Eden (8 page)

Seven

I'm working on the theory that it was Dollimore looking for your notes on
CleanNet
, and that he lost his temper when he couldn't find them.

Set down in an email to Ivan, my theory looked pathetic, but I hadn't realised how far Ivan and I had moved apart until I received his reply. It was composed entirely of statistics on break and enters in the part of Moscow where his sister lived.

Staring at the numbers, I wondered if there'd always been this arrogance in Ivan, the assumption that what he was into at any given moment was more important than anything I happened to have taken on.

I found his file on Malcolm Hewitt, now one of Bryant's senior staffers. About a year ago, a leak from the office had been traced to Hewitt's computer. It could have earnt him the sack. Ivan had found a hole in the email system and plugged it. He'd counselled the senator that an outsider could easily have got in. There was no proof that Hewitt was guilty of leaking, or even that he'd been careless. I hoped he would still be feeling grateful.

I rang the office, and, when I was put through to Hewitt, said I'd like to meet. He agreed, but didn't sound too happy about it.

Driving up to Parliament House, I recalled a scene I hadn't thought about for years. One November, Bogong moths, migrating to the Snowy Mountains in high winds, and blown off course in tens of ­millions, were attracted by the light on the hill. Inside the House, they'd caused havoc with the air-conditioning; outside made a velvet cloak, wingtip to wingtip for warmth. One early morning, I'd watched masses of them lift together, light as air, surprising as an unheralded eclipse.

Hewitt led the way to
Ozzies
, a small coffee shop on the ground floor. He took a long time ordering coffee and waiting at the counter for it, deliberately delaying our conversation. A minute into it, his phone would ring and he'd say he had to go.

‘The censorship legislation seems to be settling in okay,' I said, when he joined me at the table.

‘I've learnt how to deal with scaremongers,' Hewitt replied. ‘How's Ivan getting on?'

‘Up to his collar bones in relatives. It's good for him. He's paid them no attention for the past twenty years.'

‘When's he due back?'

‘Couple of weeks.'

Hewitt smiled and said, ‘You know, you and Ivan don't need to worry about the new legislation. If anything, it ought to increase your business.'

I smiled back. If Hewitt thought I wanted to talk to him about my concerns, so much the better. I let him explain, and arranged my features into an expression of grateful interest.

When I felt that he was running out of steam, I asked if he knew why Senator Bryant had cancelled his appointment with Eden Carmichael.

‘Something came up,' Hewitt said mildly.

‘Do you know what Carmichael wanted?'

‘No.'

‘Did he try to make another time?'

‘Not that I'm aware of.' Hewitt stared at me. ‘You're not trying to suggest it had any bearing on his death?'

I waited.

‘The old drunk died of a heart attack,' Hewitt said impatiently. ‘Everyone knows that.'

I asked when the list of recommended filters was due to be announced.

‘How do you know about that?'

‘The grapevine. When will it be made public?'

‘Soon.'

‘There's been a delay?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Is there a problem with the list?'

‘Why would there be a problem?'

‘Put it this way—some information has come to light that's caused the Minister to reconsider his recommendations.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Hewitt said, glancing at his watch.

‘When was the last time Carmichael met Senator Bryant?'

‘Last November, so far as I'm aware.'

‘At
CleanNet
's presentation?'

‘Yes. You know, Carmichael wasn't as laissez-faire about the Internet as some people claim. He didn't believe such a valuable resource should be hijacked by peddlers of violence and muck.'

‘Is that what he told the minister?'

‘He supported the bill. Actually, he didn't believe that it went far enough.'

‘He made a name for himself in the Assembly by opposing ­censorship.'

‘People can change.'

‘Who proposed the
CleanNet
presentation?'

‘The company's director, I believe.'

‘Did anybody else contact the minister about it?'

‘Not through me.'

‘Through other staff?'

‘I don't know. I'd have to check,' Hewitt said, in a tone of voice that made me sure he wouldn't.

His phone rang, pretty much on cue. I knew I wouldn't get any more out of him that day.

. . .

