She was shaking.
“Take it easy,” he rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be kind.”
Joan waited until the small laboratory door closed behind him. “You always fall on your feet, Anne.”
“Leave her alone,” Alice warned.
“For God’s sake, Alice,” Margaret hissed. “Will you shut up!”
The momentary truce was over. Renewed anger at their malice steadied her. Resolutely she waited the five minutes, then knocked on the small laboratory door. Opening it, Julian ushered her in.
The stark artificial light from the overheads brutally illuminated the clinically slick room. Metal gleamed, white walls glared, polished floor glistened. She’d worked here, been in charge here, for months. Yet, even though her memories of it were unhappy in the extreme, it had never seemed so alien.
The benches and stools had been pushed against the surrounding walls. In their place were a metal-topped desk and six chairs. Three of the chairs were facing the desk. Of the three behind it, two were occupied by the strangers.
“Come in, Miss Preston.”
Prompted by the peremptory gesture of a bony white hand, she sat in one of the three empty chairs facing the officials. Despite the air conditioning, it was warm. Even so, confronted by this formidable duo, her teeth chattered and her hands shook.
After closing the door behind her, Julian took his place in the empty chair beside the two strangers. His manner impersonally formal, he introduced them.
Mr Edmonson, the central figure, was antiseptically immaculate. Deeply ravined stern cheeks, rigid muscles, blackly enigmatic eyes, and thin colourless lips betrayed the face of a zealot. Square shouldered, upright, and almost totally motionless, his broodingly disciplined presence inspired heart-stopping anxiety. Even the stiff fingers strangling his black fountain pen, poised above an open file on the desk, promised only bad news.
Beside him, grey-eyed, rounder, younger, and of fairer complexion, was Mr Clark. His carriage, attire and bearing were almost identical; he could have been Edmonson’s younger brother. In front of him was an open notebook and an identical black fountain pen.
Both men spoke in soft, clipped, anglicised voices. Australian private school or British? She was too terrified to care. Except the professional insensitivity of the voices augmented the fear.
Mr Edmonson acknowledged the introduction, and politely added: “Of course you know our Mister Reeves.”
“Yes.” She gripped shaking hands tightly in her lap.
“Mister Reeves has been assisting us with our enquiries.” Edmonson launched into a dispassionate explanation of Julian’s mysterious appointment to the laboratory - because of the dramatic decline in productivity the departmental decision had been taken to appoint a trouble-shooter.
Why was he telling her all this? She looked to Julian.
“Of course,” Edmonson acknowledged. “You question if I’ve shared this information with your colleagues? No. Why not? For the very good reason that for them explanations are not warranted.”
Could Edmonson have been the instigator of Grace and Macklin’s interest in whether she could work with Julian?
“I appreciate your position, Miss Preston.” A stiff smile arched the forbidding lips, the dark eyes glittered to momentary life. “You have been considerably discomposed by this entire affair. Let us hope that these proceedings can throw some light?”
If he was waiting for a comment, she had none.
“After taking up this post,” he elaborated, “Mister Reeves became almost immediately aware of extraordinary problems which demanded intensive investigation. This, he persuaded us, he was in a position to facilitate.”
Again, he awaited a response.
“I see,” she managed.
It seemed to satisfy him. He nodded to Clark who, taking up the pen, prepared to make further notes in the notebook.
Question and answer, question and answer - date of employment, date of promotion, date of demotion, names of colleagues, history of employment, of illness, of absenteeism, perceived assessment of performance at critical intervals.
Julian spoke occasionally when he thought question or answer required clarification, once when Edmonson invited his input. Clark diligently recorded in the thick note-book. Edmonson regularly checked against the information already in the notes.
She wondered, in one of the intervals during which the two men bent to consult the records, whether her friends had been treated any differently. Was it only because of their relationship that Julian was remaining aloof from the interrogation itself, that he was confining his input to interpretation of laboratory jargon?
Finally Edmonson moved to thoughts, opinions, conjecture and the personal: “Your particular friends at the laboratory, the first laboratory, Miss Preston? Will you name them for us?”
“All of them. We were all friends.”
“And now?”
“It’s different.”
The two heads nodded. She was confirming what they already knew.
“Back to those early days, Miss Preston. Wasn’t there one particular friend?”
“Grace.” The memory was unwelcome. “Grace used to be my best friend.”
A pause for consultation with the notes.
“But not now?” Mr Clark had graduated to a more positive role. “Mrs Dawson is not now your best friend?”
“No.”
Edmonson’s eyes snapped up. “You actively dislike her?”
“Of course not.” She looked down, examined her clenched fists. How could she explain? Grace’s ambition she understood. It was the consequential loss of friendship she mourned.
He did not pursue it, asking instead: “Do you know, specifically, the purpose of this interview, Miss Preston?”
“You said something serious was wrong.”
“Hah! But how serious? Do we know?”
She could not answer.
“Let me help you.” Setting aside the pen, he tapped thoughtful finger-tips on the metal desk top, a clicking tattoo to punctuate his words. “You do agree there are significant problems with regard to the functioning of the laboratory?”
