by SJ Brown
“How about you, Sir?”
“Same, Tim. I just don’t feel all that hungry now we’re here. You go ahead.”
“No, I’ll be right. We’ve got some stuff in the fridge to reheat.”
“Stuff. Yum, sounds good. Does that come with something or other sauce?”
“Probably. And an oozywhatsit dessert to finish.”
Mahoney smiled to himself. It was a relief to see how quickly Kendall was fitting in. Right now he needed to know how the pair had operated professionally.
“How did Dr. Kissinger behave?”
Munro left it to Kate. “Badly, in a word. His antipathy to Tim is obvious. A few manly insecurity issues there. That’s also a by-product of something else. He’s guilty of something. Lying to us, obviously. His reactions indicate that he’s known who Finch was for some time.”
“Probably from about ten minutes after the altercation in the lecture hall.”
“Yes, Sir. Most likely. When he’s asked about him, it’s like a master class in feigned ignorance. Aside from the odd slip.”
“Such as?”
Munro spoke through a mouthful of the crusty pizza. “Bashed.”
“Sorry, Sergeant.” Mahoney leaned forward as he theatrically cocked his ear. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
“He got very uppity when he was banging on about how he shouldn’t be involved in any enquiry. Said he had quote, nothing to do whatsoever with any bashing, unquote.”
“That’s not public knowledge, is it Sir?” Kate asked.
“Not that’s been officially released. But there are various channels that sort of detail could get out into the wide world, alas.” Mahoney drank some water. “There’s an assumption in your question that I agree with though. I don’t think he was there. He’s not up to that sort of thing.”
“That’s what Tim said. He doesn’t seem the sort to get his own hands dirty. Bit esoteric.”
“And he wasn’t in Hobart on Thursday night. Was in Burnie for his work. Four hours away. Kate checked on the way down. He stayed there. A function at the hotel that evening and a presentation on campus next morning.”
Mahoney nodded. “Bit too neat, I’m thinking.” He exhaled slowly as he gathered his thoughts. A few other diners sauntered past their table. When they were out of earshot he continued. “He’s involved. But removed from the deed itself. His motive is clear. Finch embarrassed him in public. It may not seem much to those of us who deal with that sort of flack on a daily basis. However, he’s an academic who wants to shine. To be looked up to. Everybody wants to be noticed these days. The big dream is to be on television. Being invited to conferences isn’t enough for him. He craves publicity of a brighter sort. There’s an underlying insecurity, I’d agree. Anyway, Finch pricked his bubble. And that business with Amanda Pattison compounded it. We’ve no reason to doubt her story. She played him and he’s somehow avoided an even more humiliating ordeal in the media. I don’t know if he connected the two: the lecture hall and the recording at dinner. Quite possibly. Even if he’s only seen it as coincidental he’s fuming at those two. And he wants to lash out at them: one or the other, or both.”
Munro asked, “But is that motive enough for murder?”
“Not to us, no. And I don’t think even for him. I believe he’s the sort of person who would answer in kind. Find a way to make life difficult for the two of them, sure. But not violence, no.”
Kate thought you’d be a fool to underestimate Munro. He might seem a thicky to the likes of Cartwright but he was proving to be right on the money. His comments expressed in the car were being echoed here. She expressed the obvious point. “So he’s not the Colonel character Coutts referred to? But he’s involved somewhere or other.”
“Yes, I think so. We know from Amanda Pattison that Cartwright had already engineered a reprisal through a colleague at the university. He’s lorded it over Finch already.” He stopped abruptly and placed the salt shaker in the middle of the table. “That’s a reminder. Ask me at the end what I need to remember.” They both nodded. “Following that, Pattison decides to teach him a lesson. Sets him up a treat. Unscrupulously so but eggs get broken. Anyway, she does enough to frighten the horses. The damning article never got to press but it was a close run thing. As you arrived I was talking to a friend at the paper. She’s checked for me that a story along the lines Pattison suggests was set to run but got pulled before printing. It was even mentioned on one of those crosses to the newsroom they do on WIN TV to publicize the next day’s main stories. At 8.30pm. But by 9.30pm it had vanished. Never to be seen again. All my journalist friend could find out was that the night editor pulled it under advice from their in-house legal counsel. And his ongoing advice has been not to touch it. She couldn’t be sure but she thought the guy on that night was a bit forced when telling her it was no big deal. Amanda’s work placement friend who wrote the story is away interstate somewhere. The story just disappeared.”
