t cover myself in fistic glory. Nor did Bilson. I said: "He didn’t even muss my hair."

  "That’s not his version."

  I had a mental image of Bilson dancing around a boxing ring, arms triumphantly aloft, while I lay prostrate on the canvas. What horseshit. Never happened. Now I was deeply pissed off. "You know, on second thoughts, I may be able to use your information."

  Alan smiled. "Really? How?"

  "I’m not sure yet. But I promise you that, whatever I do, it’ll be nasty, very nasty."

  "Attaboy."

  Because I was worried about booze buses, and anxious to redeem myself in bed with Anne that night, I only drank one more beer with Alan. Then, much to his dismay, I said I had to push off home. He elected to stay and keep drinking.

  As I got into my car, I remembered that Anne wanted me to buy some washing powder. If I wanted sex tonight, I had to buy it. So I stopped outside a Seven-Eleven in Braddon and strolled inside. I bought three boxes of powder, guaranteed to make clothes whiter than white, and carried them back to the car.

  I tossed the boxes onto the back seat, got behind the wheel and started the engine. However, before I could drive off, the passenger-side door opened and a man in a heavy blue overcoat sat next to me.

  The sudden appearance of the intruder was enough to give me a jolt. When I saw he was Richard Reston, the Prime Minister’s chief political adviser, my jaw dropped.

  The PM had a large camarilla of fixers, pollsters, image consultants, spin-doctors and other political parasites whose only function was to keep him in power. Reston was his top political minder. A lot of people in federal politics pretended to be cunning and ruthless pricks. He was the real deal.

  I had fairly regular contact with him when I worked for the Melbourne Age. When I joined the Launceston Herald, I dropped off his radar screen.

  I quickly recovered my breath. "Richard, what the fuck are you doing here?"

  He had a smooth, almost cherubic face and small, hard eyes. "I want to have a chat."

  "What about?"

  He crossed his arms. "Let’s go for a drive, and I’ll tell you."

  "Why should I?"

  "Curiosity. You want to hear what I’ve got to say."

  "Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got to say in the morning, at work? I’ll even make you a cup of coffee."

  "Because then people would know we chatted, and I don’t want that." He smiled. "I like deniability. In fact, I’m addicted to it."

  I must admit I was curious. Reston was a big player in Canberra politics. All the ministers danced to his tune. As Alan Casey once said to me: "The PM thinks he runs the country, Reston knows he does". Reston wouldn’t waylay a lowly reporter buying washing powder at a Seven-Eleven unless he had something very important to impart, and deny imparting.

  I said: "OK. Where do you want to go?"

  "Head towards the airport. I’ll tell you when to stop."

  I put the car in gear and reversed out onto the roadway. Then, after a few turns, I was on Limestone Avenue, heading towards the airport. After about five minutes, he told me to take a left turn, which I did.

  I couldn’t resist poking around for some information. "What are the PM’s chances of winning the leadership ballot?"

  "Excellent," he said tersely.

  "Really? Why?"

  He looked at me as if I was stupid. "Because he’s got me working for him."

  Arrogant dickhead.

  We drove for about a minute down a winding suburban street with well-lit houses on both sides. A large park appeared on the left. The entrance had two brick pillars with a wrought iron sign over the top. I tried to read the inscription, but it was too dark.

  He said: "Turn in here."

  I drove through the entrance and down a narrow bitumen road with ghostly gums on both sides, like grotesque sentinels. I grew nervous. Maybe he didn’t just want a chat. Maybe he wanted to hurt me.

  We reached a small wooden grandstand, with peeling paint, next to a football field.

  He said: "Stop here."

  Heart thumping, I parked next to the grandstand and looked at him nervously. "W-w-hat do you want to talk about?"

  He reached up and turned on the ceiling light. Now we could see each other clearly. "You’ve been very busy recently, haven’t you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "For a start, you found Yvonne Clarke’s body at her house. In fact, I’ve read your statement to the police about that."

  That shocked me. "You’ve what?"

  "I’ve read your statement to the police."

  "Bullshit."

  He put his hand inside his overcoat and took out a thin sheaf of papers that he held under my nose. It was the statement I gave to Gilroy.

  He said: "This is your statement, isn’t it?"

  "Where’d you get that?"

  "No comment." He tucked the papers back inside his overcoat. "You were also in contact with Joanna Parker before she died, weren’t you?"

  "No I wasn’t."

  "Really? Then why was
your electronic diary found at her apartment?"

