Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  Alan smiled. "Don’t worry. You’re probably the only person in Canberra who reads the Launceston Herald, and I don’t know why you bother. You’re being too precious. Forget about it."

  Suddenly, I was incredibly glad to work for a second-rate rag like the Herald. It miniscule readership had given me some privacy.

  I said: "Yeah. You’re probably right."

  "Of course I’m right. Forget about it."

  As we got out of the lift, I felt much better. Alan was right. And even if he wasn’t, the tide of political events would quickly wash away my mistake.

  However, unfortunately, I did have one hurdle to overcome. When I got back to my bureau, I rang Dirk Tucker and nervously explained that Martin was going to be the next PM.

  I waited for him to explode with rage. However, he preferred a gloating tone: "You mean, he didn’t withdraw?"

  "Ah, no."

  "You got that pretty fucking wrong, didn’t you?"

  "I didn’t get it wrong - my source did."

  Though I expected further insults, to my surprise, he sighed. "I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Most of our readers don’t read your stuff anyway. When can I have today’s story?"

  I explained that both the outgoing and incoming Prime Ministers would hold press conferences later in the day. "I won’t be able to write my story until after they’re finished."

  He sighed again. "Alright. Just try to get this one right."

  "Look, like I said, my source told me …"

  He hung up.

  Fortunately, it seemed my stuff-up would not have serious repercussions. However, my naiveté would leave a long and bitter aftertaste.

  Whatever goes up the slippery pole must come down.

  At his press conference, later in the day, the deposed PM, Brian Hislop, wife at his side, shed a lot of tears while praising her support and thanking his staff for their hard work and loyalty. As he paid tribute to his staff, I glanced at Richard Reston, standing just behind him. He gave no hint of the blood on his hands. Didn’t even blink. Something strangely impressive about that.

  Finally, Hislop and his wife kissed and hugged, before exiting through a side door. While Prime Minister, he lived on a rarefied plane, wielding great power and surrounded by fawning courtiers. Now, he’d just tumbled from heaven. From now on he’d have to open doors for himself, carry his own bags, drive his own car and make his own appointments. And when he told jokes, few would laugh. For the next few years, he’d go through a period of painful adjustment, battling depression and self-doubt. Then he’d write an auto-hagiography in which he tried to avoid the verdict of history with a tissue of half-baked lies; he'd also give speeches attacking his successors for ruining his so-called legacy.

  All in all, the most merciful option was drag him straight outside and shoot him in the back of the head. However, our society was too squeamish.

  Reston was heading for an exit when I caught up with him, nobody within earshot.

  I said: "Richard, quite a double-cross. Or is it a triple-cross? I’ve lost count."

  He turned and looked at me. For once his natural ebullience was missing. I even detected some pain in his eyes. Not a lot, but it was there. However, he quickly smiled. "What do you mean?"

  "You said you were going to use the DVD to make Martin withdraw."

  "Did I say that? Well, I changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  He glanced down at my tape-recorder, to make sure it wasn’t running.

  I said: "Don’t worry. We’re off the record - way off the record."

  He leaned close. "OK. You want to know why I changed my mind?"

  "Yes."

  "Because Hislop’s use-by-date was up. Martin’s the only person in this Government who can win the next election."

  "And, of course, you now have him in your pocket."

  He shrugged and grinned. "I’m sure he’ll ask me for advice."

  "He’s a crook."

  Reston shrugged again. "Sure he’s got some flaws. But show me a Prime Minister who doesn’t. I mean, he’s going to be PM, not a priest."

  "What about the two women who died?"

  "He wasn’t involved," Reston said forcefully. "Things, umm, just got out of hand. Cooper, umm, over-reacted."

  "You mean, that’s what Martin says?"

  "Yes."

  "He could be lying?"

  "No he’s not. I’m sure of that."

  Maybe Reston was telling the truth, though I wouldn’t bet a peppercorn on it.

