by Peter Cotton
‘Another dead end, then,’ said McHenry, looking grimmer than ever. ‘Well, let me say, if they’d treated Stanton’s death as they should have, we might not be investigating a double-murder today. But that doesn’t help us. So, moving along, I’ve got a report here on Jean Acheson’s contact with our audio people, and they say that, in the end, she thought the bloke who gave her the treasurer’s documents might have had an Eastern European accent. Possibly Polish, but she wasn’t sure.’
With nothing else to report, McHenry closed the meeting and everyone either headed off for a coffee or swung around and re-engaged with their machines. Marginson came over and dropped a couple of phone messages on my desk. The psych assigned to assess Tom Hanley had rung in to tell us that she had come down with a lurgy and wanted to reschedule. That was fine with me, as long as I could get someone else to escort her out to Lake George. And the New South Wales copper who was co-ordinating the search of Proctor’s north-coast beach house had called. I put in a call to the copper, and spoke to the croaky psych, but all the while my mind was on Jean.
She’d said to call. Her eyes had said to call. I stared at her card so many times during that morning that I memorised her number. But each time I went to dial it, I wavered, feeling confused and a bit apprehensive at the prospect of a date with her — especially with everything that was going on.
The pessimist in me said she’d probably regard any get-together between us as nothing more than a news-gathering opportunity. I worked to convince myself that I should be similarly pragmatic. Time spent with her would give me another insider’s view of how things worked on the Hill. And the optimist in me said that if I got lucky, I might find myself knocking on her door at night instead of standing outside it in the cold. But that was getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say, I had any number of reasons for getting close to Jean, and a lot of them had nothing to do with the case. So, after a lot of dithering, I decided to make contact and see where it led.
I texted her, asking if she’d like to do something later in the week — maybe have breakfast or go for an early-morning walk. The speed of her response was more than encouraging. Yes, a walk would be nice, she said in her return text; but with the election so close, later in the week was out of the question. What about this afternoon? She was taking a break at two, and she’d been planning to go for a walk then. Would I like to join her? And coffee afterwards? I replied that that sounded good and that I’d get back to her with an answer.
When McHenry returned to the room, I raced to his desk before he could settle down.
‘Got a minute for a chat?’ I said. ‘Outside?’
He hesitated for a second or two, eager to return to his machine. He grunted and let me lead him out to the cold bench in the courtyard.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what’s so important that I have to be dragged out here?’
‘There’s three things, actually. The first concerns Proctor. The thing is, everyone’s got some idea of what he did for the government. The dirt-file stuff. But we’ve never got into the detail of his work — who he had under pressure, and the exact nature of the dirt he had on particular people. So, yes, I’m still keen to get into his files, because if it was his work that got him killed, those files might give us a pointer. And, by God, don’t we need one.’
‘I’ve spoken to Brady about the files,’ said McHenry, casting a glance around the courtyard, ‘and he’s confirmed what I thought. They’re in constant use during the election campaign, and if we wanted them, we’d have to block all other access while they were examined and copied. As you might predict, Brady’s not happy to disrupt the government in that way at this time, so it’s no again to the files.’
‘Okay, then,’ I said, nodding reasonably, as though untouched by this rebuff. ‘What about Mondrian? Everything keeps coming back to the bank. Isn’t it time we organised some forensic accountants to go through their files?’
‘I’m not against that,’ said McHenry. ‘In fact, I’ve asked Brady about it, and he’s got someone doing the necessaries. So it’ll happen, assuming we can jump the legal hurdles. Anything else before we freeze our bums off?’
‘Just one thing. Stevo’s been useful, but he’s a government staffer, which means he’s always putting a slant on things. And we were going to diversify our sources. Well, Jean Acheson called half an hour ago to see if I’d have a coffee with her. She’s just after background, but you never know. I might get something from it. What do you think?’
‘The last time you backgrounded a journo,’ said McHenry, ‘it was front-page news. And you know what another stuff-up’ll cost you. Then again, you might get something useful from her. Okay, do it. But watch yourself.’
I spotted Jean as soon as I rounded the corner at the Yarralumla shops. She was standing outside the supermarket composing a text message. I squeezed into a parking bay and observed her for a bit longer in my rear-view mirror. She was wearing a red down waistcoat with a long-sleeved black T-shirt underneath it, and tight black pants and runners. Her outfit was topped off by a bright red beanie, and she had a water bottle hanging from the belt around her waist. She’d come dressed for a power walk, whereas I was dressed for a stroll. I got out of the car and gave her a wave, and she came over. I put on a sloppy joe while she told me what she had in mind.
Essentially, she wanted to do her regular walk around the Royal Canberra Golf Course. That meant going down to the lake and walking from there to the governor-general’s gates. We’d then come back up Dunrossil Drive and cut through the bush that bordered the brickworks. After that, it was an easy walk back to the shops. It would take us about an hour, she said, and we could go off for our coffee afterwards.
