Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  Whereupon they left, taking with them the story of a lifetime.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After they’d gone, I sat on the couch for a long while, listening to my heart thump. When it was finally under control, I pondered my next move, and quickly realised I didn’t have one. I now had no proof that Potter, Martin or even Cooper was behind the deaths of Yvonne Clarke and Joanna Parker. Everything that had happened to me - including finding the DVD - was like a dream. A monumental scoop was within my grasp. But just as I curled my last finger around it, it slipped away.

  However, at least I was still alive, a status I probably wouldn’t maintain if I kept poking around. George Potter - and now Richard Reston - had made that very clear.

  No point sitting around, bemoaning my fate. I might as well go to work. I headed for the door.

  Recently, every man and his dog had broken into my townhouse, so there was probably no point locking the front door. But I did, out of habit. Then I trudged disconsolately over to my rented car, got behind the wheel and headed for Parliament House.

  As I drove over the Captain Cook Bridge, I reflected that Reston was probably already closeted with Vincent Martin, using the DVD to blackmail him into withdrawing his challenge to the PM. Though I’d always thought politics was a dirty business, recent events took my breath away.

  As I’ve mentioned, in Canberra few people can keep a secret for long. I’m no exception. After the emotional roller-coaster I’d been through, I desperately wanted to unburden myself to the most sympathetic soul I could find.

  I decided to tell Alan Casey what had happened. He was my best friend on the Press Gallery and the most experienced reporter I knew. He might even have some good advice.

  When I reached the Press Gallery floor, I strolled into the bureau of the Sydney News and found Alan in the kitchenette, making a cup of coffee. He looked a little surprised to see me.

  He said: "Morning, comrade. What brings you this way?"

  "I want to chat."

  "Right now?"

  "Yeah. Somewhere private."

  "OK. Let’s go up to the Queen’s Terrace."

  The terrace runs along the top of the main portico of Parliament House. It has a cafeteria with a large outdoor eating area. When Alan and I reached it, about half-a-dozen tourists sat outside. We bought ourselves a couple of beers and carried them to an outside table.

  It was a glorious day. From where I sat, I could see, scattered around the lake, the National Library, the old Parliament House, the War Memorial and the High Court. At any other time, I would have relaxed and enjoyed the view. Not today.

  Alan said: "OK. What’s on your mind?"

  Over several beers, I told him everything that had happened to me during the last ten days. He didn’t say much, just frowned, whistled, pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. When I’d finished, he shook his head in amazement. "Jesus Christ. That’s quite a story. You’re lucky you’re still alive."

  "I know. What should I do now?"

  "Isn’t that obvious? Do what Reston said: forget about all of this. Drop the story. I mean, you can’t touch Martin or Potter, and Cooper is dead. It’s all over - let it go."

  "That’s not easy."

  "I know. But if you keep snooping around, or start making wild allegations, Potter will probably get someone even nastier than Cooper to punch your ticket. Remember, he can buy anything, including your death, and probably claim a tax deduction."

  "You’re probably right. But what if I could find proof - real proof - they were behind Yvonne and Joanna’s deaths?"

  He shook his head sorrowfully. "You’re not listening to me are you? You keep chasing this story and Potter will have you killed long before you find any proof. And even if you do find some, no paper will touch your story."

  "You’re kidding?"

  "No, I’m not. These days, newspapers don’t want to uncover big political scandals."

  "Why not?"

  He frowned at my naivety. "Why not? Because the bean-counters who run them don’t like upsetting either the Federal Government, which regulates the media, or big companies, which buy advertising. Christ, I bet Potter spends millions of dollars every year on newspaper ads. The management suits won’t let you offend him. That’s why some stories - like this one - are too big to print."

  "You’re serious, aren’t you?"

  "Of course I am. I suggest you drop this story now. Please. I don’t want to be a pallbearer. You’ll be too fucking heavy for a start." He waved towards the national monuments scattered below us. "This all looks very impressive, doesn’t it? But we all live very close to the jungle - remember that."

