Dead Cat Bounce Read online

  If the prime minister does all this, and the show goes off without a hitch, you never know — a dead Susan Wright might just deliver the electoral bounce his government so badly needs.

  2

  I PAUSED AT the bench I’d shared with McHenry, but the prospect of speaking to the prime minister had brought on such a surge of nerves that I couldn’t sit down. So I walked back through the island of shrubs and down the hill again, with McHenry’s phone pressed to my ear. As I made my way around the patches of mud that pocked the path, I worked to calm myself by imagining how Lansdowne might be feeling. That wasn’t too hard, really. He’d be devastated, of course. He’d lost a close colleague who’d also been one of his best and most popular ministers. And while some commentators had still been giving him a fighting chance in this election, Wright’s death would surely put an end to such talk, and that’d be it for his brief and messy prime ministership.

  Michael Lansdowne had always seemed destined for The Lodge, although his elevation, when it came, had been anything but orderly. After winning the previous election, his predecessor as PM had used his victory speech to reveal that he was dying of prostate cancer. The jubilant party members who’d gathered to celebrate his win had taken a moment to digest his dreadful news. Then they’d surged towards him, there’d been a terrible crush at the front of the stage, and dozens of people had been injured — some seriously.

  When the shell-shocked members of the parliamentary party gathered in Canberra a few days later, they elected Lansdowne as their new leader, and he thus became the new prime minister. The narrowness of his win meant that the early months of the Lansdowne government were marred by in-fighting and a general lack of discipline. Cabinet ministers brawled openly over policy. There were some high-protein leaks. And several junior ministers were forced to resign over a travel scandal. It all added to the picture of a tired and divided party in need of a rest after fourteen years in power. And soon the opinions polls began to reflect the party’s malaise.

  Worse still for Lansdowne, the opposition was a unified force for the first time in years, thanks to its popular new leader, Lou Feeney. And Feeney had not only produced a swag of appealing policies — he also had the Irish gift of the gab, and a wit to go with it.

  And so, behind in the polls, with a quality opponent breathing down his neck, leading a geriatric government, and facing his first election as PM, Lansdowne now had to deal with the death and possible murder of a star minister. I fully expected him to be feeling the pressure.

  There was a scraping sound on the other end of the line. And a loud click. Then the prime minister spoke.

  ‘Good afternoon, Detective Glass,’ he said.

  Like everyone who immersed themselves in the media, I knew the voice well, though I’d only ever heard it in full attack-mode in the House or when he was jousting with the journos. It was weird to have this gentler version of it saying a simple hello to me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister,’ I said, trying to control the nervous tremour in my own voice.

  ‘Detective, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you long,’ said Lansdowne. ‘I’ve convened a special meeting of cabinet this afternoon to discuss this tragedy, and I thought our deliberations might benefit from your assessment of what happened to Susan.’

  Contrary to what I’d expected, the prime minister didn’t sound like a man under pressure at all. In fact, his calming tone and apparent humility eased some of the pressure I was feeling. I flipped through my notebook and gave him and Commissioner Brady a run-down from the crime scene. My last entry simply read: ‘A humane murderer?’ I’d intended keeping that thought to myself, but Lansdowne’s next question milked it from me.

  ‘So who are we looking for here, detective?’ he asked. ‘What sort of person would do this?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister,’ I said, ‘but that’s not something we’ve been able to put much work into yet. We’re still establishing what happened to Mrs Wright. I mean, we haven’t even had the post-mortem. And there’s the physical evidence to be analysed, so it’ll be a while before we have a clear picture …’

  ‘Detective Glass, the commissioner here tells me you’re one of his best, so I know you’ve got some ideas. All I want is your sense of who might have done this to Susan.’

  He wanted my gut feeling, like I’d given McHenry. Well, okay. He could have it. After all, he was the prime minister. I left the cover of the ghost gum where I’d taken refuge, and walked to the edge of the carpark, keeping my distance from the Forensics guys who were still working nearby.

