by Peter Cotton
I let that penetrate for a few seconds, then nodded at Smeaton.
‘So, Miss Lomax,’ he said, his long, thin fingers drumming on the table. ‘You left the party immediately after the minister. Can you tell us why you chose to go at that point?’
‘I didn’t leave immediately after her,’ said Lomax. ‘I left immediately after Alan. He’s my boss, and when he goes, I can go.’
‘And you beat the minister out of the building,’ said Smeaton. ‘In fact, you got out so fast I’d say you broke a few records.’
‘I like to get home,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a great job, but I love my sleep, too.’
‘So you went straight home?’ I said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘No, I live alone. I don’t even own a cat.’
The word ‘cat’ stopped me in my tracks. Lomax’s eyes stayed locked on mine as she waited for the next question. She was ready, but not tense. Like a tennis player anticipating the return of the ball, she was intent on staying in the game. There was nothing in the cat reference.
‘You’ve worked for Alan Proctor for what, now?’ I said. ‘Three years, is it? I know politics is a very combative business, but have you ever seen him exercise perhaps a little too much vigour when it came to tackling a political problem?’
‘If that’s your way of asking whether Alan’s capable of murder,’ said Lomax, ‘let me say that if I were trying to picture the sort of person who might have done this to Mrs Wright, Alan would not feature.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t think he’s capable of violence. He’s just not made that way. I mean, he hates football because it’s rough. And he can’t watch those real-life medical shows on TV. He’s just too squeamish. So Alan Proctor and murder? I don’t think so. It’s not in him.’
It sounded like loyalty talking again, and even if Proctor was averse to violence, anyone was capable of anything, given enough motivation and the right opportunity. I took a deep breath, considered asking her more about Proctor, but then decided against it. I’d find out for myself soon enough.
‘Finally, Miss Lomax,’ I said, ‘can you tell us where you were between eight o’clock Tuesday night and eight on Wednesday morning?’
‘I spent Tuesday organising a marginal-seat visit for Alan,’ she said. ‘I finished that at about six. Then I went home, made some tea, and I was in bed with a book by nine. Then on Wednesday morning, I was back in at work by seven.’
And that was that. I thanked her, and Smeaton escorted her out.
James Manton was the next Early Leaver. He was a bright young guy with Jesus-length hair and a well-groomed beard. He’d advised Susan Wright on world-heritage issues. He said he’d spent the party drinking beer with the boys in the open-plan office out the back. He wasn’t aware of any ‘aggro’ between the minister and Proctor on the night, and he said Sorby and Wright had always got on just fine, as far as he could tell. As for why he’d left the party so soon after the minister, he said he’d promised his mum he’d be home by midnight, and he was. And he was also home with her when the body was dumped.
After Manton, I went back to the room and found a cup of takeaway coffee sitting on my desk. I looked around to see who I should thank for it, but no one eyed me to claim the credit. Probably McHenry, I thought, though he was out. Sitting next to the coffee were two documents I’d ordered up. One was a restraining order that had been taken out against Wright’s former senior staffer, Dennis Hanley. It had been issued around the time he died in a head-on. The other was the police report on his death. I resolved to drink the coffee before I opened the documents, and was raising the cup to my lips when reception called. Janet Wilson was waiting to be collected.
Wilson wasn’t an Early Leaver, but as one of the three people who’d handled Proctor’s file on the night of the party, she was a must-see. When I got down to the foyer, she was busily hunting through her bag. She was a small, compact woman in her late twenties, with long, crinkled hair smeared with too much product. She jumped when I said her name, but quickly recovered. We shook hands and she followed me to the lift.
Once we had her seated and settled in the interview room, I got her to tell us about her night at the party. She, too, had spent most of her time in reception, and, yes, she’d seen what she called the ‘kerfuffle’ between Mrs Wright and Mr Proctor, though she hadn’t heard a word of it. And she confessed that when Mrs Wright left the party early, she’d thought the minister was being very rude, and she’d said so to a few people.
