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.

I didn’t get far. Road blocks at either end of Northbourne Avenue had reduced traffic flow in the city to a crawl. If I joined the slow-moving stream of vehicles heading north, I wouldn’t make it to the lake before dark. So I activated the blue light on the back of the bike, jumped the curb, and ambled up the generous median strip that separated the north and south lanes. When I reached the main intersection at Dickson, I took to the shoulder of the road and skirted the traffic till I got to the last roadblock outside the Exhibition Centre. From there the traffic thinned out, and by the time I was on the Federal Highway, I had the bike up to speed and it was rolling along nicely.

I was back on Mack’s Reef Road and heading east towards Lake George when I remembered what McHenry had said about country air — how it could promote clear thinking. You could heighten that effect, I thought, by taking a two-wheeled machine down a winding country road you’d never ridden before. Few things got you thinking clearer than that.

Perhaps if my thinking had been a bit clearer back at the station, if I hadn’t given way to impulse and emotion, I might not have been on that country road. Maybe. But I’d had no choice. As for McHenry, he knew there was bad blood between me and Brady, so he must have anticipated a clash between us. Well, in the end, he’d probably pay more for my little outburst than I would. After all, he’d set up the meeting. And what about this Hanley job? Well, it was just another ‘i’ in the investigation we hadn’t dotted. Another ‘t’ to cross. And from what I’d seen of Hanley, that psych was going to more than earn her money.

The turn-off to Bungendore seemed to come up much faster than I remembered. And when I leaned into the corner for Lake Road, it was like I’d taken it a thousand times before. I even anticipated the road for Hanley’s place, and slowed down well before I got to his gate. Lucky I did. The gate that had been wide open when I’d come out with Smeaton and Bender was now closed, and secured with a padlock and a chain. Maybe Hanley had gone away for a few days. Maybe, but I’d come too far to ride back without checking.

Under the provisions of the State of Emergency, I no longer needed a New South Wales copper with me to enter Hanley’s property. Nor did I need one to escort the psych on to the place. As long as I was on legitimate police business, I could go anywhere, at any time, unchallenged.

I killed the engine and removed my gloves and helmet. I was forty-five minutes early for the psych, so I took out my phone to tell her I was going onto the property, but the phone had no signal. Damn it, I’d forgotten about Bolton’s shutdown. I switched the police radio to a Queanbeyan frequency and listened to a bit of voice traffic. Reassured that I still had some form of communication, I killed the radio, and tried to work out how best to get over the rusty old gate without wrecking my borrowed leathers.

I made it over the gate unscathed, and then walked along the rutted vehicle track towards the cabins. Hanley’s old BMW was still parked under the tree in the clearing. It didn’t mean he was around, but it was a good sign that he might be. I considered going back to the road to wait for the psych, but, as she wasn’t due for forty minutes, I pushed on.

I took the path to Hanley’s place, and when I emerged at the clearing I paused and surveyed the cabins and the ridgeline above them. Then I climbed to Hanley’s cabin. There was no answer when I knocked, so I turned the handle, gave the door a push, and went inside. The place looked much as it had when I first saw it — except that most of the food above the sink was gone, and the backpack in the corner had been secured for travelling. Was he coming or going? I didn’t really care which. The fact that his pack was here meant that he was probably still around somewhere. I sat on the mattress, undid the straps on the pack, and lifted back the flap. The foul smell that whooshed out of it forced me to turn away.

A dull thudding came from somewhere down the hill — just a few raps, like wood hitting wood. I got off the bed and walked quickly to the window. All I could see was the dense canopy of trees below me and the expanse of the dry lake-bed beyond it. The waning light lit the purple hills on the far side of the lake.

I hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to search the pack first or investigate the noise. If it was Hanley down there, I’d be better off searching his stinking belongings before he came back. And if it wasn’t Hanley, there’d be an innocent explanation for what I’d heard. Like a cabin door slamming in the breeze. Or a tree dropping a branch.

I stood for a moment, eyeing the massive eucalypts that struggled for life at the lake’s edge. Then I suddenly recognised the view in front of me, and I was transfixed. I’d seen it frozen on canvas, at Lomax’s Blackall Street unit — a painting of the lake from this same perspective. I recognised the bush in the near distance: the same struggling trees, the line of hills like purple cutouts on the horizon. Joe the jailer had stood at this window and painted the scene below. Only his lake had been full of water, while the one below was bone dry.