Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  "Fuck off."

  Strolling up the corridor, I reflected that Parliament House wasn’t big enough for both of us. High noon was approaching, and one of us was destined for Boot Hill.

  When I reached the bureau, the door was open and Michael wasn’t around. He’d obviously wandered off without locking it, as usual.

  I tossed my notepad on my desk. God I felt tired. I needed the services of a high-powered defibrillator. Instead, I made a cup of coffee and carried it to my desk.

  While sipping, I accessed the internet telephone directory and looked up "J Parker". Two listings, one in Waniassa and the other in Campbell. I doubted "J Parker" lived in Waniassa, a far-flung suburb known as "Nappy Valley". However, I called the number listed and got a whiney woman who explained that "J Parker" was her husband, Jim.

  I looked at the second number. For some reason, it seemed familiar. I took a big swig of coffee and tried to remember why. Then I realised it looked like the redial number I found on Yvonne Clarke’s phone. I pulled out the notepad on which I'd scrawled down the redial number. Yep, it matched the second number I just found on the internet.

  I called that number and listened to it ring out for about thirty seconds before hanging up.

  Either Joanna Parker wasn’t home or she knew about Yvonne’s death and was too upset to take any calls. It would only take me about 15 minutes to drive over to Campbell and find out. Why not?

  Usually, I left my electronic diary on my desk, and took it with me when I left the building. I rummaged through the junk on my desk. Not there. Maybe, through tiredness, I mislaid it. Or maybe someone wandered into the bureau and stole it. Damn. Hopefully, it would turn up.

  I left a note on Michael’s desk saying I’d be gone for a couple of hours. On the way out, I carefully locked the door.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of a long two-storey apartment block in Campbell. Its only redeeming feature was the thick row of poplars that shielded it from the street.

  The numbers on the ground-floor apartments suggested that Joanna Parker lived on the first floor. I climbed the concrete steps and strolled along the balcony in front of the apartments.

  A balding, heavy-set man in a grey overcoat walked towards me. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid him much attention. But he emitted a dark energy and glanced away, as if not wanting to be recognised.

  As I trembled with apprehension, he slipped past.

  I reached Joanna Parker’s door and knocked. It wobbled in its frame. There were splinters around the jamb. Something was wrong - very wrong. Fear put its icy hand on my back. The coward inside me sounded the retreat, and curiosity nudged me forward. Nervously, I gave the door a small shove. It swung open, revealing a short corridor.

  Heart thumping, I edged down the corridor, past a narrow kitchen to a small living area.

  "Hello," I said loudly, through dry and thick lips.

  No response. As I stepped into the living room, I saw why. A woman in her early thirties, in blue silk pyjamas, lay on the floor next to an upturned coffee table. Her blank expression said she was permanently dead. So did the large knife in her chest.

  Discovering Yvonne’s body had not conditioned me to such scenes. Instead, it had depleted my emotional reserves. My heart red-zoned and veins ran dry.

  Again, my inner coward told me to run, while morbid curiosity shoved me towards the body. I edged over and crouched down. The knife had a thick blade, only a fragment of which was still exposed. The rest was buried in her chest, covered with crusted blood. I wasn’t a forensic expert - I didn’t even watch CSI programs - but she’d obviously been dead for a long time. Her eyes were wide open, frozen. Stupidly, I passed my hand in front of them. No reaction. Christ. What did I expect? A wink?

  As I rose, my legs buckled and I almost fell on top of the body. I regained my balance, stumbled backwards and fell into an armchair, hyperventilating. It was almost a minute before I managed even ragged gasps.

  Christ. First Yvonne, now this woman. I was up to my armpits in bodies. Women were dying all around me.

  Though I was sorry for the dead woman, I didn’t know her and quickly focused on my own predicament. What to do?

  I briefly considered ringing the cops. But I’d already reported finding Yvonne Clarke’s body and didn’t want to report finding another body. I imagined two beefy detectives frog-marching me into Court with a jacket over my head. I’d definitely get 25 years-to-life.

  Fuck that. I had to get out of there.