  I was no caped crusader or hero type. His words sent a chill through me. Yet, it stuck in my craw that Potter and Martin would get away with engineering Yvonne’s murder, and Martin wouldn’t be held accountable for his corruption and drug-taking. Nor was I happy about relinquishing such a stellar story.

  So despite the gnawing fear in my gut, I planned to keep snooping about, very quietly, to find some solid proof. But if I mentioned that to Alan, he would have got angry and call me a fool. So I lied: "OK. OK. I’ll pull my head in."

  "Good, though maybe you can salvage something from the wreckage."

  "What?"

  "Martin obviously won’t challenge the PM tomorrow morning. You can write that. In fact, it looks like you’ve got an exclusive."

  "You won’t write it?"

  "No. Of course not. It’s your story. You've earned it."

  I got back to the bureau at almost three o’clock. Michael was at his desk, looking worried. When he saw me, relief flooded across his face.

  "Paul. Thank God you’re back. Tucker’s been calling every half-hour. He doesn’t sound happy."

  "Yeah? So what’s new? What does he want?"

  "He wants to know what we’re going to file today - I mean, the meeting of Government MPs is tomorrow morning."

  "Yeah, I know. And what did you tell him we’re going to write?"

  "I said he’d have to ask you."

  "You mean you haven’t written any stories?"

  "Correct."

  My God he was hopeless. Why didn’t they just send me a baboon? If only his Dad could see him now.

  I said: "Don’t worry. I’ve got one."

  His face lit up. "Really? What?"

  "Martin won’t be challenging the PM tomorrow morning."

  Michael’s eyes bulged. "What?"

  "He won’t be challenging the PM."

  "Shit-a-brick. Why not?"

  I smiled. "It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get a chance."

  I sat at my desk, picked up the phone and dialled Dirk Tucker in the Launceston newsroom.

  His first words were entirely predictable: "Where the fuck have you been?"

  "I was up in Sydney."

  "I know. But you were supposed to be back by mid-day."

  "Sorry. I asked the priest to hurry the funeral, and he wouldn’t listen."

  "OK, OK," he said doubtfully. "Government MPs are meeting tomorrow morning, and I’ve still got no fuckin’ idea what fuckin’ story we’re going to fuckin' run."

  "I can tell you that now."

  "Really? What?"

  "Martin’s going to pull out of the leadership race."

  "Ho-fuckin’-ho. Now get serious."

  "I am serious."

  "No you’re not. You’re just pulling my leg."

  I was tired and annoyed, which helped me sound angry. "Listen, I’m being very fucking serious. You’d better start believing me."

  After a long pause, he sounded a little contrite. "OK. Where did you get this story from?"

  "A good source close to Martin."

  "Who?"

  "I promised not to reveal his name to anyone."

  "OK. Why’s Martin pulling out? I thought he was the front-runner."

  If I told Tucker the whole truth, he wouldn’t touch the story. So I gave him a drastically edited version. "I understand they�
�ve found a skeleton in his closet."

  "What sort of skeleton?"

  "My source wouldn’t say. But it’s obviously bad enough to take him out of the running."

  "OK. And who else has got this story?"

  "Nobody. It’ll be an exclusive."

  He sounded perplexed: "We’ve got it on our own? How come?"

  He couldn’t understand how a lousy reporter like me, working for a two-bit newspaper like the Launceston Herald, had snagged such a big exclusive. If it were true, surely one of the big metropolitan papers would have unearthed it.

  "Look, don’t worry," I said boldly. "It’s legit. I promise you."

  He paused. "Let me get this right: according to your source, Vincent Martin, who everyone expects will be our next Prime Minister, is going to withdraw from the race. But your source won’t tell you why he’s going to do that?"

  "Yeah. That about sums it up."

  "Sounds like crap to me."

  "Believe me, it’s true."

  "It’s your neck," he said with a tinge of pleasure.

  "Good. Then my story will be the front-page lead?"

  "Umm, that may not be possible," he said, a trifle embarrassed.

  "Why not?"

