16

I TOOK A BREAK and drove over to Kingston. The lights were on in Jean’s penthouse, so I parked near the shops and turned off the ignition. But instead of getting out of the car and heading for the hide near her place, I stayed behind the wheel, questioning the wisdom of my part-time, half-baked surveillance effort. Jean had sprung me once, and I’d nearly gone down. Another slip like that and I could fall the full distance. Fatigue was affecting my decision-making, and this extra activity was draining my precious reserves of energy.

On the other hand, I now firmly believed that the killers were keeping their own watch on her. They knew where she walked. If she was right about having been followed on Wednesday night, and if it was them, they knew where she lived, too. The thing was, if one of my surveillance sessions coincided with one of theirs, I could have them taken down in minutes. And given my recent spate of stuff-ups, it would take something of that order to redeem myself with McHenry.

Buoyed by this thought, I got out of the car, scanned the street, and headed for Canberra Avenue. At the service station on the corner, I crossed over and made my way back towards Jean’s block. When I was almost there, I took out my phone, plugged it to my ear, and walked down into her carpark, saying ‘Yep’ a few times as I went — for all the world, a busy man on an important call.

Jean’s car was parked against the back wall, which meant, I hoped, she was in for the night. Then again, she might have walked down to Kennedy Street for another meal. I considered going down there and looking for her, but quickly dismissed the idea.

I retraced my steps up her drive and walked back along the footpath to Canberra Avenue. Once there, I crossed the street to the service station, walked back down Giles, and, when I got level with my hide, scanned the street again before quickly slipping in behind the thicket of native bush. I’d brought a heavy jacket with me this time, so my upper body was warm enough as I stood watching the street, but my feet were soon freezing. After an hour, the lights went out in Jean’s place. I waited ten minutes to see if she was going to bed or if she was heading out. When all remained quiet, I drove over to Manuka, picked up a pizza, and headed back to work.

When I walked into the room, McHenry motioned me over. As I approached him, he scowled and jabbed his finger at a spare seat next his desk. This could mean only one thing: Rolfe’s story was out.

‘Tell me it’s a beat-up,’ he said, swinging his screen around so I could see the offending yarn. ‘Please. Tell me it is. I mean, you wouldn’t be so thick as to divulge anything like this to a journo, would you? Not about the prime minister?’

‘I’m afraid I was,’ I said, scanning the words on the screen, aghast at my own stupidity.

‘How could you?’ he said, a note of despair entering his voice.

‘I don’t know. Rolfe said Wright was in line to be PM. And I told him Lansdowne thought the same way. That was the extent of it. But it was enough for him.’

‘More than enough. And just so you know, I’d fixed it for you be on the Lansdowne interview tomorrow. Well, not any more. Your name’s well and truly off that list now. And you can imagine what Brady wants to do to you, but, typically, he’s left that decision to me. The thing is, Glass, you’ve got good instincts, and I value your counsel, so I generally overlook your blind spots. But, right now, you’re costing me more than you’re bringing in, and I can’t have that. Ya get me?’

His words were a kick in the guts, and my emotions quickly became a dangerous mix of extreme anger at Rolfe and severe embarrassment at my stuff-up. I concentrated on being embarrassed. After all, Brady wanted my head. If McHenry detected anything other than absolute contrition on my part, he’d give it to him, there and then.

‘I understand, sir, and I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Really sorry. It was a monumental mistake, and I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the boot right now. I really wouldn’t.’

‘And then there’s this thing with Jean Acheson,’ he said. ‘This “chance” encounter. I’d ask about it, but I don’t want to hear another lie. So I’m done with you for now. We’ll talk in the morning.’

And with that, he flicked his hand at me and turned back to his machine. The whole room had been tuned into our conversation, but every head was down as I walked back to my desk. I switched on my computer and brought up Rolfe’s blog. I read it, and read it again, just to make sure it was as bad as it seemed. It was worse. Rolfe had taken my slip and used it to reflect on the future leadership of the country. I’d told him about a micro-shift in Lansdowne’s thinking, and he’d turned it into the media talking-point for the next twenty-four hours. No wonder the PM’s people were furious. They’d hate having to deal with a bolt from the blue like this, especially so close to polling day.

Hours later, when I finally collapsed onto a couch in the rec room, my mind whirled endlessly in a spiral of dread and self-loathing. And though I tried every way I knew to calm myself, I tossed and turned for most of the night.

I struggled off the couch just after dawn, collected my toiletries from my locker, and brushed my teeth. Then, as I was shaving, I remembered something Stevo had said about Rolfe. That he wasn’t so much a political journo — more a colour writer with a bitchy turn of phrase. Well, Rolfe had turned out to be a journalistic hard nut, and maybe the disconnect between the Rolfe I’d been expecting to meet and the one who’d turned up had put me off-guard. Whatever the explanation, the guy had picked me like a nose. There was only one thing that could lift me out of a dreadful funk like this, so I went back to my locker, changed into a singlet, shorts, and runners, and headed off for a jog around the lake.

By the time I reached the water, my breathing was in rhythm with my footfalls, and I was feeling much better for the exercise. I leapt up the stairs onto Commonwealth Avenue Bridge, and crossed the lake to the Parliament House side. Then I ran hard — across the grass in front of the National Library, past wrestling dogs on the lawns at Reconciliation Place, and through the sculpture garden, which was deserted as usual. As I crossed Kings Avenue Bridge, the old Tom Jones hit ‘Delilah’ drifted across the water from the carillon on Aspen Island. The tune sounded strange and discordant, but it lightened my mood for a moment. Why, why, why indeed?

