Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  "Was Joanna in a relationship with anyone?"

  "I don’t think so. I mean, sometimes she talked about going out on dates. But I don’t think she was in a steady relationship, if you know what I mean?"

  I knew what she meant. Joanna Parker - like many around Parliament House - enjoyed hopping from one bed to another. So did her friend, Yvonne Clarke.

  I said: "When she talked about men, did she mention any names?"

  A puzzled look. "Maybe. I can’t remember any."

  "She was a good friend of a woman called Yvonne Clarke. Did you know her?"

  Before she could answer, Bob Douglas entered the suite and raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering why a reporter from a Tasmanian rag was in his reception area.

  "Christ, Paul," he said in his usual blunt manner. "What the fuck’re you doing here?"

  "I want to chat with you."

  "What about? Your Tassie readers don’t give a shit about anything I’ve got to say."

  "True. I want to chat about Joanna Parker."

  His eyebrows joined like magnets and his hands twitched slightly. "Why’re you interested in her?"

  "Because I found the body of a woman called Yvonne Clarke. Their deaths might be connected. So I’m doing some digging around."

  "Shouldn’t you leave that to the cops?"

  "Maybe. But so far they haven’t kicked any goals."

  He pursed his lips and looked uncertain, before nodding his head. "Shit. Alright. Follow me."

  I got up and followed him into his office.

  Bob Douglas owed his political career to a lucky bounce of an ellipsoid ball. Twenty years ago, during a Bledisloe Cup game played on a soggy pitch in Wellington, the All Black fullback fumbled in-goal and Bob, who’d just run on as a replacement, flopped onto the loose ball to score the series-winning try.

  That effort buffed up a pedestrian rugby career, which he parlayed into a mediocre business career sitting on the boards of several shonky companies, well paid to look the other way. Then, before the balance sheets got too smelly, he sidestepped into politics.

  He was one of the Government’s foot-soldiers. Vote-fodder. Yet, while many of his more talented colleagues crashed and burned, he survived by watching his back, sucking up to the right people and - most importantly - staying out of trouble. He often pontificated about the lessons he’d learnt while playing rugby, like team-work and dedication. However, the biggest lesson was how to talk in cliques. In his bluff, no-nonsense manner he said absolutely nothing: no original or controversial thought ever escaped his lips.

  In politics, survival is victory. Now he had his beady eyes fixed on the fully parliamentary pension that, in a few years, would be his.

  We entered his office. He plopped into a chair behind his desk and asked me to sit facing him. He was now several kilos heavier than during his playing days, and his face still bore the scars of battle: scuffed ears, cuts above his eyes and a nose that looked stuck on too hard.

  He said: "Poor Joanna. Fuckin’ tragedy. Lovely woman. When they catch the prick who did it, they should hang him by the balls."

  "How long was she your secretary?"

  "About two years?"

  "Good at her job?"

  "Excellent. She’ll be hard to replace."

  "Have you spoken to the cops about her death?"

  He looked suspicious. "This is off the record, right?"

  "Of course. My lips are sealed."

  "Good. Of course, I’ve spoken to them. They came around here the morning after her body was found, asking lots of questions."

  "What sort of questions?"

  "For a start, questions about her friendship with your pal, Yvonne Clarke."

  "What did you tell them about that?"

  He shrugged. "Not much I could say. I only met Yvonne a few times, when she dropped in to see Joanna. They seemed pretty chummy. That was my only contact with her."

  "And Joanna didn’t talk about their friendship?"

  "No. We didn’t talk much about her private life."

  "What else did the cops ask you?"

  "Oh, the sort of stuff you’d expect, like whether Joanna had a boyfriend."

  "Did she?"

  "Like I said, I don’t know much about her private life. So far as I’m aware, she didn’t."

  "Any idea why not?"

  He shrugged again. "Nope. Maybe she couldn’t find the right guy. Maybe she liked playing the field. I don’t know. But I can’t tell you this - she must have had plenty of offers."

  "What do you mean?"

  He leered slightly. "She was a bloody good sort. Lots of guys must have had the hots for her."

