Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

"Martin will romp home."

  "Why?"

  "Most backbenchers are terrified that, if the PM stays, we’ll lose the next election and they’ll end up on the scrap heap with a meagre pension. If Martin becomes PM we’ll have a fighting chance. He’s a new face; he’s got some style; he can offer fresh leadership." Medlow picked up a drink coaster and fiddled with it. "Of course, the PM still has a solid rump of support. Most of the ministry will back him. So will the toadies and careerists who’ve prospered under his reign, plus a few misguided souls who still believe in loyalty. But there aren’t enough of them to save his neck."

  "Does the PM know he’s in trouble?"

  "Of course. If he thought he could beat Martin right now, he’d have brought forward the meeting of MPs. He obviously wants time to lure disaffected MPs back into his camp."

  I said: "How well do you know Martin?"

  "Reasonably well. We’ve worked together on a few committees and often run into each other at political functions. I’ve also met his wife a few times. Nice woman. I think they’ve got three kids."

  "What makes him tick?"

  He smiled. "You mean, besides burning ambition?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Not much, as far as I can see. I think his core ideology is political opportunism. But there are plenty like him around here. We’re politicians, not priests."

  "True."

  "Though one thing about him does worry me."

  "What?"

  "His relationship with George Potter."

  Potter was a billionaire property developer in Sydney. He was also the president of the NSW branch of the governing party, which he ran like an oriental despot: rewarding friends and crushing enemies.

  It was well known he’d helped Martin get into politics by finding him a safe seat. But their relationship recently got a lot of unwanted attention when Potter’s firm won a lucrative tender to build a new army base in Northern NSW. The Opposition claimed in parliament that Martin gave Potter’s firm special treatment. However, Martin denied discussing the tender with Potter or interfering in the tendering process.

  I said: "How much control does Potter have over Martin?"

  "Potter owns him lock, stock and barrel. I mean, Potter handed Martin his political career. So Martin owes him plenty. And George Potter is the kind of guy who expects all debts to be repaid."

  "Even if Martin becomes the PM?"

  "Especially if he becomes the PM."

  "OK. But what’s wrong with Potter holding a few IOUs?"

  Medlow rolled his eyes. "You kidding? Potter is the most ruthless shit I’ve ever met. He’s the last person you’d ever want the PM of this country beholden to." Medlow sighed. "Of course, Martin’s not the only MP who’s indebted to Potter. Most Government MPs from New South Wales owe him something."

  "Including you?"

  Medlow grimaced. "Yep. Including me."

  "Really? What do you owe him?"

  He frowned. "I’d rather not say."

  "So you’re not that enthusiastic about Martin?"

  "No. I’m afraid we might depose a doddery old king and replace him with a dark prince."

  After leaving Kevin Medlow’s suite, I visited a few more Government MPs who also predicted Martin would soon be moving to the Lodge. Then I strolled back to my bureau and started typing my story.

  The former Minister for Defence, Vincent Martin, has the upper hand in his leadership struggle with the Prime Minister, Brian Hislop.

  Reliable Government sources said yesterday that Mr Martin appears to enjoy greater support among Government MPs.

  The big test for both men will come in 10 days’ time, when Government MPs will hold a leadership ballot.

  Behind the scenes the Prime Minister and Mr Martin are desperately lobbying for support…

  The phone rang. I picked it up and gave a vague hello, still concentrating on the story.

  "That you Paul?" a woman asked nervously.

  "Yes."

  "This is Yvonne - Yvonne Clarke."

  About a year ago, Yvonne and I had a brief affair, after which we occasionally bumped into each other around Parliament House. The last time was about a month ago. So I was surprised she’d called, out of the blue. With difficulty, I blocked the story out of my mind and focused on her voice. "Hello Yvonne. How can I help?"

  Her voice was quick and tense. "I’ve got to see you, as soon as possible."

  "Why?"

  "I’ll tell you when I see you. Please, it’s important - very important."

  "OK. Let’s have lunch tomorrow?"