  He leaned closer. "If you want my advice, you should stop asking questions about those women. You’ll just get yourself into trouble - a lot of trouble. In fact, you could wind up dead."

  I could have laughed bravely, spat in his eye or even delivered a few threats of my own. I didn't because I was too busy imagining myself on a morgue slab.

  However, I wasn’t totally intimidated. I still wanted to nail both George Potter and Vincent Martin for their crimes. But, while I did that, I'd keep my head well below the parapet.

  "Don’t worry," I lied. "I plan to forget about the whole thing."

  "A very wise move."

  "What’ll you do now? Join Martin’s staff?"

  He shook his head. "Of course not. That would look grubby and disloyal, wouldn’t it?"

  "Yeah. You wouldn’t want to be accused of that. So what’ll you do?"

  "Oh, I’ve been thinking for a while about becoming a lobbyist. This seems the perfect opportunity."

  It certainly was. He’d be a lobbyist with the Prime Minister in his pocket. He’d make a fortune.

  He clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. "Anyway, good talking to you. See you around."

  He strode off.

  After Vincent Martin returned from visiting the Governor-General to be sworn in as PM, he held a press conference. He also had his wife in tow, and spent a lot of time hugging her with a 100-watt smile etched on his face. And standing just behind him, glowing with pride, was his political adviser, Barry Graham.

  Martin made a short speech during which he praised the out-going PM and described how proud he was to take over the top job. He was determined, he said, to justify the trust that his party had shown in him and was anxious to start work.

  His speech was, I had to admit, quite impressive. He looked and sounded every inch a prime minister.

  He asked if there were any questions. A reporter enquired whether he’d spoken to Brian Hislop in the last few hours. He said yes, but refused to divulge what they said. Then I discovered that at least one other reporter in Canberra had read that morning’s Launceston Herald.

  Gary Knowles, from AAP, said: "Prime Minister, there was a story in the Launceston Herald this morning that you were going to pull out of the leadership contest. Was that ever a possibility?"

  Martin smiled. "When you’re seeking the prime ministership, you do have moments of self-doubt. Yet, I never seriously considered pulling out of the contest. I don’t know where that story came from."

  Mercifully, the questions moved on to other topics. A few minutes later, Martin disappeared, still groping his wife, still smiling.

  Big news stories are easy to write. So my piece about Vincent Martin’s victory almost wrote itself. I only hesitated over whether to mention Martin’s refutation of my earlier story. No, why bother? That was just a side issue. Better to leave it out.

  I fired my story down the wire to the Launceston newsroom and decided to get my personal life in order. I phoned Anne at the law firm where she worked, and hesitantly, identified myself.

  "What do you want," she snapped.

  Jesus, I’d obviously have to get straight onto my belly and start crawling over broken glass. "I was, umm, wondering if we could have a chat. I mean, umm, I’ve got a lot of apologising to do. I know that. Let me take you out to dinner."

  "I’m sorry," she snapped. "We’ve got nothing to talk about. Leave me alone."

  The phone went dead. I’d just lost round one. Luckily, I could take a lot o
f punishment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Few of the main players in the events of the past two weeks - including me - had emerged with much credit. Even the two murdered women looked bad: Yvonne Clarke secretly filmed Vincent Martin to blackmail him and Joanna Parker betrayed her best friend - Yvonne - for personal gain.

  Indeed, the only person who deserved praise was Anne. She’d shown herself kind, honest and loyal until I pushed her too far. I was desperate to win her back.

  The following evening, I waited on the pavement outside her work-place, holding a big bunch of flowers and wearing an ill-fitting mask of penitence. When she saw me, she grimaced and hurried past. I was hot on her heels.

  "Anne?" I said plaintively.

  "Leave me alone," she barked.

  "Please. I want to talk. I think we should talk. I’ve got a lot to say. Please listen to me."

  "Get lost." She strode to her car and got behind the wheel.

  I had to make a bold gesture that proclaimed my love, like stabbing myself in the hand. But I didn’t have a knife and hated pain. Instead, I lay on the road in front of her car.

