by Peter Cotton
It was dark by the time I reached Parliament House. I used a police pass to gain access to the underground carpark on the Senate side of the building, and reversed my old sedan between two media vehicles parked near the boom gates. Fifteen minutes later, Acheson drove by in a black VW hatch, the boom gate lifted, and she turned left onto Parliament Drive. I gave her a ten-second start, and then I followed her.
Acheson drove off the Hill and turned left onto State Circle. She looked to be heading home to Kingston. I slipped in behind a van and changed lanes at the last minute as she turned right onto Canberra Avenue. My only previous experience of tailing a vehicle had been as part of a team, but going solo seemed easy enough. I slowed and followed her into Giles Street, then watched as she disappeared under an apartment block fifty metres further up. I stopped the car a few doors past her place, got out, and saw the lights come on in the penthouse suite.
I needed a hide from which to observe Acheson’s building for a few hours. The most obvious place was a native garden fronting a tall brick wall about twenty metres up the road from her block. It had a good view of both the entrance to the building and the penthouse. I slipped in behind the bushes, leaned against the wall, and resigned myself to a couple of hours standing stock-still in the cold.
However, twenty minutes later, the lights in the penthouse went out. A minute or so after that, Acheson came down the stairs at the front of the block. She looked up and down the street before heading off towards the Kingston shops. I gave her a thirty-metre start, and then I followed her through the shadows, avoiding the light of street lamps. I paused regularly to assess the street for any threat, but saw nothing.
From the way she stepped it out, it seemed that Acheson knew where she was going. She slowed when she got to the shopping strip, and paused at a real estate agent’s window. After a few minutes, she moved down Kennedy Street, past the gift shops and restaurants. I shadowed her from the opposite side of the street, using an unbroken line of parked cars for cover.
I figured she must be heading around to Green Square, but near the end of Kennedy Street she stopped outside an Italian restaurant. She read a menu tacked next to the door, and went in. Luckily, the Bella Roma had an all-glass frontage, so I was able to watch the skinny waiter show Acheson to a table. She ordered, and then took a paperback from her bag and read it while she waited for her food.
Two groups of celebrity spotters saw her through the glass, and stopped to stare, but she stayed hunched over her book, ignoring them. During the weeks that parliament sat, the better eateries around Kingston and Manuka fed a lot of Australia’s most powerful people. These cabinet ministers and senior journos were able to eat and socialise without the locals staring at them. Only tourists did that.
When her pasta dish arrived, Acheson had the waiter bring her a glass of white wine. She made short work of both, paid the bill, and was soon back out on the footpath. She walked to the end of Kennedy, and I lost sight of her as she went around the corner into Eyre Street.
She had to be heading for Green Square this time, probably to a coffee joint. I jogged across the road and raced around the corner into Eyre Street. Then my guts went into freefall — there was no one on the footpath ahead of me. I ran down the street, hit the brakes, and scanned a service lane that ran through the middle of the block of shops. But she wasn’t down there, either. Could she really have been abducted right under my nose? Was that even possible? Then came a voice that hit me like a whack on the head.
‘Looking for me, detective?’ said Acheson, her tone more accusing than questioning.
I swung around and there she was, peering out from behind one of the fat white pillars that framed the entrance to the lane. My goose was cooked.
Blood Oath subscription news
Friday 2 August, 8.00pm
Did Feeney really go the fiddle?
by Simon Rolfe
Having been a victim of false rumours myself, I know how damaging they can be. The subtle rumour eats away at your reputation, reducing it to rusty fragments that blow away on the wind. The massive rumour is like a pipe-bomb that takes your head off.
Well, I can now reveal that someone has lobbed a highly explosive rumour at Opposition Leader Lou Feeney. According to this rumour, when Mr Feeney was at St Phillip’s College in Brisbane, he introduced some junior boys to a novel form of show-and-tell that involved fire, dance, and general nakedness.
Given that we’re a week out from polling day, with contenders who are almost neck-and-neck, there’s no prize for guessing the motivation of the rumour-mongers.
So now I ask you, dear readers, if you’ve heard details of this Feeney rumour, please contact me. I’d like to know where you heard it, who told you, and where you were when you were told. I make this request, not only to advance the story, but also to uncover the dirty-tricks department that’s just reared its ugly head in this campaign.
13
‘MISS ACHESON,’ I said, catching my breath. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Fancy indeed,’ she said, looking me up and down. ‘Nice night for a jog, detective, but you’re being a bit hard on that suit, aren’t you? I can hear the seams popping from here.’
I looked down at my suit and then back at her. She was silhouetted against the bright lights of a furniture shop, and though I couldn’t see her face, the warmth in her voice told me she was smiling.
‘There’s nothing wrong with these seams,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘And nothing wrong with the suit, either, for that matter. Here. Have a closer look.’
I rubbed one of my lapels between my thumb and forefinger, and took a few steps towards her. I’d been right about the smile. There was a twinkle in her eye, too.
‘Pure new wool,’ I said.
