The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  Every now and then, Labor’s spin-doctors muddy the waters with publicity shots of the Premier and photogenic Aborigines. And when the dysfunction in the dirt-poor communities attracts too much heat, the Premier calls another enquiry. A group of white bureaucrats is herded into a room to solve the ‘black problem’. Black public servants are cosmetic spokes in the wheels, except for the Premier’s Senior Indigenous Adviser, Lesley Tagem. At least, that’s what Lesley likes to think.

  Lesley’s grey curls resemble a tea-cosy and her body a teapot. During meetings she perches her tiny arms on her belly and delights her colleagues with slang and gibberish. Sometimes, she’ll turn her head to the right and pout her lips, for dramatic effect. She also has the rare quality of being completely without scruples.

  The former checkout operator had been a member of the Caboolture branch of the ALP for twenty years, which was no easy feat in the former National Party stronghold. Lesley attended every single branch meeting and threw herself into election campaigns with gusto. When the Labor Party swept into power after decades in the political wilderness, Lesley was not about to let the Premier forget that she was among the party faithful, whose blood and sweat had secured his victory. So she rang him and demanded her purple heart.

  At first, the Premier was furious that she had inveigled his personal telephone number from his staff. In fact, he thought that she was one of those crazy fogies who wrote him letters warning of an impending UFO attack. But one of the strengths of his political life had been the ability to divine skills hidden behind the veneer of first impressions. While hearing her tirade about life in the trenches, the Premier realised that he was speaking to a woman whose ethical flexibility matched his own. How he loathed briefing notes that spoke of Australia’s international human rights obligations and rah, rah, rah. Once the dust settled on electoral victory, the Premier’s only priority was to secure the next. Lesley understood that.

  So he offered her a job with the fancy title of ‘Senior Indigenous Adviser’, and a pokey desk with a view of the tea room. Lesley’s expertise was within the realm of ‘community consultation’. Aboriginal people were usually defined by what they lacked – houses, infrastructure, services, long life-spans. But they had an abundance of meetings; community cabinets to plan youth centres that would exist only on paper, round tables to talk about partnerships that would be anything but, and, after the advent of native title, an endless series of meetings whose purpose no one knew. This was Lesley’s world. Her rule of thumb was that if you wanted to have a yarn with blackfellas, you had to fill them up with good tucker first.

  ‘Lesley, how are you?’

  Ralph Parkes, the Premier’s Chief of Staff, is sitting at her desk. She’s angry that he’s invaded her territory, but remains cool.

  ‘Good thanks, bub.’

  As she sizes him up, Lesley figures that the lad doesn’t have much going for him. He’s too tall, gangly, and she’s heard on good authority that he has the morals of a bandicoot.

  ‘The Premier can’t come to the meeting.’

  Lesley hides her disappointment behind her matronly smile.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s got a press conference with the Police Commissioner. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Justice Brosnan was murdered last night.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible.’

  ‘I thought you would have heard it on the radio this morning.’

  She figures it’s best not to tell him that they don’t play the morning news in the casino. She pats him on the back and heads for the conference room.

  ‘Lesley, how are you, darlin’?’

  ‘Dick, bub. What happened to you?’ she says, peering into his swollen face.

  Dick offers Lesley a charming smile. ‘I had a gym accident. I was working out with the personal trainer last night and I dropped one of the weights.’

  Parkes stands at the doorway. ‘What gym do you belong to?’ he says. ‘I’ll make a mental note never to train there.’

  ‘Actually, my trainer comes to my house. I have some weights in the garage.’

  Dick’s lie isn’t melding with reality, but Parkes doesn’t care. ‘The Premier has passed on his apologies,’ he says.

  Dick’s instantly relieved. He’s embarrassed by his face; it makes him look like just another violent blackfella. But Dick Payne is an important man whose time is precious. ‘What did you say?’

  Parkes ignores him and spreads out some papers on the table. ‘The Premier has asked me to make sure that everything is ready to go for the launch of the Aboriginal Employment Initiative.’

  ‘Look,’ Dick interrupts, ‘I gave up my valuable time to be here. I’d like to know why the Premier saw fit to cancel.’

  ‘As I just explained to Lesley, the Premier is giving a press conference with the Police Commissioner.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  Ralph looks like he’s just been winded. ‘Bruce Brosnan was murdered last night. Haven’t you heard? The press is going crazy.’

  Dick is surprised, if not elated. Fuck with Dick Payne and you fuck with the gods. He grins at Parkes. ‘Let’s start then.’

  Parkes is confused but presses on. ‘The launch will be held next Friday at ten o’clock. You’ll need to be here by nine-thirty. The Premier will make a brief speech, followed by you.’

  He looks squarely at Dick. ‘Nothing fancy. Only three minutes.’

  ‘Okay, Ralph. I’ll give a short speech, just for you.’

  THREE

  The orange and blue letters of the Brisbane Transit Centre are depressed. Even the scraggly palm fronds are ready to quit. Up the escalator, the food court reeks of stale air and cheap fat. Roma Street is a wasteland, abandoned to backpackers. Signs promising budget tours throughout north Queensland and cheap gift shops have replaced the grand old department stores. But the lawyers and police remain, like cockroaches that could survive nuclear fallout.

