Sucked In (26 page)

There was a pause followed by the muffled crunch of an antacid meeting its match. ‘I also had a call from an old mate in Adelaide, a former assistant secretary of the South Australian branch of the Municipals. He's had a visit from the local rozzers, acting on behalf. They showed him a photo of a watch, said it was found with the aforementioned material remains, and wanted to know if it was Merv's.'

‘And was it?'

‘Not unless he was moonlighting as a
Cleo
centrefold. Quite a flashy piece of tick-tockery apparently.'

‘So it's not Merv,' I said.

‘We live in hope.'

I left Inky to his domestic altercations and rang Peter Thorsen's office. Del was just finishing up for the day. She said Peter was on a call and put me on hold with instructions to ring back if he didn't answer within five minutes. Chopin's concerto for solo telephone kept me riveted for four and a half. Then Thorsen picked up.

‘A wide-ranging, open-ended and time-consuming review,' I said. ‘That should keep you out of mischief for the foreseeable future.'

‘Some you win, mate, some you lose. Some you don't even get to fight.'

‘Too true,' I agreed. ‘But before you fold your tents and steal off into the night, I'm calling to remind you that we had a two-part agreement.'

‘Meaning you still expect me to go into bat for kamikaze Kyriakis.'

‘Is that a problem?'

‘I told you I'd do my best and I will.' He sighed wearily. ‘But the market in central panel votes has gone through the ceiling in the past twenty-four hours. I can't do more than try.'

‘That's all I've ever asked,' I said. ‘Care to put a number on your best possible projection? No names, no pack drill.'

‘Phew,' he exhaled. ‘Hard to say. How long's a piece of string? Four, tops.'

‘Love that Motown sound,' I said.

‘I'll be there.'

‘Standing in the shadows of love?' I warbled as I hung up.

Darkness was falling fast and the strident beep of a reversing fork-lift was coming from the direction of Vinnie Amato's Fresh Fruit and Veg, crates of produce being shunted inside for the night. The rain had dried up while I was in Canberra and long pink-grey mares' tails streaked the skyline above the Green Fingers garden centre like a flock of attenuated galahs.

I dialled Margot's number.

‘Murray,' she said. Her voice was an equal mix of fatigue and anxiety.

‘How're you doing, sweetheart?'

‘I'm okay,' she said.

‘I can't chat,' I said. ‘I'm at the office. But I'll drop round to the house tomorrow night and we can talk face-to-face. Things aren't as bad as you thought, Margot. It wasn't your fault. None of it. Not here, not there. You've got no cause to beat yourself up.'

‘You mean…'

‘Gotta go,' I said. ‘You know what it's like, a politician's lot and all of that. See you soon, eh?'

I hung up, trusting she'd understand my briskness. Then I rang Red and told him to go ahead and eat without me, but leave me some of the spag sauce.

Ayisha rapped on the glass wall. Mike Kyriakis and Helen Wright had arrived. I joined them at the conference table, where they'd pulled up seats and started comparing their lists with ours.

‘Evening all,' I said, assuming the chair position at the head of the table. ‘As you know, Ayisha's been complaining for some time that her job doesn't give her enough opportunities for travel.'

My electorate officer gave a derisory, mocking hoot. ‘My fault is it?'

‘Politics is all about self-sacrifice,' I said.

Ayisha made a jerk-off gesture. The other two were looking mystified, Helen in a round, dimply way, Mike in a solemn, arms-crossed way.

‘He means that he's decided to take a leaf out of your book, Mike,' said Ayisha.

Comprehension began to dawn. Mike looked at Helen, Helen looked at Mike, they both looked at me.

‘That's right,' said Ayisha. ‘This fool is putting his hand up for Coolaroo, too.'

Mike and Helen were looking at me like I'd mislaid my marbles.

‘Bullshit,' said Helen. ‘You can't be serious.'

‘No, he's fair dinkum,' said Ayisha. ‘And before you ask, it's not a mid-life crisis. It's a mid-life epiphany.'

The time had come to put my cards on the table. ‘It's true,' I said.

