The Fourth Season (6 page)

Eight

Laila Fanshaw, the committed environmentalist, had tried to break into a computer in the environment minister's office, stolen sensitive material from the department, and then been murdered on her way to see a Greens senator.

When the senator's former staffer, Frances Hollinger, held out her hand to shake mine, greeting me with a shy smile, I realised I'd been unconsciously running her together in my mind with Gail. It was because of Gail that Frances had agreed to talk to me. But I couldn't recall Gail shaking my hand once, in all the years I'd known her, and she was anything but shy.

I'd had a bit to do with parliamentary staffers over the years. Without exception, they had condescended to me. Frances met me at a coffee shop in Civic—her choice—and I noticed that she looked around carefully before walking to a corner table at the back.

She began our conversation by telling me she'd found another job. She spoke in a breathy voice, in which relief was mixed with guilt. Why should she continue working for a man whose environmental politics were faultless, but who shouted and threw books at her?

Why indeed?

When I asked Frances about the call from CSIRO, she said, ‘It's still a mystery to me why Brian got so upset.'

She explained that he'd been in a meeting, so she'd taken the ­caller's name. When, later that day, she'd passed on the message, Brian had hit the roof.

‘He should have apologised. Like straight away.'

Nobody else had been in the office. The other two staff members, Bronwyn and Jeremy, had been at another meeting. I asked about Bronwyn and learnt that it was indeed her car Laila had borrowed the night she'd been killed.

Frances frowned. ‘All this is for your partner, right? You're worried about him?'

I said I was. ‘He's taken Laila's death very hard.'

Frances's expression indicated that she was well aware Ivan was a suspect. No doubt she and Gail had discussed this at some length. But she gave me the impression that she saw me as a woman in trouble, whom she would help out if she could.

She explained that the senate had been sitting on the night of Laila's murder, so they'd all been working late. She'd arranged to message Brian when Laila arrived. Brian hadn't left the House all evening. He'd grabbed something to eat in the office while he looked over a briefing paper, then gone back into the session. Frances and Jeremy had stayed in the office, apart from Jeremy's two trips to the cafe for sandwiches, which they'd eaten at their desks. The police had turned up at around eleven.

I probed gently as to how Frances had got on with DS Brideson, but Frances didn't want to talk about that.

Then I asked about Jeremy.

‘He's fine.'

‘And Bronwyn?'

Frances thought for a moment before replying. ‘Bronwyn's stand-offish. I don't mean that in a bad way necessarily. But she never used to socialise. You know, in all the time we worked together, I don't think I ever heard her laugh. In a job like that, you're with people all the time. You've got to be able to get on with them. And it's not that Bronwyn
couldn't
, it's more that she wouldn't make the effort.'

‘When did Bronwyn leave the office?'

‘A few weeks ago.'

‘Were she and Laila close friends?'

‘I would have said Bronwyn didn't have close friends in Canberra. I was surprised when I found out about the car.'

‘So she never mentioned Laila to you?'

Frances made a face. I waited.

‘Laila liked dropping in,' she said.

‘She hung around the office?'

‘I wouldn't put it quite like that.'

‘But that Monday night Laila had made an appointment. Do you think it was because she had something special to talk to the senator about?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Frances. ‘I couldn't speculate about that.'

‘I'd like to talk to Bronwyn if I could.'

Frances made a face as if to say that I could try, but she couldn't predict what kind of reception I'd get. ‘I've still got her number in my phone, I think.'

After I'd copied the number, I went back to Frances's opinion of Laila, probing to find out what she'd really thought.

‘I didn't know her well. I just chatted to her a few times when she came in to see Brian, that's all.'

Frances blushed the way very fair-skinned people did, all down her neck and upper arms. Clearly the reminder of Laila ‘dropping in' made Frances uncomfortable.

She burst out, ‘It isn't true that Brian was having an affair! That's a vicious rumour! Brian's devoted to his family. He's got two boys. I've met them. They're great. And Imogen, his wife, she's lovely. I'm angry with him for what he did to me, but he wasn't having an affair with Laila. It just isn't in him.'