Despite her nervy manner, Wilson answered our questions fluently, and the longer the interview went, the more relaxed she became. Of course, I was building up to the question of Proctor’s file, and as soon as I raised it, she stiffened again and clasped one hand firmly in the other.
‘When Proctor sent you down for the file,’ I said, ‘how did you know which one to get?’
‘That’s easy,’ she said, too forcefully by half. ‘Each file has a dedicated slot, and there’s a light that flashes above the slot that’s been freed.’
‘And once a file’s out of its slot, it’s no longer secure, is it? Anyone retrieving a file can open it — if they have the opportunity, and if they feel inclined. Did you feel so inclined that night, Mrs Wilson?’
‘No. I never. It’d be … it’d be the wrong thing to do. Those files are full of very confidential material. And they’re for Mr Proctor’s eyes only.’
‘Mrs Wilson, this is a very serious matter, so I’m going to ask you again. Did you look at that file as you brought it up to the party?’
‘No, I did not,’ she said.
Her eyes were locked on mine, but her mouth was slightly open and her bottom jaw was quivering. The quivering might have indicated that she was hiding something, maybe even lying. It might also have been her usual reaction to pressure. Regardless, we had bigger fish to fry, so I thanked her, and Smeaton saw her out. As I sat there mulling over the interview, I made a mental note to request the CCTV footage for the file’s journey from Proctor’s office up to the party.
The next interviewee on our list was another Early Leaver — the office receptionist, Helen Stannage. Stannage was a big woman with a fleshy face and dull, brown hair. She groaned as she lowered herself into a seat opposite us; but once she was settled, her eyes met mine with such intensity that she took on the look of a woman half her weight and age.
As with the others, we covered her general actitivities at the party first. She’d spent the whole night at her desk in reception, checking invites as guests arrived. She seemed proud that she’d sent a number of blow-ins on their way. Given her no-nonsense manner and her size, I doubted that any of them had put up much of a fight.
Stannage said she hadn’t seen the argument between Proctor and her minister, and had been surprised when Mrs Wright left the party so early. When I asked why she herself had left just minutes later, Stannage said that with her boss gone, her job was done. She wasn’t much of a party person, and she had teenagers at home.
‘And you went straight home to your kids?’ said Smeaton.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Stannage, wiping beads of sweat from her upper lip. ‘My husband left us a few weeks ago, so my youngest has been a bit, you know … stressed.’
‘And Tuesday night through to Wednesday morning?’ he said. ‘Where were you then?’
‘At home. With my daughter. You can ask her if you like, but I’d rather you leave her out of this, if you can.’
‘We’ll let you know. Now, on another matter, we’re looking at people who’ve worked for Mrs Wright over the years, and I understand you were with her when Dennis Hanley was her senior person.’
Stannage’s jowly face slumped at this turn in the conversation.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I knew Dennis. But he’s been
dead for years. What’s he got to do with this?’
‘We’re just interested,’ I said. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘Dennis? What’s there to tell? He messed up over the Mondrian thing, lost his job, and not long after that, he died. It was all very tragic. And extremely hard on his wife and kids.’
‘Do you know if he blamed Susan Wright for what happened to him?’ said Smeaton.
‘No. He blamed Mr Lansdowne, for some reason,’ she said, the sweat running freely down her face now. ‘Maybe it was because Mr Lansdowne’s nephew worked for Mondrian. And, of course, Mr Lansdowne was the minister who set up the inquiry into the affair, so that might’ve been it. The thing is, those five were so tight before that voucher business — Mr Lansdowne and his nephew, and Mr Proctor, Dennis, and Mrs Wright. So it was really sad to see Dennis cut adrift like that.’
‘And how’d Hanley take it when he lost his job?’ said Smeaton.
‘As you’d imagine, not well,’ said Stannage. ‘In fact, he went quite strange. He’d show up at the Hyatt for Friday-night drinks and give everybody a bit of stick, like he thought he was still boss, y’know? But nothing too bad, unless you were sitting with Mr Lansdowne’s people.