  Jason is intrigued by the young man at the traffic lights. Earphones on his head, hands in his pockets. Every so often his head sways to the private rhythms. In the sea of impassive faces, his is the only smile. Don’t these people realise it’s Friday? The contraptions of flesh and bone cry out for the city’s second most precious lubricant – caffeine. The first is alcohol. Bottle shops exist on every corner and barflies drink beer with breakfast.

  The Giant stands on the footpath outside Police Headquarters, savouring what is perhaps his tenth cigarette of the day. Higgins is a far cry from the pup Jason befriended at the Academy, who regularly trained in the gym twice a day. Back then he was so lean that the hollows in his face looked like they had been chiselled by a sculptor.

  He was also the brightest in their class, often helping Jason on their more challenging assignments. At first, Jason was perplexed as to why Higgins chose the police force. Jason had limited options, but Higgins could have pursued any number of careers. But with a father who was a legend in the force, Andrew Higgins’ future seemed pre-ordained.

  By the time they became friends, Higgins Senior was a shell. A drunk who had lost his way, his career a distant memory. For those at Headquarters now, his name is a litmus test of regret. Silence follows any mention; faces say, there but for the grace of God go I.

  Jason looks at his friend. He still has the dachshund eyes, balls of off-white that hover above an ocean of red.

  Higgins extinguishes the cigarette with his shoe, offers a rascally grin.

  ‘What time did you get up?’ Jason says.

  ‘Six. The baby started crying a lot earlier, but it was Lisa’s turn this morning. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘You obviously woke up on the wrong side of the bed – and I couldn’t give a fuck what time that was.’

  As they c
ross Adelaide Street, they notice Steve Jones, a barrister who frequently goes to bat for members of the Police Union. Jones is tall and thin. He rarely speaks outside of Court, smiles even less. Jones enters the Criterion, a favoured watering hole of the legal profession. Higgins inspects his watch, shakes his head.

  ‘Jesus Christ, how do those blokes manage to perform when they start this early in the day?’

  ‘Years of practice,’ Jason says, wryly.

  Bar Merlo screams in neon pink. Coffee clouds float above animated conversation. Loners type furiously on their laptops. Army green hangs against the back panel of the lift, another testament to endless construction in the city.

  The firm’s name, Richardson and Wright, is embossed in sky blue on the glass wall next to the doorway. A young woman sits behind the desk, thin blond hair ironed straight.

  ‘Greg, I’ve got the Registrar on line two.

  ‘Michelle, Larissa Chalmers is on line three.

  ‘Transferring you now.’

  By the time there is a lull in the traffic she appears rattled, but then quickly regains her composure. Higgins offers the smile that many women have found attractive over the years. The receptionist greets it with indifference.

  ‘I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Andrew Higgins and this is Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews. We’re here to see Chris Jennings.’

  Twenty minutes later, Chris Jennings emerges. He’s in his mid thirties, but his gaunt body and pale skin remind Jason of an old undertaker from a cult horror movie. His handshake is brief and superficial. He offers no apology for the delay.

  ‘Emily is ready to see you now.’

  Jennings’ office is small, but these days, any office is a trophy, awarded after pounding a computer like marathon runners pound bitumen. Most professionals are housed in workstations that resemble makeshift settlements. The dividing walls are like pieces of tin, with only the bare necessities of computer and desk inside. Through the window of Jennings’ office they see the massive silver tentacles of the Council Library, above its base of pea green.

  Emily Brosnan is tiny and her hair is cut above her ears, making her look like an elf. She seems nervous and takes a seat close to Jennings.

  ‘Mrs Brosnan, why don’t we just start from the beginning again?’ Higgins smiles and it seems to calm her. ‘When was the last time you spoke to your husband?’

  ‘It would have been about six-thirty,’ she says. ‘I rang him at his chambers.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘I told you last night. I said that I was going out and I’d see him at home.’

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Fine. Normal.’

  ‘What time did you get home last night?’

  She sighs deeply, as though expelling air will expel her fear. ‘It would have been ten o’clock. Yes, that’s right. I left Greenslopes at about nine forty-five and it usually takes me fifteen minutes to get home.’

  ‘What were you doing in Greenslopes?’

  ‘Visiting a relative . . .’ She shifts in her seat and looks at Jennings. ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll need to get the name and contact details for this relative.’

  ‘Why?’ she says.

  Jennings gently touches her shoulder, suggesting a familiarity beyond a professional relationship. He looks across at Higgins. ‘We’ll get that for you.’

  ‘Mrs Brosnan, can you describe for us what happened when you arrived home?’

  ‘It’s a blur now. I walked inside and, obviously, I went to the kitchen. I don’t remember finding Bruce. I can only remember being at the neighbour’s house.’