The lady doth protest too much, I said to myself. I would have said that it wasn't in Ivan to have an affair either, but I knew now that, if Laila hadn't rejected him, he wouldn't have given me and Katya a moment's thought.

I sat in my car and tried ringing Bronwyn, but she wasn't answering. Back home, I printed out a staff list for CSIRO's marine science division.

A couple of names were familiar to me from recent press reports, and I underlined them. I got out the list of documents Don Fletcher had sent me and downloaded several maps of Bass Strait. A coral reef had recently been discovered in the proposed marine park, as well as large, species-rich sponge gardens. These partly overlapped an area which Geoscience Australia, the commonwealth department responsible for surveying and releasing areas for oil exploration, had also marked as promising. While parts of Bass Strait had been mined for oil since the 1960s, others were relatively unexplored. I noted that several of the papers on Don's list were authored, or co-authored, by Dr Gregory Tarrant, a senior marine scientist at CSIRO.

I tried Bronwyn again, this time with more luck. When I introduced myself, she sounded as though she'd had enough of answering questions, but did not refuse to meet me.

. . .

There was so much building going on in Kingston. Whichever way you turned your head, you couldn't miss the new apartments. Bronwyn lived in a small semi-detached, one of a pocket of old houses being squeezed out by huge blocks of flats. It would not be cheap to rent, but I could see how someone working long hours in Parliament House would find such a house convenient. Whether or not they'd have time to stroll up and down the lake shore was another matter.

The house wasn't all that far from where Laila's body, and Bronwyn's car, had been found. A long walk, but by car no distance at all. The interior had been renovated, though not recently. It reminded me of the flat where my old boss, Rae Evans, used to live—anonymous and clean, the cleanliness not necessarily an indication of its tenant's habits, but rather of the small amount of time she actually spent there.

Bronwyn was angry. Anger shot out in a palpable electric current all around her. Her spiky hair vibrated with it. Her large, freckled hands made fists. Her long nose and chin were pointed, penetrating, both seeking and needing a target close to hand.

She spoke in a high, staccato voice, filled with frustration at not being allowed to go home to Melbourne. She'd told the police everything she knew. It was ridiculous that they were making her hang around in Canberra.

Bronwyn confirmed that she'd left Senator Fitzpatrick's office three and a half weeks ago. Her contract had run out and she had decided not to renew it. She knew Laila, but they weren't close friends. This came out like an accusation. She hadn't had anything personally to do with Laila's conservation group. Working for a senator was sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and more important, in her opinion, than waving banners and prostrating yourself in front of trees.

I hadn't seen any evidence that Laila's group was into this activity, but I wasn't about to contradict what Bronwyn said. Bronwyn couldn't deny knowing Laila, of course, since it was her car Laila had been driving, but she refused to be drawn on where they'd met, or how long they'd known each other.

‘That Monday I picked Laila up in Civic and she dropped me here.'

Laila had been on her own, dressed in jeans and a white shirt and carrying a small back pack. She had not been wearing her red waistcoat. Bronwyn was adamant on that point. When I asked her if she knew whether the waistcoat had been a gift from an admirer, Bronwyn coloured deeply, and said she had no idea. They hadn't fixed a time for her to bring the car back. Bronwyn had known that she was on her way to see Fitzpatrick, but not why. Laila hadn't volunteered the information, and she hadn't asked.

The police had arrived shortly after ten. ‘There was a knock on the door. I thought it was Laila. They—I couldn't believe what they were telling me. I
didn't
believe it. I asked to see her. Of course they wouldn't let me. They wouldn't even tell me what had happened, just asked me all sorts of questions about my bloody
car
.'

We talked about that night for a few more minutes, then I asked Bronwyn if she could recall what she'd been doing on the evening of Thursday 12 October last year.

She stared at me as though wondering where on earth the question was coming from, then said curtly, ‘Parliament was sitting. I would have been at work.'

Parliament had been in recess that week. I'd looked it up.

‘What time did you finish?'

‘It was months ago. How am I supposed to remember something like that?'