  Jesus. He knew everything. He obviously had a mole deep inside the Federal Police. That shouldn’t have surprised me. He was hard-wired into the whole Canberra political network: little happened without him knowing about it.

  I said: "Someone tried to set me up."

  "Oh, really?" he said doubtfully.

  I was now very annoyed. "Yeah, though let’s not talk about my problems. Tell me what the hell you want."

  He stared at me. "OK. I want the item that Joanna Parker gave you."

  "What item?"

  "You know what I’m talking about."

  "No I don’t. She gave me nothing. Jesus, I didn’t even know the woman."

  "Don’t lie to me," he barked. "She gave you something, didn’t she?"

  "No, she didn’t."

  He sighed, as if dealing with a difficult child. "Look. What she gave you is very valuable. I’m prepared to pay a great deal of money for it."

  I shook my head. "I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. She gave me nothing. I never met the woman until I found her … I mean, I never met the woman."

  His eyes burnt into me. Like all good political operators, he was a great student of human nature and realised I was telling the truth.

  He shook his head sorrowfully. "You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?"

  "No, I don’t," I said desperately. "What’s she supposed to have given me?"

  He sighed. "Nothing you need worry about. Sorry I’ve wasted your time."

  Reston seemed to know more about why the two women were killed than me. Plaintively, I said: "You know who killed Yvonne and Joanna, don’t you? Who did it? Who?"

  He stared at me and said firmly: "I have no idea."

  Though he sounded sincere, I wasn’t convinced, because he was a virtuoso liar.

  I said: "I don’t believe you."

  He grinned. "My goodness, you really are cynical, aren’t you?"

  "Maybe it’s the company I keep?"

  "I’ve told you the truth. If you don’t believe me, I don’t care." He put his hand on the door-handle. "Now, I’m going. Just remember, we never had this chat."

  "Don’t worry, nobody would believe me."

  "Dead right." He opened the door and started getting out. Then he seemed to remember something and sat back down. "Oh, and just a word of warning: though you may not realise it, right now you're swimming with sharks, and one might just turn you into dinner. I’d be very careful, if I was you - very careful indeed."

  A shiver ran down my spine. "What do you mean? Are you saying someone might try to kill me?"

  "I’m saying that’s a distinct possibility."

  "Who? Who’d want to kill me? And why?"

  Instead of answering, he opened the door, slipped out and said, politely: "Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way home."

  He slammed the door and disappeared like a phantom. I sat there for a long while, heart thumping, nerves shot to ribbons.

  Eventually, I collected myself and headed home. The whole episode was so strange that a part of me wondered if it happened at all. But that didn't stop me pondering what Reston said. He’d obviously thought Joanna Parker gave me an important item - an item Reston desperately wanted to acquire.

  So maybe Reston was the killer? Maybe he killed Yvonne Clarke and Joanna Parker while trying to get that item? A teasing thought which was hard to accept. Reston was a cynical political operator who probably had no moral qualms about committing homicide. But he’d regard murder as a messy and unsophisticated solution to a political problem. Bribery and blackmail would be more his style.

  I remembered Reston’s warning about sharks. Maybe one of them killed Yvonne and Joanna, and now wanted to kill me. Hell.

  I parked in my garage and headed for my front door, clutching the washing powder to my chest, where it offered the most protection, while avoiding shadows and looking around nervously. Something hit the ground behind me. I spun around just in time to see a cat skitter away, meow trailing off into the night. I squeezed the box of washing powder so hard it split and vented acrid fumes.

  Bloody hell.

  At the front door, I shakily tried to insert my key into the lock. After a few misses, I let myself into the townhouse.

  Though the lights were on downstairs, Anne was not around. Must have gone upstairs. I put the powder in the laundry and tramped upstairs, where I found her in bed, reading a book.

  I was afraid that, because of my appalling behaviour during the last week, and my late arrival home, she’d be upset. However, she’d obviously decided to give me another chance - maybe my last - because she put down the book and smiled. "How was your evening?"

  If I’d told her about my meeting with Reston, she wouldn’t have believed me, with good reason. So I only told her about Alan’s promise to help me get the vacancy at the News.

  She said: "That’s nice of him. So you’ll apply?"

  "Of course. The News is a bigger paper and I’d get more money - a lot more. I’d be a fool not to apply."

  I went into the bathroom and got into the shower. I kept thinking about Reston’s warning: "Right now you are swimming with sharks, and one might just turn you into dinner". Christ. Just when I thought I’d climbed out of a dark pit, Reston grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me back in.

