by Peter Cotton
‘If we could just go inside, sir,’ said Bender, indicating the open door.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Hanley, suddenly so enlivened it had me thinking that maybe he was under-medicated.
‘If we could just go inside, Mr Hanley, we could get this over with,’ said Bender. ‘And it’s very cold out here.’
‘That’s true,’ said Hanley. ‘It is cold. Okay. Come in. But not for long, mind. I’ve got things to do.’
And with that he swung around and stepped back inside the cabin, and the door slammed shut behind him. Never one to take chances in the face of erratic behaviour, Smeaton unholstered his Glock, and I followed suit. We readied ourselves on either side of the doorway, then Smeaton turned the door handle and gave it a push.
I silently indicated that I’d go in first, but Smeaton shook his head. I responded by nodding furiously. He took a deep breath, jabbed his bony index finger into his chest a couple of times and silently mouthed a count to three. Then he stepped inside and quickly swung his Glock in an arc to target the far end of the room. What he saw there caused him to lower his weapon, and he motioned me to join him.
When I stepped into the room, I was immediately hit by the musty smell of an unwashed human animal. Hanley was sitting in one of three old lounge chairs arranged around a picture window at the far end of the room. He was transfixed by the lake again, and took no notice as we approached him.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Smeaton, pulling a face as he holstered his weapon.
The sound of pills sloshing around in a plastic bottle drew us back to Hanley. He was bending down to remove his shoes. Once he got them off, he placed his bare feet in front of a three-bar heater that had only one bar glowing. Smeaton shook his head at this pitiable sight, then he and Bender sat and kept an eye on Hanley while I poked around the room.
A filthy sleeping bag was bunched up on a dark-grey mattress in one corner. An assortment of odd shoes and dirty clothes spewed from a backpack that lay upended next to the bed, and an avalanche of old magazines and newspapers, plus the odd fast-food wrapper, covered most of the rest of the floor.
The only relief from this chaos was the shelf above the sink. There, bags of nuts and muesli bars sat either side of a bowl of fresh fruit. There was even half a bottle of disinfectant. Tom Hanley wouldn’t starve, and though his room smelt like his arsehole, it was probably bacteria-free. Someone was taking care of him.
I sat in the chair next to the window and glanced out across the lake. Then I nodded at Smeaton, he hit ‘record’ and recited the necessaries, and I kicked things off.
‘Mr Hanley, where were you between eight o’clock on Tuesday night and eight on Wednesday morning?’ I said.
‘Here,’ said Hanley, sounding more like he was asking a question than answering one. ‘Yes. I was here. All the time. I’m usually here.’
‘Were you alone during those hours?’
‘I live alone. So, yes, I was alone.’
‘Did you know Susan Wright?’ said Smeaton.
‘I didn’t know her,’ said Hanley, his eyes suddenly more focused. ‘But I met her once. My dad used to work for her.’
‘And did your sister meet her then as well?’ I said.
‘Sylvie? Did you know Sylvie?’
‘No, I didn’t know her. She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Sylvie? Yes. Yes, she’s dead. She went to Thailand. I’ve still got the newspapers. You can have a look, if you like.’
He picked up a fat paperback from the floor — Dune by Frank Herbert — and took a wad of yellowed newspaper cuttings from inside the book and handed them over. They were from nine years before, and all of them told the same story. Twenty-eight-year-old Sylvie Hanley had been trekking in northern Thailand when the group she was with had stopped at a Karen village for the night. When her fellow trekkers awoke the next morning, Sylvie’s backpack was where she’d placed it the night before, but she and her sleeping bag were gone. None of the trekkers had heard anything in the night that might have indicated Sylvie’s fate, and a week-long search of the area had failed to find her. The last cutting in the wad was from a Sydney tabloid. It claimed that Sylvie Hanley had been kidnapped by a local warlord, taken to the golden triangle, and forced into sexual slavery.
‘Losing your sister like that, Mr Hanley,’ I said, ‘it must have been very hard on you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hanley. ‘And Mum and Dad are gone now, too. So I’m all alone.’
But right at that moment, he didn’t look lonely. Or sad. In fact, his confidence seemed to be building the more he talked. Perhaps he was relieved, thinking that the interview was going well — maybe better than he’d expected. Whatever the reason, I figured that if he was hiding something, we had a better chance of getting at it if we kept him a bit off-balance. So I dropped some weight on him.
‘You know, Mr Hanley, it’s difficult for us to talk to you here,’ I said. ‘And difficult for you, too, no doubt. So maybe we should arrange for you to come into Queanbeyan police station. Just for a chat.’
Hanley’s reaction to this suggestion was immediate and extreme. His face morphed into a desperate mask, he pushed himself back into his chair, and he brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them tight.
‘I’m not leaving here,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong, so why would you want to take me away? Why? Why would you do that?’
‘It’s alright, Mr Hanley,’ I said, regretting my impulse. ‘We can talk here for now. It’s okay. Let’s just see how we go.’
I gave him a minute to settle. Maybe it was time to come at him from an altogether different angle. Get a little speculative.
‘Mr Hanley, do you ever remember your father talking about a bank called Mondrian?’ I said.