She was looking at my right shoulder. I followed her gaze to a smear of cobwebs that I’d probably picked up in the garden across from her place. I brushed them off, gave her my best cheesy smile, and continued.
‘This venerable suit is from China, via New York,’ I said, hooking my thumbs under both lapels. ‘Bought off a street rack near Times Square, from some African guy. And, okay, maybe it hasn’t aged that well, but it is my favorite suit. And it’s got a story. Now surely that counts for something.’
She took a step towards me and gave my coat a closer inspection.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, her brow lined with mock concern. ‘It hasn’t aged that well, has it? But it looks comfortable. And it’s a good fit.’
‘I guess I should say thanks for that.’
‘No, I think you should say, “Would you like to go out for a drink, Jean?” And I’d probably say, “Yes. That sounds like a good idea.” Then I could give you the history of my outfit. So what do you say? Are you up for it? A Guinness at Mad Dog’s?’
‘I’m always up for a Guinness,’ I said, a bit surprised at how quickly things had moved.
We made small talk as we walked around to the square. I asked her if she’d eaten, though of course I knew she had. She commented on the cold. It was the only bad thing about Canberra, she said. I couldn’t help thinking of her down at the lake — especially the look she’d given me. And now this. Was it personal or professional for her? Was it a come-on, or was she just out to pump me for information? Whatever it was, I’d have to let this play out before I could extract myself.
Mad Dog Morgan’s was an Irish pub set deep into the corner of Green Square. It had been years since I’d set foot in the place, but it hadn’t changed that much. It was still dimly lit, with a down-at-heel look. The same oddments of furniture were crammed into the same wooden cubicles, and the same old maps of the counties were fixed to the walls.
A few drinkers were standing at the bar, and a circle of musicians were thrashing out a jig in one of the cubicles. Other than that, the place was empty. I ordered a couple of pints and took them t
o where Acheson had settled on a church pew near a wall at the back of the place. We clinked glasses, exchanged smiles, and drank to each other’s health.
‘Do you play an instrument, detective?’ she said, nodding in the direction of the musicians.
‘You can call me Darren, if you like, Miss Acheson,’ I said. ‘And I’ll call you Jean.’
‘Darren Glass. There’s something well-rounded about the name. Do you play an instrument, Darren?’
‘I played guitar when I was a kid. Blues and rock — that sort of thing. And a mate gave me a mandolin the last time I was in the States, so I mess around on that a bit now. What about you? My guess is … piano?’
‘No. Violin. I started when I was four. And, yes, my parents were a bit keen. Too keen, you’d have to say, because these days I hardly take the thing out of its case. But I still love music, so no harm done really, I suppose. None that you’d detect, anyway.’
We laughed, raised our glasses again, and drank. The bar was filling up with young people dressed in black. And public servants, still suited-up, kicking off their weekend. A group of young men stared at Jean and made no attempt to hide the fact that she was the subject of their prattle. Then another wave of people swept into the place, including a fiddler, an older guy with a mandolin, and another guitarist. When this trio joined the circle, the tunes sped up, but the music became much tighter somehow.
‘How do you handle the gawkers when you’re out like this?’ I said, indicating a couple of guys who were still ogling her.
‘It comes with the job,’ said Jean, ‘and I love what I do. If that means being treated like a goldfish sometimes, I’ll wear it.’
We listened to the music, sipping stout and keeping time with our feet. Then Jean turned and probed me with those eyes of hers.
‘Darren, I’ve got to ask. Were you out there following me tonight?’
‘No,’ I said, reeling back slightly, as though the suggestion came as a complete surprise.
‘If it was you, I wouldn’t be angry or anything.’
‘I wasn’t following you,’ I said, putting some steel in my voice. ‘I came over to Kingston for some Indian, but I changed my mind and was on my way around here for sushi. That’s when I ran into you.’
She examined me closely for a few seconds, and then she turned away and stared without focus into the distance.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But there was someone out there. Following me. I didn’t see them, but it’s just like people say. I knew they were there — somewhere in the dark, when I was walking to the shops.’
‘Has it happened before? That you thought you were being followed?’
‘Yes. I had the same feeling on Wednesday night when I walked down here. Look, tell me honestly. Was it you out there tonight? I won’t go off at you if it was. I promise.’
‘No,’ I said, staring into her eyes. ‘I was not following you.’
She looked at me doubtfully for a few seconds. Then her eyes softened. My gift for bare-faced bullshit artistry had done it again. I could lock eyes with almost anyone and persuade them that I was telling the truth. It was a useful talent when I needed to convince a suspect that we knew more than we did. It had also proved handy in the odd courtroom situation. Not that I was a chronic liar; I could just be very convincing when I needed to be.
If you’re lying to someone who hates or fears you, or who has a strong interest in proving you wrong, you’ve got to be both convincing and irrefutable. But for a lie to work on a family member, a friend, or a lover, it’s got to be both of the above, and they have to want to believe you. Now, while I hated bullshitting to Jean, I really liked the fact that she wanted to believe me.