  I smiled. "Like you?"

  His leer widened. "Of course. But I didn’t lay a finger on her, understand? Maybe, when I was younger, I might have. Not now. Finally, in my third marriage, I'm happy. Also, one of my big rules is that I don’t screw the crew. Just leads to trouble."

  I hadn’t accused him of anything. Yet he gave me a detailed defence of his conduct. Now I was suspicious, though I couldn’t take that anywhere.

  I said: "Did the cops give you any idea where their investigation’s heading?"

  "Yeah, they said they’ve got a firm suspect."

  The cops must have been referring to me. Something sharp jabbed my heart. My throat went dry.

  "Oh, really?" I blurted out.

  "Yeah, though they didn’t identify him."

  Though I wasn’t named, I felt a perverse desire to defend myself. "I’ve heard they had a suspect, but decided he’s innocent. Now they’re back to square one."

  "Not surprised, because the cops I spoke to looked pretty stupid. Bet they couldn’t find shit in a sewer."

  As I strolled back to my bureau, Vincent Martin’s political adviser, Barry Graham, rounded a corner and strode buoyantly towards me, glowing with self-satisfaction. His expression said that Martin would soon be in the Lodge, with Graham standing behind him, pulling the strings, more powerful than most Cabinet ministers.

  He saw me and slowed. "Hello Paul. What’s tomorrow’s headline?"

  "I was hoping you’d tell me. How many votes do you think Martin will get on Friday?"

  A smile leaked from the corners of his mouth. "On the record, ‘no comment’; off the record, ‘it's going to be a massacre'."

  "When’s your man going to call a press conference and throw us a few scraps?"

  Graham shook his head. "No chance."

  "Why not?"

  "Because there’s no point. I mean, he doesn’t have to win over the public - just Government MPs."

  "Yeah, I suppose so."

  He glanced at his watch. "Anyway, I’m late for an appointment with some of those MPs. I’d better hurry."

  As he raced off to plot and intrigue, I reflected that he seemed supremely confident Martin would win, probably with good reason. However, he was an arrogant tool, and his opposite number, Richard Reston, was twice as cunning and experience, and quite capable of pulling a big rabbit out of a small hat. So maybe the leadership contest wasn't a foregone conclusion.

  That day, there were no new developments in the leadership struggle: nobody threw his hat into the ring or out of it, and none of the contenders spoke on the record. I didn’t even file a story about it. Instead, I wrote about an Auditor-General’s report that criticised the Department of Health for waste and mismanagement. Hardly big news.

  When I finished that story, just after seven, I decided the best way to investigate the deaths of Yvonne Clarke and Joanna Parker was to talk to their neighbours. I’d start with Joanna’s, because she’d lived close to my home in Ainslie.

  I drove over to her apartment block and climbed the stairs to the first floor. A long balcony ran in front of ten apartments. Joanna’s was the sixth.

  I knocked on the first door. No answer. At the second, an elderly woman said she didn’t talk to reporters; at the third, a middle-aged man just slammed the door in my face, and at the fourth nobody answered.

 
Discouraged, I knocked on the door of the apartment next to Joanna’s. It was opened by a man in his early thirties, wearing a track-suit. He wasn’t fazed when I said I was a reporter investigating the murder of Joanna Parker. He was obviously one of those people - highly prized by reporters - who just loves to talk.

  He said: "Hi. I’m Patrick Vardon."

  "You in the PS?"

  "Yep. Department of Trade. Work in the accounts department."

  In other words, a public service cubicle dweller. "OK. And you’re happy to talk to me?"

  He smiled. "Sure. But you can’t use my name in anything you write, OK?"

  "It’s a deal."

  I suspected that, like many public servants, he was bright, well-educated and unambitious, and loved knifing his superiors if that took little effort. I felt a surge of hope.

  He said: "OK then. What do you want to know?"

  "To begin with, have you talked to the cops?"

  "Sure. Some guy called Gilroy."

  "What did you tell him?"

