by Peter Cotton
Our final interview for the day was with Simon Rolfe, the last of the Early Leavers from Wright’s party. Rolfe owned the Blood Oath news blog, which, according to my old schoolmate Stevo, had a healthy subscriber base that gave it plenty of clout with big advertisers and the politicians.
When Rolfe entered the interview room, his clothes were the star of the show. Sure, he looked very fit for a man in his late forties, but it was his cream, double-breasted suit, and the white shirt and pink silk tie, that caught the eye. He even had a matching pink hankie sticking out of his breast pocket. He looked crisp, tanned, and freshly pressed. Maybe he was groomed for the interview.
He sat down on the other side of the table and carefully crossed his legs, protecting his creases as best he could. Then he looked us over with a mixture of impatience and world-weariness. Smeaton started off by asking him our stock question. Did he know anyone who might have had a reason to harm Susan Wright? Rolfe took the question as a cue for a speech.
‘I could say she was a saint and that everyone loved her,’ he said, chuckling at the thought. ‘But then, why’s she dead? Because someone found a compelling reason to kill her, of course. Was it hate? Who knows? Did she hurt someone so badly that they needed to kill her, or was it just a matter of convenience? Something purely practical? I don’t know. And, no, I don’t know anyone capable of killing Susan Wright.’
‘So how’d she get on with her colleagues?’ said Smeaton. ‘Especially the other members of cabinet?’
‘So it’s background you want, is it? Ahh well, she was one of three women in cabinet, and all of her male colleagues, including Lansdowne, were blokey blokes. Enough said, really. I mean, that should have been an automatic block on her ambitions. Except for the fact that she was a shining star in a firmament of black holes. And, of course, Lansdowne greased her path, though I’ve never understood why. So … Susan Wright. She was elegant. She had an intellect. Her judgment was mostly sound. Not everything she did was popular, but she was a good communicator, so the punters thought they understood her. And gender hardly featured when the gallery wrote her up. I guess no one wanted to kill the golden goose.’
‘You sound like a big fan, Mr Rolfe,’ I said.
‘Yes, a big fan. A lot of people had an interest in seeing her fail, but I wished her well. I mean, I’m not crying over her. Not like some of her cabinet colleagues. Boo hoo! Not! You see, they never saw her as crucial to their fortunes. To them, she was just another competitor. Another block in the road. Well, she would have got to the top ahead of all of them, had she lived. And it’s that sort of loss, detective. Because whoever killed Susan Wright deprived Australia of someone who would have been a great leader.’
‘You agree with Mr Lansdowne, then?’ I said.
‘About what?’ said Rolfe.
‘That Susan Wright would have been prime minister in a few years. Had she lived.’
‘When did he say that?’ he said, sliding forward in his chair, suddenly very focused on me.
And then it hit me. I hadn’t read anywhere about the prime minister anointing Susan Wright. Nor had I seen him say it on TV, or heard it on the radio. He’d said it to me.
‘I, I don’t know when,’ I said, looking for a way out. ‘I mean, it’s what everyone thinks, isn’t it? So surely he said it.’
It was a pathetic attempt, and Rolfe knew that he had me. An involuntary shiver rumbled from my middle as I imagined the headline in his next blog.
‘So you’ve interviewed Lansdowne since Susan was found,’ he said, ‘And that’s when he told you these things?’
‘We … ahh. We … look, Mr Rolfe, we’ll ask the questions here, so let’s get on with it.’
‘You interviewed him,’ he said. ‘And he told you she’d be in the top job within a few years. Mmm. Not a complete dill then, is he?’
He spent a few moments weighing up what he had. Then he shook his head and gave me a sympathetic smile. I’d engineered lots of ‘gotcha’ moments in my time, but I’d never been the bunny in one. Until now.
Smeaton cleared his throat and looked at me inquiringly. What he saw told him I was in a hole. He just didn’t know how deep.
‘Can we move on to Wright’s party now,’ he said, taking control. ‘You were in reception most of the night, Mr Rolfe. Is that right?’