I phoned Chris Laskaris from the carpark.

‘I think there might be a problem with that list of filters you told me about.'

‘Really?' Chris asked, curious but wary.

‘I've just been talking to one of Bryant's staffers. When I asked him about it, he got twitchy and clammed up.'

Chris said, ‘I told you what I think of filters. Technically speaking.'

‘I think the problem might be more political than technical.'

‘Sorry. Look, I have to go. I've got another call. And Sandra, when you came to see me, maybe I said too much. Ed Carmichael and I were never mates or anything, but he wasn't a bad bloke. I wouldn't want you to get the idea that I was down on him.'

I'd been going to ask Chris what he thought of Laura Scott, but that question could wait for another time.

. . .

I drove home and rang Brook from my office phone, got directions to his beach house, and asked if he could arrange for me to see the police photographs and video of the room where Carmichael had died. Brook clicked his tongue. I was annoying him by reminding him of work when he was on holiday. Then he said, ‘Okay, cobra,' in the voice of a middle-aged policeman who has seen it all.

I typed up my conversation with Hewitt, made a note that Chris Laskaris had seemed reluctant to talk, and was back-pedalling for some reason, then wrote a report for Lucy. I told her I suspected that the recommended filters list was being delayed, and I'd do my best to find out why. Carmichael's change of attitude in relation to censorship, and his support for
CleanNet
, were definitely worth pursuing. I looked over this sentence once I'd written it, convinced that it was true. I wasn't just saying it to impress Lucy, and rebut her criticism that I was spending too much time on him.

Deciding I'd done enough for one day, I sat outside and savoured the deep hours of evening solitude, the long warm night, brushing at mosquitos as I pictured myself slipping sideways into people's lives.

The day's hot blue clarity was gone, but the city's grid lines, superimposed on the night, seemed to promise a truth that, if I only reached my hand out, would be within my grasp. I stared until my eyes watered, leaving the skin around them raw.

I was giving Fred his dinner when an idea came to me.

. . .

Hesitating in the narrow hallway of Carmichael's flat, I asked myself how his mind had been working in the days before he died. If he'd wanted to hide something, where would he have hidden it? Should I have enquired about a safe in his office, or a safe-deposit box at his local bank, before forcing the catch on his bathroom window, squeezing myself through it?

Two could play the break and enter game. The fact that I was there, that I'd acted on an impulse, had already done wonders for my morale, but I had no intention of inflicting any damage. I just wanted to see for myself where the man had lived, and, if possible, find out who owned the apartment now.

I flexed my hands in latex gloves and looked around the living room. My first impression was that it was completely empty of personality. I was reminded of the room at Margot's club, its feeling of a shrine.

One shelf held novels and biographies that looked like Christmas and birthday presents. I picked up a few and leafed through them. There was a New English Bible, with Dollimore's signature on the flyleaf. I wondered if Carmichael had kept it to please his friend, or if he'd been in the habit of reading it himself.

A TV stood in one corner, a cheap CD player in another. A couch was covered with ugly synthetic material. Another shelf held a few video and audio tapes, and no more than a dozen CDs. I scanned the titles, tempted for a moment to take them. I could have fitted the lot into my backpack. The tapes might hold anything, despite their labels. There was no computer.

The fridge was empty and switched off. There was no food in the kitchen cupboard next to it, but others contained a small variety of pots and frying pans, and a plain white dinner set. Should I have been surprised by how few possessions Carmichael had accumulated? The bedroom contained a single bed with a new mattress, and a built-in wardrobe where three dark suits and one of pale-grey linen hung against shirts and a couple of tweed jackets, a parka and a raincoat. Shoes were lined up underneath them. I pulled underclothes and handkerchiefs out of a chest of drawers. No women's shoes or dresses, nothing that could remotely have been called lingerie.

Carmichael's suits and jackets were good quality, well made, anonymous. There were no notes in any of his pockets. I checked to see if any of the drawers had false backs or bottoms, suspecting that Ken Dollimore had been there before me, doing what I was doing now. Not climbing through the bathroom window—that was too undignified. But his ageing masculine righteousness seemed to fill the space left by his friend's death. Maybe he'd hired someone to break in to my house. I wouldn't be surprised to find that his theology left room for accomplices.