My one cause for worry was that she might be right. Maybe someone else was following her. If it was an obsessive fan, as often happened with celebrities, that could be easily rectified. But if it was either of Susan Wright’s killers, their motives would be nothing but bad. Then again, if it was them, their obsession with her was making them vulnerable. But as I thought about it, I realised that if someone else was on her tail, she hadn’t sprung them like she’d sprung me. This meant they were better at setting a tail than I was. And if that was the case, what else were they better at?
Blood Oath subscription news
Friday 2 August, 11.00pm
Too hot to handle
By Simon Rolfe
A question, dear readers: Have any of you heard of an arcane schoolboy ritual known as ‘the rancid’ fire dance? Well, rest assured, those of you who haven’t will soon be all too familiar with it. Earlier this evening, I referred to a rumour that’s been plaguing Opposition Leader Lou Feeney. Now I can reveal that this rumour pushes the view that Mr Feeney is all too well acquainted with ‘the rancid’.
As I understand it, to dance ‘the rancid’, the dancer strips down to his underpants, wedges a rolled-up section of newspaper into his crotch, with equal amounts of the paper protruding from his front and backsides. Both ends of the paper are then set on fire, and the dancer jumps and gyrates until things get too hot for his private parts. He then signals for the dance ‘marshalls’ to douse the flames.
Mr Feeney has admitted to me that he danced ‘the rancid’ in front of students of all ages in his final month at school. And while he concedes that it was a juvenile and somewhat dangerous thing to do, he rejects claims that he achieved sexual gratification during the course of the dance. A number of former St Phillips students have confirmed what he says in this regard.
Interestingly, three readers now tell me that the men they heard discussing the dance rumour had New Zealand accents. Fush and chups anyone? How about darty trucks?
14
MCHENRY WASN’T AROUND when I got back to the room, so I immediately checked in with the analyst, Ruth Marginson. A lot of people had recognised Jean at Mad Dog’s, and some of them would have recognised me, so I’d been planning to tell McHenry about my ‘chance’ encounter with Jean as soon as I could. Now that Marginson was my only option, I took a seat next to her desk and gave her the story.
‘Did you discuss the case with her?’ she said when I’d finished.
‘She raised it, as you’d expect. But I didn’t get drawn in. One thing I did learn, though. She thinks she’s being followed.’
‘And is she?’
‘Well, she hasn’t seen anyone. It’s just a feeling she’s got. I’ll go down in the morning and see if I can spot anything around her place.’
‘And you just ran into her, you say? And she invited you for a drink?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay, let’s leave it for now,’ she said, turning back to her screen. ‘But make sure you write it up.’
McHenry would have told Marginson that I’d wanted surveillance on Jean, so I couldn’t blame her for being sceptical about my story. But at least now I was covered to a degree. And if McHenry wanted to look into the encounter, the only person he could talk to was Jean — and I doubted he’d do that.
I went back to my desk and wrote up the contact. With that done, I tried to clear my head of the whole thing, but a vague feeling of dread was still hanging over me hours later when I crawled into the rec room for some shut-eye.
At first light next morning, I was back on Giles Street, looking for places from which someone could spy on Jean’s apartment block. The most obvious spot was the garden I’d used the night before, but the tan bark there was so compressed that I hadn’t even left an impression on it.
A lush garden a few doors down provided a view of both Jean’s driveway and the footpath in front of her block, but there was nothing to indicate that anyone had loitered there recently, either. I could have draped the area in tape and called in Forensics, but it was best to leave that decision to McHenry.
My stomach was grumbling by the time I finished up, so I stopped at a café
in Manuka and checked out the morning papers over breakfast. They all led with previews of the Wright funeral, and each front page had something on Proctor’s disappearance. Having the stories side-by-side like that seemed to imply that Proctor would soon share Wright’s fate. The media were preparing the public for the worst.
I drove back to the station and called Steve Newings, the deputy registrar for Births, Deaths and Marriages. I wanted him to dig out a couple of death certificates for me — one for the PM’s nephew, Mick Stanton, and one for poor old Dennis Hanley. I planned to talk to the doctors who’d certified them, just to make sure they had died in the way people said they had.
Next, I called all the vet clinics on a list Marginson had supplied, and asked them to check their stocks of ketamine for any slippage. They all promised to let me know within twenty-four hours. McHenry walked past while I was on the phone, which made me wonder about the Lansdowne interview, but I wasn’t going to ask him. If I turned out to be a non-starter, I’d deal with it. In the meantime, I’d concentrate on what I had in front of me.
I was going through a list of Marie Staples’ radical uni mates when the department’s profiler walked into the room. Alan Thorne was small and fit, with dyed-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’d studied criminal profiling at Qantico, then done a doctorate in behavioural analysis at the ANU. I’d read his doctoral thesis, and the cop in me had dismissed it as an over-complicated explanation for why bad people did nasty things, mostly to other bad people.
The room was packed for Thorne’s appearance. McHenry must have known it would be, because he had even organised sandwiches. He thanked Thorne for joining us. Thorne thanked him for the invite, and said he’d been through PROMIS, and was impressed with our thoroughness to date. Then he lifted his notes to his nose and launched into his spiel.