  He shrugged. "Not much. I’ve only been in this apartment for a few months and didn’t know Joanna Parker well. When we ran into each other, we nodded and smiled - that was all."

  "She have many visitors?"

  "Not really, except …"

  "Except what?"

  Vardon grinned. "Three or four times, a Comcar pulled up outside."

  My breathing quickened. "How did you know it was a Comcar?"

  He laughed. "Give me a break. It was a white sedan with government plates."

  "Would you recognise it again?"

  He chuckled. "You kidding? A government car is a government car. They all look the same. But I recognised the driver."

  "Really? Who?"

  A long pause for effect. Oh, he was enjoying himself. "Senator Bob Douglas."

  My pulse-rate jumped. "You sure? How do you know it was him?"

  "I saw his face."

  "You mean, you knew what Bob Douglas looked like?"

  "Because I’m not stupid. I read the papers. I watch the evening news. In fact, I’ve always thought he was a total dickhead."

  That was Bob alright. This guy was nosey and perceptive.

  I said: "Did you know he was Joanna Parker’s boss?"

  "Not then. I do now."

  "How? Because of the media coverage?"

  "Yeah, and I think Gilroy mentioned it."

  "When did Douglas usually turn up?"

  "Oh, about seven or eight in the evening."

  "Maybe he just dropped in for a cup of tea, to chat about work?"

  He snickered. "Yeah, maybe. But, if he did, they had a hell of a lot to talk about."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sometimes his car was still parked outside the next morning."

  That buried Douglas’ claim he didn’t fuck the help. Joanna was obviously an office perk.

  I said: "Did you tell the cops about Douglas’ nocturnal visits?"

  "Of course."

  "How did they react?"

  He smiled. "They looked very unhappy: like I’d done a huge fart."

  I laughed. "I’m not surprised. You’ve put their careers and pensions in jeopardy. One slip and they can kiss them goodbye."

  He smiled. "Always happy to cause trouble."

  "OK. And did you see anyone acting suspiciously on the night she died?"

  He shooks his head. "No. But something a bit unusual happened the day before."

  My heart thumped. "What?"

  "She had an argument with someone. It was so loud I heard them through the wall."

  "What did they argue about?"

  "Don’t know. Their voices were too indistinct."

  "Did you see her visitor?"

  "No. Afraid not. I stayed in my apartment. Now I wish I was a bit more curious."

  "Maybe she argued with Senator Douglas?"

  He shook his head. "No. Definitely not."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she argued with a woman."

  "A woman?"

  "Yep. I only heard women’s voices."

  "You’re sure?"

  "Totally."

  "And you told the cops that?"

  "Of course."

  I probed for more information, and obtained none. I thanked him and strolled towards the apartment on the other side of Joanna Parker’s. However, after that, any neighbours who answered the door either wouldn’t talk or knew nothing of interest.

  I strolled back to my car wondering why, 24 hours before she died, Joanna Parker argued with another woman. And who was that woman? Yvonne Clarke?

  I got into my car and drove off, focusing hard on those questions - so hard I completely forgot Richard Reston’s warning that my life might be in danger.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The good burghers of Canberra are usually home well before sundown, so Anzac Parade was almost empty as I headed down it towards the lake. I pulled up at some traffic lights. A vehicle stopped behind me, headlights bright.

  In my rear-vision mirror, I saw it was a Toyota land-cruiser. To my surprise, a man got out of the passenger side and strode towards me. What the fuck did he want? My nerves sizzled.

  Fearfully, I glanced in my side-mirror. The approaching man held something lumpy in his right hand. Christ. It looked like a pistol. Yes, it was a pistol. Shit.

  Fear overloaded my synapses. Reston’s warning rang in my ears: "Right now you're swimming with sharks, and one might just turn you into dinner"

  Though I didn’t know the guy approaching, he was obviously a well-armed shark and I wasn’t keen to meet him.

  I glanced up at the traffic lights. Still red. No cars were approaching the intersection.

  The gunman was only a couple of metres away.

  Heart thudding, I stomped on the accelerator and shot through the intersection.

