The Marmalade Files (25 page)

For nearly two hours, the radio had played a steady symphony of Bruce Paxton the Musical. The ABC had predictably gone wall to wall after the shock of the Paxton resignation, calling in its political hotshots to interview anyone they could get their hands on. The high-rating commercial stations, 2GB and 2UE, had devoted large chunks of their morning line-up to the scandal, too. That great court of public opinion – talkback radio – was in overdrive, with the punters evenly divided on whether Paxton should have walked the plank.

Dunkley had raised the temperature on the scandal during several radio interviews by phone while on the road, telling Neil Mitchell on Melbourne's 3AW that there was ‘potentially more to come'. He'd regretted the comment immediately.

‘What sort of stuff do you still have?' Mitchell had asked, a reasonable question from the broadcaster, but in truth Dunkley didn't know. He could only imagine and hope Ben Gordon had
some dynamite in his kitbag. It had sounded like it on the phone yesterday. But Dunkley didn't know because he'd barely spoken to Ben in weeks. Journalism was a selfish business, but he'd make it up to his friend, his collaborator on this grand tale.

The shimmering haze of Lake George, flanked by a trail of giant wind turbines on its eastern edge, told Dunkley he was a half-hour from Canberra. The trip down the highway had flown, the adrenalin rush from the Paxton resignation acting like a turbo-charge for the small four-cylinder car he was driving. Several times, he had felt like winding down the windows and shouting into the wind ‘I AM FUCKING ALIVE', but the temperature had roared out its warning, and he timidly withdrew.

Now, as a sign said Canberra was just forty kilometres away, he reached for his BlackBerry and hit speed dial for Ben Gordon. It rang loud and clear six or seven times, before a strange voice barked out a gruff ‘Hello'.

‘Ah, who is this?'

‘Senior Constable Waters, Chris Waters. And who might you be?'

Dunkley's mind was racing. He checked to make sure he'd rung Ben's number. Yes, he had. Okay, keep it together.

‘I'm a friend of Ben Gordon's … is everything all right?'

‘You wanna tell me your name?'

‘Harry … er, Harry Dunkley. Is everything all right?'

‘Mr Dunkley, the
Australian
, right? I think it wise we meet, in person. You're in Canberra?'

‘Not yet. I'm about twenty, twenty-five minutes away, depending on traffic.'

‘I'm in Woden, the main police station. You know where we are?'

Dunkley kept his voice calm, despite his rising alarm.

‘Yep, opposite the shopping centre, the newish building. I'll see you hopefully in half an hour.'

Dunkley hung up and wondered what on earth Ben had got himself into.

Even while Bruce Paxton was singing his death hymn, journalists were receiving a short email from the Prime Minister's media office.

The PM's courtyard in the full grip of a Canberra winter was a desolate, grey place; an empty square of concrete where even the sun refused to go. So there was method in George Papadakis's madness, scheduling a presser there. He would keep the press waiting until they couldn't feel their feet and hands, then send the PM out. Twenty minutes in they would want the ordeal to end as much as the nation's leader did.

Martin Toohey and his inner circle of trusted advisers – Papadakis; senior political guru, John Foreman; legal expert, Sarah Franklin; plus his useless media adviser, Dylan Blair – had spent
close to two hours war-gaming for the press conference, pausing only to watch the train wreck that was Bruce Paxton's resignation.

‘So, George, what'll be the first question?' Toohey asked.

‘When are you going to resign?'

‘You think?'

‘PM, I fucking know.'

‘Do we have a good answer for that?'

‘Depends on how you define good.'

‘What about we run through all the bills that have successfully passed through Parliament?' offered Blair.

‘Dylan,' Papadakis said, ‘do us all a favour and go down to Aussies and tell Dom we're going to need lots of coffee.'

‘I'll have a long black,' said Toohey.

The PM turned to the rest of his troops. ‘Seriously, what's the answer? Has he broken any laws?'

‘Don't think so, PM. The AEC has a three-year statute of limitations on election donations – section 315 – and this happened nearly fifteen years ago,' said Franklin, who was delighted to have an answer that offered a veil of legal cover.

‘But there is no statute of limitations on being stupid and, let's face it, corrupt.' Toohey stared out the window. ‘Still, the loss of a Minister does not – and should not – mean the loss of a government. In our system we hold power as long as we hold the confidence of the House. And we have the numbers.'