  "No," she said desperately. "I have to see you tonight. Please Paul. It’s important. This is life and death."

  So was my story. Shit. "OK. Where?"

  "My place."

  "Alright. I’ve got a story to finish. But I’ll be there in about an hour."

  "OK, an hour. Please hurry."

  The phone went dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Long-lasting relationships have never been my style. My one foray into marriage was a disaster. It shouldn’t have been, because I had a lovely wife and wonderful daughter. But I couldn’t stop jumping into bed with other women. I was caught, pardoned, caught again and then told to pack my bags.

  For many years after that I was a lost soul, desperately sleeping with one woman after another, and having the time of my life. But because my happiness was so completed it didn’t, for some strange reason, seem real or meaningful. An irritating voice in my head kept telling me to connect with someone else, settle down and try bitter-sweet happiness for a while.

  During those golden years, I slept with Yvonne Clarke. She was an attractive blonde, in her early thirties, who worked as a policy adviser for the Minister for Employment, Percival McCloud. We met at an end-of-Session party and, after several beers and some hard-core flirting, caught a taxi back to my place and fucked like rabbits.

  We slept together several times after that. But I soon realised we wouldn’t grow old together. I liked her. She was smart and funny, and great in bed. But there was little warmth in her soul. She didn’t seem to need me, or anyone. After the initial excitement wore off, we drifted apart. Then I met Anne, who bowled me over and made me a tentative convert to monogamy.

  Because my fling with Yvonne reached no great heights of passion, we stayed on good terms. Whenever we bumped into each other, we exchanged friendly hellos and sometimes had a cup of coffee together. The last time was about a month ago.

  As I drove over to her house I wondered why she wanted to see me. Did she want sex? And if she did, would I succumb? Christ, what stupid question. Of course I would. Not my fault if she couldn't keep her hands off me.

  However, unfortunately, she didn’t sound like she wanted a bonk. She sounded desperate: "It’s important - very important."

  Yvonne lived in Woden, a typical Canberra suburb with broad, tree-lined avenues and brick bungalows on quarter-acre blocks. She lived by herself in a small house in a quiet street. Neat hedges bordered the front lawn; rose beds sat under the windows.

  I parked against the curb and strolled up the granite path to the front door. No lights on inside. That was a little strange.

  I trotted up the steps onto the patio. The front door was slightly ajar. Something was wrong. My heart pumped hard.

  Nervously, I pushed open the door and looked down a dark hallway. "Yvonne?" No response. Maybe she’d gone out for some reason. But, if so, why leave the door open?

  I fumbled around, found the light switch and gingerly turned it on. A long hallway with two doors on each side. No sign of Yvonne.

  "Yvonne," I yelled again.

  No response.

  Something was definitely wrong. My heart rate slipped up another gear. I edged cautiously down the hallway until I reached the second doorway on the left. It was open.

  I stepped into the darkened living room, turned on the light and caught my breath.

  Yvonne always kept her house immaculately clean. That was one reason I knew we
had no future together. But the living room looked like it had been looted by a wild mob. Bookshelves had been toppled, the carpet ripped up, drawers emptied and posters torn down.

  Yvonne lay in the middle of the floor, on her back, arms outstretched, face covered in blood. Under her head was a large pool of blood, matching her crimson blouse.

  Her monumental stillness and lifeless eyes said she was dead. To make sure, I quickly bent down and grabbed her wrist. Stiff, cold and horribly waxy.

  I dropped it and tottered backwards on weak legs, until I hit the wall behind me. Bile rushed up my throat and tickled my tonsils. I closed my eyes until it receded.

  I opened my eyes to confirm what I’d just seen. Yes, she was still on the floor, dead. Bile rattled up my throat again, but this time with less force.

  For about a minute I stood there, staring at her body, trying to comprehend how, an hour after I’d spoke to her, she could be dead. It seemed absurd. Ridiculous. Unreal.

  Who could have done this? A lover? A burglar? And, if so, why?

