Later Margo called me in to Parliament House, in the city, for a briefing. The buzz of purposeful activity in Macquarie Street gave me a brief nostalgia hit, but I knew it was just a Pavlovian response. I’m too old and cynical now to take most politicians as seriously as their egos demand. Margo was still agitated about the media’s reaction to David’s death, wondering if we needed to change our strategy. Reminding her that reporters have a short attention span, I advised her to hold the line. With any luck, an earthquake, a cyclone, or an intemperate outburst by the Prime Minister would send them all rushing off in another direction, and they’d forget to come back.
That night I rang Chrissie Wilmot at the Herald and asked her if the police had made any headway on the murder.
“The postmortem showed he had a very thin skull, that he died from a blow which probably wouldn’t have killed your everyday knucklehead,” she told me.
“So it could have been one unlucky punch?”
“Yes. And the gang-bashing theory is starting to look a bit sick. I heard a whisper that a transvestite who works the street near there saw a man dragging something heavy from a car into Green Park that night. But before you get your hopes up, he’s a speed freak. He could have imagined the whole thing.”
“But if he didn’t …”
“Someone killed Valentine elsewhere and dumped him in the park.”
“To make it look like a sex murder,” I said. “There’s no other reason they’d take such a risk. Which means we should be looking for another motive.”
“We?” asked Chrissie. “I thought you were on leave.”
I ignored this dig. “If he wasn’t hanging around Green Park trying to score, where was he that night?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
If anyone knew, it would be Heath Robertson. He was in the phone book, and this time he was in when I rang. He was very guarded, though, wanting to know how I’d tracked him down. When I confessed, he said the police had been there before me, and had given him a hard time until he’d established his alibi. A policy adviser in the Health Department, he’d been at a conference on the Gold Coast, six hundred miles north, when his lover was killed.
When he discovered I had inside information on the case, he agreed to trade.
We met in an empty, miraculously quiet coffee shop in the espresso strip in Darlinghurst. A bored, black-clad waiter served us cappuccinos, then sloped off and picked up a dog-eared paperback copy of Middlemarch, leaving us alone.
I recognized Heath Robertson from his photos, but now there were purple stains under his gray eyes and fine lines bracketing his mouth. I told him about the new witness, and he put his head in his hands and almost wept with relief. He said he’d thought he was going mad, wondering if he’d completely misread the man he’d loved.
“It just didn’t make sense. He was terrified to go near any gay joints in case someone recognized him and the word got around. And even if he had decided to cheat on me, he wouldn’t have been confident enough to try to pick someone up in a public place. I had to throw myself at him when we met, and he was ten years younger then.…”
A sob escaped him, but he quickly regained his composure. “I hated the secrecy, all that creeping about feeling like a criminal, but he wouldn’t come out. In the beginning he used his old man as an excuse: said it would kill him. But when his father died, he wheeled Mad Margo in; said she’d sack him if she found out.” He paused. “All those wasted years, and now the whole world knows.”
“If it wasn’t a gay bashing, there has to be another motive,” I said. “Was he acting differently before the murder?”
“Yes, he was. He was very tense, not sleeping properly, and he started smoking again. I told the police all this, but they said it made sense if he was playing around on me. But they’re wrong: it was his job.”
“How?”
“He was squabbling with Rowan Sherwood.”
“What about?”
“I’m not certain, but it started after he went home to Dolphin Bay, to his father’s funeral. He was fit to be tied when he got back. Apparently the Japanese were planning to build a mega-resort there, and his parents’ friends had got into his ear about it.”
“But surely he would have already known about that development?”
“I don’t think he’d realized what the resort would do to the town. He was determined to stop it. Do you think …”
“I don’t know what to think yet,” I said. “Did he tell you what he was going to do?”
“No. He didn’t discuss political business with me.… Sometimes he acted like an equerry to the queen. Queen Margo.” His voice grew bitter. “He idolized that cow, and she exploited him because he didn’t have a family to go home to.”
