by Peter Cotton
A bloke sitting close to the flames looked us over as we entered the room, then went back to the wad of papers on his lap. His pinstriped suit, steel-grey hair, and severe look told us everything we needed to know about him. Proctor motioned for us to sit, and then introduced the seated bloke as Phillip Bailey QC. Bailey made no move to shake our hands, and as we were already seated, we simply nodded at him. There was no offer of refreshments from our host, either, and certainly no social chatter to break the ice — just the stock question from Proctor.
‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘how can I help you?’
‘First up, Mr Proctor,’ said Smeaton, hitting ‘record’ on his machine, ‘I must inform you that you’re a person of interest in our investigation into the murder of Susan Wright. Therefore, I must warn you that you’re not obliged to answer our questions. But if you do, anything you say may be used in a court of law against you.’
‘Alan Proctor? A person of interest?’ said Bailey, barely controlling a snigger. ‘Are you serious, detective?’
‘This is a very serious matter, Mr Bailey,’ I said, my tone appropriately grave. ‘Mr Proctor was seen arguing with Mrs Wright at her party on Sunday night. It’s also been suggested that she took property belonging to him when she left that party.’
Bailey considered my words for a moment, then gave his client the advice I’d been expecting from him.
‘It’s entirely up to you, Alan,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I strongly advise you not to go ahead with this.’
I’d prepared an argument to counter his advice. And it was compelling.
‘Then I must warn you, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ‘that if you decline to answer our questions, you’ll automatically become the prime suspect in our investigation.’
Proctor turned to Bailey. Bailey merely repeated his advice.
‘It’s up to you, Alan,’ he said.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Proctor, seemingly resigned. ‘Ask your questions, detective, and we’ll see how we go.’
It was a predictable response, and no doubt part of the script they’d rehearsed. Proctor was apparently ignoring Bailey’s advice, but he still had the lawyer there to run interference for him. It meant they were going to co-operate, to a degree — at least enough to avoid an accusation of stonewalling. Given these circumstances, our challenge was to push Proctor more than we would in a normal interview, but not so far that we gave Bailey an excuse to shut us down.
‘So, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ‘what can you tell me about your argument with Mrs Wright on the night she disappeared?’
‘To call our little disagreement an argument, or a fight, as some would have it, is a massive overstatement,’ said Proctor, flicking his hand at me dismissively. ‘Essentially, any planned event during an election campaign is subject to change, and I wanted changes to her environment launch. She wasn’t happy with what I proposed, and the upset that others witnessed was due to that fact.’
‘If it was such a minor matter, why was there so much heat in it?’
‘There wasn’t. Heat, as you put it, detective, is in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure you wouldn’t have found it too hot. As for what others think they saw, people have fertile imaginations, and they often see things that aren’t there.’
‘When you were talking to Mrs Wright in the corridor that night, some people heard her say, “That’s not going to happen”, or something to that effect. What did you say to provoke that response?’
‘I truly can’t remember, detective. Maybe I told her that her party was running out of booze.’
He chuckled and I smiled politely, though I was tempted to give him a verbal backhander for what I saw as an attempt to throw me off my game.
‘After your “disagreement”, you and Mrs Wright went into her office,’ I said. ‘And then you came out and asked one of your assistants to fetch you a file. What was in that file?’
Proctor turned to Bailey, and the lawyer removed his glasses, nailed me with his steely eyes, and hit me with the line that he’d been brought over to deliver.
‘The file you’re referring to contained documents,’ he said, as if handing down a judgement from on high. ‘Those documents are classified “Cabinet-in-Confidence”. Given that that’s the case, my client is duty bound not to reveal their contents.’
‘But, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ignoring the lawyer, ‘during the search for Mrs Wright, you told our people that the file merely contained “organisational detail” for the campaign.’
‘That’s right. The file contained campaign documents prepared for cabinet’s consideration and approval,’ said Proctor. ‘Therefore they had Cabinet-in-Confidence status.’
‘But did the documents contain proposed government policy? Or did they contain party policy for release during the campaign? Or were they merely full of “organisational detail”, as you claimed a few days ago?’
‘Detective Glass,’ said Bailey, ‘your question goes to the nature of the documents, and I advise Mr Proctor not to answer it.’
This was more than I could take. It was time to give this pair a touch-up.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll put that question aside, and I’ll arrange for a justice of the Federal Court to consider it. Maybe then we’ll get something more from you about these documents.’
Proctor frowned at Bailey. This wasn’t the script they’d workshopped. Arguing such a case in open court would be a public-relations disaster, especially at the tail end of an election campaign heading for the wire.
‘That sounds suspiciously like a threat to me, detective,’ said Bailey, sterner than ever. ‘Is that your intention here? To threaten my client?’
His question and tone implied a much bigger threat, of course.
‘I’m not here to threaten anyone,’ I said.
‘What more do you need to know, then?’ said Proctor, his patience clearly exhausted. ‘The file contained campaign documents that I’d prepared for cabinet’s consideration. The documents related to certain matters pertaining to the environment. Is that enough for you now?’
