9

THE LUNCHTIME CROWD had mostly cleared out of the Manuka café by the time I arrived for a bite with Stevo, my political mate. He turned up five minutes after I did, and stood in the doorway, surveying the place with worried eyes. Then he spotted me, smiled, and marched down to my table. Stevo had put on weight since I’d last seen him. His third chin wobbled like jelly as we shook hands.

We both ordered the salmon pasta and a coffee, and once the waitress had gone I got straight down to business. I told him I wanted to hear everything he knew about Proctor. He checked the neighbouring tables to ensure that we were out of earshot, then leaned in close and gave me the drum.

He said Proctor’s parents had both been senior office-holders in the party, and their Point Piper home had long been the unofficial meeting place for party heavyweights visiting Sydney. As Stevo put it, Alan Proctor had learned how to play the backroom while sitting in his lounge room.

‘And he was a good student,’ said Stevo. ‘He impressed important people. Sure, he had a handicap or two. I mean, his sexuality’s still an issue with some. And there’s his weight. And his looks. But he was the director of the state branch at twenty-eight. And national director at thirty-four. Not bad going for a fat, ugly poof, eh?’

‘So how long’s he been with the prime minister?’

‘He joined the PMO straight after Lansdowne moved into The Lodge, so about three years now. But those two’ve been tight since they were kids. Both Kings boys, you know. So another win for the old school tie.’

‘And what’s he do for Lansdowne, exactly?’

‘He manages the numbers and keeps everyone in line. Usually by gentle persuasion, but sometimes by threatening them a bit. And he’s got dirt on everyone — knows where the bodies are buried. That sort of thing. So it’s ironic to see that that little shit Rolfe is trying to bury him now.’

Stevo left the comment hanging there, his eyes full of subtle pressure, clearly hoping I’d say something, anything, about Proctor’s status in our investigation. But I just stared back at him. Suddenly the waitress loomed over us with plates of food, dissolving the moment.

‘I see the government’s rising in the polls,’ I said, twirling some pasta around my fork. ‘They’re calling it “The Wright Factor”. Is it really that big?’

‘Ohh, no doubt about it,’ said Stevo, shoving a forkful into his mouth. ‘And if you guys collar someone before the tenth, that’ll give us another boost. We’ll be calling that one “The Relief Factor”.’

‘You make a good poll result sound like a motive for murder.’

That brought a mirthless chuckle from Stevo.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said. ‘But murder as a way to influence public opinion? I think it’s over-rated. I just hope our numbers from a few weeks ago were the genuine rock-bottom. I mean, I’d hate to see a dead cat bounce in our polling this close to Election Day.’

‘A dead cat bounce? What sort of bounce is that?’

‘Picture a cat, dropped from a fifty-storey building. It hits the pavement and bounces off it. It’s a small upward movement, but you know the cat’s always going to hit the pavement again. And when it does, that second impact always seems much worse than the first. More final somehow. That’s your dead cat bounce. They use the term on the stockmarket for a share that looks like it’s bottomed out, and is on the way back up. But then it goes into reverse again and falls even further than before. In politics, it’s when you think the polls are as bad as they can get, and your numbers are on the mend, but then they fall again, worse than ever. In other words, it’s when things go from terrible to truly catastrophic.’

Pleading a heavy schedule on behalf of their boss, Alan Proctor’s people had asked Brady for the interview to be held at Proctor’s home. The commissioner had agreed.

Proctor’s place was easy to spot when we turned into his street in Forrest. A dozen media vehicles were parked either side of his driveway, and a crowd of journos and cameramen were loitering on his nature strip. When they spotted us, there was a scramble for cameras and microphones, and we became their total focus as we swung into Proctor’s driveway.

The cameras were in close as my finger pushed the button on the intercom, even recording me announcing myself to the woman who answered. And as we waited for Proctor’s massive iron gates to swing open, the reporters shouted their questions.

‘Is Alan Proctor a suspect in the Wright murder case?’ asked one, tapping Smeaton’s window.

‘When do you expect an arrest?’ asked another.

