by Peter Cotton
35
EVERYONE WAS GLUED to the TV when I entered the room early next morning. Justice Minister Simon Black was on some news program. The caption at the bottom of the screen said it all: ‘Lansdowne Abduction: Centre takes charge.’
Black was being asked if the decision represented a vote of no confidence in the Australian Federal Police. No, he said, the AFP enjoyed his full confidence, and they’d still be working on the case. So why hand the investigation over to the Centre, asked his interrogator. Because the abduction of the prime minister threatened the security of the nation, said the minister, and national security was the province of the Centre, especially given its experience in large-scale logistics. The last part of his response could mean only one thing. Black had approved Bolton’s plan for a blanket search of the city — to enter every house and building, and to interrogate every citizen.
When the interview ended, Smeaton came over and gave me the latest. Bolton had established a Major Incident Room over at the Centre’s Northbourne Avenue offices, he said. And Brady had agreed to the AFP handling any overflow, and for us to assist Bolton’s people as required. So that was it — we’d been officially sidelined. It was a bastard of a decision, but fully expected. I clapped Smeaton on the shoulder and headed out to the kitchen for a coffee.
When I returned, I ignored all the huddles that had formed around the room and headed straight to my desk. We’d have plenty of time for post-mortems and hand-wringing once we’d been reassigned. Until then, I intended to stay focused on the case. I grabbed a bunch of newspapers and flipped through them while I drank my coffee. They’d all thrown the kitchen sink at the story, with wrap-around editions and special supplements detailing the abduction. ‘The crime of the century’ they were calling it, and most front pages featured the same smiling photo of Penny Lomax.
Other pictures featured uniformed cops from Victoria manning a checkpoint in the city centre. Another had a flight of army choppers taking off from Ainslie Oval. And there was an aerial shot of the Hume Highway with a massive convoy of police vehicles heading south towards Canberra.
Lomax’s boltholes had all been close to Parliament House, so leads mentioning the inner south were being pursued with maximum vigour. I was reading about a raid in Forrest when a call came through on my desk phone. It was Adam Stowe from Major Crime in Auckland. He sounded like he was bursting with big news — which, as it turned out, he was.
‘When I looked at the names you sent,’ he said, ‘the link between them jumped straight out at me. They’re all Special Brethren, and by the looks of it they were up to something very curious over your way.’
‘Just a minute will you, Adam,’ I said, and I cupped my hand over the receiver.
The thing was, I knew I should be transferring Stowe straight to the Centre, yet that didn’t seem right somehow. I’d asked him for this information, so why shouldn’t I take his call? I could transfer him to the Centre if it seemed warranted.
‘Okay, mate,’ I said. ‘What have you got?’
‘Well, after I got your list,’ said Stowe, ‘I contacted the local Brethren, and as expected they claimed ignorance of any jaunts to Sydney involving their people. But, as luck would have it, I’ve got this nephew who’s been seeing a Brethren girl. On the sly, of course. So I got him to raise it with her, discreetly like. And he came back with a very interesting tale.
‘It seems the girl’s brother and twenty other young Brethren men flew to Sydney on the date you mentioned. They spent a day at a hotel near the airport, and, while they were there, they learned a spiel from some spiv, and got fitted out in new suits. Early next morning, they were split into pairs, and each pair flew to one of your state capitals.’
‘And what were they up to?’ I said, completely gripped by the yarn, but expecting a letdown somewhere before the end.
‘Each of the pairs had been given a list of major office buildings they had to visit. Their job was to go into those buildings first thing in the morning, get into a lift full of people, and go through the spiel they’d been taught in Sydney.’
‘And that was?’
‘Ohh, very nasty stuff. Essentially, they had to pretend they were having a chat, and one of them would tell the other that your leader of the opposition over there, Mr Feeney, was a paedophile, that he was involved in sexual stuff with little boys during his school days — something about a dance he’d done in front of them — and that he wasn’t fit to run Australia.’