  It was vital I left no trace of my presence. What had I touched? Christ. When I crouched over the body, did I touch the knife? I was still in shock and had trouble remembering. Concentrate. Concentrate. I mentally replayed crouching over the body. No, didn’t touch the knife. Was I sure about that? I did another mental replay. I was. Didn’t touch the knife.

  However, I touched the front door handle, on the way in. I lurched up the corridor, pulling a handkerchief out of my trouser pocket. I polished the handle frantically, until it almost shone.

  Cautiously, I looked up and down the balcony. Deserted, thank God. I scurried down it, trying not to look furtive, without success. I went down the stairs and across to my car.

  I drove around aimlessly for about twenty minutes, brain churning and guts heaving. Finally, I pulled over next to a park, got out, hurried around to the gutter and laid out my breakfast for inspection.

  Though it was a cool day, my shirt was sweat-soaked. I got back into the car and sat for about fifteen minutes while my guts, pulse and breathing slowly settled down.

  Who killed Joanna Parker and why? I had no idea. All I knew was that her death must be connected, in some way, with that of her close friend, Yvonne Clarke. The rest was a deep and dark mystery.

  I now had two options: return to work or go home.

  If I went to work, I wouldn’t function. I pulled out my mobile, called Michael Boyd and said I wasn’t feeling well - which was entirely true - and was going home.

  He said: "No probs. I’ve got everything under control."

  That was highly unlikely. But I didn’t care. Right now, my job seemed even less important than usual.

  Though I usually preferred beer to spirits, spirits were the quickest route to oblivion. Back home, I headed straight for the sideboard and poured myself a stiff double brandy. It disappeared in one gulp. I poured myself another. Two gulps.

  I unsteadily carried the bottle over to the couch and poured myself another libation. After downing that, I lay on my back and stared at the swaying ceiling. Soon I was so plastered I couldn’t remember what I saw in Joanna Parker’s apartment. And whenever the fog of amnesia started to lift, I downed another shot of brandy.

  Several hours later, when Anne got home from work, I still lay on the couch, a near-empty brandy bottle on the coffee table.

  After a desperate effort, I sat upright.

  She looked upset. "Paul. Why are you home so early?"

  "No feelin’ good," I slurred, through rubbery lips.

  "What’s the problem?"

  "Dunno. Maybe I got thuh flu."

  "Then you should see a doctor."

  "Nah. Just need ta lie down for a luddle bit."

  She picked up the brandy bottle. "How much of this have you had?"

  "Ah, a few glasses. Gotta bit bored lyin’ here. Had few drinks. Mudicinal."

  "You’ve obviously had more than a few."

  "Yu’re probly right. Lost count."

  She sat on the couch, looking concerned. "Were you thinking about the woman who died?"

  She was referring to Yvonne Clarke. However, I wasn’t drinking because of her. I was drinking because I’d just discovered another body. Anne was one dead body off the pace.

  When I’d told Anne about finding Yvonne’s body, she responded rather well. She must have at least suspected that I was sleeping with Yvonne. Yet she’d held her tongue. I couldn’t ask for more than that. If I told her I’d found another body, she’d think "serial killer" and head st
raight for the door.

  Without waiting for permission, a lie staggered off my tongue. "Yes, I wus thunking about hir. Findin’ hir body wus a big shock."

  Anne could have used that opening to delve further into my relationship with Yvonne. Instead, she touched my cheek, sympathetically. "I can understand that. Let me make you some dinner. Then you can go to bed."

  "OK. Thunks."

  While she prepared a spaghetti dish, I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. However, as my head cleared, images of Joanna Parker’s body floated through my brain. I thirstily eyed the brandy bottle but, to please Anne, left it alone.

  Anne and I ate the spaghetti at the dining table. Stress and booze had killed my appetite, and I ate little. While she kept trying to make conversation, my mind was back in Joanna Parker’s apartment. Eventually, we lapsed into an uncompanionable silence.