  ‘Well, sir, given what we know, we’re obviously treating Mrs Wright’s death as suspicious,’ I said. ‘But we can’t say yet if it was murder. It might turn out to be manslaughter, involving a greater or lesser degree of culpability. But if it went beyond that, if it was murder, then it doesn’t look like a hate crime. That is, I don’t think Mrs Wright suffered, and she …’

  ‘What do you mean, it wasn’t hateful?’ said the prime minister, a note of anger entering his voice. ‘They murdered her, didn’t they?’

  I waited for Brady to intervene, but he remained silent, so I continued with my point, sounding as consoling as I could.

  ‘With respect, sir, it’s as I said. We don’t know yet if she was murdered. But if she was, then whoever did it didn’t display much emotion in the way they went about it. There’s no obvious trauma to the body, and no indication that she resisted. Death either came as a complete surprise to her, or she was unconscious at the time. And, sir, if this does become a murder investigation, an analysis of how the murderers went about their business will be one of the things that leads us to them. As I said, this doesn’t look like a crime of passion. It was more like an execution. And a relatively humane one, at that.’

  I walked along the edge of the carpark. Brady finally spoke.

  ‘We’ll know a lot more by the end of the day, Prime Minister. Then it’s only a matter of time before we get to the bottom of this, one way or another. And, of course, we’ll be throwing everything at it.’

  ‘I appreciate what you say, Jim,’ said Lansdowne. ‘And I’m certain you’ve got things under control, but how long before you find the people responsible for this? Days? Weeks, heaven forbid?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you, sir,’ said Brady. ‘But I can’t. It’s not something we can ever know. To claim we did would raise unreal expectations, and that would be unfair to you. And to ourselves.’

  The line went silent for a minute or more, and, as I waited, I pictured the two of them at The Lodge, sitting in overstuffed leather chairs, gazing pensively at the floor. We’d eventually get to interview the prime minister as part of the investigation, but his hectic campaign-schedule meant it wouldn’t happen for some days. The thing was, he might have something valuable to offer us right here, right now. That thought prompted an impulse that I found impossible to repress.

  ‘Prime Minister, while you’re on the phone,’ I said, in as neutral a tone as I could muster. ‘No doubt Susan Wright upset a few people with some of the decisions she made. Do any of those people stand out for you in any way?’

  Brady exhaled loudly into the speaker, clearly bristling at this question without notice. But it was Lansdowne who responded, and he sounded sad and reflective.

  ‘Detective, I have no idea why anyone would want to kill Susan,’ he said. ‘What I do know is, she’s dead, and the loss is immeasurable. We’re talking about a woman who would have led this country, had she lived.’

  It was a rote response and of no use to us at all, so I tried again.

  ‘What about anything environmental that’s been before the cabinet in recent times — the policies you were planning to announce in the next week or so? Is there anything there that might have really upset someone who got wind of it?’

  ‘Nothing springs to mind, detective. Now, if that�
�s all …’

  This golden opportunity was turning into a fizzer. Brady growled on the other end of the line. So I took one last shot.

  ‘Just finally, sir, how did Mrs Wright get on with her cabinet colleagues? Especially the ones who might have felt threatened by what they saw as her leadership ambitions?’

  This was a step too far — an interrogator’s question aimed straight at his throat, and I knew I was in the shit the moment the words had left my mouth. Excuses immediately cascaded through my brain. I could say that the prime minister’s call had been unexpected and that I’d been full of adrenalin after an intense and exhausting morning. It was an acceptable excuse, if a bit predictable.

  I could also blame the phone itself. Not being face-to-face with Lansdowne had made me forget who I was talking to; the disembodied nature of the contact had flipped me into detective mode. That was better. I’d blame the phone. There was a moment’s silence, and then Brady hissed my name down the line.