When I asked about working for Senator Fitzpatrick, Bronwyn gave me the impression that she didn't think much of Frances, or Jeremy Pascal.

She looked disgusted as she said, ‘I've had enough of Canberra. It's a bloody awful place.'

. . .

My strongest impression, as I drove across the lake, was that, for a determined liar, Bronwyn was both unskilled and lacking in experience. But why lie about a parliamentary sitting night, when that fact was easily checked?

Had Bronwyn picked Laila up outside the internet cafe? A darkish car, Rowan had said. Bronwyn drove a dark green Nissan. One thing
was
clear: Bronwyn was grieving, and her grief was mixed with a large dose of anger, not only towards anyone who happened to come within range, but towards Laila as well.

I called by Tim's, but nobody was home. I walked around the back, noting the dry grass and wilting carrot tops, wondering who'd planted the vegetables. Clearly Tim, left on his own, wasn't doing anything to keep them alive. I wondered how long Phoebe would stay at her cousin's, if she'd ever come back there to live. Footsteps on a concrete path sounded very loud. I hadn't noticed how close the houses were on either side. From the laundry, I could have reached my arm out to the fence.

I'd noticed the open laundry window last time. It was funny how people who were particular about locking doors left a broken catch on a laundry window and didn't bother to repair it.

I opened the window wide. There wasn't any fly screen. The space was just big enough for me to squeeze through.

Where to start looking? There was a damp smell in the laundry, mixed with dried soap flakes. I was sure that Tim had taken something from Laila's room, but I had no idea whether or not this something was still in the house. He might have destroyed it. That might have been his reason for taking it in the first place. I recalled Tim's censorious expression when he'd told me no one was allowed into the room, and the way he'd wanted to get rid of me.

A cupboard under the laundry sink held rags, soap powder and liquid detergent, two small metal bowls, an old dog lead—all except the powder and detergent covered with a fine coating of dust. I knelt down on all fours and peered into the corners.

I brushed off my knees and looked at the faint marks they'd left on the floor, then wiped my foot across them, hearing footsteps from next door, followed by laughter, a man and a woman.

A taller cupboard contained a vacuum cleaner, a broom, smaller brush and squeegee mop, and more dust. The washing machine was about a third full of Tim's clothes, plus a couple of bath towels. I wondered what had happened to Laila's dirty clothes, if there'd been any left in the laundry. Perhaps that was what Tim had taken—a bra or pair of underpants. I pictured Ivan with such trophies and felt ashamed again, and angry.

From where I stood, in the doorway of Laila's room, everything looked the same as it had the last time I'd seen it. A bed base minus its mattress was still under the window, the desk empty except for a mug holding a few pens. I walked across and opened the door of the clothes cupboard. There was very little inside; three pairs of jeans and a couple of track suits; one pair of denim shorts, a few shirts, two dresses.

In a drawer I found T-shirts, plain cotton underwear and socks, one woollen jumper and a windcheater with a hood. Laila had got by with very little. She hadn't needed to dress up in order to attract attention. That made the waistcoat an anomaly. I wondered again who had given it to her.

At one end of the hanging space was a full length wetsuit, relatively new, and, on the floor of the cupboard underneath the clothes, two pairs of sandals, running shoes, flippers, a snorkel and face mask. The scuba tank was still in its corner.

As far as I could tell, the book shelves were the same. I doubted if Tim would have used Laila's room as a hiding place, but I felt around in the narrow spaces under and behind the cupboard, and behind and underneath the book shelf too.

I checked my watch. It would soon be time for meeting Katya. I could walk out the front door and close it behind me. That would be safer than the laundry window, if the neighbours happened to be watching. I heard music, and every now and then voices and more laughter. I found my feet taking me back to the laundry.

The tall cupboard had a shelf at the top. At the front were a selection of torches, a packet of candles, light bulbs and an iron. At the back were two medium-sized cardboard boxes. I fetched a chair from the kitchen, took down the boxes and opened the first one on the floor. It contained Christmas decorations and lights for putting on a tree. The second box looked to be full of towels. I lifted the top layer and under it was a file labelled 2004.