  I got into bed next to Anne, still thinking about Reston’s warning. She rolled over, kissed me and fondled my penis. I’ve read that a fear of death usually focuses and promotes the libido. That wasn’t my reaction. Anne was wasting her time. I couldn’t focus on sex; I was too busy thinking about sharks.

  She tugged at my penis like a pilot desperately trying to pull out of a steep dive, to no avail. She even tried oral resuscitation. No reaction. My equipment was still out of order.

  She released my love tackle with a hint of distain and it flopped onto my belly.

  I croaked: "Sorry. It’s not going to happen tonight."

  "Why?" she asked, a little worried. "Is it me? Have you lost interest in me?"

  "No. It’s just - just - I’ve had a rather stressful week, and I I’ve had too many drinks."

  She looked doubtful. "You sure it’s not me?"

  "No. Don’t worry. Let’s forget about sex for a few days, OK, and try again."

  "OK. But, Paul, I think we need to talk, about our relationship and where it’s heading."

  Christ, why wouldn’t she - and the rest of the world - just leave me alone to suck on my self-pity? "I know. But not now. I’m just not in the mood."

  "Paul …"

  "Don’t worry. We’ll talk later."

  "OK."

  She switched off the light and turned over, facing away. I didn’t mind. My big fear was that she would try to grope me again. I just couldn’t bear the humiliation.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, I woke early, pale sunlight sneaking through the window. Anne still slept. I rose from the sniggering sheets, showered and dressed.

  Downstairs, I breakfasted alone and was about to leave when Anne appeared, dressed for work.

  She said: "Hi. You’re up early."

  "Yeah. Got things to do."

  She bit her lip. "I want to talk about our relationship."

  She didn’t look happy; I couldn’t blame her. Our relationship was circling the drain, and she wanted to know why. How could I tell her that I’d been the key suspect in a double-murder investigation, that persons unknown probably want to kill me and that I’d recently told her more fibs than a triple-agent? If I did, she’d flush me away.

  I had to fob her off. "We’ll talk tonight, I promise."

  I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the door. Soon I was in my car heading for work.

  I had clearly bumped up against a huge story which I couldn't grasp and was in terrible danger from unknown forces. To understand both I had to find out who murdered the two women. So I decided to make a few discrete enquiries of my own.
<
br />   Of course, I could have left everything to the cops. But they weren’t getting anywhere. Indeed, they’d put most of their energy into falsely accusing me of murder. Further, despite being tired and afraid, I was still a reporter. I was on the cusp of a big story and didn't intend to share it with the cops or anyone.

  When I got to the bureau, Michael hadn’t arrived. I skimmed through the mail and newspapers. The Launceston Herald had put my story about the PM’s press conference at the bottom of page one, which gave me some satisfaction. Too bad the sub-editor tried to encode it.

  I rang Dirk Tucker and gave him my preliminary news list, which wasn’t exciting. He responded with a few unhappy grunts. When I hung up, Michael still hadn’t arrived.

  Time to snoop. Joanna Parker had worked as a secretary for Bob Douglas, a Government senator from Queensland. I strolled around to his suite and confronted his super-fit receptionist. Her narrow face looked flushed, as if she’d just run to work, which she probably had.

  I said: "Hi. Bob in?"

  "No. He’s gone to see Senator Taggart, and should be back soon."

  "Good. I’ll wait."

  I sat in one of the chairs lining the wall.

  She lifted an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment?"

  "No."

  She pursed her lips. She obviously regarded people without appointments as dangerous subversives. "And your name is?"

  "Paul Ryder. I write for the Launceston Herald."

  She smiled tentatively. "Oh, that’s right. You came around a few days ago, asking about Joanna Parker?"

  "That’s right."

  Her face clouded slightly. "Her death was such a bummer. I still haven’t got over it."

  I saw an opening and, like a good reporter, jumped through it. "Did you know her well?" I asked sympathetically.

  "Of course. We worked together for almost a year. She was a good pal."

  "What was she like?"

  "Lovely. Lots of fun. Big laugh. I’ll miss her heaps."

  "Did you see much of her outside work?"

  "Not much, though we sometimes went to the gym together. She loved working out."

  "Which gym?"

  "The Hot Bod Fitness Centre in Barton."

  "Why not the Parliament House gym?"

  "Because it’s hard to get in, particularly when Parliament’s sitting. The pollies hog it."