“I’m not....”
“Of course you do,” he interrupted. “The question has arisen - are these problems accidental? Are they the product of work-related stress? Inadequate vacations and the like? Or - are these problems deliberately engineered? Are we, in fact, witnessing something more sinister?”
The question was rhetorical, no reply was expected.
“Something more sinister,” tap-tapping forcefully. “Something more sinister. This is the current hypothesis. You, Miss Preston, may be in a unique position to assist us.”
“I don’t see how.” This was going way too far.
“This is for us to ascertain, Miss Preston.” Clark smiled sideways at his superior.
“Let us press on.” Edmonson folded his hands, inspected his manicured fingernails, and tapped a single firm sharp tap before looking up. “So! This matter of friendships. Tell us why you believe the once excellent camaraderie you speak of deteriorated into its present parlous state.”
“Really, I have no idea. It just happened.”
“If we review your own answers,” Clark flipped back over the last half hour’s notes. “It’s evident from the sequence of events you relate, that it by no means just happened. There’s a cause and effect here. It’s absolutely undeniable. It positively leaps from these pages.”
“Precisely,” Edmonson echoed. “Cause and effect related to your reported sequence of events. Would you care to pursue that line for us?”
She shook her head. No, she wouldn’t. She’d already said too much.
“We are speaking of momentous matters here, Miss Preston. I’m not sure you fully appreciate the gravity….”
Julian coughed.
“By all means, Mister Reeves.”
“Anne,” Julian spoke as though they were alone. “You know the score. You’ve thought about
it in depth. Think about what is being asked of you here.”
Give us the tools….It popped unbidden into her head.
As always, Julian read her mind. “Just start talking, Anne. Don’t think about it. Just talk….”
Just talk. It sounded harmless. It felt like betrayal. Were there any friendships left to betray? Even if there were, there were infinitely more significant betrayals than past friendships. The war was not yet won. Just talk? That she must do, for the sake of Gary and Aaron and Inga and all those others she did not know.
Initially it was not easy. Prompted by her interrogators, she was encouraged to ramble, to talk about emotions and feelings, doubts and suspicions, likes and dislikes - hope and despair. They were careful not to insist on facts - nor even verification of the validity of her thoughts. It became easier. With the account of each event the connection between cause and effect became increasingly evident.
Each event - Grace’s promotion, the strike, the arrival of divisive and incompatible personalities, her own promotion, the use of two separate laboratories, the affair which had developed between Macklin and Grace, the presence of a still undetected thief – had caused its own schisms at the time. While each event, initiating its own singular but complex series of spin-offs, had both multiplied the magnitude and hastened the deterioration of goodwill. The ultimate consequence, following the dramatic erosion of productivity, was today’s enquiry.
She finished. No one spoke.
She flushed.
“You’ve done well, Anne.” Julian smiled.
“To a point,” Edmonson declared.
She looked to Julian, who was intent on Edmonson. What was wrong?
Eventually Edmonson softly tapped out: “You have not told us of the assault on yourself, Miss Preston.”
What was he insinuating? She’d been co-operative, they’d been patient. Yet suddenly, here he was again, the sour investigator she’d first seen. The man with the sinister tap-tapping fingers.
Blushing, fearful, yet not knowing why, she looked again to Julian. Still his attention was pointedly fixed on Edmonson.
“Come now,” Edmonson fished a heavy silver watch from his vest pocket, glanced at it, and asked: “Is this an oversight? Or something else altogether?”
Why did she feel guilty? She’d done nothing wrong. “I don’t know what you mean. What else could it be?”
“Surely your omission of this important incident cannot have been accidental? Come now, Miss Preston.”
“It had nothing to do with work! It was at home - on the way home. These days it happens all the time.”
“You’re speaking of the American - Leonski? The murders? History, Miss Preston. What you experienced is not. It is recent.”
“There’s no connection!”
“So sure?”
She flushed. She’d survived the worst of it. Why was he heading along this sidetrack? Why was he making her feel so guilty? It couldn’t be deliberate. Except this man would do nothing that was not deliberate. And why was Julian so silent?
Again Edmonson consulted the silver pocket watch. “I know you are tired. Nevertheless...”
“Perhaps tomorrow?” Clark ventured.
Edmonson raised a questioning eyebrow in the general direction of Julian.
“Anne’s mother has already been forewarned. She’s prepared for her to be late again.”
“To proceed, then.” Carelessly dismissing the issue of his victim’s weariness, Edmonson’s bony hands now rested easily on the desk. “We have the records of the assault, Miss Preston. As you reported in detail - to Mr Reeves.”
They already knew of her connection with Julian, so why had she felt the need to shield him? “What do you want to know about it?”
“Very well.” Looking to Clark, he repeated: “Very well. For the moment, we will set aside the matter of whether this is work related, or not.”
“It’s not!”
“As I have said, we will for the moment set this aside. The assault itself bears investigation. It’s on the record, as you know. Let me ask you this - have you any thoughts as to the reason?”
“I’m sorry?” She was tired, hot and increasingly confused.