‘Have the police looked at Alan Proctor’s files yet?’ asked a more canny operator.

We ignored them all, and when the gates were fully opened, I drove down the crushed-granite drive, past a big dry fountain and line after line of empty flowerbeds.

Proctor was waiting for us at his front door. I’d seen lots of photos of him, but this was the first time I’d laid eyes on the complete package. He was short and balding, and his tracksuit was a perfect fit for his perfectly pear-shaped body. He shook hands limply and led us down a corridor hung with portraits of people from a much sterner age. The corridor opened out onto a large lounge room at the back of the house where six chesterfields were set around a huge open fire.

A bloke sitting close to the flames looked us over as we entered the room, then went back to the wad of papers on his lap. His pinstriped suit, steel-grey hair, and severe look told us everything we needed to know about him. Proctor motioned for us to sit, and then introduced the seated bloke as Phillip Bailey QC. Bailey made no move to shake our hands, and as we were already seated, we simply nodded at him. There was no offer of refreshments from our host, either, and certainly no social chatter to break the ice — just the stock question from Proctor.

‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘how can I help you?’

‘First up, Mr Proctor,’ said Smeaton, hitting ‘record’ on his machine, ‘I must inform you that you’re a person of interest in our investigation into the murder of Susan Wright. Therefore, I must warn you that you’re not obliged to answer our questions. But if you do, anything you say may be used in a court of law against you.’

‘Alan Proctor? A person of interest?’ said Bailey, barely controlling a snigger. ‘Are you serious, detective?’

‘This is a very serious matter, Mr Bailey,’ I said, my tone appropriately grave. ‘Mr Proctor was seen arguing with Mrs Wright at her party on Sunday night. It’s also been suggested that she took property belonging to him when she left that party.’

Bailey considered my words for a moment, then gave his client the advice I’d been expecting from him.

‘It’s entirely up to you, Alan,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I strongly advise you not to go ahead with this.’

I’d prepared an argument to counter his advice. And it was compelling.

‘Then I must warn you, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ‘that if you decline to answer our questions, you’ll automatically become the prime suspect in our investigation.’

Proctor turned to Bailey. Bailey merely repeated his advice.

‘It’s up to you, Alan,’ he said.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Proctor, seemingly resigned. ‘Ask your questions, detective, and we’ll see how we go.’

It was a predictable response, and no doubt part of the script they’d rehearsed. Proctor was apparently ignoring Bailey’s advice, but he still had the lawyer there to run interference for him. It meant they were going to co-operate, to a degree — at least enough to avoid an accusation of stonewalling. Given these circumstances, our challenge was to push Proctor more than we would in a normal interview, but not so far that we gave Bailey an excuse to shut us down.

‘So, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ‘what can you tell me about your argument with Mrs Wright on the night she disappeared?’

‘To call our little disagreement an argument, or a fight, as some would have it, is a massive overstatement,’ said Proctor, flicking his hand at me dismissively. ‘Essentially, any planned event during an election campaign is subject to change, and I wanted changes to her environment launch. She wasn’t happy with what I proposed, and the upset that others witnessed was due to that fact.’

‘If it was such a minor matter, why was there so much heat in it?’

‘There wasn’t. Heat, as you put it, detective, is in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure you wouldn’t have found it too hot. As for what others think they saw, people have fertile imaginations, and they often see things that aren’t there.’

‘When you were talking to Mrs Wright in the corridor that night, some people heard her say, “That’s not going to happen”, or something to that effect. What did you say to provoke that response?’

‘I truly can’t remember, detective. Maybe I told her that her party was running out of booze.’

He chuckled and I smiled politely, though I was tempted to give him a verbal backhander for what I saw as an attempt to throw me off my game.

‘After your “disagreement”, you and Mrs Wright went into her office,’ I said. ‘And then you came out and asked one of your assistants to fetch you a file. What was in that file?’

Proctor turned to Bailey, and the lawyer removed his glasses, nailed me with his steely eyes, and hit me with the line that he’d been brought over to deliver.