“You didn’t live with him?”
He lowered his eyes. “No. I’ve got my own place.”
I felt real sympathy for Heath Robertson, who’d obviously been no match for his lover. Out of fear, David Valentine had treated him like a backstreet mistress, and that betrayal still hurt. He’d probably heard about his lover’s death on the morning news, like any stranger. I wasn’t at all sure I would have liked David Valentine. When we parted outside, I asked if he’d be all right.
“No, I won’t. But there’s nothing you or anybody else can do about that.”
I suppose I’d asked for that.
Next morning, Abigail told me that Maureen Noonan had located the toxic chemicals file under a pile of stuff on Margo’s desk. It seemed like an uncharacteristic lapse, but these were difficult times. Sanity, or what passes for it in politics, returned.
Emerging from the kitchen with a coffee later that morning, I noticed Rowan Sherwood and Ross Harvey engaged in an intense conversation at the photocopier. Then Sherwood stalked outside. Curiosity piqued, I scuttled to a window and saw him pacing and gesticulating wildly with his cigarette, arguing with someone on his cellular phone. It might have been his girlfriend or his bookie, of course, but I wanted to know for sure.
Shortly after, he came inside, threw the phone into a desk drawer, and set off in the direction of the Men’s. After a quick scan for spies, I whipped into his office, grabbed the phone, and pressed the redial button. A female voice answered: “This is the mayor’s office. Can I help you.”
“I’m not sure I’ve got the right number,” I purred. “Is this the mayor of Casterbridge?”
“No,” said the woman. “It’s the mayor of Dolphin Bay.”
Why was Margo’s chief political adviser screaming at the mayor of a town slated for a major development? And what had Rowan Sherwood and the EPA liaison man been arguing about?
I needed more information about the Dolphin Bay development.
In a quiet moment, I started researching Dolphin Bay, which turned out to be a village on a river estuary on the state’s north coast. All I could find in my first trawl was a briefing paper, one of those waffly ministerial replies insisting that plans were still in the developmental stage, and assuring the public that “the resort would not go ahead unless the appropriate environmental impact assessments indicated that it would not damage Dolphin Bay’s fishing industry.” It was a standard bureaucratic fob-off.
Jane Gunn, a contact at Coast Guard, an environmental pressure group, had all the dirt. A Japanese consortium had submitted a development application for a seven-hundred-room resort, complete with casino and marina, catering mostly to Japanese tourists. The town was split, with some residents appalled by the inevitable destruction of their way of life, and others seduced by the promise of jobs and the glitz of a casino. Arguing that development on this scale would almost certainly pollute the river estuary, destroy the mangrove beds, kill off most of the marine life in the area, and wreck the fishing industry, the north coast greens had joined the fray.
“Margo Daniels is backing it, as is the tourism minister,” said Jane. “The proposal was fast-tracked through the Dolphin Bay council, and the environmental impact statement gave the development a cl
ean bill of health.”
“What’s the story on the council?” I asked. Despite the best efforts of the government’s anticorruption commission, corruption was still rife, though less blatant, in local government in New South Wales.
“Well, we have no proof that would stand up in court, but the mayor did buy a Jaguar convertible three months ago.”
“What color?”
“Silver,” she said, and we laughed.
“Who did the environmental assessment?” I asked.
“A shonky bunch called McCluskey and Farrell. McCluskey used to work in the EPA till he took a suspiciously early retirement, but he’s still got lots of mates in the department. Including Lindsay Groenewegen, the deputy director.”
“Wasn’t the new Coastal Protection Act supposed to stop this sort of thing?” I asked.
Bowing to green pressure, the government had finally drafted legislation designed to stop the galloping development that was concreting the coastline, destroying sand dunes and beaches, and even changing tidal patterns in some places.
“It hasn’t come into effect yet, Lizzie,” said Jane sadly. “It’s scheduled to go to Parliament in about two weeks.”