  ‘Glass!’ he said. ‘You watch how you …’

  ‘That’s okay, commissioner,’ said Lansdowne, controlled, but clearly angered. ‘Detective Glass, I find that question both odd and offensive. I was warned that you were tactless. Now I find myself agreeing with that assessment. I just hope for Susan’s sake that your investigative talents far outweigh your obvious social deficiencies.’

  ‘I think we can let Detective Glass go now, Prime Minister,’ said Brady. ‘But, first, let me apologise for his, ahh, his eagerness. I can assure you that he’s very talented, and that he’ll give his all to this investigation.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lansdowne, sounding sceptical. ‘I’ve no doubt that’s right.’

  They hung up without another word, and I pocketed the phone and tried to calm myself — not the easiest thing to do when you’ve just challenged two of the most powerful people around and been rebuked by both of them for your trouble. I took a minute to settle my breathing, and then walked back up the hill, quickening my pace as I went, hoping to catch the tail end of the media conference. But as I emerged from the shrubbery near the bench, I saw McHenry walking down the slope to where his mates from the top floor were waiting for him. The five of them put their heads together, with the boss’s big noggin sticking out above the rest.

  Most of the journos were scurrying off — some to their vehicles, others to a quiet spot where they could file an update over the phone. I looked for Jean Acheson, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Probably doing a Live Cam piece, I thought. Then her feather flicked above the movement of bodies, and there she was, at the rear of the thinning scrum, giving instructions to a young woman who seemed to be writing down every word. She turned, our eyes met, and she nodded and smiled at me again.

  Given that I’d just harassed the prime minister, a media goddess held no fears for me now. And anyway, who’d she think she was kidding? We’d just kicked off a huge investigation, and here she was, suddenly showing an interest in me? It prompted the obvious question: Did she really think I was that cute? I would have loved to have believed it, but that was fool’s thinking. So I forced a smile onto my face and returned her nod, my mind brimming with images of pigs in orbit.

  Channel Four Live Cam

  Wednesday 31 July, 12.45pm

  Good afternoon, Jean Acheson with the Live Cam, and just minutes ago the police confirmed that the body found here by Canberra’s Lake Burley Griffin early this morning is indeed that of missing Environment Minister Susan Wright.

  The police are treating Mrs Wright’s death as suspicious, and if the scale of the search that failed to find her is anything to go by, their investigation into her death will be massive.

  Flowers are piling up along the roadside here as word spreads of the minister’s tragic demise, and opposition leader Lou Feeney says he’ll follow the prime minister’s lead and suspend his campaign for at least twenty-four hours as a joint mark of respect.

  Prime Minister Lansdowne and most of his cabinet will meet in Canberra later today to discuss the security implications of their colleague’s death. This is Jean Acheson. Back with more in a moment.

  3

  DR MARJORIE ROWAN dabbed some gauze at a weeping incision that traversed the top of Susan Wright’s head. She then worked a small, spade-like instrument into the incision and lifted the skin away from Wright’s skull. She paused, examined her progress, and worked at the incision for a bit longer. Satisfied, she downed her tool. Then she took the skin of Wright’s forehead in both hands and slowly peeled back the dead woman’s face to reveal red tissue and skull, and two clouded eyeballs peering from their sockets.

  Rowan picked up a small electric saw from a side table, and, with everyone in the room craning for a view, she hit the switch and gently manoeuvred the machine around the edge of the skull. She put the saw down and dabbed more gauze at the furrows she’d created. Then she used another shiny instrument to separate the section of skull from the head.

  ‘Skullcap removed,’ she said into a microphone overhanging the table. ‘Brain exposed.’

  She picked up a scalpel and cut through the tissue connecting the brain stem to the spinal cord. Then she took the brain in both hands, lifted it out of the skull, and put it into a tray, which she placed onto a set of scales.

  ‘One point four three kilos,’ she said.

  An assistant took the organ away, and Rowan peeled off her surgical gloves and threw them into a bin.