The bed base was fitted with two large drawers. I pulled the first one out, unfolding sheets and pillowcases, dark-blue towels. In the second, I found several manilla folders underneath a blanket, and in the top one was a copy of Carmichael's will.

Eight

Margot Lancaster looked tired. She was wearing the same trouser suit I'd seen her in the first time. Her hair was neat. Her make-up looked freshly applied. The morning sun was hard on the lines around her eyes, but she smiled with pleasure at having got her wig back from the police.

I watched her stroking the wig with long polished nails, the weight, shiny slipperiness of thick natural hair, falling from hand to hand. It smelt freshly washed, but there was another smell, faint but recognisable underneath the shampoo.

‘It is lovely,' I said.

Margot glanced at me as though she'd forgotten I was there. She bit her lip, leaving a smudge of red lipstick on her front tooth.

‘Can I hold it for a moment?' I asked, reaching out.

Margot snatched the wig away from me. I drew back my hand, aware that she would have liked to slap it. We stared at each other for a long, considering moment. It struck me that fatigue was claiming all but her outer edges, and these edges were black against the walls.

‘What did you think of the funeral?' I asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did it do Eden Carmichael justice?'

‘Justice,' Margot repeated harshly. ‘I had as much right to be there as anyone.'

I agreed that she had, then asked her what she thought of the interview Gail had rung me to say she'd recorded.

‘It was okay,' Margot said carefully.

‘Someone broke into my house and trashed my office,' I told her. ‘They'd already tried hacking into my computer.'

‘What were they looking for?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Maybe it was the challenge. Like breaking into NASA?'

‘Only harder,' I said. We laughed. Margot relaxed with a sigh, and replaced her wig carefully in its box.

‘Here's the funny thing,' I said. ‘I've got my sights on Ken Dollimore.'

Margot's face showed no more than a neutral kind of interest.

‘Are you sure he never came to see you?'

‘Quite sure.'

I took advantage of her lighter mood to ask, ‘Did you and Eden Carmichael have sex?'

‘Many times.'

‘Here in Canberra?'

‘In Sydney.'

‘Where did you work in Sydney?'

‘It's closed now.'

‘Where was it?'

‘The building's been pulled down.'

‘How did it start, you and Eden?'

‘He turned up one day. I got him.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Nineteen.' Margot's expression hardened, and she stared at me as though I needed to be taught a lesson. ‘Men get obsessed,' she explained. ‘Men in their fifties. With young women. Girls.'

‘Carmichael was obsessed with you?'

Margot narrowed her eyes and looked superior. ‘You can make a lot of money out of them. Canberra's perfect for it. Middle-aged men away from home on a regular basis. Three months here, three months gone. They think that going home will cure them.'

‘But Carmichael was a local politician.'

‘Oh, Ed wasn't like them. He was young when we met. And it wasn't me he asked to see either. It was a blonde with big tits.'

‘But he noticed you.'

‘We had a line-up.'

‘You don't do line-ups here?'

‘I always hated them. Most clients accept what they're given.'

‘And the ones who don't?'

‘Go somewhere else.'

‘How did it start?'

‘The blonde left. He ended up with me.'

‘He wanted to dress up in women's clothes?'

‘Oh, no. That came later. Ed was very shy. I tried to remember what I'd been told about—when they were having trouble.' Margot laughed again, recalling her mistakes with something like affection. ‘I was hopeless.'

‘But he asked for you again.'

‘I nearly refused. If I'd been older and surer of myself, I would have.'

‘The dress and the wig were—'

Margot interrupted. Again, I felt that she was teaching me a lesson. ‘Like most men, Ed didn't want to talk about his problem,' she said briskly. ‘He just wanted me to fix it. I was wearing a blue dress one night. It was summer, hot and humid. I tried to put it on him for a joke. Ed had had a few drinks, and so had I by then. I pulled the dress over his head. I couldn't do the buttons up, and the stitching at the waistband broke. He looked ridiculous. We laughed, and couldn't stop. It was so hot, and—' Margot paused, her expression far away.