‘Yes, we can move on. And, yes, apart from visiting the little boys’ room, and top-ups, I was in reception the whole night. It’s the best place to be at one of those affairs. No one gets in without going past you. It’s the same when they leave. And if there’s nothing interesting happening, you can POQ yourself. But there were a few heavyweights in attendance — Susan, for one. So I hung around.’
‘And what did you get out of the party?’ said Smeaton. ‘I mean, did you hear anything, or make any particular observations?’
‘Now that is disappointing,’ said Rolfe. ‘And they say journalists are slack about research.’
‘I’ve read every edition of your blog since the minister disappeared,’ said Smeaton. ‘Now answer the question.’
‘You say you read my blog?’ he said. ‘Mmmm! Anyway. The party. Yes. I saw the contretemps between the minister and Proctor. No, I didn’t hear a word of what was said. And when Susan left, I didn’t see any point in hanging around. Proctor and I don’t get on, you see. And, anyway, he was pissed, judging by the way he staggered out of there. So I went home early, too, and indulged in that profound form of rest called sleep.’
‘Mrs Wright drove off the Hill using the Melbourne Avenue exit,’ said Smeaton. ‘Two minutes later, your Citroen came out of the Senate-side carpark and exited the same way.’
‘Yes,’ said Rolfe. ‘But she went back to her pokey little flat in Kingston, and I went home to Yarralumla. You’re not suggesting anything are you, detective?’
‘Not at all, Mr Rolfe. But do you, uh, “share” your house with anyone? Anyone who can confirm when you arrived home?’
‘No. I live alone. But I’ve got nosey neighbours who observe all the comings and goings on the street. So, if it’s really an issue, I can direct you to one of them.’
‘We might get you to do that,’ said Smeaton. ‘Now, finally, do you have any ideas about Alan Proctor’s disappearance?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Rolfe. ‘I’ve barely exchanged a dozen words with Proctor in all the years we’ve both worked on the Hill, but I can say this about him: he’s a disgusting little man who does the prime minister’s dirty work. And we hate each other. He hates me for what I write about the government, and I hate him for the sycophant he is.’
And that was that. Smeaton saw Rolfe out, and I stayed seated in the interview room, ruing what I’d let slip about the prime minister. If Rolfe did get a story out of it, and I was sure he would, it would not only end my chances of being in on the Lansdowne interview, it might also get me kicked off the case. The thought of this filled me with dread. What a careless dickhead I’d been. My life was becoming a series of stumbles and near misses. If I didn’t watch it, I might stuff up in a really major way.
Blood Oath subscription news
Saturday 3 August, 9.00pm
Lansdowne: Wright was my rightful heir
by Simon Rolfe
As we enter the final week of this election campaign, I can reveal that Prime Minister Lansdowne believed Susan Wright was his natural successor as party leader, and that he also saw Mrs Wright as a future prime minister.
Today, while interviewing yours truly, Detective Sergeant Darren Glass let slip that he spoke to the prime minister soon after the discovery of Mrs Wright’s body. According to Detective Glass, it was during that ‘chat’ that Mr Lansdowne posthumously anointed ‘the loved one’ for the top job.
This revelation will come as sobering news to Lansdowne’s deputy, Malcolm Redding. Mr Redding has always assumed that the leade
rship would be his once Lansdowne called it quits. The prime minister’s frank declaration to Detective Glass indicates that he might look beyond Redding when the time comes for him to nominate a successor.
And while we’re talking about the prime minister, isn’t it time the police had another chat to him, if only to get his perspective on what’s befallen Alan Proctor? Not that I assume the worst for Mr Proctor. Never, dear reader, never. But the signs are not good, and maybe the PM has a perspective that could help. You know his number, Detective Glass. Why don’t you give him another call?
16
I TOOK A BREAK and drove over to Kingston. The lights were on in Jean’s penthouse, so I parked near the shops and turned off the ignition. But instead of getting out of the car and heading for the hide near her place, I stayed behind the wheel, questioning the wisdom of my part-time, half-baked surveillance effort. Jean had sprung me once, and I’d nearly gone down. Another slip like that and I could fall the full distance. Fatigue was affecting my decision-making, and this extra activity was draining my precious reserves of energy.