“Why? Why, Miss Preston? Why would someone, person unknown to you, want you dead?”
Dead! No dream, no nightmare. This man believed someone wanted her dead!
“Surely you have something to say? It is your life we are discussing. This man tried to kill you.”
“He didn’t. It was just an attack. It’s the war. It happens!”
“You believe that?”
“I - I don’t know.”
“There would seem to be a great deal you don’t know. Would you agree?”
In the straight-backed inquisitorial chair, she slumped.
Clark poured her a glass of water. She sipped gratefully.
Edmonson waited until she set the glass down before continuing: “Consider, Miss Preston. You seem to be at the centre of something. Something - conspiratorial - may I suggest? Certainly alarming. Of considerable concern to Authority. Yet you sit here pleading innocence. Ignorance! Do you wonder at our disbelief?”
What did he want from her?
“Miss Preston?”
“Honestly - I don’t know what you mean.”
Turning to Edmonson, Julian intervened. “Do you mind?”
“Of course.” But the sour lips pursed disapproval.
“Anne - these men are here to help. You must try to remember. You have to see how alarming this is. Considering the importance of the lab. Considering all that’s gone wrong. You’ve told us yourself that there’s cause for concern.”
“I’ve told you all I know. I don’t know any more. Honestly! I don’t know.”
“We understand that. We’re asking you to try to concentrate on that last assault. There may be something, no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Concentrate on that night, that man. There may be some small memory…”
“There’s nothing.” Why did they insist on dwelling on it? It was over. Leave it alone. She was trying to forget.
“All right. Then look at the wider picture. Is there anything? Anything at all? We want you to think - why would anyone want to hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” she pleaded. “Honestly - I don’t know.”
“Okay. It’s all right.” He stood, rounded the desk, and talked to her as though they were alone. “Someone wants to hurt you to keep you quiet - would you agree that’s probable?”
“No! No….”
“Possible, then?”
“No.” Not even possible. There was nothing to keep quiet about.
Leaving her side, Julian moved back to his chair. At the desk, Edmonson’s fists were clenched, his mouth closed. Clark’s pen was busy.
Assured neither man intended to interrupt, Julian tried again: “Let’s go back, Anne. Let’s take it a step at a time. Will you try?”
“If I can.”
“Firstly - do you now understand our questions? Why we are here? Why we are interrogating you in such detail?”
“Sort of.”
“Only sort of?” He smiled, at ease, amused.
“If you want to know, I don’t understand!”
“I’ll tell you.” He seemed pleased, happy to have angered her. “Mr Edmonson and Mr Clark are officers of the Federal Department of Investigation. They have reason to believe there has been a conspiracy to sabotage the work of the laboratory.”
“You mean the old laboratory. We were told about the fire bomb.”
“No, Anne. I mean this laboratory.”
“There’s been no…”
“You listen to the news. You’ve heard how fifth columns infiltrate enemy lines. You know the devastation they’re responsible for overseas.”
“Everyone does.”
“Fifth Column activity is in the European war? Is that how you see it, Anne?”
“Of course it was. It….” Aghast, she comprehended. “
That’s ridiculous!”
“Think about it, Anne. War is the same everywhere. Allowing for geographic differences, tactics are much the same. In Europe. In the Pacific.”
It wasn’t possible. Maybe in Darwin? Maybe in the North? But in Melbourne? “Think it through, Anne,” he urged. “The work done here is vital. It’s at the very heart of the manufacture of essential equipment. Cripple it and they can, in actual fact, effectively control the direction of the war in the Pacific.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
Give us the tools… If she didn’t believe what Julian was saying, why did it keep popping into her head? But that was Britain. That was way overseas. That was Churchill. That was the war against the Nazis, and it was nearly over. It had nothing to do with Japan, nothing to do with Australia. It had sounded great, great motivation when they were in trouble. But here? In Australia? In Melbourne? It didn’t happen. Not in fact. Not to her.
“It’s true.” Julian’s certainty was terrifying. “The Fifth Column is a reality. Sabotage is a reality. Here.”
If Julian said it, it happened.
“What is it, Anne?”
“Nothing’s been destroyed,” she argued.
“A bomb. Sabotage. Overt activity. Subversive activity. The end result is the same. However they bring it about.”
What were they suggesting? “You think I know something about what’s wrong here! How could I?”
“We don’t think you consciously know.”
“I’ve told you everything!”
“We know that, Anne.”
So why was she still here?
The visitors, apparently happy with Julian’s belated intervention, asked no more questions. Neither did Julian. Instead, the three men earnestly consulted their notes. No-one made a move to dismiss her. When would they let her go?
It was intolerable. “I told you! I don’t know anything about all this!”
Edmonson and Clark raised disapproving eyes.
Julian softly repeated. “We believe you, Anne. We know you don’t think you know anything. As I’ve told you - maybe there’s something you’ve overlooked. Something subconscious. Or just forgotten.”
He was right. She’d been so determined not to think about it, she could be overlooking something. Her feelings were totally irrelevant. She must co-operate. “I’ll try. But….?”
Tools of War Page 27