‘Then a month or so after he lost his job, he went into the ministerial carpark and sprayed shaving cream down the side of Mr Lansdowne’s car. They took out a restraining order on him for that. Then he had his breakdown. And the next thing I knew, he was dead in his car.’
‘Do you know what happened to his wife and kids?’ I said.
‘Margaret died a couple of years after he, he … you know, died,’ said Stannage. ‘Some idiots at the time said it was the shame that killed her, but I know for a fact she had cancer.’
‘And the kids?’
‘The older one, Sylvie, she’s dead now, too. I can’t remember what happened to her exactly, but it was a couple of years after Margaret died. And Tom, the boy, I haven’t seen him since Margaret’s funeral. In fact, that’s the last time I saw either of the kids. Sylvie was really angry, I remember. But no one blamed her — losing her parents like that.’
‘And Tom?’ I said, prompting her.
‘Tom? He was … well, Tom was not easy to connect with at the best of times, if you know what I mean. But I’m sure he was hurting in his own way. I’ve got a photo of him and Sylvie at home somewhere. I could dig it out, if you think it might help, and make some calls — see if anyone knows where Tom is now. It was all too sad.’
‘It’d be good if you could do that,’ I said. ‘Get us a photo and make some calls. And sooner rather than later would be best.’
Before Smeaton escorted Stannage out, I asked her about Susan Wright’s relationship with Sorby; but, as with her colleagues, she wasn’t aware of any problems between them. When she’d gone, I read through the old restraining order that had been issued against Hanley. If the gossip was true, he and Wright had been having it off. Cue political scandal. Then came the inquiry that turned his life to shit. Soon after it, he’d died. Then the wife died, followed by one of the kids. And Wright, who’d prospered in the wake of the scandal that destroyed the Hanley family, had now turned up dead as well.
So where was Tom Hanley? Stannage’s contacts were probably our best bet for finding him quickly. If they failed, there were school records, bank accounts, Medicare, and lots of other ways to track him down.
I trudged back to my desk and logged on to PROMIS. I was flipping between screens when McHenry came up behind me, clamped a hand on my shoulder, and dropped a document onto my keyboard. It was an interim report from the vet who’d examined both the fur on Wright’s clothes and the dead cat from the crime scene. The report said that while the fur on the clothes had come from a number of cats, it was possible that some of it was from our crime-scene cat. That animal, a tortoiseshell, had been female, about eighteen months old, and it’d had at least one litter before it was neutered. Our forensic vet had also established the cause of the cat’s death. She’d died in the same way as Susan Wright — of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Channel Four Live Cam
Thursday 1 August, 2.00pm
Good afternoon, Jean Acheson with you, and an Aztec poll conducted exclusively for the Live Cam overnight shows the Lansdowne government edging one point closer to the opposition.
Aztec now puts two-party-preferred support for the government at 49 per cent, just two points behind the opposition on 51. And so, just nine days out from the election, the contenders are virtually neck and neck.
Along with the continuing turnaround in the government’s fortunes, Aztec also shows an improvement in Prime Minister Lansdowne’s personal standing among voters.
He’s now just four points behind Opposition Leader Lou Feeney, who’s said to have been somewhat listless on the campaign trail this week. I’m Jean Acheson. Back with more in a moment.
9
THE LUNCHTIME CROWD had mostly cleared out of the Manuka café by the time I arrived for a bite with Stevo, my political mate. He turned up five minutes after I did, and stood in the doorway, surveying the place with worried eyes. Then he spotted me, smiled, and marched down to my table. Stevo had put on weight since I’d last seen him. His third chin wobbled like jelly as we shook hands.
We both ordered the salmon pasta and a coffee, and once the waitress had gone I got straight down to business. I told him I wanted to hear everything he knew about Proctor. He checked the neighbouring tables to ensure that we were out of earshot, then leaned in close and gave me the drum.