Mike's disbelief was turning dark. He began gathering up his lists. ‘You'll split the vote,' he said. ‘By myself I had a pretty good chance of drawing blood. With two of us, it'll be a joke. Why are you doing this Murray? You're already sitting pretty. Why cruel my pitch?'

His sense of betrayal was palpable. Helen and Ayisha watched us in breathless silence.

‘Hear me out, Mike,' I said. ‘I think I've found a way to make this a win-win situation, or rather a win-lose-win-draw-lose-win-win situation. And I haven't come to the table empty-handed. I've got some cards up my sleeve.'

Mike looked dubious, but he put down his lists and leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, since I'm here.'

‘You remember on Sunday at Charlie's wake,' I started. ‘That hypothetical scenario that Sivan cooked up, the one where a split opened up in the central panel?'

They leaned forward, all three of them, and I reached for a blank sheet of paper.

‘Just hand me that abacus,' I said.

The President's gavel descended with a brisk, resounding clap and we lowered ourselves onto our red velvet cushions. It was ten-thirty on Wednesday morning and the Legislative Council of the Parliament of Victoria was now officially in session.

Beside and below me on the opposition benches sat my ten fellow Labor members. Facing us from the government benches were twice as many Liberal and National members. Between us was the Clerk's table where Kelly Cusack and I had conferred the previous Friday.

In six hours I was due to meet Sid Gilpin to relieve him of the bankbooks. In the meantime, however, there was work to be done.

Of a sort. In this particular instance, it consisted of listening to my colleague, Judy Mathering, the Manager of Opposition Business in the upper house and strong proponent of well-fitted foundation garments and sensible footwear, move and speak to a motion.

I settled my backside on the upholstery, and watched as Judy turned her stocky frame towards the President's podium, cleared her throat and begged leave to introduce a Condolence Motion on behalf of the people of Victoria to the family of the recently deceased Mr Charles Talbot, MHR.

My gaze moved up to the well-stocked public gallery where Charlie's three daughters were seated with various of his grandchildren, sons-in-law, nieces and nephews. They sat sombrely, as though in chapel. After almost two weeks of formal farewells, this was the last of the official elegies and I sensed that they would be relieved when it was all over.

Margot was there, too, at the other end of the pew, flanked by Charlie's older sister Jeanette and his younger brother Ray. This gesture of solidarity, I hoped, signalled an eventual thaw in overall familial relations.

The President granted leave and Judy began to read her speech. Her theme was Charlie's service as a parliamentarian and his contribution as a minister in the various portfolios he held during Labor's tenure in Canberra. Judy was no spellbinder and her reedy voice carried an unintentionally hectoring undertone, but this was not an occasion for politicking.

For once, members on the government benches made an effort to uphold the dignity of their office. Most refrained from their usual crotch scratching, nose picking and gum chewing. Several lowered their multiple chins reverently.

I, too, bowed my head and consulted my thoughts. They concerned my plan to deal with Gilpin. There was nothing sophisticated about it. Cunning would be wasted on the mercurial Sid. A blunt instrument was called for. Success depended on wielding it effectively.

Judy Mathering's voice was a steady, hypnotic cadence, rising and falling in the echoing space of the chamber.

…the loss of a man whose contribution to public life in
the country, and to the welfare of so many people, sprang
from a deep-seated commitment to the principles of social
justice and…

I lifted my eyes and studied Margot. It was hard to tell at that distance, but she seemed a lot more tranquil this morning. As tranquil as is proper, at least, for a grieving widow on public display.

She'd met me at the door when I arrived at the Diggers Rest house just after nine the previous night. Katie was tucked up in bed and Sarah the Carer was off duty for the evening, living it up at some student soiree. Margot had a glass in her hand and several under her belt, making me glad I'd come in person. She could sound misleadingly sober on the phone when she tried.

‘I'm missing him hard,' she slurred, falling into my reassuring embrace. ‘Charlie, oh Charlie, come back.'

For an hour I sat with her on the couch, recounting most of what I'd learned since our talk in the Fliteplan office.