I thanked Stowe for his good work, and, after he gave me contact details for his nephew, I transferred him to a liaison officer over at the Centre. Then I thought through the implications of his story. Essentially, it was confirmation that Proctor had hatched the paedophile rumour against Feeney. He’d had the authority, the ruthlessness, and the necessary dirt to get it off the ground. And he’d had the list of Brethren members in his briefcase, of course.
However, there was one other possible rumour-monger in the mix — Penny Lomax. What if the ‘Fire Dance’ had been her little project? If Proctor had given it to her to manage, she would have kept a file on it. He would have insisted that she did. The thing was, if she had managed that file, she would have been working on it at around the same time that she and Joe were planning their crime spree. In which case, that file might contain more than just the government’s attempts to brand Feeney a kiddy fiddler. Not that Lomax would have written anything specific in it about her crimes, but if she had worked on it, her words might tell us something about her state of mind at the time. She might even have made an oblique reference to her intentions, or pencilled in an aside. There was even a chance she’d slipped up in some way when she’d had the file open.
I’d once nailed a blackmailer because she’d leaned on the cover of a cookbook to pen her demands. What if Lomax had stuffed up in a similar way with the rumour file? And what about the other files she’d worked on in Proctor’s dirt collection? Might she not have inadvertently left a clue in one of them? It was a cardinal rule that an investigation should turn over every stone, yet those files remained undisturbed. And Bolton wouldn’t be going there. The government would whack him down if he tried, and Redding certainly wouldn’t have appointed him if he was anything less than compliant.
It meant that the Centre’s handling of the investigation would be dogged by the same handicaps and roadblocks that had held us back. As I saw it, that left us with only one option. Given the extreme turn in events, the Australian Federal Police, as the original investigating agency, had to lead the charge to open up all of Proctor’s files — even if that meant raiding the prime minister’s office.
Channel Four Live Cam
Friday 9 August, 11.30am
Good morning, Jean Acheson here, twenty-four hours on, and the search for Prime Minister Michael Lansdowne continues.
As part of that effort, the Security Co-ordination Centre last night shut down the mobile-phone network covering the ACT and southern New South Wales. But most of you will already know that.
Now while no one doubts the need for the roadblocks and the house searches that the Centre has instituted, the shutdown of the mobile network has everyone confused, and a little bit angry. Local talkback was flooded with callers this morning. Some said the shutdown had put their businesses at risk. Others with health problems said that a functioning mobile phone could be the difference for them between living and dying.
Campbell resident Margaret James had another argument against the shutdown. She said that anyone who now spotted Lomax in and around Canberra wouldn’t be able to alert the police in a timely way. This is Jean Acheson. Back with more soon.
36
DESPITE BEING SIDELINED, McHenry was as busy as ever, tapping away at his machine and dealing with a constant stream of phone calls. I decided to wait till things calmed down for him before I made a final push for Proctor’s files. In the meantime, I trawled through
PROMIS to see what sort of start Bolton had made.
In a memo discussing his manpower needs, Bolton said he’d already ‘imported’ an extra eight thousand state coppers into Canberra, and he had more on the way. He’d also commandeered a couple of sanitation trucks to collect the rubbish of high-interest individuals. And he’d accessed bank activity statements for a range of people, most of whom we’d spoken to during our investigation. There was little out of the ordinary in the document attached to this memo. Except, perhaps, for Tom Hanley’s bank statement. His account seemed surprisingly active for a man who spouted gibberish.
Bolton had also circulated the letter he’d written to Malcolm Redding requesting the shutdown of the local mobile network. The letter didn’t mention suicide vests, nor any other reason for the request.
Just before midday, I ordered in two coffees, a couple of tawook rolls, and an assortment of baklava. When the food and drink arrived, I took it over to McHenry’s desk and put it down in front of him. He peeked into the bag of sweets and flashed me a helpless smile. I said we should eat somewhere out of the room. He nodded, got up, and took off with the food, leaving me to carry the coffee.