  Higgins checks his notebook. ‘Right, that’s Rebecca Collis at fifity-nine Wadley Street, MacGregor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Brosnan, we talked about this last night, but I want to raise it again – the blood on your blouse and skirt. Can you tell us how it got there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Higgins waits for her to continue, but she remains silent. ‘Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?’ he says.

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘Mrs Brosnan, I think it’d be useful if we did a walk-through of the house. It might help you to remember.’

  Jason sees the shock in her eyes, or the indecision. He’s seen it before. She doesn’t know whether to believe this is all happening.

  ‘When would that be?’ she says, finally.

  ‘They’ll be preoccupied with the crime scene for a few days. Let’s aim for Tuesday morning.

  ‘There’s a question that I have to ask you. It’s standard in these situations. Did Bruce leave a will?’

  ‘He did. I drafted it myself.’ Jennings’ voice is confident, authoritative.

  ‘Beneficiaries?’

  ‘Only Emily and Isabella.’

  Higgins turns to Emily. ‘Isabella’s your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, Detective Higgins.’

  ‘Does she live at home?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Jason recognises them – the eyes of a lioness, defending her cub. ‘Well, your husband drove a late-model Mercedes Benz and I understand that you have a BMW. Who owns the old Pajero in the garage?’

  ‘She’s gone away for a few weeks . . . left the car with us.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with your daughter recently, Mrs Brosnan?’

  ‘I plan to visit her this morning.’

  Voice smells of defensiveness. ‘Why not last night?’

  ‘I wanted to break the news to her in person.’

  ‘Where is she, Mrs Brosnan?’

  ‘Detectives, this is very stressful for my client,’ Jennings says, standing up. ‘I suggest that we continue this discussion on Tuesday morning.’

  The morning sun has ripened into unforgiving heat. As they cross the street, Jason watches barristers stride into the Supreme Court, followed by their instructing solicitors and clerks.

  ‘Let’s find out more about this Isabella Brosnan,’ Higgins says.

  Jason nods in agreement. ‘Why isn’t she here, supporting her mother?’

  ‘I was asking myself the same question. I’ll start making enquiries.’

  ‘Alright. I’m going to Brosnan’s office,’ Jason says.

  ‘You’d better. If I hear that you’re at the pub with Jonesy . . .’

  Jason offers a cynical smile, but he’s too late. Higgins already has his back to him.

  The brass and green panels of Santos are a disaster from one of the old Copperart stores. As he saunters past the herd of motorbikes on the corner of Turbot Street, Jason ponders what became of the man in the Copperart advertisement, whose seemingly permanent smile could very well have been made from tin. On the other side of the street, two barristers alternately laugh and inhale. Jason is certain he’s been cross-examined by both of them, but can’t remember when.

  The Harry Gibbs Building is a colourless box. The huge blocks at the entrance remind Jason of a castle, overtaken by the kingdoms of Santos, Telstra and Hitachi.

  Inside is bathed in neutral colours – black couches, grey carpet, polished timber. The national emblems are hung throughout, along with Aboriginal artifacts. In the corner, a black woman rocks a toddler in a pram. Hard living is stamped on her face. She sits beside a cabinet that showcases vases from Hermannsburg, but apparently hasn’t noticed them. Jason reasons that those who spend hours in a place like this are either poor or lawyers. The rich pay their lawyers to do their waiting for them.

  The Registrar looks like a surfer who doesn’t quite belong in a suit. Rebellious ginger hair is combed back, above skin that’s been baked.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Sergeant Matthews.’

 
‘Steve Burns.’

  Handshake is firm.

  ‘We’ve been expecting you. Would you like to go straight up?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  The Registrar says little as he leads Jason through the offices that house the judges and their staff.

  ‘Did you see Brosnan yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. In the morning, I sat in on the Corrowa judgment. But I left soon after it was delivered.’

  ‘You didn’t see him later in the day?’

  ‘No.’

  They pass a group of women huddled in the corridor. Mascara that had been so carefully applied earlier sits beneath their eyes. The Registrar pauses outside a light blue door.

  ‘His office has stayed locked, just as you asked.’

  He watches Jason put on his gloves, intrigued.

  ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

  Justice Bruce Brosnan’s office is several times the size of Jason’s cubicle at Police Headquarters. Hundreds of law reports, canvases similar to those in the Brosnan home. A small lounge suite and coffee table are at the entrance and a bar fridge is nestled into the corner. At the back of the room is a large black desk. A photograph is turned on its face in the centre.

  Jason walks over and picks it up. The woman in the picture has long dark hair, an attractive smile. She’s at a restaurant or café. Other faces at her table blur into the background.

  ‘Please put that down . . . It was his favourite.’

  Jason turns to see a young woman dressed in a pink suit. Her trembling hands clasp soggy tissues.

  ‘I’m Anne Grey, Justice Brosnan’s Associate.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he says.

  Even though he’s spoken with the bereaved so many times, Jason is still awkward. He takes her arm and leads her to the adjoining office. She offers no resistance. This room is much smaller than Brosnan’s, but like the rest of the building it too feels sterile.

  ‘Sorry, I’m Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews.’

  ‘Hi.’