When the sun comes through my window the next morning, I’m grateful that it’s Saturday and I had the foresight to put a glass of water next to my bed. I do a stocktake. The ceiling is horizontal, and I am alone. Eric is still missing, but I might have a lead, and on Monday morning I’ll be responsible for all hell breaking loose. I close my eyes. I really hope I’ve got the last one right.
I sit up, check in with the ceiling again and set about the Saturday routine. I need more meds and bananas and, despite my commitment to a work uniform, I still need to visit the drycleaner every month. There is only so much airing a suit jacket will take before the armpits turn whiffy.
I stuff my jackets into a shopping bag, stuff more shopping bags into my handbag, locate my prescription, and shut my apartment door behind me. My neighbour is waiting at the lift, wearing team colours again, and he lifts a hand in greeting.
‘Saturday chores, hey?’ He nods at my shopping bags.
‘Best to get them over and done with. You?’
‘No, I’m in the surgery today.’
‘You’ll miss the game.’
‘I’m recording it.’
We both nod our appreciation of the role of technology in fitting away games into our busy lives and I prepare to scuttle out of the lift.
‘Oh, one thing …’
I stop halfway across the lobby.
‘Did you see someone coming down the stairwell after the game the other night? I heard the door close on our floor and thought it was you coming up, but I didn’t see anyone.’
I shake my head. ‘No, no-one came down.’
‘I mustn’t have shut it properly. Never mind. Enjoy the game.’
I do a circuit of the shops on the other side of the railway station. Drycleaner, pharmacy, supermarket, and back to the pharmacy. I buy the Saturday paper because I fancy the idea of an old-fashioned sprawl on the couch surrounded by newsprint and coffee. I even buy a doughnut to go with it. As I walk home, I mentally pick through the housing inquiry evidence, looking for holes, for flaws in the logic. It all hangs together, but truth is, I’m terrified. It’s one thing to ping people for petty theft and another entirely to accuse someone of criminal misconduct. If this is what Eric wanted, he could have all of it.
It’s been two weeks since I got back from Weymouth and there hasn’t been much time to think about Eric’s near miss with the Mercedes. I’ve made some half-hearted online searches of the big drug boss who Jason said was driving the car. His name, Graham Griffiths, calls up a string of news articles dating back twenty years. Drugs, firearms, money laundering, alleged police corruption. Sometimes the connection isn’t apparent, sometimes he is named. The articles come with photos of bulky men in jeans and short sleeves, wearing bulletproof vests and hip holsters, their faces blurred or cropped out of shot. The most recent article has a montage of boat ramps, desolate white beaches, abandoned shacks tucked behind sand dunes, and rows of plastic bags watched over by AFP officers.
I click on a video of a television news report. The camera pans along a line of thin, tired-looking men in handcuffs and then cuts to the long-faced police commissioner, his expression more disappointed than triumphant. And then there’s footage of the big man himself. Although, it turns out, Graham Griffiths is not that big, he’s quite short if you compare him to the prison transport vehicle in the background. And lean. He could be a jockey, or a cyclist just returned from the Tour de France. He’s handcuffed, being led into the court, and is staring down the lens of the camera. It’s a bold stare. He knows what’s about to happen in the court room. With the benefit of hindsight, so do I. Judging by the expression on his face, the forthcoming stint inside didn’t seem to bother him too much.
I freeze the video as Griffiths blinks, capturing him in an unflattering, eyes half closed, head half turned pose. It has to be him. The architect of my team leader’s murder, if not necessarily the one who did the deed. His history, at least according to the world wide web, suggests that he’s had plenty of opportunity to engineer a convenient wrongful conviction from time to time, and the motive to keep it under wraps. He’d be well aware of how to manipulate forensic evidence, especially pathology results, given his criminal specialty. And he’d be well connected, I’m guessing – well enough that at least one person who knew about Eric’s inquiry would have thought to tip him off. There’d be a whole range of people who could do it. Police officers, lab technicians, ministerial staffers. Our inquiries aren’t secret. These days, we even announce our annual programme and post it on our website.
I close my laptop on the alliterative drug trafficker and pick up the paper instead. There isn’t much I can do with Jason’s revelation. It’s not like I can visit the guy in prison and ask him if he killed Eric.
By Monday morning, my self-doubt has ticked up another notch or five and I am actually shaking. I do a stocktake – horizon stable, Eric still missing and a person’s career about to be destroyed.
When I get to the office, the staff are gathering for a briefing ahead of Neil’s doorstop. I squeeze into the boardroom where the TV screen has been lowered and muted. It shows journalists and camera crew mingling in front of the sandstone box that is our state’s Parliament House. The news ribbon says that an announcement from the Commissioner for Public Inquiries is imminent. Bigfoot places herself in front of the screen, clutching a single piece of paper.
When we finally notice that she’s there and stop talking, she reads directly from the press release that I helped draft on Friday. The missing insulation wasn’t just an oversight, or a one-off. It was widespread fraud, occurring across multiple housing construction projects from the metropolitan area to the South West. Bigfoot tells us that the fraud was identified through the diligent work of our office’s Housing Portfolio team. She looks up, frowns, tells us well done, and unmutes the television. A voiceover floods the room, but it’s not our press release that the newsroom has run with. The police commissioner is ahead of the game.
A senior public servant has been arrested and computers seized by the fraud squad following an investigation by the Commissioner for Public Inquiries, says the news reader. The camera cuts to the head office of the Department of Housing. Assistant Director for Homelessness Strategies, Dr Duncan Wolf, is led away from government offices by WA Police following a Public Interest Disclosure from an anonymous whistleblower.