  After playing hockey with my food for a while, I complained that I still didn’t feel well, climbed the stairs to our bedroom and lay down. I was being a royal pain in the arse. Anne deserved better. But I just didn’t care.

  Joanna Parker followed me upstairs and kept intruding into my thoughts, barring sleep. After a while, I got angry with her. Why the hell did she had to die just before I visited? And why did I have to find her body?

  An hour later, Anne crawled into bed beside me and silently turned off the light. This time, she kept to her side of the bed and was soon sussurating.

  I still couldn’t sleep. The scene in Joanna Parker’s apartment kept playing over and over again in my head. Only at about 4am did everything go blank. Then I slept like I was in the middle of an air raid.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Anne prodded me in the ribs and barked Nazi-style: "You going to work this morning?"

  Sleepily, I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. Almost nine. Shit. I should be at work already.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. My head ached and body begged for more sleep. I didn’t want to venture out into a world now brimming with nastiness and danger.

  However, a heckler in the back of my head said I had to work. I left Michael Boyd in charge yesterday and he probably wouldn’t notice if the army launched a coup and started shelling Parliament House. I couldn’t tempt fate a second day running.

  I glanced up at Anne, already dressed for work, and groaned: "Yeah. I’m going."

  "What about your flu?"

  A wan smile. "Sometimes you’ve gotta play hurt."

  Her look said I didn’t add anything to the team. "Well, if you don’t feel up to it, come home."

  "Sure."

  She pecked me on the forehead. "Alright. I’m off to work. See you tonight."

  After she’d gone, I lay on my back, eyes closed. But if I did that for too long, I’d fall asleep. I rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.

  I washed and dressing before stumbling down to the kitchen to eat a couple of Weet-bix. At least my tiredness stopped me dwelling on the events of the last two days.

  Driving to work, I turned on the radio and listened to the ABC local news. Had the police investigation of Yvonne Clarke’s death made any progress? And had Joanna Parker’s body had been discovered?

  The announcer said nothing about Yvonne’s death. However, one news item broke through the fog of tiredness that enveloped me.

  The newsreader said: "Police say the body of a woman was discovered in her apartment at Campbell early this morning. It appears the woman, whose name has not been released, was stabbed to death. She is believed to have been in her early thirties. A police spokesman said that Homicide detectives have been called to the scene."

  My heart thudded and stomach lurched. Only after I'd driven another five kilometres, was I was sure I wouldn’t have a heart attack or vomit.

  I parked under Parliament House and caught a lift up to the Press Gallery floor. When I walked into my bureau, I found Michael Boyd slumped over his desk, motionless.

  My heart started a wild jungle beat. My God. Not another fucking dead body. Three in three fucking days. This can’t be happening. I was walking through a charnel house. Death was all around me.

  "Jesus Christ," I blurted out.

  Michael took that as his cue to rise from the dead. He sat up straight and displayed two blood-shot eyes. "Ah, morning boss."

  His sudden resurrection put another heavy strain on my heart. For a few moments, my fate hung in the balance. Then my heart slowed to a more measured beat. I took a few deep breaths. "Christ. You scared the shit out of me. You alright?"

  "Yeah, of course. Just had a big night, that’s all."

  That was his problem: lots of big nights and no big days. As he rubbed his bland eyes, I realised that coming to work was the right decision.

  He said: "You know, you don’t look so good yourself. How do you feel?"

  "Like shit on a stick."

  "What’s the problem?"

  The problem was that I hadn’t slept properly for two days, because I kept tripping over dead bodies. I recycled the lie I told Anne: "I think I’ve got the flu."

  "Seen a doctor?"

  "No. Don’t worry, I’ll survive. Much happen yesterday?"

  "No. I went to those press conferences you told me to cover, but my stories didn’t make the paper."

  "OK. Did the PM or Martin say anything interesting?"

  "Not so far as I’m aware."

  That assurance didn’t ease my mind. "What did the other papers say this morning about the leadership struggle?"

  "Nothing much. Nothing new, anyway."