It was a cold day but warm in the sun, so we ended up on the bench in the courtyard, chomping through gristly bits of chicken wrapped in pita bread, and talking about everything from the weather to the weekend footy.
I asked McHenry how he felt about losing the investigation. He said he felt a bit like the winless coach who gets replaced mid-season. I faked an offended look, and he immediately stressed that there’d been nothing wrong with the team’s performance. It was just that the investigation had been blocked in fundamental ways. I used that as a cue to introduce Adam Stowe’s story about the origins of the fire-dance rumour.
While I recounted the tale, McHenry worked his way through the tawook, nodding and grunting occasionally. But his jaw stopped moving when I suggested that Lomax might have managed the rumour campaign against Feeney. And he put the remains of his tawook down when I said that if she had run the thing, she would have created the file that documented it. But the spell was broken when I told him that we had to convince Brady to go after the file, and everything else in Proctor’s dirt collection, as it might give us a clue that could lead to Lomax. Bolton would never do it, I said, so, as the original investigating agency, we should do it for him. McHenry nodded and exhaled loudly, the reason for his free lunch having finally been revealed.
‘You might be right,’ he said, popping a piece of baklava into his mouth. ‘Lomax might have managed the dance rumour. So let’s assume she also kept the file on it. What are the chances she’d leave a clue in that file about the abduction? Slim to non-existent, I’d say. And if we did get our hands on it, or any of the other files she kept, and we found something that seemed relevant, how would we know it was a genuine lead, and not something she’d dreamt up to put us off the trail?’
It was a reasonable question, I said, but I’d only be able to answer it once I’d been through Proctor’s files. McHenry sighed deeply and cast his eyes to his feet. Then he downed the rest of his coffee and studied the bottom of the cardboard cup as if reading the grounds.
‘Okay, Glass,’ he said. ‘Let’s suppose that, by some sort of magic, we were able to convince Brady that this rumour business changed the status of these files. And as he never flies solo on anything, let’s say Brady then took it up with Bolton and convinced him as well. If that ever happened, Brady would see to it that I wore every negative that came out of it. And there’d surely be plenty. Particularly if we upset the applecart for no result. So, given the slim margin of probability you’re working with here, and given the few good years I’ve got left in me, would you still have me sticking my neck out like you’re suggesting?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I mean, it could be the breakthrough we’re looking for.’
‘I doubt it. In fact, it’s one of the thinnest possible leads ever. But a lead it is, and all leads must be exhausted. However, if I agree to set up a meeting with Brady on this, I don’t want you talking about raids on the PM’s office or any such thing. You simply put your argument, then suggest that he raise the matter with Bolton. Right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Taking that as an assurance, McHenry led me inside to his desk, called Brady’s office, and asked the PA for an immediate appointment. As he put the phone down, he looked at me and shook his head.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘What are you gettin’ me into here?’
Brady didn’t interrupt as I put my argument, but he looked distracted the whole time, as though he was willing me to finish.
‘Quite a set of connections, detective,’ he said when I did. ‘But I don’t think we’ll bother Mr Bolton with this right now. You write it up, and we’ll see how the Centre responds.’
And with that he swung around to his computer screen, jabbed at a few keys with his index finger, and then turned to us again.
‘If that’s all, gentlemen,’ he said, with a why-are-you-still-taking-up-my-valuable-time look on his dial.
Brady was not a superior to push, nor did he look ripe for turning on this. So I’d have to push him, up to a point. But not so far that I’d rile him.
‘With respect, sir,’ I said. ‘We know this investigation better than anyone else, and this lead is definitely worth pursuing. But if we leave it up to some nameless person over at the Centre to assess its value, without giving Mr Bolton a briefing first, it’s sure to end up in the too-hard basket. So I urge you, sir. Please talk to Mr Bolton.’
