by Peter Cotton
‘But he ordered an inquiry into it, didn’t he?’
‘Of course he did. He had no choice. And, in the end, the Securities Commission found nothing untoward in the whole affair. No smoking gun, anyway, so it all died a natural death when parliament rose for Christmas that year. Susan Wright ended up a bit tainted by it all, and that delayed her move into cabinet. But Lansdowne came out of it smelling like a rose. And, of course, Mondrian’s made heaps from those vouchers ever since.’
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Smeaton. He leaned over and whispered that he was going down to the front desk to fetch our first Early Leaver, Ron Sorby. I thanked Stevo for the call, took his number, and agreed that we should catch up. But after he’d hung up, I wondered about his motives in fingering Sorby. And why he’d raised the Mondrian affair, given the damage it could do the government if we had another look at it — especially at the tail end of an election campaign. It was all beyond me at this point. Walking to the interview room, I resolved to delve into the Mondrian business, but on the quiet. And if I found that Stevo had been playing me, I’d hammer him hard.
When Ron Sorby entered the interview room, he looked every bit the diffident chap that Stevo had described. He watched the door close behind him, then he slumped reluctantly into the chair on the opposite side of the table and promptly dropped his eyes to his lap.
‘Thanks for coming down at this hour, Mr Sorby,’ I said.
Sorby flicked me a look, then went back to examining his lap. All of the political staffers that I knew decked themselves out in the latest office gear. Sorby’s get-up, by contrast, was drab in the extreme: a grey cardigan over a white shirt, with a blue stripey tie and light-grey trousers. Even his hair, which was shortish on top and long at the back, was done in a style favoured by old-time public servants — the sort who’d go out for a big Friday night and paint the town grey.
Smeaton hit ‘record’ and named the three of us in the room. Then he gave me the thumbs up, and I eased Sorby into the interview by asking how long he’d worked up at the House.
‘I started in late ’99,’ he said, making eye contact for the first time. ‘As deputy secretary to the Joint Standing Committee on the Environment. And I’ve been up there ever since. At one thing or another.’
‘How’d you come to be working for Susan Wright?’
‘I stepped in after the last election, when she shifted from Home Affairs to Environment. She was going to recruit for the position, but things worked out between us, and after a few months she asked me to stay. That’s almost three years ago now, and we were still going strong. Until this.’
Either Sorby was unaware of Susan Wright’s plans for him, or he was in denial. Or maybe Stevo was wrong, or being mischievous. But with the election imminent, Sorby’s job security was tenuous at best, anyway. He was gone if the government lost. And if it won, would Wright’s replacement keep him on? I had no idea, but given where we were at in the electoral cycle, job security seemed like a pretty pale motive for murder. But I put the question anyway.
‘It’s interesting hearing you so upbeat about your relationship with Mrs Wright,’ I said. ‘Especially when people say she was going to sack you after the election.’
‘I know what people say,’ said Sorby, some steel entering his voice. ‘But, detective, this town’s full of bullshit. And, mark my words, we’ll all be wading in it by election day.’
‘So you and Mrs Wright were solid?’ said Smeaton, looking doubtful. ‘No tension? No drama on the job front?’
‘It can be heavy going up there,’ said Sorby. ‘You get snakey with someone over something, and it’s hard to let go. And yes, sometimes she got impatient. But she never wanted me gone.’
‘Mr Sorby, you left the office party just after the minister,’ said Smeaton. ‘And you were only a couple of minutes behind her when she left the building. Can you tell us where you went after you left that night?’
‘Straight home. My wife and I’ve been having some problems, so I went straight home.’
‘Your wife can vouch for you, then?’
‘Well, actually, she wasn’t there in the end. She’d gone to her sister’s.’
‘And where were you between eight o’clock last night and eight this morning?’
‘I was in the office till about six last night. Then I dropped in at the Kingo for a couple, and I was home by eight. And I was still in bed this morning when the call came through. About the body.’
‘Was anyone home with you last night?’ I said.
‘No. The wife’s still away.’
‘Mmm. Okay. Well, do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm Susan Wright? Any threats made against her? Any particular enemies?’
‘Look, detective, everyone in this game’s your enemy,’ said Sorby. ‘No matter what side they’re supposed to be on. And if you give some bastards up there the space to swing an axe, they’ll chop your head off if it suits them.’
‘With respect, Mr Sorby,’ I said, leaning across the table towards him. ‘That sort of stuff probably goes down really well with kids doing politics 101, but it’s not what I want to hear from you right now. So I’ll ask you again. Do you know anyone who had a reason to murder Susan Wright?’
‘No. I don’t know anyone capable of killing her. It was so, so … I don’t know. So over the top.’
‘It was that,’ I said. ‘Now, I know you’ve been through this before, but let’s talk about Sunday night. Mrs Wright left the party abruptly, and we’re told she was visibly upset at the time. Do you know what caused her early exit?’
‘No, I don’t. She and I had been in the corridor with Alan Proctor from the PMO, going through the environment launch with him. And we’d just got onto discussing the PM’s involvement when my wife rang on my mobile, so I took the call in my office. With the door closed.’