‘There's still a question mark over that, PM,' Papadakis said. ‘The Coalition's lunar Right is threatening to deny Bailey a pair. If that happens then we're in a much tougher place. You know Scott as well as any of us. Will she hold on that?'

‘Who knows, and it's not today's main problem, although it'll come up in the litany of second-order issues we face.' He had a guilty flashback to their last meeting and regretted, again, his vicious parting words to her.

‘Still, today we are the government. We have lost a Minister, we have to admit fault on that. But we will not cut and run from government just because it's hard. Government is supposed to be hard.

‘And let none of you forget, the Labor Party is the party – the only party – that takes the tough decisions for the national good. We can't let the Tories take the low road to glory, as they always do. We don't shirk the difficult reforms, the ones that Hawke and Keating, and even Gough, made as they tried to craft a better Australia. So … what's my opening line going to be?'

 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming.' Toohey scanned the miserable array of badly dressed journos and wondered why he always said that. As if they wouldn't come to feast on the carcass of his government.

‘As you know, the Defence Minister has offered his resignation and I have reluctantly accepted it. It is a profound disappointment. However, Mr Paxton agrees with me that his behaviour, no matter how long ago it occurred, is not compatible with the standards I demand from my Ministers. I recognise this is a blow for my government. But let me make myself perfectly clear. I intend that this government will go full term.

‘Any questions?'

The Prime Minister was buried in a cacophony as a dozen gallery journalists all yelled at once, hoping to get in the first question, sensing this was a press conference where blood would be spilled.

Toohey picked out the man he knew would get straight to the point, the appalling Jonathan Robbie, the headkicking number two from Channel Nine.

‘Why won't you do the decent thing and resign?'

‘The Minister has done the decent thing and resigned. There is no reason for the government to follow on the basis of a misjudgement Bruce Paxton made long ago, before he was a member of Parliament. While I enjoy the confidence of the Parliament I am the Prime Minister and I intend to get on with doing my job. The decent thing for this country is to give it a decent future and I have always believed that only Labor can deliver that.'

The Prime Minister pointed to another inquisitor.

‘Did Minister Paxton offer to resign from Parliament?'

‘Definitely not.'

‘Should he?' yelled another.

‘The Minister … er, former Minister … faces no charges. He has been convicted in the court of public opinion. He has paid a high price for that. He will continue to support this government from the backbench and work to clear his name. And don't forget he doesn't admit any of these allegations. Michelle?'

The press gallery doyenne asked whether the PM was confident of his stricken Foreign Minister being given a pair by the Coalition.

‘Well, that is a question you should be putting to the Opposition leader. My understanding is that she has committed to that on television this morning. Unfortunately, my experience in dealing with Ms Scott gives me no confidence that I can rely on her word.'

And so it went for thirty agonising minutes. Finally Dylan Blair, holding a now stone-cold long black, yelled, ‘Last question.'

And then Toohey did something none of his staff had war-gamed.

‘Finally, can I take this opportunity to say that from today our relationship with the Greens and the crossbench will be recast. I am ending the formal agreement with the Greens. We will propose Labor bills – it is up to the Greens whether they support them, try to amend them or vote them down. The Greens' new leader can decide if she wants to back a progressive Labor Government or if she wants to hand over the reins of power to the Coalition. That is a decision only she can make.'

With that, the Prime Minister turned on his heel and walked inside as a dozen voices yelled in his wake. Turning into his office, he shut the door and was greeted by a grinning Papadakis.

‘Well, Martin, that was unexpected. Welcome back – I've missed you.'

‘George, my friend, I have had the last cucumber of compromise shoved up my arse. That deal with the Greens was a disaster, as you predicted. We stand or fall now on our own.'

Woden Police Station, all steel and gleaming glass, took minimalist chic to a whole new level. It was just twelve months old and stood on the fringe of the southern suburb, home to one of Canberra's busiest shopping malls and several battalions of public servants. Harry Dunkley wasn't much in the mood for admiring architecture, though, as he pulled up shortly after 11 a.m.

The last half-hour had been a blur, a numbing trek into Canberra along a highway marked by scattered crosses erected for accident victims by families unwilling to give up the ghosts of the past. Dunkley had tried to keep it together as his mind raced like an out-of-control speedway rider, round and round and round.

He'd rung the Sydney news desk, trying to explain to an infuriated online editor why he couldn't file updates on Bruce Paxton's resignation for the
Australian
's web pages.