On the other hand, I now firmly believed that the killers were keeping their own watch on her. They knew where she walked. If she was right about having been followed on Wednesday night, and if it was them, they knew where she lived, too. The thing was, if one of my surveillance sessions coincided with one of theirs, I could have them taken down in minutes. And given my recent spate of stuff-ups, it would take something of that order to redeem myself with McHenry.
Buoyed by this thought, I got out of the car, scanned the street, and headed for Canberra Avenue. At the service station on the corner, I crossed over and made my way back towards Jean’s block. When I was almost there, I took out my phone, plugged it to my ear, and walked down into her carpark, saying ‘Yep’ a few times as I went — for all the world, a busy man on an important call.
Jean’s car was parked against the back wall, which meant, I hoped, she was in for the night. Then again, she might have walked down to Kennedy Street for another meal. I considered going down there and looking for her, but quickly dismissed the idea.
I retraced my steps up her drive and walked back along the footpath to Canberra Avenue. Once there, I crossed the street to the service station, walked back down Giles, and, when I got level with my hide, scanned the street again before quickly slipping in behind the thicket of native bush. I’d brought a heavy jacket with me this time, so my upper body was warm enough as I stood watching the street, but my feet were soon freezing. After an hour, the lights went out in Jean’s place. I waited ten minutes to see if she was going to bed or if she was heading out. When all remained quiet, I drove over to Manuka, picked up a pizza, and headed back to work.
When I walked into the room, McHenry motioned me over. As I approached him, he scowled and jabbed his finger at a spare seat next his desk. This could mean only one thing: Rolfe’s story was out.
‘Tell me it’s a beat-up,’ he said, swinging his screen around so I could see the offending yarn. ‘Please. Tell me it is. I mean, you wouldn’t be so thick as to divulge anything like this to a journo, would you? Not about the prime minister?’
‘I’m afraid I was,’ I said, scanning the words on the screen, aghast at my own stupidity.
‘How could you?’ he said, a note of despair entering his voice.
‘I don’t know. Rolfe said Wright was in line to be PM. And I told him Lansdowne thought the same way. That was the extent of it. But it was enough for him.’
‘More than enough. And just so you know, I’d fixed it for you be on the Lansdowne interview tomorrow. Well, not any more. Your name’s well and truly off that list now. And you can imagine what Brady wants to do to you, but, typically, he’s left that decision to me. The thing is, Glass, you’ve got good instincts, and I value your counsel, so I generally overlook your blind spots. But, right now, you’re costing me more than you’re bringing in, and I can’t have that. Ya get me?’
His words were a kick in the guts, and my emotions quickly became a dangerous mix of extreme anger at Rolfe and severe embarrassment at my stuff-up. I concentrated on being embarrassed. After all, Brady wanted my head. If McHenry detected anything other than absolute contrition on my part, he’d give it to him, there and then.
‘I understand, sir, and I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Really sorry. It was a monumental mistake, and I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the boot right now. I really wouldn’t.’
‘And then there’s this thing with Jean Acheson,’ he said. ‘This “chance” encounter. I’d ask about it, but I don’t want to hear another lie. So I’m done with you for now. We’ll talk in the morning.’
And with that, he flicked his hand at me and turned back to his machine. The whole room had been tuned into our conversation, but every head was down as I walked back to my desk. I switched on my computer and brought up Rolfe’s blog. I read it, and read it again, just to make sure it was as bad as it seemed. It was worse. Rolfe had taken my slip and used it to reflect on the future leadership of the country. I’d told him about a micro-shift in Lansdowne’s thinking, and he’d turned it into the media talking-point for the next twenty-four hours. No wonder the PM’s people were furious. They’d hate having to deal with a bolt from the blue like this, especially so close to polling day.
Hours later, when I finally collapsed onto a couch in the rec room, my mind whirled endlessly in a spiral of dread and self-loathing. And though I tried every way I knew to calm myself, I tossed and turned for most of the night.