Munro was staying silent on all matters dealing with the media so Kate was left to ask, “Who has that amount of pull? Cartwright? To muzzle the press like that.”
Her boss shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s not that precious to them. He’s one of their own, in a sense, with him composing articles for them. But they were prepared to run with an exposé regardless. Muck sells. Someone else sat on it. I’d say the editor-in-chief. But who sat on him? The Mercury has been blessedly free of pandering to sectional interests for the past decade. So whoever wielded this axe has plenty of pull in this town. An amazing amount.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “It certainly isn’t me. And I’ve no earthly idea who it could be.”
“The Colonel,” Munro quipped.
“What luck with that? That’s George Castanza’s dad’s ‘worlds colliding’ for sure. Right, speaking of neatness, back to Cartwright. Amanda Pattison becomes his bête noire. How to stymie her? Not by getting Finch done over. It’s a bit Godfather-horsehead-in-the-bed for Cartwright’s situation: rather over the top for him.”
Kendall was slightly confused. “Then why do we think he was involved?”
“Because his alibi is excellent.”
Munro could see it. “Why does he cover himself so well for that night in particular?”
“Exactly. Sorry, I forgot to tell you about another call I made while you were up at the castle. I rang the departmental secretary who told me Cartwright was a late replacement for another pol sci lecturer who was originally scheduled for the trip but withdrew due to illness.”
“How late?”
“The email asking for someone to fill the breech went around Wednesday afternoon and Cartwright volunteered almost immediately.”
“Doesn’t strike me as the selfless type.”
“Absolutely. Never shown any interest prior to then in visiting either of the northern campuses. But jumped at this chance to ensure he was out of town. As my cousin says, ‘you may need a peg for your nose’. Cunning but actually a bit stupid. We’re never really going to pin a guy like that for GBH stuff so he’s no need of an elaborate smokescreen. An alibi like that, so orchestrated, actually draws suspicion on him. Needlessly. So now I’m thinking he’s definitely involved. His evasiveness, straight lies, attitude, getting legal advice, lack of co-operation, unnecessary alibi. It’s a potent mix. He’s guilty. But I’m buggered if I know of what.”
“I don’t really think he’s the Colonel, I was just kidding,” Munro offered.
“I know. I doubt he knows that people like Coutts and Knapp exist. But his conscience is working overtime. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Kendall sensed they were drawing to a close. “The salt shaker, Sir.”
“Oh yeah, I need to talk to the uni chap who ticked Finch off over the lecture hall stuff.”
CHAPTER 28
Tuesday 16th March 8pm
Assistant Commissioner Newman felt at home
in his current surroundings. Seated in a well-upholstered, high-backed leather chair, he was cocooned from the other conversations in the reading room of the Colonial Club. Perched on the coffee table shared with two identical chairs was a bottle of Church Block Shiraz and three glasses. One for himself and one each for his two companions, Rory Fotheringham and the Minister for Sport and Recreation, Bill “Dusty” Rhode, so named because he represented a country electorate with few sealed roads. Or so he claimed. Detractors believed his promises slid about all over the place like a “car with bald tires on a gravel track”. Friends charitably insisted it alluded to Bill’s liking for a beer or three: it was usually ‘hot and dusty’ causing a thirst that needed to be parched whenever he was near a bar.