  She honked the horn and leaned out the window. "Move you bastard, or I’ll run you over."

  Pedestrians stared at her, wondering if she was serious, probably hoping she was.

  I said: "Not until you talk to me."

  "Fuck off."

  "No."

  She got out and looked down at me, her hard expression showing a few cracks. "I should have run you over. I know I’m gonna regret that."

  I held up the flowers. "Please. Just a quick chat. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Then I’ll leave you alone."

  "No, no coffee. Get in the car and we can talk there."

  Before she could change her mind, I rushed around and jumped into the front passenger seat. Anne got in next to me, looking furious.

  I held out the flowers again. "Do you want them?"

  "No," she said gruffly. "What do you want to say? Hurry up."

  "Look. I know I’ve been very nasty to you recently. But I’ve had a lot of things to worry about. I mean, a lot. In fact, there are some things you don’t know."

  She leered. "No kidding?"

  "Yes. Now I want to tell you everything."

  "OK then, talk."

  So I told her everything that had happened to me since I discovered Yvonne’s body, while she sat sphinx-like.

  I said: "I know it sounds incredible. But it all happened, believe me."

  She chewed her lip. "Funnily enough, I do believe you."

  That shocked me. "Really?"

  "Yes. I mean, I already knew a lot of that stuff anyway."

  "You did? How?"

  "Because the policeman told me."

  Now I was perplexed. "What policeman?"

  "Special Agent Gilroy. He came to see me a couple of days after Yvonne Clarke was murdered."

  Christ. This was news - big news. "Why?"

  "He wanted to know how long we’d been seeing each other and whether we were happy together. Stuff like that."

  "Why did he want to know that?"

  "He said he was trying to get a complete picture of you. He seemed to think you were sleeping with Yvonne Clarke and might have murdered her."

  Shit. The bastard. "What did you tell him?"

  "The truth, of course. I said we’d been going out together for about six months and our relationship was going well."

  I wouldn't have described our relationship as going well. Still, it was sweet of her to say that. "You weren’t worried that I killed Yvonne?"

  She smiled wryly. "Of course not. You’re pretty crazy, but you’re not evil."

  That was probably the nicest thing anyone has said about me. God, she really was a fantastic woman. I had to get her back. Just had to.

  "Thanks," I said sincerely. "Why didn’t you tell me about his visit?"

  "Because he asked me not to." Her face hardened. "And because I was waiting for you to tell me what was going on. But you didn’t. You kept me in the dark."

  "I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, it’s hard to tell your girlfriend that you might be a murder suspect. A lot of women don’t like hearing that."

  "Listen, when you’re in a relationship, you’re supposed to discuss all your problems. You worry about them together. Don’t ever keep me in the dark again, OK?"

  "Sure. I’m sorry. I really am."

  "Good. But that wasn’t the only time I saw Gilroy."

  She was full of surprises. "You saw him again?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "A couple of days ago. He came to see me."

  "Really? Why?"

  "I think he was rather embarrassed about suspecting you. So he said you were no longer a target of his investigation.

  "How nice of him," I said sarcastically.

  "He also said you weren’t sleeping with Yvonne Clarke - not recently, anyway."

  "Good. But, of course, you didn’t need that reassurance."

  She blushed. She’d obviously thought I was innocent of murder but guilty of the more serious crime of infidelity. I couldn’t blame her. My track record was not good.

  She said: "No, I didn’t need it."

  "So you’ll take me back?"

  She frowned. "Yes. I’ll give you one more chance. Only one, understand? Only one."

  "That’s all I need," I said fervently. "I promise."

  I really believed that. From now on, I would tell her everything. No more lies. And I wouldn’t even look sideways at another woman.

  She sighed and ripped the flowers from my grasp. "Good. Then I suppose I’d better take these."

  After some heavy petting in the car, I took her to dinner at an expensive restaurant. She ate heartily and guzzled down plenty of wine. I matched her eating, not her drinking. My last two attempts at sex with her had failed miserably. I wanted to perform in the cot that night.