‘What happened then?'

‘Ed had his own dress made. Like mine, only bigger.'

‘How long did it go on?'

‘Until I left.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘I'd had enough. I'd saved quite a bit of money.'

‘Did you tell him you were leaving?'

‘What could I have said?'

‘Goodbye comes to mind.'

‘I gave Ed a lot, more than any client has a right to ask for.'

‘How did you feel when he turned up here?'

‘I've been in the business for over thirty years. I've learnt to handle more difficult situations than ex-clients landing on my doorstep.'

‘You gave him to Denise.'

‘I thought Denise would suit him.'

‘You were right?'

‘I was.'

‘No sign of the old problem?'

‘None.'

‘But he wanted you.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Isn't it obvious?'

‘You're married, aren't you?'

‘Was,' I said.

‘You're living with a man?'

‘He's in Moscow.'

‘Has he left you?'

‘He's visiting his sister.'

‘Then forgive me if I state the obvious. You're sentimental about men. I'm not. Ed didn't patronise my club because he wanted to have sex with me. All that was a long time ago. He used my services because I knew his tastes and could accommodate them. He wanted a girl, someone half my age. That's why men go to brothels. They can fuck their middle-aged wives at home.'

Carmichael didn't have a middle-aged wife at home. He didn't have a wife of any age. But it could have happened the way Margot told it.

The hardest thing, it occurred to me, watching Margot watching me, was not to reconstruct a crime scene, or discover why a senator had cancelled an appointment with a local politician. The hardest thing was to return desire to a dead man.

Two girls walked in, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing softly, stopping when they saw us.

They looked like twins at first glance, but I noticed that one was a few years older than the other. Both had short, pale hair and clear, creamy European skin. They wore identical make-up, bright red lips and fingernails, red tube tops and skirts. The older one gave me a quick, appraising glance, but the younger one's eyes stayed glued to Margot's face, her grip tightening around her companion's arm.

They moved on without speaking. A back door closed behind them, while Margot offered me the smile of a hunter certain of its prey. Fatigue seemed to be falling away from her, as though she'd found reserves of energy and determination that had been buried deep.

‘Mieke and Kristina. They're very popular,' she told me.

‘Did they come down here from
Sans Souci
?'

‘Who told you about
Sans Souci
?'

‘Who did Carmichael leave his flat to?'

‘How should I know?'

‘No reason,' I said, ‘except I thought it might be you.'

. . .

I left Margot, my thoughts on the wig, and, more particularly, its smell. I couldn't put a name to it, but the metallic, possibly petroleum-based scent, was the same I'd noticed in the corridor leading to my office the night my house was broken into.

I had a nodding acquaintance with Detective Sergeant Saunders, the officer in charge of the investigation into Carmichael's death. He belonged to the generation after Brook's, joining the force with a crimi­nology degree. Though I was beginning to think he might be interested in my information, I didn't feel ready to go knocking on his door. I did wonder, though, what he made of the fact that Margot had inherited Carmichael's apartment.

I rang Canberra's wig manufacturers and suppliers, hoping to find the shop where Margot had bought hers. It was a small job, since there were only two retail outlets listed, one in the foyer of the Canberra ­hospital. Most of their customers were cancer patients, and they often hired out their wigs, rather than sold them. I was sure it couldn't have been them.

The other supplier responded to my question with a ‘you're wasting my time and I don't have time to waste' attitude. Unless I could give her a date for the purchase, she couldn't help me.

‘Blonde,' I said. ‘Real hair. Exclusive.'

‘All our products are exclusive.'

I realised I'd get nowhere on the phone. The yellow pages listed one Sydney outlet as well as the local ones. ‘Custom-made. We come to Canberra,' the ad said. I made a note of the address.