‘Were these documents central to the discussion you had with Mrs Wright in her office that night?’
‘We did talk about them, yes. In the corridor, and in her office. But I can’t say more than that.’
‘We’ve established that Susan Wright had your file with her when she left the party. Did she have your permission to take it?’
‘No, she did not.’
‘Why’d you let her then?’ said Smeaton.
‘I didn’t,’ said Proctor, giving vent to his anger now. ‘I used her ensuite, and when I came out, she’d gone.’
So that was how Wright did it. Proctor had answered a call of nature, and she took the opportunity to do a runner.
‘So we’re talking about a secure file here,’ I said. ‘One of the many you keep in your office. How’d you feel about losing that one?’
‘Truthfully?’ said Proctor. ‘Well, it’s as I’ve said, the file, in and of itself, isn’t important. But losing it has caused me to re-think the way I secure my office. After all, the material I hold in there could determine who governs Australia in a little over a week.’
‘I’m sure that’s right,’ I said. ‘So, finally, and most importantly, what do you think influenced Susan Wright to run off with your file?’
Proctor pondered the question without looking at his lawyer. When he finally responded, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.
‘I have no idea what caused her to act in the way she did,’ he said. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘You left the party soon after she did,’ said Smeaton. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘As you’d already know from CCTV,’ said Proctor, ‘I went straight to my car in the executive carpark and drove home.’
‘Not to Mrs Wright’s apartmen
t?’ said Smeaton. ‘You didn’t go over and try to retrieve your property?’
‘I considered confronting her, but then I thought that, in the cold light of day, she’d see her error and return what she’d taken. And if she didn’t, I planned to involve the prime minister.’
‘I’m told you were in Perth on Tuesday and Wednesday. I trust you’d have no trouble getting someone to vouch for that fact?’
‘There’s thousands of people who can do that. Now, is that it? I’ve got a plane to catch.’
There were no farewells from Bailey as we left the lounge room, and Proctor walked us to the front door without another word. On the way back to the station, I resolved to have a lot more up my sleeve the next time we saw Proctor. And it would be in an interview room, preferably minus his high-priced attack dog.
I was mulling this over when McHenry called. He said Simon Rolfe was stranded somewhere north of Mount Isa and wouldn’t be back in Canberra till late the next day. His interview had been re-scheduled to Saturday evening. And Wright’s receptionist, Helen Stannage, had called. She’d supplied something we needed — the contact details for a bloke who might know where to find the only surviving Hanley.
Channel Four Live Cam
Thursday 1 August, 4.30pm
Good afternoon, Jean Acheson here with this Live Cam exclusive. And today I can reveal that Treasurer Alan Stokes spent time at a clinic in the United States, where he received treatment for an addiction to prescription drugs.
Live Cam has obtained a set of receipts from the Bethesda Addiction Clinic in Los Angeles which show that Mr Stokes was an in-patient at the clinic for five days from May seventh last year.
At the time, the treasurer was said to be vacationing in the US with his wife.
Mr Stokes’ office has refused to comment on the matter. His spokesman asked that I put my questions in writing. So, Treasurer, here we go: What’s the nature of your addiction? What’s the current status of your addiction? Why did you use taxpayers’ money to fund your travel to your treatment? And why weren’t we told about your condition? We await your answers with interest. This is Jean Acheson.
10
IT WAS COMING on peak hour as I drove down Northbourne Avenue, heading for a property out by Lake George where we hoped to find Tom Hanley, the son of Susan Wright’s former senior private secretary. Smeaton sat next to me in the front, working his way through a burger and a bag of chips. Senior Constable Eric Bender from Queanbeyan police sat in the back, whittling down a shish kebab. Being in New South Wales, the lake was beyond the AFP’s jurisdiction, so we needed Bender with us if we wanted to talk to Hanley.
Information on his whereabouts had come from Ron Pitman, an old schoolmate of Hanley’s who Helen Stannage had put me on to. According to Pitman, the Hanley family had long owned some simple cabins out by the lake. He said the cabins were connected to the town water supply and electricity, but they’d never had a phone on out there. So, with no other way of contacting Hanley, we’d been forced to take a drive. And while we were probably on a wild-goose chase, Pitman had been confident his old mate still owned the cabins.
‘If Weereewaa Lodge had ever come onto the market,’ Pitman had said, ‘I’d certainly have bought it. Those lake properties are very tightly held. You’ll understand why when you get out there. It’s an amazing bit of country.’
Smeaton switched the car radio from a news station to classical music, then he pushed his seat back and closed his eyes. Twenty kilometres north of Canberra, I turned off the highway onto Macks Reef Road, an undulating stretch of blacktop that had once been the main route to the local gold diggings.
Macks Reef Road ended at a T junction, where I turned right, and about five kilometres out of Bungendore I took a left onto Lake Road. The blacktop soon gave way to a graded track that skirted the vast lake bed. The tree-lined track was narrow, with regular blind corners, so I eased my foot off the accelerator, turned on my lights, and Bender gave me some of the history of Lake George.