  I considered running away and leaving this mess to someone else, but couldn’t. Yvonne and I weren’t together for long. But we were together. My conscience told me to report this to the authorities. Further, the cops would soon find out Yvonne phoned me at work, just before she was murdered. If they suspected I’d been to her house and didn’t report finding her body, I’d be up to my eyeballs in shit.

  With grave misgivings, I stumbled over to the phone, on the sideboard. The receiver had come off and now dangled in mid-air. I picked it up and was about to dial triple-0 when I noticed the redial button. Who was the last person Yvonne called? Me? Or somebody else? My journalistic instincts took over. I reached into my jacket, pulled out a pad and pen, and punched the redial button. A number – not mine - flashed up on the display. I jotted it down.

  The phone automatically dialled the number, which rang several times. Nobody answered. I hung up and punched triple-0. After a couple of rings, I got a female operator.

  "Emergency Services," she said calmly.

  "Hello," I said hurriedly. "I’ve got a dead woman here. She’s been murdered."

  "Murdered?"

  "Yes. Murdered."

  "Alright, sir, I’ll contact the police and ambulance services. What’s your address?"

  I spat out the address and hung up.

  My legs went weak again and my guts started to churn. I staggered out the front door and sat heavily on the front steps, gulping cool night air.

  Five minutes later, a loud siren cut through the night, surging towards me.

  An ambulance stopped under a streetlight. Two ambulancemen got out, opened the back door, took out a couple of suitcases and carried them towards me.

  Both were in their early thirties, with close-cropped hair and clean-cut features. They looked relaxed. Nothing surprised them. Death was routine.

  "You reported a body?" one said.

  I was still dazed. "Yeah. She’s in the living room."

  They stepped past me and went inside.

  A few minutes later, the first police car arrived, lights flashing, siren screaming. Two uniformed cops - a thin man and a stocky woman - got out. An ambulanceman came out of the house, stepped past me and approached them.

  "What have we got?" the female cop said.

  "Dead woman in her thirties. Definite signs of foul play. Better call Homicide."

  The male cop returned to the patrol car.

  His female partner nodded towards me. "Who’s he?"

  "Don’t know. Here when we arrived. He reported the body."

  Lowering her voice, but not enough, she said: "You think he did it?"

  The ambulance man shrugged. "How would I know? I’m just a humble ambo. But if he did, he must have cleaned himself up. There’s heaps of blood inside."

  The female cop strolled over and crouched next to me: late twenties, short blonde hair, strong face, chunky build and plenty of attitude.

  She said: "I understand you reported the body?"

  "Yes."

  She asked for my name and address, which she entered in a leather-bound notebook. "Good. And the woman inside, what’s her name?"

  "Yvonne Clarke."

  "Does she live here?"

  "It’s her house."

  "Well then sir, perhaps you can tell me how she died?"

  My brain was also a mess. It took me a while to explain how, while working in my bureau, I got a call from Yvonne, arrived at her house and discovered her body.

  The policewoman said: "What did you do when you discovered it?"

  "Umm, I felt her pulse - then called triple-0."

  While I talked, she kept making notes in her pad. Finally, she rose stiffly. "Thank you sir. Now please wait until the detectives arrive. I’m sure they’ll have some more questions."

  Christ. This was just a rehearsal? I wanted to say something tart, but restrained myself.

  During the next half-hour, several more police cars arrived and a large crowd of gawking neighbours gathered on the nature-strip across the road. Lights flashed, sirens blared, radios chattered. Police trotted in and out of the house. To get out of their way, I strolled to the end of the porch and leaned against the wall.

  Finally, a large white Holden Commodore parked imperiously in the driveway and three men in suits got out. One was in his mid-thirties, thin and sharp-featured. The other two were a little younger and considerably fatter. The thin guy turned to the others and spoke briefly. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he was obviously in charge. His two companions ambled into the house.

  The female cop who’d questioned me sidled over to the thin guy. They chatted for a few minutes, occasionally glancing in my direction.