I was tired after my excursion of the night before. I sat in front of my computer, typing up my notes and organising them into categories. ‘Wig' was my current favourite, but the word swam in front of my eyes, and I knew I was reaching the stage of imagining connections where there might be none at all. I made a note to ask Margot how many wigs she owned, and to ask Denise the same question, assuming I could persuade her to talk to me again.

I did some shopping, then rang Gail, who was too busy to talk for long, but told me her feature on Margot's club would be run early the next week.

We arranged to meet the following morning. The evening was cooler, and I took Fred for a walk to Southwell Park.

. . .

The suburb of Fyshwick, where Gail worked, was similar to Mitchell. Fyshwick was bigger, busier, more of everything, but dominated by the same fast-buck architecture, the same squat, low-slung buildings, brothels sandwiched between discount furniture and white goods.

I waited in the foyer of the
Times
building, surrounded by famous photographs, wondering if Carmichael would end up there one day, tastefully framed, posterity lending dignity to his expression and attire.

Gail was late. When she finally appeared, she looked rushed and dishevelled.

I gave her a quick hug. She returned it with a look that warned against sympathy and said, ‘Let's go round the corner. I've only got a minute.'

I remembered one night in Melbourne. We were students. Gail took me to a bar where I quickly got drunk. I was very bad at judging how little alcohol it took for this to happen. A young man I fancied was holding court in the centre of a big group of people. Gail counselled me to compose myself, pick a better time. She held my head under a bathroom tap, bought me coffee, made me drink it.

Gail never needed that kind of help from me. She liked big, quiet men in those days, and attracted enough of them to be able to pick and choose.

‘How are you bearing up?' I asked, hurrying after her along the street.

She pushed open the door of a fast-food place. ‘How do I look as though I'm bearing up?'

‘You look tired.'

‘I'm busy,' she said, with a dryness in her voice that reminded me of Brook.

There was a smell of rancid fat. The battered fish looked as though it had been cooked a week ago. Gail bought a bottle of water, and paid no further attention to her surroundings.

‘Mike Carnegie wrote up a presentation
CleanNet
did for Senator Bryant last November,' I said. ‘I was wondering if he'd talk to me about it.'

‘Why don't you ask him?'

Carnegie had been one of Gail closest colleagues before she went away.

‘He might be more likely to say yes if you did.'

Gail made a sceptical face. ‘Is that why you wanted to see me?'

‘Strange as it may seem, I do care how you're feeling.'

‘And?'

‘And I'd be grateful if you'd smooth the way with Mike Carnegie.'

Gail took a gulp of mineral water. ‘I got no joy out of Bryant's office. Yes, there was an appointment made for Carmichael, yes it was cancelled on the fourth. No, they won't say why.'

‘Malcolm Hewitt wouldn't tell me either, but he's hiding something.'

‘Ministerial staffers are always hiding something.'

I agreed, then asked Gail if she'd heard anything more about the photograph of Carmichael that had appeared in
The Canberra Times
.

‘Funny about that.'

‘What's funny?'

‘Usually rumours fly around.'

‘Why not this time?'

‘I don't know.'

‘It would be odd if the photographer had only taken one shot.'

Gail gave me a swift look.

‘It would be odd, too, if he—assuming it was a man—had taken them only in order to offer them to your boss.'

‘Well, Halford's said nothing, and he won't. You seem to think I'm up there with the eagles, Sandy.'

After tossing this remark at me, Gail checked her watch and hurried back to work.

I walked to my car thinking about confidences, who shared and who withheld them, and about our staccato, at times combative relationship. I wished that Gail would shout, or cry, or call her ex-lover names. Perhaps, alone at home at night, she threw things at the walls.

. . .

I didn't feel like going home. I was tempted to pay Ken Dollimore another visit, but I didn't want to give him an excuse to complain about me. I decided instead to drop into a few of the bars and cafes I'd noticed driving through Mitchell on the way to Margot's club.

The first cafe was empty. I looked through the door, but didn't go inside. The second was a small corner bar within walking distance of the club. Inside it was dim and cool, and appeared to be empty too. I almost missed a young woman sitting in the shadows by herself.