‘Christ, it ain't rocket science,' the editor had shouted after
telling Dunkley he ‘lacked commitment' to the broadsheet's burgeoning online business.

Dunkley's rejoinder – ‘I have something more urgent to attend to' – apparently meant little.

Chris Waters, a senior constable with fifteen years experience in the Australian Federal Police, had left instructions at the front desk for Dunkley to be ushered through to his office as soon as he arrived. Within a few minutes, he was in an upstairs room being offered a cup of tea.

Harry's heart started to beat faster. Something was clearly wrong. He sensed that Ben wasn't just in trouble; it was worse. Far worse.

Waters seemed to confirm it when he sat down opposite him, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

‘Mr Dunkley, I'm sorry to inform you that Mr Gordon was found, close to 1 a.m., at the southern end of Telopea Park, Kingston, near Wentworth Avenue. He was deceased. And while we don't have the autopsy results, it's pretty clear to us he was bashed and strangled.'

Dunkley was stunned. Ben Gordon, dead? It wasn't possible. ‘How … who found him? Why …'

‘Mr Dunkley, I'm not at liberty to provide too much detail at this stage, given the sensitivity of the … ah … matter. I don't need to tell you that what appears to be another gay-bashing crime will need to be handled with the utmost sensitivity.'

Waters flicked open a manila folder, reading from some notes. ‘I am told that you are the executor of Mr Gordon's estate … I presume you know this?'

It took Harry a while to respond. It all seemed so unreal. ‘Ben doesn't have much family, or at least family he was close to, and I agreed a decade or so back … I never thought it would happen, though …'

‘Well, I can get someone to show you through his apartment after we've signed some papers. The family has been notified of the death, and I believe his mother and sister are on the road to Canberra as we speak. You may prefer to speak with them first?'

‘Not really. To be honest, I've only ever met them briefly.'

Dunkley struggled to think clearly. He prided himself on being able to stay calm in a crisis. But, until now, that had always been a crisis for someone else.

‘Listen, Senior Constable, this is a great shock, but I have to get to work at Parliament House. Can I arrange to meet someone later at Kingston, say 7 p.m.?'

‘That can be arranged, sure.'

Dunkley left his details with Waters and departed in a daze. Ben dead? A gay bashing? Found around 1 a.m.? It didn't make sense. Ben had often told Dunkley that he was too old to be running around chasing the sort of casual anonymous sex sought by those who visited Telopea Park at night.

Something didn't fit. He needed answers and a visit to the Kingston apartment was a priority.

But it would have to wait until later that day. The biggest political yarn in years was going off on the Hill and he needed to get back and reclaim ownership of it. His job was just about all he had left now.

 

Just after 7 p.m., a police car pulled up outside the Argyle Apartments. Streetlights flickered weakly and two constables got out of the vehicle, donning their hats. Harry Dunkley had arrived a few minutes earlier, still numbed by the news of Ben's death, but also determined to get access to Ben's apartment to search for clues.

What had Ben meant the other day when he'd said the Paxton stuff was ‘bigger than you know, maybe much bigger'? And what had he said about Bailey? Had Ben told others? Or had their project been infiltrated? Had their phones been tapped, their computers accessed by prying eyes?

The two constables had the keys to the apartment and followed Dunkley as he led them across a ground-floor courtyard to the entrance.

He was trying to work out a way to access, discreetly, Ben's safe, which he knew was in the spare bedroom. It had to contain a clue to what Ben had discovered.

‘Mind if I take a look in the spare room?'

The constables were nearing the end of a busy shift and as far as they were concerned, Dunkley, as executor of Gordon's estate, could have access to whatever he wanted – as long as they were done and dusted within half an hour.

Dunkley had looked up the code Ben had entrusted to him all those years ago and took little time to punch in the safe's combination, the door opening with a sudden click.

Inside was a stack of documents, some jewellery, a leather pouch tied with a red ribbon and an old fob watch.

Dunkley leafed quickly through the pile of papers until he found a folder marked ‘BP'. He checked to make sure he was still alone, then flicked through its contents.

There were the notes and clippings that Gordon had shown him or spoken to him about during their trek for the truth. But one item was missing, something that was more valuable than all the other contents combined.

Someone had taken the original black-and-white photo which had kicked off this mad chase that had now claimed the life of his friend.

Dunkley vowed, then and there, that he would track the bastards down.