Back on the city side of the lake, I jogged up the rise to the National Police Memorial and scanned the names of the hundreds of cops who’d been killed on duty. As always, my eyes came to rest on the same name, the one that always brought me here — Senior Constable Simon Glass, the father I never met. He had been killed when a domestic dispute turned into a siege, a month before I was born. His name, etched in metal, was a constant reminder of the father I’d been denied, and of the unforgiving nature of the job I’d followed him into.

I did some stretches on a granite seat in front of the memorial, and then jogged down the slope to the water’s edge. From there I followed the lake wall past various memorials, in and out of parkland, and back through the now busy streets to City Station. I showered and dressed and headed around to the room, all the time dreading the reception my colleagues would turn on.

Everyone looked up when I walked in. A few of them acknowledged me without speaking, but most of them just registered that I was there and then got back to work. I didn’t blame anyone for this group snub, given the general embarrassment I’d caused. Smeaton would have supported me if he’d been there, but he wasn’t. I cast a nervous glance up at McHenry. He and Marginson were deep in conversation. I assumed they were talking about me.

The best thing I could do was immerse myself in work, so I got a coffee and a few biscuits, then logged onto PROMIS and surveyed the latest developments. Nothing had come of the door-to-door in Proctor’s neighbourhood. And after interviewing everyone who’d been at Wright’s party, we had learned nothing new.

The TV in the corner went to a newsbreak. The thing was on mute, but the caption behind the newsreader said it all: ‘Wright was my pick: PM’. The report started with footage of me at the crime scene. A guy sitting at the desk in front of me nudged a couple of colleagues, and soon everyone in the room was watching the report. It also featured footage of Lansdowne walking with Wright. Then it cut to Simon Rolfe. He was smirking in front of a forest of outstretched microphones.

It made me feel sick to look at the smarmy little bastard, and I was about to walk out of the room when McHenry called my name. I looked over at him, he cocked his finger at me, and I followed him outside to a bench under a leafless tree in the courtyard. He checked that we were alone, and then he leaned in close, his voice a whisper.

‘I was ready to give you the chop last night,’ he said. ‘But this morning, you got a reprieve. You can thank talkback radio for that. Seems everybody thinks Wright would have made a good PM, and they’re patting Lansdowne on the back for saying so. But this doesn’t let you off the hook. Lansdowne’s people might have calmed down, but Brady’s still fuming, and he says to put you on notice. Mess up again in any way, and it’s your job. So be very careful.’

‘I will,’ I said, keeping my voice low and even. ‘I promise you, I will.’

‘I’m sure that’s right. So, to more important things — like the case. You’ve been through everything. Where do you think we’re at?’

The short answer was we were nowhere at all, but I wasn’t about to say that.

‘Well, excluding Proctor, we’ve got four Early Leavers who don’t have an alibi, but there’s not much more than that implicating them. Which raises the question. Why does it have to be an Early Leaver?’

‘I’ve never said it did,’ said McHenry. ‘But someone at that party was involved. Wright left early, and she was either followed by someone who was in on the job, or that person called the perpetrators to let them know she was leaving.’

‘Okay, so let’s go through who we’ve got, then, starting with the Early Leavers. And we obviously rule out Proctor now. So there’s Sorby. He had a motive, if Wright was planning to sack him. But if he did it, I don’t think he’d have been able to hide the fact. He’s just too nervy. Then there’s Staples, the radical greenie who joined the government. But she doesn’t feel like a fit, either. And Penny Lomax? She lied to us, or at least she failed to tell the whole truth, but I don’t think it’s her, either. She’s loyal to Proctor. Too loyal, you’d have to say, so it’s hard to see her hurting him. And other than them, there’s Tom Hanley, mouldering away at Lake George. He’s certainly got good reason to hate the government, but he’s barely functional.’

‘And what about Hanley’s sister, Sylvie? Are we sure she’s dead and buried?’

‘Officially she is, but who knows? She could’ve faked the whole thing and be floating around somewhere. Up to no good. So it’s a long shot, but it warrants a trip to Thailand. Especially with us drawing blanks.’

‘And Acheson? Or Rolfe? Have either of our news gatherers become newsmakers?’

‘No chance. We’ve got nothing connecting Acheson, other than the documents that were sent her way. And Rolfe? I was about to start the write-up, but I can tell you now, he was one of Wright’s biggest fans. Not that that necessarily counts him out, but I wouldn’t be looking at either him or Acheson.’

‘So, is it someone we haven’t seen yet?’

‘Well, there is someone we haven’t talked to yet, and I’m sure he’ll offer some insights when you see him later today.’

‘Yes. And what do you think we’ll get from him?’ said McHenry.

‘Wright’s dead, and Proctor’s disappeared,’ I said. ‘If you really wanted to hurt Lansdowne right now, taking out his right-hand man and his most popular minister would be a good start. Sure, the sympathy vote’s given him a bounce in the polls, but I’m told that won’t last. And the thing is, he must know people who’d wish this on him. Well, we need their names, because the names we’re working with at the moment are getting us nowhere.’

McHenry was silent, focused on his toes. Then he got up, I fell in behind him, and we headed back to the warmth of the room.

A couple of hours later, as I was finishing my summary of the Rolfe interview, McHenry called the room to attention and got immediate silence. By the look of him, he’d just received the news we’d all been dreading.

‘They’ve found Proctor,’ he said. ‘Down by the lake. Near where they dumped Wright. I want all seniors down there immediately, while things are fresh.’