Hanley hugged his knees tight to his chest, and his face went red like he was straining to get something out. Or keep it in. It might have been the question that disturbed him. But having already upset him, maybe any question would have had the same effect.
‘No, he never said anything about a bank called that,’ Hanley said at last. ‘Why don’t you ask Michael Lansdowne about your bank. See what he remembers.’
‘That’s a very surprising suggestion, Mr Hanley,’ I said. ‘What do you think Mr Lansdowne knows about Mondrian?’
‘Lansdowne knows everything,’ said Hanley, suddenly relaxing his grip on his knees. ‘He always did. Because he makes it happen. Like that. And that.’
He jabbed his index finger at the far corners of the cabin, his hold on reality seemingly derailed.
‘He knows, but he won’t tell,’ said Hanley, his eyes red and wide open now. ‘When my dad knew, they pulled the rug from under him. And now they’re all gone. Except me. And I’ve almost bitten the dust. Because that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Another one bites the dust. Bites the dust. That’s what they say about the lake, too. That it’s all dust down there. Well, there’s a lot more than dust, I can tell you. There’s things you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Mr Hanley,’ I said loudly, to get his attention, and then more softly, trying to calm him. ‘Mr Hanley, what does the Prime Minister know about Mondrian?’
Hanley considered my question as though it was the first time I’d asked it.
‘Whatever he knows, you’ll have to ask him,’ said Hanley, gripping his knees again. ‘Only he can help you there. Pick up the phone. He’ll talk to you, you know. He talks to me.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Smeaton in a whisper.
Hanley stared at him blankly, then his gaze slid to the window and he looked out to where a line of dead eucalypts fronted the edge of the dried-out lake bed. In the waning light, the mountains that fringed the far side of the lake looked like they’d been cut from a sheet of purple paper.
Hanley bega
n swaying from side to side in his chair, keeping time like a zoo animal as he bumped against the armrests, wrapped up tight. It was time for us to go. Smeaton leaned over and whispered in my ear.
‘If this guy’s acting,’ he said, ‘it’s the best job I’ve seen in a while.’
‘It’s no act,’ I said. ‘Though I’m sure he knows more than he’s saying. Let’s give him a day, then get a psych out for a crack at him. I’m sure McHenry’ll want that.’
We left Hanley rocking in rhythm to the waterless lake, and made our way back to the car. The gravel road was even more challenging in the fading light, so I took it very slowly. Bender pointed to a luminous mist that hung over the middle of the lake. It was as though a cloud containing its own light source had descended.
We skirted Bungendore, an old pastoral town that these days accommodated the overflow from the national capital. When our mobiles came back to life on the Queanbeyan side of the ranges, mine rang. It was McHenry, so Smeaton put him on speaker.
‘Jean Acheson’s running a big story on that “Live” thing she does,’ he said, breathless and excited. ‘She’s claiming that the treasurer’s been treated at some sort of addiction clinic in America. The thing is, Penny Lomax from the PM’s called a few minutes ago, and she reckons there’s only one possible source for Acheson’s story, and that’s the file that went missing with Susan Wright.’
Blood Oath news flash
Thursday 1 August, 8.30pm
Fair cop? Or is it a raid?
by Simon Rolfe
My colleague and friend, the esteemed Ms Jean Acheson, has done it again. Broken a story that’s got the Plod knocking on her door. And her crime? She acquired some documents that the government says are connected to the murder of Susan Wright.
While the Plod needs to sort out this claim, what’s definite is that the documents in question reveal that the man in control of Australia’s finances is addicted to prescription drugs. And in a person with his responsibilities, addiction is a matter of the greatest public interest.
As one of the local wags here in Isa said to me today, when the prime minister claims that the economy is in a safe pair of hands, should we now assume that those hands have just popped a pill into the treasurer’s mouth?
With the election race tightening by the day, Ms Acheson’s exposé has done Australia a big favour. The character and competence of both sides of politics is now firmly in focus. Punters, your time to speak is almost at hand. Jean Acheson’s story couldn’t have come at a better time.
11
JOURNOS GLARED AT us from every doorway as we followed the young production assistant down the main corridor of the press gallery. The radio shock-jocks and some of the political bloggers had engineered this hostile reception by claiming that we were intent on muzzling — or even arresting — Acheson. It had me fearing that she might be full of the same bile when we fronted her. Things would get tricky if she was. But a few minutes after Smeaton and I were shown into the network’s green room, Acheson popped her head around the door and beamed a smile at me.
‘Ah, Detective Glass, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And right on time, too. Sorry about this, but I need to lose the makeup. Then I’ll be with you.’
And with that she disappeared.
Smeaton cooed in my ear and gave me a gentle nudge.
‘Who’s a popular boy, then?’ he said.
Ignoring him, I took out my notebook and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. But Acheson’s greeting had left me feeling strangely embarrassed as well as euphoric, and the clash of these emotions momentarily swamped my ability to think straight. I was still battling to focus when the door opened and she came in, carrying a cup of coffee. She closed the door behind her and sat on the couch opposite me.
‘I assumed you’d both want one of these,’ she said, lifting her cup. ‘They’ve just put on another brew. It’ll only take a few minutes.’