‘The file you’re referring to contained documents,’ he said, as if handing down a judgement from on high. ‘Those documents are classified “Cabinet-in-Confidence”. Given that that’s the case, my client is duty bound not to reveal their contents.’

‘But, Mr Proctor,’ I said, ignoring the lawyer, ‘during the search for Mrs Wright, you told our people that the file merely contained “organisational detail” for the campaign.’

‘That’s right. The file contained campaign documents prepared for cabinet’s consideration and approval,’ said Proctor. ‘Therefore they had Cabinet-in-Confidence status.’

‘But did the documents contain proposed government policy? Or did they contain party policy for release during the campaign? Or were they merely full of “organisational detail”, as you claimed a few days ago?’

‘Detective Glass,’ said Bailey, ‘your question goes to the nature of the documents, and I advise Mr Proctor not to answer it.’

This was more than I could take. It was time to give this pair a touch-up.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll put that question aside, and I’ll arrange for a justice of the Federal Court to consider it. Maybe then we’ll get something more from you about these documents.’

Proctor frowned at Bailey. This wasn’t the script they’d workshopped. Arguing such a case in open court would be a public-relations disaster, especially at the tail end of an election campaign heading for the wire.

‘That sounds suspiciously like a threat to me, detective,’ said Bailey, sterner than ever. ‘Is that your intention here? To threaten my client?’

His question and tone implied a much bigger threat, of course.

‘I’m not here to threaten anyone,’ I said.

‘What more do you need to know, then?’ said Proctor, his patience clearly exhausted. ‘The file contained campaign documents that I’d prepared for cabinet’s consideration. The documents related to certain matters pertaining to the environment. Is that enough for you now?’

‘Were these documents central to the discussion you had with Mrs Wright in her office that night?’

‘We did talk about them, yes. In the corridor, and in her office. But I can’t say more than that.’

‘We’ve established that Susan Wright had your file with her when she left the party. Did she have your permission to take it?’

‘No, she did not.’

‘Why’d you let her then?’ said Smeaton.

‘I didn’t,’ said Proctor, giving vent to his anger now. ‘I used her ensuite, and when I came out, she’d gone.’

So that was how Wright did it. Proctor had answered a call of nature, and she took the opportunity to do a runner.

‘So we’re talking about a secure file here,’ I said. ‘One of the many you keep in your office. How’d you feel about losing that one?’

‘Truthfully?’ said Proctor. ‘Well, it’s as I’ve said, the file, in and of itself, isn’t important. But losing it has caused me to re-think the way I secure my office. After all, the material I hold in there could determine who governs Australia in a little over a week.’

‘I’m sure that’s right,’ I said. ‘So, finally, and most importantly, what do you think influenced Susan Wright to run off with your file?’

Proctor pondered the question without looking at his lawyer. When he finally responded, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.

‘I have no idea what caused her to act in the way she did,’ he said. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘You left the party soon after she did,’ said Smeaton. ‘Where’d you go?’

‘As you’d already know from CCTV,’ said Proctor, ‘I went straight to my car in the executive carpark and drove home.’

‘Not to Mrs Wright’s apartment?’ said Smeaton. ‘You didn’t go over and try to retrieve your property?’

‘I considered confronting her, but then I thought that, in the cold light of day, she’d see her error and return what she’d taken. And if she didn’t, I planned to involve the prime minister.’

‘I’m told you were in Perth on Tuesday and Wednesday. I trust you’d have no trouble getting someone to vouch for that fact?’

‘There’s thousands of people who can do that. Now, is that it? I’ve got a plane to catch.’

There were no farewells from Bailey as we left the lounge room, and Proctor walked us to the front door without another word. On the way back to the station, I resolved to have a lot more up my sleeve the next time we saw Proctor. And it would be in an interview room, preferably minus his high-priced attack dog.

I was mulling this over when McHenry called. He said Simon Rolfe was stranded somewhere north of Mount Isa and wouldn’t be back in Canberra till late the next day. His interview had been re-scheduled to Saturday evening. And Wright’s receptionist, Helen Stannage, had called. She’d supplied something we needed — the contact details for a bloke who might know where to find the only surviving Hanley.