I rang off, wondering why the city media hadn’t picked up on the controversy, then realized that David Valentine had probably been responsible for keeping it tamped down. At the beginning anyway; later, he’d woken up and decided to do something about it. Now I could understand why he’d been so disturbed: To save Dolphin Bay he would have had to confront Margo and risk losing his job. Had he been about to blow the whistle?
Ross Harvey did a double-take when I hove into view.
“I want a look at the environmental report on Dolphin Bay,” I said.
He blinked. “What for?”
I gave him the gimlet eye, and he colored. “I don’t have a copy,” he said.
“So get me one from the department, Ross. Today.”
As soon as he thought I was out of sight, he slid into Rowan Sherwood’s office.
Thinking laterally, I looked for the file containing correspondence about the development. It seemed to have disappeared. Thwarted, I decided to pump Evelina Villanelle. It was a gamble; an environmental economist employed by a conservative minister was unlikely to be emerald green, but she might be honest.
On my way into Evelina’s office, I bumped into Maureen Noonan, coming out. Flashing me an enigmatic smile, she sailed off. Wondering what that was about, I went in and closed the door behind me.
Frowning, Evelina was staring into middle distance behind a desk covered in teetering stacks of files and documents, two used mugs, a vase full of wilted roses, and a silver-framed picture of Evelina and a handsome black horse.
“What do you know about Dolphin Bay?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I think it’s connected with David’s death.”
Evelina gasped, and one hand flew to her mouth. She looked up at me and our eyes locked, and she made up her mind.
“Politically, the minister of tourism just happens to be the local member, and he’s hot for it to go ahead, as is the mayor, who is a slug.
“Economically, it would get the town out of a hole in the short term; you know, laboring jobs on building sites, that sort of thing. In the long term, it’s a dud. The resort will get its supplies from the city, Japanese operators will transport the tourists to and from the resort and take them out fishing and sightseeing, and Japanese boutiques will sell the imported fashion and the souvenirs. There will be some low-level work in the resort for locals, but because they don’t speak Japanese and don’t understand the intricacies of bowing, they won’t get the good jobs. Japanese workers will be brought in:”
She paused for breath.
“Environmentally?” I prompted.
“The picture there isn’t totally clear.…”
“Meaning?”
Cornered, she took refuge in bureaucratese. “There are those who would question the highly positive findings of the environmental impact statement carried out by carefully selected contractors under conditions stipulated in the Dolphin Bay local environment plan.”
“What’s the timetable?” I asked.
“The Dolphin Bay development proposal is scheduled to go to Cabinet next week, strongly supported by the minister for the environment.”
Evelina dropped her eyes and said softly: “On the advice of certain members of her personal staff.”
At 6:00 p.m. Maureen poked her head round my door and said: “We’re having drinks in Margo’s office. She’s asked me to invite you.”
I had a wash, looked at my face in the mirror and decided there wasn’t much I could do, and went in to get a look at Margo’s inner circle. Arrogant Rowan Sherwood, downtrodden Ross Harvey, and bitchy Sean Kelly were there, as were the ambitious Abigail Huntley, the dipsomaniac Ted Simms, and Margo’s young, handsome driver, Ron.
The chatter, mostly political gossip and football, was eye glazing. At about seven, Ross Harvey got up to go, and Rowan Sherwood decided he’d join him. As the others trickled out, Margo signaled me to stay.
“The media seem to have lost interest in David’s death at last,” she said, abandoning her mineral water for a double Scotch.
“It will hot up again if they find out who did it.”
“Maybe they never will,” she said.
I thought that unlikely, but held my tongue.
Then she surprised me. “I miss him … though it’s a lot more peaceful around here lately.”
“How do you mean?”
“They were careful around me, but David and Rowan were hardly speaking toward the end.”
This felt like an opening. “Margo, what do you know about the Dolphin Bay development application?”