This evening the glass of wine was his first drink for the day. Mind you, parliament had been in session until 7pm so that the wait till 7.36pm was understandable. Rhode was no great fan of this tipple, the room or the company but current circumstances dictated he must sup with the devil, the devil in this case being Fotheringham. Fothers had him over a barrel, a very deep stout barrel. A few backhanders here, a few private donations there and over time Bill Rhode was snarled in a web of patronage. It wasn’t as if Fotheringham demanded much. There was never any request for proper laws to be bent: it was more that he received a discreet heads-up about any policy developments the government may be considering. And every so often an indication of what ballpark figure might be acceptable in the tender process for certain government contracts; certain lucrative government contracts.
Most people, Fotheringham’s competitors included, assumed his operation was simply more efficient and professional and so deserved to get over the finishing line. Having the one-one sit in racing parlance didn’t hurt at all. It was corruption, certainly, but Rhode figured that if economic development occurred then the government of the day benefitted, as did the electors upon whom he relied. If Fotheringham getting filthy rich was the by-product then so be it. He was hardly going to blow the whistle: not if he didn’t want a decade’s worth of slightly dodgy dealings to see the light of public scrutiny. So he was no great fan of Rory F and he thought even less of the chameleon to his right. AC Newman reminded him of an oil slick: smooth, superficial and unnatural. Word was he was deeply unpopular with the police rank and file but he glided up through the ranks with a combination of guile, false bonhomie and a Teflon coating. Rhode wouldn’t trust him out the door of a broom closet but he had his uses.
As he was most likely to prove now. Fotheringham had convened the meeting at the exclusive members’ only club. The reading room was not for the discernment of printed material but rather a moderately quiet space where you could read more closely the reactions of others without the distraction of snooker, phones or too many people.
Fotheringham swaggered into the room. Was in no mood for chin-wagging. “Thanks for meeting up, guys.” As if they had a choice. “Need to check with you how the Finch case is playing out.” Newman, as the Police Commissioner’s right hand man, and Rhode, as a member of Cabinet, were ideally placed to report on how the constabulary and executive arm of the government were responding to the crisis. Anybody who didn’t regard the death of a local sportsman as a crisis or didn’t see what concern any of this was for a business consultant was simply ignorant of how things were in Hobart. If Fothers wanted to know then he needed to be told. Simple. Power.
Newman eased forward in his chair. “We’re throwing the kitchen sink at it. Phillips wants a result, of course. My guess is he’s going to his retirement farm pretty soon so he dearly wants this sorted.”
And you want him gone quickly so you can ease into the big chair with the executive toilet, Rhode thought. He said, “Bully for him. How’s that going to fix this PR mess? Season’s starting in three weeks. Boys don’t need this hanging over their heads. Government either. We need good news stories.”
Newman kept a cool tone. “Don’t we all. All I’m saying, if the man at the top is pressing hard then more officers and resources are going the right way.”
“So you’re trying real hard.” The contempt was ill-concealed. Rhode obviously felt his being on a restricted driving license resulting from a trifecta of speeding tickets, failing to wear a seat belt on too many occasions and refusing a Breathalyzer test was a cruel restriction of his natural justice. Most police officers tended to feel he should have taken his toothbrush to court. “How’s that going to help? Public wants results. PDQ. Pretty damned quick.”
Newman refused to bridle. He’d dealt with buffoons like this for years. Full of bluster but little kick. The opposite of Fotheringham who was sitting comfortably on the sideline. The AC wasn’t going to engage in a scrap for anyone’s benefit. “And they’ll get it. I’m stating the obvious (for your benefit, blockhead) but the only person who doesn’t want a quick result is whoever did it. I know how crucial this case is to various interests and you simply have to appreciate everything that can be done is being done.” Newman was on message. He felt comfortable berating Mahoney: he was a subordinate. But he wasn’t going to let a hick politician from the Midlands sully the force: a force he soon hoped to command. And for him this was a perfect case to boost his profile in the public eye and to solidify his prospects with the power-makers who would make the decision. He could show all care but held little responsibility. If it didn’t go well, the shit would rain down on the Commissioner and the investigative team. If the squad came up tops he would claim his generous slice of the glory. Win, win.