I loaded PROMIS, and adjusted the screen so that we could all see the layout of Wright’s office suite.
‘So the three of you were about here,’ I said, pointing to the section of corridor between Sorby’s office and the minister’s.
‘Yes,’ said Sorby. ‘And when I finished the call I came out, and someone said the minister and Proctor had gone into her office. And the door was closed. She generally kept it open unless she had something confidential going on, so I hung around and waited for them to come out. And when she did, about a quarter of an hour later, she was obviously upset, and she said a quick goodbye to everyone and left. And the show effectively broke up after that.’
‘What did she have with her when she walked out?’
I pictured the CCTV images of the minister heading off carrying her briefcase and purse, with the boxy file under her arm. Sorby’s eyes dropped back to his lap. Then he looked up.
‘Her briefcase,’ he said. ‘And her purse. And she had a file with her. But you’d know about that.’
‘The file,’ I said. ‘Do you know what was in it?’
‘No. I wish I did.’
‘But it was a red prime-ministerial file?’
‘That’s right. And I’m pretty sure it was Proctor’s. But that’s all I know.’
‘Were you surprised to see her leave with it? The file?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I was. But I didn’t say anything about it. She was upset. That’s what concerned me most. It was rare to see her like that.’
‘And you reckon a lot of people left soon after she did?’
‘Yeah. Most of them were only there because of her. Once she went, there was no point in most of them hanging around. The same with me, too. I called the office after I got home, some time after midnight, but only the diehards were left by then.’
‘The diehards?’ said Smeaton.
‘Five or six of the boys,’ said Sorby. ‘Blokes who work long hours, who love a beer and who’re never d
esperate for the night to end. Blokes like me, I guess.’
In any other context, this semi-confession might have provoked sympathy, or at least a moment’s silence. But I pushed on.
‘Back to the party, then,’ I said. ‘Did you speak to Alan Proctor after he came out of her office?’
‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘He looked very unhappy, and I asked him a couple of times if he was alright, but he ignored me and just staggered off like the rude bastard he is.’
‘And do you know why he was unhappy?’
‘No, I don’t. Maybe the file being taken? I don’t know.’
We finished the interview by asking Sorby to outline the roles of the various people in his office, just to fill in the picture of how the place worked. I warned him not to talk to anyone about the interview, and let him know that we might need to talk to him again. He rose from his seat and thanked us, and Smeaton ushered him out.
Sorby’s daggy clothes and diffident manner clearly masked some special qualities. Maybe, just maybe, one of them was the capacity to murder a boss who’d been planning to give him the flick. Then again, he didn’t strike me as a bloke who would have the nerve for it, especially when a murder charge would put him under a national spotlight in the middle of an election campaign.
Blood Oath subscription news
Thursday 1 August, 6.00am
A bounce comes early
by Simon Rolfe
Prime Minister Michael Lansdowne will be celebrating this morning’s Aztec poll, which has his government surging to be just three percentage points behind the opposition, on a two-party-preferred basis.
One obvious explanation for this remarkable turnaround is the sympathy the government has garnered following Susan Wright’s tragic demise. If her death is the cause, the prime minister should know that sympathy is an emotion that quickly dissipates, and in no time flat, he may find himself back where he started this campaign. Eight points behind and heading south.
Another possible explanation for the government’s good numbers is a nasty little rumour that’s doing the rounds. The rumour targets Opposition Leader Lou Feeney, and the question for those who’ve heard it is this: is it a tale concocted for electoral gain, or does it indicate something truly dark about our alternative leader? I’d hope to have an answer for you all in coming days.
But back to the government’s better-than-expected poll numbers. And my advice to Mr Lansdowne is to capitalise on them by flipping the switch to fear. Immediately. It’s worked fabulously well for his party in the past, and now that he has a well-known and much-loved corpse to use as his prop, the prime minister can thunder on with true conviction about the disintegration of law and order in our nation. And as you consider this impending assault on your senses, dear readers, please remember. The prime minister doesn’t have to fool all of you all of the time. Just the majority of you in the lead-up to polling day.
6
I WAS SCRAMBLING up a muddy slope in fading light. A grey mist swirled in the valley below and expanded towards me. I had to make it to a line of trees near the top, and I was making good ground.
Then I lost my footing and fell on my face, and started sliding backwards on all fours. The more desperate my efforts to halt my slide, the faster I descended the slope. And all the time the mist was closing in.
I got to my feet and was again scrambling up the slope. Then I tripped over a tussock of grass and went over again. I was looking up at the trees on the ridgeline when the mist enveloped me, the ground gave way, a hole opened up underneath me, and I fell in. Then, hurtling through total darkness, I braced for the impact, choking with dread, and suddenly I …
I sat up with a start and pulled in a big breath. My bedding was soaked, my eyes felt sore and heavy, but I was relieved to be awake. Woolly light framed the closed curtains of the rec room. According to the wall clock, it was six-fifteen. I’d had four hours’ sleep, and it was time to get moving again. I got up and left the room as quietly as I could so as not to disturb the other sleepers. I had a shower and got dressed, and then made a strong cup of coffee and took it to my desk.