  As I barrelled down Anzac Parade, I glanced in the rear-vision mirror and saw the man running back to the land-cruiser. He jumped into the passenger seat and it sped after me.

  When my Volvo rolled off the production line, twenty years ago, it was ugly, safe and slow. After that, it had a hard life - the service log book made horrific reading - and was now even slower. Though the chassis shook like a rocket at main ignition, the car only snuck past 100kmph.

  I glanced again in the rear-vision mirror. The land-cruiser was gaining fast. Fuck.

  I zoomed across Constitution Avenue and turned right onto Parkes Way. On my left, a strip of bushland hid the lake. The Volvo whined in Swedish that it was only designed to take yapping kids to school. A car chase? No way.

  The land-cruiser drew level. But at least I was safe while still in my car. I’d just drive around until I saw a police station, then stop.

  Bad plan. The land-cruiser swerved across the road and slammed into the side of my car, which careered towards the bushes. My body had a power surge that almost stopped my heart.

  I stomped on the brake pedal and tugged the steering wheel, fighting to keep the Volvo on the road. No good. It jumped the curb and skidded down a shallow embankment. I wrestled with the wheel and pumped the brakes. The car mowed down some bushes and saplings, then shot between two large gums, bouncing so hard my head hit the roof. My foot slipped off the brake pedal.

  The Volvo slammed into a large gum. The emergency bags didn't inflate. My seatbelt stopped me turning into a hood ornament. I head-butted the steering wheel. Dazzling pain. Blood trickled into my eyes.

  My vision was blurred and thoughts scrambled. But one thing was incredibly clear: the fuckers in the land-cruiser tried to kill me. Fucking fuck.

  And maybe they hadn’t finished for the evening. Maybe they were running towards me, right now, to deliver the coup de fuckin’ whatever it is.

  I turned to look up at the roadway and screamed with pain. Whiplash.

  If paramedics had attended the scene, they’d have immobilised my neck and dashed me off to the nearest hospital, while I whimpered like a dog. But I couldn’t wait for help. I had to
escape.

  Keeping my head steady, I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to force open the door. Stuck. Fuck. The safety catch was down. Desperately, I pulled it up and shoved again. The door opened. I stumbled out, jarring my neck. Excruciating pain. I almost blacked out.

  I turned my whole body around and looked back at the roadway. Two dark shapes were loping down the embankment. Were they from the land-cruiser or passing motorists who’d stopped to help?

  Better safe than sorry. I exploded from the blocks.

  Someone yelled for me to stop. Not fucking likely.

  Two gunshots. The first bullet clipped leaves above me and the second thunked into a tree near my head. It was easy to imagine the sound it would have made if it hit my flesh. Jesus, I’d never been so terrified in my life. Mummy.

  Definitely not Good Samaritans.

  One of them obviously didn’t want me dead, because he yelled: "Stop shooting, you fool".

  As I ran over dark, rough ground, the top of my spine jabbed the base of my brain, setting off fireworks. I had to run stiff-legged, like a mummy in a bad horror movie, but still managed to poured on the coals.

  After about two hundred metres, I reached the path running around the lake. Across the water, Old Parliament House shone in its footlights like a big birthday cake. I considered diving into the water and swimming for it, then remembered I was a lousy swimmer. I veered left towards the Carillon.

  After about fifty metres, I realized that I'd plundered my energy reserves and gone into overdraft. Lactic acid flooded my system. The agony was unbearable. I stepped off the path and slipped behind a tree, heart pounding, gasping hard.

  For a few seconds, I thought I was safe. Then two shapes emerged from the trees, about forty metres away. Moonlight illuminated their faces. One was a huge bastard with close-cropped hair and a big, flat face. His companion was thin, balding and hatchet-faced. Both carried pistols like they were tools-of-the-trade.

  "Jesus," Baldy said, breathing hard, "He runs like a fuckin’ jack-rabbit. Which way did he go?"

  "Dunno. You go that way and I’ll go this. And if you find him, don’t shoot, OK, unless you gotta. I wanta talk to him first."

  "Sure."