We headed up the sloping footpath, side by side. When an overhanging tree or an untamed bit of bush forced us off the path, I let Jean take the lead. She moved at a clip, which I liked, and I was soon swinging my arms in time with hers, warming up on a cold, grey day. We talked pretty easily, ranging over lots of things. We both liked Canberra’s clean air, and its four seasons. That it had wide roads, and was relatively uncluttered.
White cockies feasted on the trees around the Forestry School in Banks Street, their discards piled high under every tree. Jean said the birdlife was one of the great things about the city. We talked about our suburbs. She liked Kingston because of the shops and restaurants. Campbell was perfect for me, I said — close to Civic, which meant close to work, and it was an easy jog to the lake.
We crossed the road and walked downhill on a compacted sheep track that meandered alongside the golf course fence.
The fenceline turned a corner near the bottom of the hill, and the track followed it. From there it entered a dense stand of conifers before it descended into a grey gully that was sodden and slippery under foot.
‘Do you ever wonder what you’ll be doing in, say, ten years’ time?’ said Jean, treading carefully on the saturated track. ‘Do you ever think that far ahead?’
‘Sometimes,’ I said. ‘I mean, I love my work and I wouldn’t do anything else, but most people in my game eventually end up behind a desk somewhere. And, you know, it doesn’t appeal to me now, but in ten years’ time I might want the regular hours that come with a desk job. Especially if I have a family.’
She paused at the bottom of the gully, pulled the bottle from her belt, and squirted some water into her mouth. Then she passed the drink to me. Drops of water fell on us from the branches above, spotting our clothes. The sweat on my back began to cool.
‘And what if you’re still unattached in ten years’ time?’ she said, moving up the slope. ‘How would you feel about that?’
‘It wouldn’t be good,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I mean, you should see some of the single blokes at work — the older ones who’ve let themselves go a bit. They’re a great argument for the sanctity of marriage.’
‘What?’ she said, giggling now. ‘
You wouldn’t want to end up like them? A smelly old fart, in a rotten old cardigan? With your crusty nasal hair merging into your stinking old moustache. Ugh! And the breath!’
‘Oh no! My worst nightmare,’ I said, laughing with her, while I recoiled at the image. ‘I’m settling down tomorrow! I promise! I am!’
‘And another one bites the dust, eh? I can see you now, taking the kids to soccer on a Saturday morning — with the dog in the SUV.’
‘You’re getting well ahead of me there, but I don’t mind. Any other predictions?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, slowing down so that I fell in beside her. ‘Except you seem like the sort of man who should have kids. I mean, you’re honest and direct, and kids really need that in a father. As well as his love, of course.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They absolutely need love.’
The fenceline jinked around another corner, and then it straightened. A golfer on the other side of the wire cursed a ball that wouldn’t be found. A cocky shrieked in the treetops.
‘I’m sure I’ll do the domestic thing one day, too,’ said Jean. ‘And it’ll be great. I’m just not ready for it now.’
‘I can understand that. With your career and all.’
‘Yeah. And I’m like you. I love my work, and there’s nothing else I want to do. Of course, there’re times when I feel like I’m just part of a giant sausage machine — churning it out, hour after hour. But when I get onto a big story, one that makes a difference, it’s all worthwhile somehow. Not that I’ve broken anything world-changing, mind you. Not yet, anyway. And now I’m raving, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘Your work’s important to you, and it’s important work. But it’s interesting to consider how you and I view what we do. You say your biggest kicks come from big stories, whereas us cops never hang out for big cases — certainly not ones like what we’re working on now. And you want another statement of the bleeding obvious? The world would be a much better place if there weren’t any big cases. And now I’m raving.’
She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled at me as we walked.
‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘No. You’ve got a very solid perspective on things, and I really like that.’
We ambled down a grassy slope towards the lake, and for the first time since we’d started out, we didn’t talk, and it was comfortable. A dense hedge of cotoneaster blocked our access to the water, so we took a well-worn path around the shoreline till we came to a little beach.
‘So, what made you become a policeman?’ she said, staring at the rippling shallows.
‘My dad was a cop,’ I said. ‘Not that he influenced me in any direct way. He died before I was born. Killed on duty. But Mum used to talk about him and the things he’d done. And I always wanted to be a cop. I guess a shrink would say that it was my way of getting close to the father I never knew, and that might be right.’
‘And your mum? Is she still alive?’
‘No. She died a few years ago.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Were you close?’
‘We were until she re-married, when I was eleven. Then her new husband moved us down to Moruya. He and I didn’t get on, and that affected my relationship with Mum. So, as soon as I turned fifteen, I left and came back to Canberra.’
‘Was it a jealousy thing with him?’
‘He was a bullying bastard who threw his weight around if things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted them to go. The good thing is, when Mum got sick, she spent her last few months in a hospice up here, so we got to resolve a few things before she died.’
We stood looking out over the lake before a cold gust of wind rushed off the water and I suggested we move on. We headed for the cycle path that circled the lake, and followed it into a dense planting of Monterey pine that filled the space between the water’s edge and the golf-course fence. I was conscious of the slack-slack sound of our shoes on the wet path, and of golf balls being thwacked somewhere off in the distance. I looked at Jean, and we smiled at each other again. It was turning out to be one of the best afternoons I’d had in a long time.