He said Proctor’s parents had both been senior office-holders in the party, and their Point Piper home had long been the unofficial meeting place for party heavyweights visiting Sydney. As Stevo put it, Alan Proctor had learned how to play the backroom while sitting in his lounge room.
‘And he was a good student,’ said Stevo. ‘He impressed important people. Sure, he had a handicap or two. I mean, his sexuality’s still an issue with some. And there’s his weight. And his looks. But he was the director of the state branch at twenty-eight. And national director at thirty-four. Not bad going for a fat, ugly poof, eh?’
‘So how long’s he been with the prime minister?’
‘He joined the PMO straight after Lansdowne moved into The Lodge, so about three years now. But those two’ve been tight since they were kids. Both Kings boys, you know. So another win for the old school tie.’
‘And what’s he do for Lansdowne, exactly?’
‘He manages the numbers and keeps everyone in line. Usually by gentle persuasion, but sometimes by threatening them a bit. And he’s got dirt on everyone — knows where the bodies are buried. That sort of thing. So it’s ironic to see that that little shit Rolfe is trying to bury him now.’
Stevo left the comment hanging there, his eyes full of subtle pressure, clearly hoping I’d say something, anything, about Proctor’s status in our investigation. But I just stared back at him. Suddenly the waitress loomed over us with plates of food, dissolving the moment.
‘I see the government’s rising in the polls,’ I said, twirling some pasta around my fork. ‘They’re calling it “The Wright Factor”. Is it really that big?’
‘Ohh, no doubt about it,’ said Stevo, shoving a forkful into his mouth. ‘And if you guys collar someone before the tenth, that’ll give us another boost. We’ll be calling that one “The Relief Factor”.’
‘You make a good poll result sound like a motive for murder.’
That brought a mirthless chuckle from Stevo.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said. ‘But murder as a way to influence public opinion? I think it’s over-rated. I just hope our numbers from a few weeks ago were the genuine rock-bottom. I mean, I’d hate to see a dead cat bounce in our polling this close to Election Day.’
‘A dead cat bounce? What sort of bounce is that?’
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‘Picture a cat, dropped from a fifty-storey building. It hits the pavement and bounces off it. It’s a small upward movement, but you know the cat’s always going to hit the pavement again. And when it does, that second impact always seems much worse than the first. More final somehow. That’s your dead cat bounce. They use the term on the stockmarket for a share that looks like it’s bottomed out, and is on the way back up. But then it goes into reverse again and falls even further than before. In politics, it’s when you think the polls are as bad as they can get, and your numbers are on the mend, but then they fall again, worse than ever. In other words, it’s when things go from terrible to truly catastrophic.’
Pleading a heavy schedule on behalf of their boss, Alan Proctor’s people had asked Brady for the interview to be held at Proctor’s home. The commissioner had agreed.
Proctor’s place was easy to spot when we turned into his street in Forrest. A dozen media vehicles were parked either side of his driveway, and a crowd of journos and cameramen were loitering on his nature strip. When they spotted us, there was a scramble for cameras and microphones, and we became their total focus as we swung into Proctor’s driveway.
The cameras were in close as my finger pushed the button on the intercom, even recording me announcing myself to the woman who answered. And as we waited for Proctor’s massive iron gates to swing open, the reporters shouted their questions.
‘Is Alan Proctor a suspect in the Wright murder case?’ asked one, tapping Smeaton’s window.
‘When do you expect an arrest?’ asked another.
‘Have the police looked at Alan Proctor’s files yet?’ asked a more canny operator.
We ignored them all, and when the gates were fully opened, I drove down the crushed-granite drive, past a big dry fountain and line after line of empty flowerbeds.
Proctor was waiting for us at his front door. I’d seen lots of photos of him, but this was the first time I’d laid eyes on the complete package. He was short and balding, and his tracksuit was a perfect fit for his perfectly pear-shaped body. He shook hands limply and led us down a corridor hung with portraits of people from a much sterner age. The corridor opened out onto a large lounge room at the back of the house where six chesterfields were set around a huge open fire.