I thanked her, almost stammering as I did. Her apparent calm and simple good manners were unexpected. And Jean Acheson, face-to-face and without makeup, was certainly far more beautiful than any version of her I’d seen on the box. I thumbed through my notebook, still struggling to marshall my thoughts.
‘Thanks for seeing us, Miss Acheson,’ I said, finally facing her. ‘You know why we’re here, no doubt. So, can you tell us how you got onto this story? The one about the treasurer?’
Acheson smiled and lowered her cup to the table. Then she lifted her head and drilled me with eyes that suddenly seemed unbelievably green.
‘As you’ll no doubt appreciate, detective,’ she said, ‘I’m often asked about sources, and I never co-operate on such things. But this is an extraordinary situation, so I’m making an exception. With one proviso. Please don’t let out what I’m about to tell you. At least for a few days?’
‘Our lips are sealed,’ I said, trying to hide my relief. ‘Now, about this story. Did you actually get a document? Or did the information come in some other form?’
‘Oh, I’ve got documents alright. And don’t worry — they’re safely locked away. I can get them now if you like.’
‘Before you do,’ said Smeaton, ‘could you tell us how you got them?’
‘Sure. Well, earlier today, reception took a call from a guy who said he had something that’d kill off the government’s chances next Saturday. And he insisted on talking to me personally about it. I wasn’t too busy at the time, so I spoke to him.’
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘No, he refused, and I didn’t push it.’
‘I take it the call came in on the office landline?’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Acheson. ‘Through the Sydney switch.’
Impossible to trace, then.
‘What did he sound like?’ I said.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she said. ‘He had a heavy accent that I couldn’t pick. I’m pretty sure it was European, but that’s all I can say about it. And as for how old he was, I really wouldn’t have a clue about that, either. The accent thing, I suppose. But his English was fairly good. And he was very keen for me to get these documents.’
‘So, he rang and offered you documents,’ I said. ‘How did the conversation go from there?’
Before Acheson could answer, her assistant came in carrying two cups of coffee, which she set down on the table in front of me and Smeaton. Acheson thanked her, and waited for her to leave the room before continuing.
‘This is how it went,’ she said. ‘He asked if I’d like to get some documents that’d hurt the government. I said I’d like to see them. He asked if I knew Warrina Inlet. More particularly, he asked if I knew the bridge that goes over the inlet. I said I did. The inlet’s that bit of Lake Burley Griffin that separates Government House from the golf course. As it turns out, I walk over that bridge a couple of times a week. Anyway, he said he’d left something for me up under the bridge supports on the Yarralumla side. And then he hung up. I was naturally intrigued, so I drove down there, and, sure enough, there it was — a plastic sleeve, wedged up under the bridge supports.’
‘We’ll need everything you got from him, including the sleeve,’ said Smeaton, barely controlling his excitement.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But there’s one thing I should tell you. It didn’t occur to me that this stuff might be linked to your investigation, so I’m afraid I handled it a bit. I only realised what I had when Penny Lomax called and threatened to have me locked up. That sort of gave the game away. Anyway, it’s yours to take, and I hope it helps. I really do. But can I ask you something? Do you really think the person who gave me this stuff is the same one who, you know, killed Susan Wright?’
Her question was laced with story possibilities, but there was also a note of fear in her voice.
‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s possible, but w
e’ll know more once we’ve examined what you’ve got. Now, just a few more questions, if I could. You’ve worked in the gallery for a long time. Do you know of anyone who really had it in for Susan Wright? Someone capable of doing her physical harm?’
‘I knew we’d get to this,’ she said, settling back in her chair. ‘And the first thing I’ve got to say is “no”. I don’t know anyone capable of killing her. Then again, she did have lots of enemies. In fact, I can’t think of a minister who got more people offside.
‘I mean, she was good on urban issues, so she was popular in city electorates. But the interest groups in her portfolio? Like the irrigators, say? They simply loathed her. Would you believe that yesterday, a few hours after she was found, the organisation that represents the irrigators issued a statement calling on the PM to overturn her water allocations? And the local property developers? They hated her even more. They’re still furious about the building bans she approved for the south coast last year. And she certainly wasn’t popular with the Greens, but that was mostly because she was a Lansdowne minister.’
I was about to ask Acheson if anyone other than city people actually liked Susan Wright, but I was stopped by a knock at the door. It was the production assistant.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Jean,’ she said, obviously very anxious, ‘but Jim said to tell you this straightaway. There’s a whisper in the corridors about Alan Proctor. Apparently, something’s happened to him.’
Channel Four Live Cam
Friday 2 August, 9.00am
Good morning all, Jean Acheson with the Live Cam, and one of Australia’s leading criminologists says that the police may have less than thirty-six hours to save Alan Proctor, the prime minister’s close confidante who disappeared last night.
Mr Proctor spent most of yesterday in Sydney working on the government’s campaign. He flew back into Canberra early last night for a strategy meeting, but failed to show up. And since then he’s been uncontactable. Ominously, his abandoned car was found in the inner-Canberra suburb of Yarralumla early this morning.