She asked if I travelled overseas for work. I rattled off some of the Quantico courses I’d done. That prompted her to launch into a restaurant-by-restaurant account of her latest trip to New York City. As it turned out, we’d eaten at the same restaurant in Harlem. We were comparing notes when we rounded a corner, and Warrina Inlet and its bridge came into view. Bits of discarded crime-scene tape fluttered in the bushes near the foot of the bridge. The sight of the place took the wind out of our conversation.
We crossed the bridge, and Jean stopped on the other side and squirted water into her mouth, and passed the bottle to me.
‘You know, when I got home after Mad Dog’s the other night,’ she said, staring across the inlet, ‘I was thinking about that guy and the receipts he left for me over there. The European. And it was like, I don’t know, I was in a bit of a heightened state, I guess, but I remembered something I should have told you when you interviewed me up at the House.’
‘And what was that?’ I said, in a hard tone that I immediately softened. ‘What didn’t you tell me?’
‘I remembered thinking he wasn’t alone — that there was someone else on the line listening in as we talked, even sort of prompting him. You can hear it when that happens. My mum used to eavesdrop on my calls all the time. Do you think it’s possible? That there’s two of them out there? Two killers?’
Careful! Careful! We hadn’t said anything about numbers when it came to the killers, so I couldn’t confirm anything about her eavesdropper. Nor could I dismiss it out of hand, as that might make her suspicious. Then it occurred to me that this could all be a set-up. The route she’d selected for our walk included the bridge where the receipts had been left for her. And then, apparently prompted by the place, she’d raised a question that could give her a big headline. But how would she have arrived at the question if she hadn’t truly sensed a second person on the line? She was eyeing me intently, eager for a response.
‘Two killers?’ I said, as though it was a novel thought. ‘Mmm. That’s interesting. Then again, without a firmer …’
‘Look, I know it’s flimsy,’ she said. ‘I should have remembered, so I’m sorry. I guess getting my hands on those receipts shook everything else out of my head. And it was just a sense I had — like when I thought I was being followed. I mean, it’s not something I’d do a story on. Imagine how that’d go down: “Now, viewers, I’ve got this gut feeling I want to tell you about …” ’
‘Wouldn’t do your credibility much good,’ I said, smiling at her as I handed her back the water bottle.
We left the cycle path near the governor-general’s gates and took a track through a stand of conifers that grew along the golf-course fence. A hundred metres before the end of Dunrossil Drive, the fence did a 90-degree turn and disappeared into the feral undergrowth of Westbourne Woods. Jean and I followed the fenceline into the woods, on a path overgrown with blackberry and blocked by the occasional fallen tree. We finally emerged into a big clearing with a good view of the back of the brickworks, and were admiring the kilns and having another drink when Jean’s mobile rang. She eased it off her belt, and I studied her as she took the call.
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ she said, and her face suddenly turned pale.
‘Yes, yes, I know where that is,’ she said after ten seconds or so. ‘Who is this? Who’s calling?’
But they were gone. She lowered the phone, looked at the screen, and then shook her head as she buttoned off.
‘He hung up. The European. He says he’s left something else for me. And I think we just walked past it.’
Channel Four Live Cam
Monday 5 August, 3.00pm
Good afternoon, Jean Acheson here with this Live Cam exclusive, and the man suspected of the abduct
ion and murder of both Susan Wright and Alan Proctor has contacted me again.
Last week he sent me to a location where I found receipts indicating that the treasurer had put himself through drug rehabilitation in California. It’s believed those receipts were with Susan Wright when she disappeared.
Now the same man has directed me here, to Westbourne Woods, where he says he’s left more documents for me.
The police are standing by, and we’ll soon be going in to recover this latest offering. When I’ve got it, I’ll bring it to you live. This is Jean Acheson.
19
MCHENRY’S RESPONSE TO my call was as immediate as it was dramatic. Choppers and car sirens homed in on us from every direction as we ran along the fenceline, and by the time we got back to Dunrossil Drive, the whole area was full of cops. They’d blocked off the road with two lines of vehicles and had begun draping the place in long lengths of tape. A couple of choppers buzzed back and forth overhead, adding to the sense of drama. Dog walkers and joggers gawked at the goings-on from behind the newly established cordon.
Jean’s camera crew got there soon after us, and she’d already filed a piece by the time McHenry arrived. Within seconds of pulling up, he was on the radio to a patrol car that had been dispatched to the golf club. Once he’d confirmed that all the stragglers were off the fairways, he called a senior cop over and asked about the status of the nearby lumberyard. The cop said the workers there had knocked off for the day. What about the feeder streets, said McHenry. Yes, said the cop, they’d all been blocked off. And the door-to-door in Denman Street, asked McHenry, pointing to the street that bordered the woods. It was underway, said the cop, and the residents there were being warned to stay indoors until they got the all-clear.
This conversation was interrupted by a beep from McHenry’s two-way. He put the two-way to his ear, listened for a few seconds, then lowered it. Like the thirty-or-so other people standing around him, I held my breath, desperate to hear the news.