Brady dropped his eyes to the desk in front of him, took a deep breath, and shook his head. And I realised then that he’d never push for access to Proctor’s dirt. The reason? When it came to Pandora’s Box, those files were the real deal. If we trawled through them, we might or might not turn up a rumour file, or anything else Lomax had worked on, but we’d definitely find information on plenty of other government activities, and some of them were sure to be highly illegal. When that happened, we’d be duty-bound to investigate the lot. A government groupie like Brady could never allow that to happen.
Under normal circumstances, this realisation might have prompted me to concede defeat and slip away quietly. But Brady had been at me since the start of this investigation, and now I saw his refusal to talk to Bolton as him washing his hands of Lansdowne. Just who did he think he was protecting? A government in its death throes? What was the point? Surely, saving the prime minister’s life trumped any other consideration? And before I knew it, I was firing more questions — ones that I knew would push Brady too far.
‘Mr Brady, what if Lou Feeney’s in power by this time next week?’ I said, giving voice to a prospect he dreaded. ‘And what if his people get their hands on Proctor’s files? Before Mr Redding can destroy them? They might find something in those files that could have saved Mr Lansdowne. I guess the ultimate question is this: When people ask you if you did everything possible to save the prime minister, what will you say? Because, with respect sir, this is a reasonable lead, and even if …’
‘I think you’ve had a good hearing, detective,’ said Brady, his whole being bristling now.
He picked up a wad of papers and banged them down so hard on his desk that he bent the edges he was trying to straighten. The meeting was over. He wanted us out. But I wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Sir, they call the stuff that Proctor collected on people his dirt files,’ I said, taking a step towards Brady’s desk. ‘I guess they call them that because of what it would mean to a person if ever their file saw the light of day. And they say Proctor had dirt on most people in public life. Both friends and enemies. Is it possible he had a file on you, sir? And could that be the reason you won’t act on this?’
Brady turned red with anger and spat out the word ‘You!’ He rose in his seat, but slumped back into it just as quickly. Then he looked at McHenry as
if he expected him to jump on me, but the boss was studying a spot on the carpet just in front of his feet.
‘How dare you, detective,’ said Brady, when he was finally able to speak. ‘No wonder we’re three steps behind this bitch, with you on the job. Inspector, I want Detective Glass out of my office and out of this building as soon as possible. And maybe you could start organising his future. A couple of years on court duty might be a good start.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said McHenry, looking up from his spot. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
And with that, the boss slipped a hand into my armpit and marched me from the room.
‘That really achieved a lot,’ he said. ‘What you need, son, is some country air to clear the shit from your brain. So, instead of Smeaton, why don’t you go out to Lake George and meet the psych? Then, with any luck, when she’s done with Hanley, she might have a bit of time left over for you.’
So that was it. I’d failed to gain access to Proctor’s dirt files, and I’d stirred up the commissioner again into the bargain. And for all my stuff-ups and mis-statements, I’d been sentenced to an afternoon in the country. It was ‘punishment lite’ for the hero from the House of Death, and I accepted it without further argument. To kick up another stink would have been self-destructive in the extreme. It was best for me to keep my head down and do the job I’d been given. That way, I might limit my stint in the courts. I did regret the way I’d carried on with Brady, but more for the emotion of it than the arguments I’d put.
I followed McHenry back to the room. He had a brief conversation with Marginson, after which she got on the phone and cleared my ‘assignment’ with the Centre. Then I called transport to organise a vehicle, but the out-of-towners had snaffled every car and cycle at City Station, and all they could offer me was an old trail bike they’d just serviced for Search and Rescue. I went out to the transport hutch and looked the bike over before starting it up and letting it blow a bit of smoke. It went okay, so I sorted out a leather jacket and jodhpurs, and found myself a helmet. I got onto the machine, adjusted the mirrors, tested the radio, and rode it out of the yard.