I struggled off the couch just after dawn, collected my toiletries from my locker, and brushed my teeth. Then, as I was shaving, I remembered something Stevo had said about Rolfe. That he wasn’t so much a political journo — more a colour writer with a bitchy turn of phrase. Well, Rolfe had turned out to be a journalistic hard nut, and maybe the disconnect between the Rolfe I’d been expecting to meet and the one who’d turned up had put me off-guard. Whatever the explanation, the guy had picked me like a nose. There was only one thing that could lift me out of a dreadful funk like this, so I went back to my locker, changed into a singlet, shorts, and runners, and headed off for a jog around the lake.
By the time I reached the water, my breathing was in rhythm with my footfalls, and I was feeling much better for the exercise. I leapt up the stairs onto Commonwealth Avenue Bridge, and crossed the lake to the Parliament House side. Then I ran hard — across the grass in front of the National Library, past wrestling dogs on the lawns at Reconciliation Place, and through the sculpture garden, which was deserted as usual. As I crossed Kings Avenue Bridge, the old Tom Jones hit ‘Delilah’ drifted across the water from the carillon on Aspen Island. The tune sounded strange and discordant, but it lightened my mood for a moment. Why, why, why indeed?
Back on the city side of the lake, I jogged up the rise to the National Police Memorial and scanned the names of the hundreds of cops who’d been killed on duty. As always, my eyes came to rest on the same name, the one that always brought me here — Senior Constable Simon Glass, the father I never met. He had been killed when a domestic dispute turned into a siege, a month before I was born. His name, etched in metal, was a constant reminder of the father I’d been denied, and of the unforgiving nature of the job I’d followed him into.
I did some stretches on a granite seat in front of the memorial, and then jogged down the slope to the water’s edge. From there I followed the lake wall past various memorials, in and out of parkland, and back through the now busy streets to City Station. I showered and dressed and headed around to the room, all the time dreading the reception my colleagues would turn on.
Everyone looked up when I walked in. A few of them acknowledged me without speaking, but most of them just registered that I was there and then got back to work. I didn’t blame anyone for this group snub, given the general embarrassment I’d caused. Smeaton would have supported me if he’d been there, but h
e wasn’t. I cast a nervous glance up at McHenry. He and Marginson were deep in conversation. I assumed they were talking about me.
The best thing I could do was immerse myself in work, so I got a coffee and a few biscuits, then logged onto PROMIS and surveyed the latest developments. Nothing had come of the door-to-door in Proctor’s neighbourhood. And after interviewing everyone who’d been at Wright’s party, we had learned nothing new.
The TV in the corner went to a newsbreak. The thing was on mute, but the caption behind the newsreader said it all: ‘Wright was my pick: PM’. The report started with footage of me at the crime scene. A guy sitting at the desk in front of me nudged a couple of colleagues, and soon everyone in the room was watching the report. It also featured footage of Lansdowne walking with Wright. Then it cut to Simon Rolfe. He was smirking in front of a forest of outstretched microphones.
It made me feel sick to look at the smarmy little bastard, and I was about to walk out of the room when McHenry called my name. I looked over at him, he cocked his finger at me, and I followed him outside to a bench under a leafless tree in the courtyard. He checked that we were alone, and then he leaned in close, his voice a whisper.
‘I was ready to give you the chop last night,’ he said. ‘But this morning, you got a reprieve. You can thank talkback radio for that. Seems everybody thinks Wright would have made a good PM, and they’re patting Lansdowne on the back for saying so. But this doesn’t let you off the hook. Lansdowne’s people might have calmed down, but Brady’s still fuming, and he says to put you on notice. Mess up again in any way, and it’s your job. So be very careful.’
‘I will,’ I said, keeping my voice low and even. ‘I promise you, I will.’
‘I’m sure that’s right. So, to more important things — like the case. You’ve been through everything. Where do you think we’re at?’
The short answer was we were nowhere at all, but I wasn’t about to say that.