  "We’ve got another big story to run."

  "What could be bigger than mine?"

  "There’s been a sighting of a Tasmanian Tiger."

  The last Tassie Tiger died more than eighty years ago. But occasionally some fruitcake claimed he’d seen one. It was the Apple Isle’s version of the Loch Ness Monster.

  I said: "Fuck me dead. You must be kidding."

  "Nope. A Yank scientist claims he’s seen one. He’s even got a photo."

  "Jesus. You know it’s a fake - it's been Photo shopped."

  "Yeah. Probably. But stories about Tassie Tigers really sell."

  My blood boiled. I’d heard enough of this garbage. "OK, OK. I’ll send you my story, and you can do whatever the fuck you like with it. Stick it with the death notices, if you want. Or better yet, put it in code."

  I slammed down the phone and looked across at Michael, who’d been listening intently.

  "Arsehole," I exclaimed.

  I turned on my computer and started typing.

  Government MPs will meet today to decide the leadership struggle between the Prime Minister and the former Minister for Defence, Mr Vincent Martin.

  Most political commentators have predicted that Mr Martin will depose the Prime Minister.

  However, according to a party insider, Mr Martin has had second thoughts about challenging the Prime Minister and intends to withdraw from the contest.

  The source would not explain why Mr Martin intends to pull out of the race…

  It was a great story, though compared with the one I’d just lost, it was nothing.

  Later, when I got home, my townhouse seemed very empty and lonely without Anne. I quickly retired to bed. Sleep overwhelmed me. I dreamed that I sitting at a green-baize card table in a big art-deco casino. I wore a black tuxedo and had a huge pile of chips in front of me. Two Bond-quality babes, wearing designer dresses and sable furs, purred at my elbows.

  Sitting opposite was an evil-looking guy in a white tux. He wore an eye-patch and puffed on a cigar he sometimes cradled in his stainless-steel right hand. Come to think of it, without the sleeping goggle, he looked a lot like Richard Reston.

  He leaned forward. "Mr Ryder, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Bastard, Dr Hard Bastard. I’m your arch-nemesis."

  Because I was dreaming, his name and role didn’t trigger any warning bells. "Pleased to meet you."

  "Ready to play?"

  "Of course."

  Dr Bastard nodded to the dealer. "Deal."

  I don’t know much about cards, so I’m not sure what game we played. But one thing was certain: I kept losing. My chips marched across the table and grew in front of Dr Bastard.

  Soon, all I had left in front of me was a familiar-looking DVD.

  My opponent spoke basso profundo. "You’re way out of your depth, aren’t you, Mr Ryder?"

  I smiled jauntily. "Don’t worry about me, Hard Bastard. My luck’s about to change."

  "Really? Then let’s have one last hand. We’ll cut cards. I’ll bet all of my chips against that DVD. What do you say?"

  What a deal? I tossed the crummy DVD into the middle of the table. "Sure. You first."

  The dealer shuffled the pack and slapped it down in the middle of the table. Dr Bastard used his metal claw to delicately pick up several cards and show me the bottom one. Ace of fucking Spades. Shit.

  He grinned savagely, seized the DVD with his claw, slipped it into his jacket and strolled off, trailing cigar-smoke.

  Someone grabbed my ear-lobe. I twisted and saw that Anne had replaced the Bond babes. She snarled. "You really are fucking stupid, aren’t you? You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re doing."

  I’d always thought dreams were a lot of crap that meant nothing. When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  That morning, the Launceston Herald splashed with an American zoologist’s claim that he’d located a live Tasmanian Tiger. There was even a fuzzy photograph of the marsupial in question. Even I could see it was a fake. The guy must have spray-painted a dingo or something.

  My story was below the fold on the front page. The headline said "MARTIN TO PULL OUT OF SHOW-DOWN". I read through the story and saw the sub-editor hadn’t bothered to butcher it.

  I glanced through the other papers. None suggested Martin might withdraw from the contest. Indeed, they uniformly predicted he’d be victorious. So I was the odd man out. I’d be either a hero or a goat. No other possibility.