  I sat at my desk and looked through the morning papers, hoping he was right. He was. Neither the PM or Martin had said anything publicly about their leadership fight. They’d obviously decided that if they threw mud in public they’d be accused of putting personal ambition before party. Better to fight a guerrilla war behind the scenes.

  The lead item in the Launceston Herald was still about the missing hiking party. I skipped through the story: "widening search … grave fears for safety … poor weather … cold nights …" Sounded like they were fucked. Served them right for keeping me off the front page.

  After looking through the mail and consulting my diary, I drew up a preliminary news list and called Dirk Tucker in Launceston.

  As usual, he sounded like he’d missed breakfast. "Where were you yesterday?"

  "I got sick and had to go home."

  "Why didn’t you call me?"

  "I felt too sick." Piss-weak excuse.

  "You OK now?" he asked roughly.

  "I think I’ll make it."

  "Good. Then what have you got for me?"

  I went through the preliminary news list with him: the visiting New Zealand Foreign Minister was going to hold a press conference; the Senate Estimates Committee was going to barbeque some bureaucrats, and the Bureau of Statistics was scheduled to release the latest unemployment figures at eleven o’clock.

  As usual, he didn’t sound impressed. "OK. Send as much as you can. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so we’ve got a few extra pages to fill."

  "Maybe, if you’re lucky, they’ll find the missing hikers."

  "I hope not - not for a few more days, anyway. Then, with luck, their bodies will turn up and the grieving rellies will start complaining the whole search effort was a shambles. We can’t lose."

  I hung up and asked Michael to cover the Kiwi Foreign Minister’s press conference and then attend the Estimates Committee hearing. Though neither would generate much news, they would keep him out of my way. However, the release of the unemployment statistics would make a good story. I kept that for myself.

  He nodded casually and went back to reading the paper.

  Desperate for a caffeine hit, I rose and headed towards the coffee machine in the corner. Halfway there, the phone rang. I sighed, retraced my steps and picked it up.

  "Paul Ryder?" said a vaguely familiar voice.

  "Yes."

  "Mr Ryder, this is Special Agent Gilroy."

&nb
sp; Fuck. I’d have preferred to hear from Beelzebub. My poor beleaguered heart did another lap of the track. Yet, I managed to keep my voice even: "Yes. What can I do for you?"

  "I want you to come down to police headquarters for a chat."

  No fucking way. He was the last person I wanted to see - ever.

  "Umm, what sort of chat?" I asked nervously.

  "Oh, there are just a few more questions I’d like to ask."

  He spoke very casually, as if trying to calm a child, which increased my suspicion. "What sort of questions?"

  "I’ve been going over your statement, and there are a few, umm, gaps."

  "Gaps?"

  "Yes, gaps."

  "What gaps?"

  "I’ll tell you when you get down here."

  "Does it have to be today? I’m very busy."

  "I’m sure you are. But this is very important."

  Did he mean the murder investigation was important or his new questions were important? I wanted to clarify that. But if I did, I’d reveal that I was shit-scared. "OK. What time do you want to see me?"

  "How about in twenty minutes."

  There was obviously no point trying to fob him off. He was determined to see me. I should get our meeting over and done with. "Alright. Twenty minutes."

  He hung up.

  While I was on the phone, Michael pretended to read the paper, while obviously eavesdropping. I couldn’t blame him. In his position, I’d have done the same. Maybe he was showing a hint of journalistic talent. Or maybe not.

  I got to my feet and looked at him. "I’ve got to go out."

  "Where to?"

  "The cops want to ask me a few more questions. Don’t worry, I won’t be long."

  Unless, of course, Gilroy arrested me. Then I might be gone for at least twenty years. My left leg trembled like it was possessed.

  A few minutes later, I was behind the wheel of my battered Volvo, heading towards the Australian Federal Police Headquarters in Braddon.

  Even if I felt healthy, I’d have worried about why Gilroy had summoned me. But I’d been running on the rims for a long time. Dark suspicions festered in my brain. Maybe Gilroy didn’t want to ask any questions at all; maybe he just wanted to arrest me. I imagined myself being handcuffed and dragged off to a cell.