  I needn’t have worried. When we finally tumbled into bed, I was back in business. Afterwards, I whispered. "Babe, I'm going to love you forever."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, I’m gonna love you until I’m fat, and bald, and toothless, and incontinent and arthritic; I’m gonna love you until my balls are hanging down around my knees and my prostate is as big as a watermelon; I’m gonna ..."

  She laughed and covered her ears. "Stop. Stop. I don’t want to hear any more."

  "I just want you to know how I feel."

  "I get the picture. Now stop making me laugh. I’ve got to sleep."

  I turned off the light and lay in the darkness. My chest felt strangely hollow. Why? Then I realised I was afraid. Life wasn’t meant to be this sweet. As night follows day, something would come along and fuck it up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Our new Prime Minister, Vincent Martin, hit the ground running, albeit up and down on the same spot, dusting off some defunct policies and re-badging some current ones, and firmly promising to implement them all. He also pledged to increase spending to boost the economy.

  At press conferences, he was confident and articulate, clearly revelling in his new role. And because the media craves new meat, and the love affair between the PM and the electorate was still young and fresh, the Government got a sizeable bounce in the polls.

  Though the deluge of news kept me busy, I still found time to attend to a few personal matters I’d put off while my life was in chaos. At the top of my agenda was getting square with Thomas Bilson. Alan Casey had said the turd was bonking the Honourable Maureen Hogan, a shrewish left-wing MP from Western Australia. So I asked a friend in the Age bureau to tell me when Bilson sneaked off during the day.

  A couple of days later, I got a call from my mole who, in a conspiratorial whisper, used our agreed code: "Eight-six to Control. Eighty-six to Control. Elvis is leaving the building."

  I giggled. "Control here. Message understood. Will follow. Repeat, will follow."

  I rushed to my new Holden Astra parked outside the building. A few
minutes later, Bilson drove past in his Magna station-wagon. I tailed him to the Florida Motor Inn in Yarralumla, where he strolled into the reception office. Five minutes later, he emerged, with a key and a smirk.

  A few days earlier, I’d hired a Sony Camcorder with a telephoto lens. Now, I wound down my window and filmed Bilson climb two flights of stairs to the first floor and let himself into Room 209.

  Ten minutes later, Maureen Hogan, drove a small Honda hatchback into the motel car park. I filmed her trot purposefully up the stairs to the first floor. She knocked on the door of Room 209.

  I zoomed up for a tight shot as Bilson open the door and step out onto the balcony. They embraced before retreating into the room. The door closed.

  I idly wondered what it would be like to stain the sheets with Maureen Hogan. Probably like a bout of cage wrestling.

  Earlier, I’d noticed a telephone box a little way down the road. I strolled over to it and dialled triple-0.

  A woman answered: "Emergency Services."

  I muffled my voice. "Hello. I want to report an assault, in a motel room."

  "Please provide the details?"

  I said I’d heard cries for help from a woman in Room 209 of the Florida Motor Inn in Yarralumla. "Hurry. I think she’s in great danger."

  "Thank you sir. Can I have your name and number?"

  I hung up and phoned the news editor of a local television station. Knowing he wouldn’t be interested in a common assault, I upped the ante and said I’d seen a murder.

  "Who?"

  "A politician called Maureen Hogan."

  "Fuck. Where?"

  "Room 209 of the Florida Motor Inn, in Yarralumla. Hurry."

  When he asked for my name, I hung up.

  After wiping my prints off the phone, I wandered back to my car and waited, the Camcorder on my lap.

  Five minutes later, all hell broke loose. A police car with its lights flashing and siren off slid into the car park. Two burly uniformed officers sprinted up the stairs to Room 209. One knocked on the door and yelled "Police, open up."

  I filmed the door open and Bilson, wearing only a singlet and underpants, step out, trembling. A policeman stepped past him into the bedroom.