“Not much.” She was alert now, concerned about where this was leading.
I waited, and unable to bear silence, like most politicians, she caved in. “The project looks like a good thing, though,” she said, watching me closely. “That area needs a lift, and tourism seems the only way to go.” She laughed: “Rowan calls it Doldrums Bay.”
I’ll bet he does, I thought. “What about its environmental impact?”
“I’ve only seen a summary report, but it looked pretty good, I thought.…” Then she cracked. “What’s this all about, Lizzie?”
I plowed on. “What did David think about it?”
“He was dead against it. He grew up there, you know, and his old mother still lives there. I suppose he didn’t want it to change. Rowan said he was just being a dog in the manger.”
“So Rowan’s pushing it?”
I could almost see her hackles rise. “He thinks it’s a good thing for the state.”
Margo was no fool: she’d been busily connecting the dots as I spoke. She got up and walked to the window, gazed out at a view few taxpayers could afford, and said: “You’re not about to tell me there’s a problem with the paperwork, are you, Lizzie? Not on top of David’s murder …”
“I’ve got no proof, Margo, but if I were you, I wouldn’t wait for it. Rowan Sherwood and Ross Harvey are in cahoots, and Rowan is yelling at the mayor of Dolphin Bay on his private phone. One of your research staff has serious doubts about the development, and Coast Guard thinks the company that did the environmental work is too close to Lindsay Groenewegen at the EPA.”
I paused. “And, of course, David Valentine, who opposed the development and was at loggerheads with Rowan Sherwood, is dead.”
Margo hugged her glass like a life jacket: “But David was killed by gay bashers.” I didn’t reply. Her voice rose: “Wasn’t he?”
“It’s more likely he was killed elsewhere and dumped in Green Park to make it look like a sex murder, Margo. That was to deflect attention from the real motive.”
“Which was?”
“Money, of course. Wheelbarrows full of it.”
Margo instigated her own investigation into the handling of the Dolphin Bay development application, and t
urned her findings over to the anticorruption commission. In the meantime, I went to the police with my suspicions.
When the heat was applied, Ross Harvey caved in and confessed, but said he’d simply acted as a go-between for Rowan Sherwood and Lindsay Groenewegen, who’d organized the bogus environmental assessments through George McCluskey. Harvey insisted he’d done it for his disabled son. The mayor of Dolphin Bay and Rowan Sherwood hung tough, but a disgruntled employee of McCluskey and Farrell defected and gave up his boss, who implicated Lindsay Groenewegen.
Forensic tests on fibers found on David Valentine’s body matched those from the carpet in the trunk of Rowan Sherwood’s BMW. Confronted with the evidence, he admitted knocking down David Valentine in a rage, after David told him he had enough evidence to sink the conspiracy. Sherwood was a gambler, it seemed, and had been under pressure from the loansharks to pay debts of close to a quarter of a million dollars. Groenewegen was just plain greedy.
I didn’t stick around long after my heart-to-heart with Margo: there was too much suspicion in the air. As I was cleaning up my desk, Maureen Noonan dropped in.
“Well miss you,” she said. “You know what you’re doing.”
“Maureen, you make me look like an amateur,” I said, shoving the last of my junk into my bag and rising to leave.
We both knew Maureen had masterminded the entire investigation. All she’d had to do was wind me up and point me in the right direction. She’d avenged David Valentine’s death, saved Dolphin Bay—for the time being, anyway—punished Margo Daniels for her hypocrisy, and got clean away with the lot of it.
It doesn’t look now as if Margo Daniels will be the first female prime minister of Australia, but if Maureen Noonan ever decides to run, I know where I’ll put my money.
When CAROLYN HEILBRUN first started writing, she used the name Amanda Cross to protect her academic identity as an English professor at Columbia University. Since then she has done very well both in the academic field and the mystery field, with her latest book, An Imperfect Spy, released in 1995. Heilbrun has also been president of the Modern Language Association.
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