…which demonstrated his capacity for creative solutions
to the problems of the day…

Not all of it, of course. But enough of the essentials to convince her that she'd been mistaken in assuming that she'd left Merv Cutlett dead on the floor of his Trades Hall office. Both Quinlan and Bishop had credibly attested to Merv's grouchiness when they arrived at the Shack, painting him more like a bear with a sore head than a man on his last legs.

Neither of them knew about her involvement, I assured her. By the time I left, she was prepared to accept that he had indeed accidentally drowned and Charlie had truly done his best to save the old prick's life.

…before going on to play an important role as one of the
architects of Labor's return to power in 1983 and its
subsequent long and eventful period in government…

I lowered my eyes and nodded along with Judy's words. I'd helped her polish them that morning after I clocked on at the Henhouse, so I knew them almost by heart.

Apart from lending Judy a hand, I'd spent the morning sequestered in my cubicle, catching up on neglected paperwork and performing acts of administrative contrition for the Whip, whose calls I'd failed to answer in the five days since Inky Donnelly ambushed me with his copy of the
Herald Sun
and his questions about the Municipals.

In between pushing my pen, I'd spent a fair bit of time on the phone, conferring with Mike Kyriakis and Helen Wright.

Their reaction when I hit them with the news that I intended to enter the Coolaroo Derby was understandable. It had taken some heavy paddling, but eventually Mike had copped my proposition. Our interests, I'd argued, were congruent and with luck and good management we might both get what we wanted. He wanted to make a name for himself as a player. I wanted a reason to stay in politics.

…where his talents could be best used to safeguard and
advance the interests of those who had elected him…

Like working to defend universal health insurance, say. Reconciliation, and a regulated labour market and multiculturalism and a fair suck of the sausage. All the good stuff the Labor Party was supposed to stand for. And like Mike Kyriakis, I really didn't have anything to lose by giving it a shot.

The plan I'd pitched in the electorate office was a leapfrogging preference-swap that called upon every iota of the knowledge I'd accumulated in my thirty-year membership of the ALP. It involved a hitherto-untested combination of the five basic moves in Labor decision making—the stack and whack, the roll and fold, the shift and shaft, the Brereton variation and the whoops-a-daisy.

A volatile brew indeed. But ultimately, it came down to Mike Kyriakis' spadework plus delivery on the pledges I'd exacted from Peter Thorsen and Senator Quinlan. And they were far from certainties. Particularly Quinlan's.

…a minister in a wide range of senior portfolios, all of
them demanding an ability to reconcile widely divergent
pressures…

By the time I got home from Margot's place, Red had hit the hay. I checked the answering machine in the vain hope that Lanie had called, shovelled down some spoonfuls of cold spaghetti sauce, threw myself on the sofa, and thought about my next move.

The police were obviously not slacking off on the identification of the remains. Nor, presumably, had any suspicions aroused by the bullet-shaped hole in the skull been allayed. I'd promised both Margot and Quinlan, each for different reasons, that I'd make sure that Gilpin did not succeed in fanning those suspicions. The mad bastard had given me until Wednesday afternoon to respond to his threats. Problem was, I didn't have the foggiest inkling of what to do.

I lay there for a long time, my feet on the armrest, staring between my socks, before I came up with an idea.

It was a feeble idea, but it was the only one I had.

I took down the archive box and found the issue of the
FUME News
with the picnic photo. Then I went into the loo and collected the pile of newspaper supplements off the floor. I worked my way through the fashion pages until I found what I wanted. I tore out the page, put it in a large manila envelope with the newspaper and drove to the service station in Heidelberg Road. I spent half an hour and five dollars using the photocopier in the convenience store section, then went home to bed.

…in the hope that this gesture will offer some consolation
to his family and those many others who share the loss of
his passing…

Judy was nearing the end of her speech. I again tilted my head upwards, this time looking directly at Charlie's daughters.

Having a politician for a parent can be hard on a child. For most of their early lives, Charlie was an absentee father. Shirley raised the kids while Dad, like a shearer, followed the work. And now that he was gone, all that remained was his reputation. If I could, I'd see they weren't robbed of that too.