Weereewaa was the Aboriginal name for the lake, he said. The word meant ‘bad water’, and the blacks, and the Europeans who took their land, had plenty of reasons for thinking there was something bad about the lake. Before it was upgraded in the mid-1980s, the section of federal highway that skirted the lake’s western shore had been a notorious killer. Bender reckoned some of the drivers who’d died there had been mesmerised by the size of the lake.
‘Or maybe they just got distracted trying to see if there was any water in it,’ he said. ‘Whatever it was, lots of them ran off the road or piled into oncoming traffic. We dealt with the carnage on a regular basis.’
I’d driven along that section of highway countless times, and had never found the lake a distraction. This bumpy stretch of gravel road was different, though. It passed within twenty metres of the dried-out lake bed, and it was only a couple of metres above it in elevation. And though the full expanse of the lake was only visible through gaps in the trees, it was riveting when it flashed past — the sheer immensity of it. And, strangely, given how cold the day had become, the low line of mountains that bounded the far side of the lake shimmered in the late-afternoon light.
Like most Canberrans, I knew that the lake was very dangerous when it was full of water. Five Duntroon cadets had drowned here back in the 1950s. And two groups of hunters had died in more recent times when their tinnies, weighed down with shot deer, had sunk as they motored back to the western shore. There were even hang-gliders who had fallen in and gone under.
However, according to Bender, the worst tragedy happened in the early 1940s when a man and his wife, their two kids, and the parish priest ventured out onto the lake on a Sunday morning after mass. Soon after they set out, the wind picked up, the waves rose, and all of them ended up clinging to the upturned boat. The dad swam for help, but he disappeared under the waves. The mum followed him in, and she went under, too. Bender said that the priest had then weighed up his options — whether to swim, or stay with the kids. He decided to swim, and he was barely alive when the shore party stumbled across him. They immediately put a big boat out onto the water, but by the time they found the dinghy, it was deserted. When news got back to town that the priest had deserted the kids, he was run out of the parish.
Smeaton nudged me as the sign for Weereewaa Lodge flashed past. I slowed, did a three-point turn, and headed back to the sign. Then I swung the vehicle down a sandy track hemmed in on both sides by a low forest of skinny eucalypts. The track finished abruptly about seventy metres in — and there, parked under some taller trees, was an old BMW sedan. I got out and gave myself a minute to stretch while Smeaton and Bender had a look at the car. The registration was current, and the tyre tracks it had made coming in looked relatively fresh. It gave us hope that Tom Hanley might be around.
At the far end of the carpark, we found an old walking track that had been cut through another dense stand of eucalypts. The track seemed to head towards the high country overlooking the lake. We walked the perimeter of the car park looking for other options, and when none presented themselves, we headed down the track to see where it took us. After a few minutes walking through a tunnel of overhanging trees, we emerged into a clearing, and, sure enough, there was the Hanley place, just as Pitman had described it — seven cabins set either side of a wooden stairway that ascended to the top of the ridge about fifty metres above us.
Smeaton let out a few cooees, then we climbed the stairs to the first cabin. I knocked on the door and, when no one answered, I turned the door handle and gave it a push. It was a simple, single-room affair, with mouldering clothes strewn across the floor, and some magazines piled up in a corner. Most of the magazines were more than a decade old. I followed Smeaton and Bender back to the stairs, and we climbed to the next cabin — which was in the same condition as the first one. As was the next one up. It had me thinking our drive out might prove fruitless after
all.
I was following Smeaton out of the fourth cabin when he stopped so suddenly I almost ran into the back of him. He tapped his ear urgently a couple of times and pointed to the cabin directly above us. Then I heard it, too — someone clearing their throat. We made our way back to the stairs and climbed to the fifth cabin, warily eyeing its open doorway and the dark corners under its eaves.
Then a pale, skinny bloke in an oversized grey tracksuit stepped from the cabin and spat into the bush below. He spat again, and then stood and gazed out over the treetops to the massive expanse of lake bed. At first I thought he hadn’t noticed us, but then he turned and casually nodded in our direction.
‘I’m Senior Constable Eric Bender from New South Wales police,’ said Bender, taking a few steps forward. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Darren Glass. And Detective Joe Smeaton. They’re from the Australian Federal Police in Canberra. Are you Tom Hanley?’
Helen Stannage had emailed us a fourteen-year-old photo of Tom Hanley. Back then, he’d been a young man with nice teeth and an engaging smile. The disheveled guy in front of us bore some resemblance to the Hanley in the photo, except that this guy’s hair was matted and grey, his face was cracked with lines, and the purple sacks under his eyes completed the picture of a life stuck on spin cycle.
‘Are you Tom Hanley?’ said Bender, this time more insistent.
‘Yes, I’m him,’ said Hanley, sounding intoxicated or medicated, or both.
‘Mr Hanley, these two detectives are investigating the murder of Mrs Susan Wright. Would you mind sitting down inside with them and answering some questions?’
‘Questions? What questions?’ said Hanley, as if testing the notion. ‘And why d’yah wanna talk to me?’