The room was full of people. Some were on the phone. Others were tapping away at their machines. And another lot were deep in discussion in the back corner. I wasn’t up to talking, so I drank my coffee and trawled the morning papers. Then I moved onto the websites. All of them carried tributes from Wright’s admirers and colleagues, and most photo spreads included shots of me looking very solemn at the crime scene.
I glanced up at McHenry. He was behind his desk at the front of the room, the tip of his tongue moving between his lips as he prodded his keyboard with his index fingers. I’d put a note on PROMIS outlining what Stevo had told me about Mondrian. I’d also noted rumours about Sorby’s doubtful tenure with Wright. I waited for McHenry to finish what he was doing, then went up and told him that I wanted to pursue both leads.
‘Do it,’ he said, slumping back in his chair. ‘But use discretion on the Mondrian business, please. And don’t let this Stevenson play you. I’ll see if there’s someone in the opposition we can talk to as well, just to keep things balanced. But leave that for now — I’ve got something else for you to go on with.’
He signalled for Smeaton to join us, then unlocked his desk drawer and produced an evidence bag with Susan Wright’s name on it. The bag held some of the carpet fluff that had come from her clothes. He handed it to me.
‘Forensics sent it to their fibre expert over at the uni,’ he said, eyeing the fluff. ‘The expert reckons it’s from high-grade carpet. Axminister, to be precise. Eighty per cent wool. Twenty per cent nylon. The sort of floor covering you find in national institutions like the High Court, the National Gallery, and Parliament House.’
Smeaton usually looked vaguely anxious around McHenry, but, on hearing this news, he gave the boss a rare smile. I thought it sounded pretty good, too.
‘And it gets better,’ said McHenry, licking his lips. ‘A few years ago, this fibre guy got his students to analyse the carpets in ten public buildings around Canberra, including Parliament House. On the basis of what they found back then, he says he’s pretty sure our bluey-grey fluff here comes from carpet made exclusively for the House.’
This was stunning news, though it was hard to believe that we’d come up with something so solid so early.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘The heaviest concentration of fluff on Wright’s clothes corresponded with those areas of her body where the lividity formed. So, presumably, she was lying on a floor thick with this stuff when she died, and it got compressed onto her. Now if this fluff is from carpet made exclusively for Parliament House, it either means she was killed up there, at the House, or …’
‘Or what?’ said McHenry. ‘What else can it mean?’
I had no idea, but I gave him the only other possible explanation.
‘Or the fibre expert’s got it wrong,’ I said.
‘Maybe, but I don’t think so,’ said McHenry. ‘Anyway, I’ve got the name of a bloke who helped lay the original carpet at the House. That’s the good news. The bad news is, this Barry Waldeck leaves this afternoon for a month in Hong Kong, so you two have about ten minutes before you’re supposed to meet him in Fyshwick.’
Barry Waldeck was waiting on the footpath when we pulled up outside Carpet Central. He was a little bloke with badly dyed black hair and a firm handshake. With introductions done, we followed him through his showroom, past a dozen or more giant rolls of carpet and into a small office set into the back corner of the place.
Once we were seated around his desk, I told Waldeck that we were trying to identify an assault victim who’d been found with lots of carpet fibre on their clothes. Waldeck looked at me doubtfully and asked where the assault had occurred. Everything to do with the crime was confidential, I said. He nodded, but I figured he’d seen me in the media and h
ad put two and two together.
When I handed him the evidence bag, Waldeck took it like it was some fragile thing. He placed it on his desk, opened it, and carefully removed the small sausage of fluff. Then he smelt the fluff, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, and stretched it a bit. Finally, he put it under his desk lamp and closed in on it with a giant magnifying glass.
‘Blue-grey Axminister,’ he said at last, easing the fluff back into the plastic bag. ‘That’s what this lint is. From the same stock we laid up at the House. Tassie carpet. The best. Made especially for the job.’
‘So these fibres are definitely from the carpet you laid at Parliament House,’ I said. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. What I’m sayin’ is, I’m pretty sure it’s from the same stock. But whether it came off any carpet laid up there, I don’t know. Let me get old Len in ’ere. He’ll explain it better.’
Waldeck got on the phone, and soon there was a rap at the door, and a craggy old bloke in faded blue overalls limped into the room. After introductions, ‘old’ Len slumped into the only spare chair and Waldeck pointed to the bag of fluff and asked him where he thought it was from. Len removed the fluff from the bag and rubbed it between knuckles bulging with arthritis. He stretched it and smelt it, just as Waldeck had done, only more slowly. Then a faraway smile lit his face, as though the fluff had prompted a pleasant memory.
‘It’s Parliament House stock,’ said Len, nodding as he continued to study the fibre. ‘This stuff went down in most of the public areas. And the ministerial wing. And the library. And a few other places. I don’t remember the dye lot number. I knew it back then, but the memory’s a bit like the knees these days. It’s from Brindells, though. And they’d have it. The number. Ya see, no two dye lots are the same, so you send them this bit of lint, and they’ll give you the details, for sure.’