  ‘That’s it for now, Mr McHenry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be over your way as soon as I’ve got something for you.’

  Taking that as our marching orders, McHenry thanked Dr Rowan, then led us from the post-mortem room down the main corridor of the Forensics Centre and out through a pair of sliding doors into the carpark. A huge pack of media was pressed against the security fence that surrounded the building, and they immediately began shouting questions at us — which we ignored.

  McHenry had arrived at the centre with a couple of uniformed guys, but he dispensed with them and headed straight for the car that Smeaton and I had driven over in. I unlocked the vehicle, and McHenry squeezed himself into the front passenger seat. I figured he’d joined us so that he could give me a bollocking for the way I’d dealt with the prime minister. Perhaps I was even in for an official warning.

  I drove slowly through the mass of media people milling around the front gates, and when we’d cleared them, and I had the vehicle up to speed, I braced myself for a whacking. But it didn’t come. In fact, once we’d hit the road, McHenry pushed his seat back as far as it would go, then silently stared out the window. Having been displaced by the boss, Smeaton sat cramped up behind me, his legs folded to his chest, his spidery arms wrapped around his knees. He didn’t say anything during the drive back, either. Watching someone have their innards outed will quieten most people. And maybe that was why the boss wasn’t getting stuck into me. Or maybe Brady hadn’t spoken to him yet. Whatever the cause, I knew it was only a reprieve and that I’d soon cop it for my trouble.

  When he’d led the search for Susan Wright, McHenry had worked from a Major Incident Room at City Station. Thirty of us now sat behind desks in that same room, waiting for our analyst, Ruth Marginson, to set us up on PROMIS — the Police Realtime Online Management Information System. It was a sophisticated program that would collate and cross-reference everything we did, everyone we spoke to, and every bit of evidence we’d collect during this investigation.

  McHenry leaned over Marginson as she tapped away. Occasionally, he asked her for a change or made a suggestion. When they were satisfied with what they saw on the screen, she leaned back in her seat, and he returned to his desk at the front and raised his hand. The room was immediately silent.

  ‘Dr Rowan’ll be here soon,’ he said, looking around the group. ‘So, while we’re waiting, I suggest you all go into PROMIS and see what Ruth’s set up for you there.’

  McHen
ry sat down at his desk and began tapping away, and I fired up the computer in front of me and opened PROMIS. The task force that’d searched for Wright had been through her Canberra residence. There was a write-up documenting that effort, and one for the door-to-door work that had covered Wright’s possible routes home on the night she disappeared.

  There were scanned copies of Wright’s phone records, and those of all her staff, as well as copies of letters she’d received from angry greenies, disgruntled farmers, and fruit loops who were obsessed with her or her portfolio. One of the fatter files documented a search of all her office computers. And there were transcripts of interviews with the lobbyists she dealt with, as well as reports on those of them who’d recently suffered a serious knockback.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said McHenry, rising from his chair. ‘I need a minute now.’

  He moved to the front of his desk and waited till he had everyone’s attention. Then he looked us over again. Now for the pep talk, I thought.

  ‘We’ve got a lot to get through in the next twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘So stay focused, be methodical, and follow correct procedure. Do that, and we’ll crack this case. And remember — everything that happens in this room, stays in this room, until I clear it. Everyone’ll want to know what you’re doing in here, but you don’t say anything to anyone. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ we said in unison, as though we were all police cadets again.

  ‘Right! Assignments are on the board. As for rosters, there won’t be any. We’re on this, twenty-four-seven, until we crack it. Having said that, I want everyone to take a few hours off each day to refresh. Fatigue leads to sloppiness, and that’s one thing I will not tolerate. We’ll be setting up stretcher beds in the rec room. Kip when you need to. And people with families, get home when you can, but keep it brief. And check with Ruth or me before you go. There’s a dozen people from major crime on the way over. That’ll ease the pressure a bit.’