Belinda grins at me. I shake my head to warn her not to say anything and glance around the room. Bigfoot didn’t mention that our diligent work had been helped along by a phone call from a disgruntled public servant who was fed up with being told to turn a blind eye.
The investigation found that Wolf may have been complicit in the award and falsification of approvals in relation to the construction of public housing. It is alleged that Wolf ignored recommendations from an independent tender panel and awarded more than five million dollars in roofing insulation contracts to a business associate.
Neil appears on the screen and we all cheer.
‘Public Interest Disclosures are a vital part of the public sector integrity framework,’ he says, making what I do sound as exciting as Duncan’s fingernails. ‘We take whistleblowers very seriously.’
The camera pans back to a reporter holding a microphone. The commissioner found that Wolf directed Department of Housing project managers to approve completed projects, even though the roofing insulation had not been installed. The commissioner has uncovered payments made by the contractor to a bank account controlled by Wolf. It is alleged that the payments were made in exchange for Wolf’s involvement in awarding the contract and fraudulently approving contract invoices.
We can see Neil behind the reporter. His hands are shoved in his pockets, motionless. I can see the smallest upward turn of his mouth, then he glances at the camera, moistens his lips and straightens his back. Belinda sniggers.
The camera cuts again, to a well-dressed elderly couple. I recognise the red lanterns hanging behind them. Of course. Today is Monday, Chinese day in the Riverside café.
‘As aged pensioners and with electricity costs the way they are, we rely on good insulation and good household management to heat and cool our home,’ says the President of the Residents’ Association. ‘I close the windows and the blinds in the heat of the day, but our home is still hotter than our neighbours. Our air-conditioning bills are horrendous. Now we know why.’
‘Geoff and Elaine Andrews want the government held to account,’ says the reporter outside Parliament House.
‘Our elected representatives should make sure public servants do the right thing,’ declares Geoff. ‘And if they don’t, they should put their hands in their own pockets and pay our electricity bills themselves.’ Elaine nods in agreement beside him.
‘Good luck with that,’ says James. ‘I can’t see the Honourable Simon Tallent sending Western Power a cheque on their behalf.’
‘Speak of the devil.’
The Minister for Housing is standing on the top steps of Parliament House, the sky clear behind him. He wears a serious face that says he is disappointed but confident that all can be made well. His white shirt is crisp behind a royal blue tie.
‘I know I share the feelings of all West Australians when I say that I am appalled. We expect our public servants to act with the utmost propriety in their custodianship of public resources. It is unthinkable that a senior executive would pocket money meant to house the neediest members of the community.’ A small frown appears between the minister’s eyes, and he swallows.
‘Oh, spare me,’ I hear one of my colleagues say. ‘Give the man an Oscar.’
‘I had no knowledge of any wrongdoing before I was alerted to the misconduct by the Commissioner for Public Inquiries,’ the minister states, glancing down at a sheet of paper. I’m guessing this part of his statement was prepared by legal counsel. ‘I have ordered an immediate investigation into all outsourcing in my portfolio and will not hesitate to bring criminal charges against any public servant found to be misappropriating public funds.’
‘And so, the witch-hunt begins,’ says James. ‘He’ll use this as an excuse to get rid of anyone who doesn’t wear the right team’s colours, and no-one will stop him.’
James is right. Simon Tallent’s public approval ratings are up despite having a senior member of his department charged with fraud. They’re not high enough that the premier will be worried about a leadership challenge – although it’s obvious that will come at some point – but the government is on a clear upward swing since Tallent abolished the three strikes rule.
A journalist begins to ask a question. ‘Is there a culture of—’
But Tallent turns on his heel and marches back into the building.
Someone switches off the television and the screen rolls up to its resting place against the ceiling. James declares a lunchtime break for burgers and beers, and we troop back to the pod to collect our wallets. ‘So it wasn’t just one dodgy project manager acting alone,’ he says, ‘it was happening all over the place.’
‘And with the guiding hand of Dr Duncan Wolf PSM.’ Belinda shakes her head in disgust.
‘I wonder if he’ll be stripped of that medal?’
Bigfoot stops us before Belinda can answer.
‘Frances, can I see you in my office?’
‘We were just going out for a celebratory lunch,’ protests Belinda. Bigfoot’s mouth sets in a line, and Belinda adds, ‘Do you want to come with us?’
When Bigfoot’s face fails to show any sign of responding, James offers to get mine and bring it back.
‘Not the beer,’ Catherine says and turns on her heel.
I follow down the corridor to her office, scrolling through a list of potential misdemeanours that I might have committed in the last week. We’re not withdrawing to her office for a congratulatory chat, that’s clear. No well done and clinking of glasses or have you thought about your next career move. My director doesn’t have a minibar. I suspect that if she ever got the top job and the corner office, she’d put Neil’s minibar on the asset disposals list. I remember the RBT station on the highway and wonder if there was also a sneaky traffic camera that I’d missed. The infringement notice would come to the office because I was driving a fleet vehicle. No-one I know has ever committed a traffic offence in a company car. I wonder if the penalty is instant dismissal or some lesser punishment.
Catherine reaches her office and holds open the door to usher me inside. On her desk is a single sheet of paper with rows and rows of tiny numbers and letters. Two rows have been highlighted. I can’t read them, but I can read the heading at the top of the page. State Forensic Laboratory Database – Access Log.