“Well, I bloody well hope so. The economy needs this team to do well. Industries are keeling over. We need the bums on seats. Interstate bums with lots of cash. Happy team leads to a few wins. Wins generate publicity and the mainland fans fly in. With their money. And that’s what we dearly need. Pronto.”
Newman privately regarded the new club in the same vein as he did most sporting pursuits: a waste of energy. He paid lip service to the cause but his interests lay elsewhere: in the concert hall and art gallery. Fine wine, Verdi and a sophisticated woman punched his buttons: not lager, sport and a bunch of mates. The great unwashed could label him “un-Australian”. Care factor zero. He didn’t run into them when holidaying in Europe or tripping over to Melbourne Concert Hall. But what triggered his bemusement now was that the Minister for Sport so crudely equated sporting success to dollars. It was all just commerce. All major sports were now big business. An intractable bundle of television rights, advertising, gambling and public money ensured that. But to have it so baldly laid in front of him now was quite sobering. He knew his own motives for success in the case were hardly pure but to witness the rank commercialism first-hand was still a shock. At least he spared a genuine passing thought for the young man’s family. He doubted it would raise a mention in this company.
Fotheringham had carefully held his counsel. It amused him to see two of his puppets stoushing, albeit verbally. If his various contacts were at each other’s throats then they were divided and he could continue to conquer all. So far the conversation had secured this aim but time was pressing. He had a 9pm visit to pay to the partner of a judge who was away on circuit to the North West Coast. Sensual pleasures waited so the jousting needed to be halted. Time to address the real agenda.
“Bill, I think we are agreed a quick resolution to this case is vital. For many good reasons. And I believe AC Newman will do that for us.”
Us?!
“I needed a brief meeting to check a couple of issues. Firstly, Bill, is the Premier onside for a fitting memorial service for Bradley Finch?”
Rhode was briefly taken aback by the direct mention of the victim. Soon recovered. “Yeah, yeah. All good. He’ll give us all the bells and whistles we want. Can’t do a state funeral but near as dammit. Plenty of media. Even do the eulogy, or part of it, himself. Money’s there to fly AFL bigwigs in. Should get us plenty of coverage. Yeah, all good.”
Newman was unsurprised that the poverty of languag
e matched the paucity of emotional imagination. So the death was now a crucial link in the ongoing extravaganza of launching a sports team. His mouthful of Shiraz took on more notes of tannin as it slid down his throat.
Fotheringham didn’t miss a beat. “OK, Keep Bruce Randall in the loop in all this. He’s a safe pair of hands. Sproule will probably want some limelight but I’ll make sure he’s reasonably dignified. As much as he can be.” A knowing smile to both of them. “We want to send off this young fella the right way.”
Newman doubted the family would have much say in it. Fotheringham turned to him. “Mahoney’s doing the case, right?”
“Yes, fell to him as head of the squad. He’s got plenty of backing from the plain clothes department. All seem united to get the job done.”
“Is he reliable?”
What a beautiful question, thought Newman. Can the squad rely upon him to conduct a scrupulous case? Can the public rely on him to give everything to apprehending the killer? Can the shadow makers rely on the DI to do what they may want?
“Yes. I have reservations about him. Can be very prickly. Doesn’t respond well to direction from above. Not a great team man. Keeps a lot to himself. But the record is good. Cases get solved. And those cases hold up in court. So, yes he’s reliable in that sense.”
Fotheringham nodded. “Hasn’t registered on my radar much. Not much of a joiner, as in outside organizations, as I recall. Overseas guy?”
“Not really. Trained here. I’ve got a memory of him at the Academy. Shipped off to England years ago for some reason. Returned a couple of years ago with a very strong recommendation. Since then he’s established a good squad. As I say, I don’t quite regard him that highly but the Commissioner trusts him.”
“But can we?”
“We?”
“Don’t be obtuse. Or cute.”
Rhode suppressed a smile. He didn’t want Fothers turning on him.