  The meeting of Government MPs was due to start in the Main Committee Room at nine o’clock. Just before that time, I joined a large band of reporters and cameramen gathered outside the room, watching MPs file in. Most looked tense and none wanted to be interviewed.

  Vincent Martin strode down the corridor, looking subdued, with Barry Graham behind him. A few reporters asked if he had the numbers to beat the PM. He ignored them.

  Soon afterwards, the Prime Minister scurried into the room, Reston at his elbow, waving off questions.

  Just after nine o’clock, the doors closed.

  The meeting only lasted half-an-hour. Then the doors swung open and Government MPs filed out. One of the first to leave was the Chief Whip, Gary Watts, who was quickly encircled. Watts was usually a very cool political operator. Today, under the glare of the strobe lights, he looked edgy and excited. Huge blobs of sweat broke from his hairline.

  "What happened?" someone yelled.

  Watts paused dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, the meeting voted decisively to elect Vincent Martin as the new leader of the party. He will become the new Prime Minister."

  I’d been so certain that Reston would force Martin to withdraw from the contest that, at first, I didn’t believe what I heard. Watts must be confused. Surely, Martin withdrew. The PM must have won.

  A reporter behind me said: "What was the count?"

  "65 to 41 in favour of Vincent Martin."

  "Anybody else stand?"

  "No."

  Christ. He’d repeated that Martin won. My God. What the hell had happened? In that morning’s Herald I said Martin would withdraw. But he didn’t withdraw - he fucking well won. What a disaster. I had egg all over my face.

  A female voice behind me said: "When is Mr Martin going to speak to us?"

  "First he has to visit the Governor-General, to be sworn in as Prime Minister. Then he’ll talk to the press." Watts held up his hands. "Alright. Thank you ladies and gentlemen."

  After Watts disappeared, everybody hung around interviewing departing Government MPs, while keeping an eye out for the Prime Minister and Vincent Martin. Neither appeared. They slipped out a back door.

  I strolled disconsolately back to my bureau, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. The Prime Minister’s pol
itical adviser, Richard Reston, had a DVD which should have destroyed Vincent Martin’s challenge. Yet, despite that, Martin triumphed.

  How the hell did that happen?

  The answer was obvious: Reston had double-crossed his boss. He decided that, instead of using the DVD to make Martin pull out of the race, he’d let Martin win. Then the Government would get a telegenic new PM whom Reston could blackmail.

  I’d always thought Reston was a sharp political operator, but his latest manoeuvre - a Machiavelli roll with twist - was breathtaking. It was also, in hindsight, entirely predictable. I should have seen it coming.

  So the country was about to get a Prime Minister who was corrupt, fond of ingesting illegal drugs, whom two women were murdered to protect, and who was deeply in hock to both George Potter and Richard Reston.

  Of course, I couldn’t prove any of that. So the general public believed - and would continue to believe - that Vincent Martin was just another slimy politician instead of a depraved crook.

  After working out how Martin managed to seize the ultimate prize, I focused on my own predicament. My story in the Herald that morning said Martin was going to withdraw from the leadership contest. No ifs, buts or maybes. Yet he’d soon be sworn in as PM. Most people would call that a major fuck-up.

  Christ. I looked like a fool.

  As I strolled behind the Senate chamber, I saw Alan Casey ahead of me. I quickened my stride and caught up with him.

  Alan smiled. "Hello Paul. What did you think of that?"

  "I’m still in shock. Christ. I thought Reston would use the DVD to make Martin pull out."

  "So did I. But he obviously decided Martin’s the man of the moment. So instead of stopping his bandwagon, he jumped onto it."

  Alan’s analysis tallied with my own.

  I said: "Yeah. So now we’ll get a PM who’s a total crook."

  Alan shrugged: "What’s new?"

  Good point.

  We got into a lift and I sighed. "You know, I wrote in the paper this morning that Martin would withdraw from the race. But he didn’t fucking withdraw - he won. I’d call that a major miscalculation."