  Finally, the thin guy approached me. "Hello. My name’s Special Agent Gilroy. I’m from the Homicide Unit."

  No. He wasn’t on secondment from the FBI. Many years ago, Australian Federal Police officers started calling themselves "agents", to distinguish themselves from the yokel "detectives" in the state forces. I’m not sure why the AFP was so determined to emulate a police force that couldn’t stop 19 foreign guys flying two planes into two skyscrapers. Further, so far as I’m aware, the re-branding has not produced any more arrests. But it obviously makes them feel better when they strapped on their guns.

  I said: "Hello. I’m Paul Ryder."

  "I understand you’re a journalist?"

  "Yes. I’m on the Press Gallery. I work for the Launceston Herald."

  "Got any ID to confirm that?"

  I showed him my press card, which he inspected closely, before handing it back.

  He said: "Alright. I've got to go inside and look at the body. But I’ve got plenty of questions to ask you. Please wait here."

  "How long will you be?"

  He looked at me sourly. I’d obviously got under his skin already. "As long as it takes."

  He disappeared into the house.

  Canberra is a fairly peaceable community and the local media is fairly small. So it was another twenty minutes before the first television van beetled into view. Ten minutes later, another turned up. Then came a station wagon with The Canberra Times emblazoned on the side. A news reporter and photographer got out. Another television van arrived.

  The media mingled with the neighbours standing across the road. Eventually, three TV cameramen and four news photographers had their lenses trained on the house. In fact, most of them were pointing straight at me. Didn’t they realise I was just an innocent bystander?

  Out of respect, I thought about Yvonne. She was one of the few girlfriends who never caused me any grief. That put her on a pedestal. But I had few memories or regrets to chew on. Soon, I returned to feeling shock and discomfort at being in a media spotlight.

  After half-an-hour, Gilroy returned. He didn’t thank me for waiting or comment on what he’d seen - just pulled out a leather-bound pad and biro. "How well did you know the deceased?"

  "We were friends."

  He raised an
eyebrow. "Friends? Did you sleep together?"

  I knew little about murder investigations. But I knew that suspicion often fastens on either the boyfriend or whoever found the body. So I didn’t want to reveal I had an affair with Yvonne, but had little choice: lying would be even more dangerous.

  I said: "Umm. Yes. A few times."

  "When was that?"

  "Oh, the last time was about a year ago."

  "Why did you break up?"

  "Well, we never really broke up. I mean, our relationship wasn’t serious enough for that. We just stopped seeing each other."

  His grey eyes stared at me. This man was obviously no fool. I shouldn’t trifle with him.

  "OK then," he said doubtfully. "Why did you stop seeing each other?"

  I shrugged. "We just weren’t compatible, I suppose. It’s a familiar problem."

  "And you stayed in touch afterwards?"

  "Not really. I mean, we both worked at Parliament House, so we sometimes ran into each other and had a brief chat."

  His eyebrow arched again. "That’s all? Just a chat?"

  "Yes."

  "Then what were you doing here tonight?"

  I explained how Yvonne had phoned and said she wanted to talk about something important.

  He said: "Did she say what that was?"

  "No."

  "So you’ve got no idea what she wanted to talk about?"

  "Correct."

  "How did she sound - what was her tone?"

  "Nervous. Worried."

  "Like she was in trouble?"

  "Yes."

  "But if she was in trouble, why did she call you?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to talk to a reporter; maybe she had a story for me."

  "Can anyone else verify what you’ve just told me?"

  "About getting a call from Yvonne?"

  "Yes."

  "Umm, not really. Michael Boyd - the guy who works with me - was off sick today. But surely you can look at the phone records."

  "Don’t worry. We will."

  A large white truck parked against the curb. Stencilled on the side were the words "POLICE SCIENTIFIC UNIT". Three guys in white overalls got out, went around the back and pushed up a roller-door. Each took out a large suitcase and carried it into the house.