The Marmalade Files (22 page)

They'd been engulfed in silent uncertainty as the taxi drove them back to the Embassy Motel all those years ago.

It was a short fifteen minutes from the Elbow Room and they were both lost in the thoughts and emotions of the last hour.

Elizabeth Scott glanced at Martin Toohey as the passing Adelaide Avenue streetlights tracked across his face. He was a decent man; flawed, as she was, but decent. She hoped he saw that in her.

They climbed the stairs to their second-floor rooms, which the hotel's staff, as usual, had ensured were next to each other.

Scott didn't want it to end – for the brief, flirtatious moments of understanding to evaporate into another lonely night in an empty hotel room.

She dropped her keys. Toohey swept them up and turned to her. He stepped in and was closer than he needed to be. Much closer.

He put the keys in her hand and closed it, wrapping his fingers around hers. He stared into her eyes and Scott again felt that expectant tingle that had evaded her for years.

‘Well … er … it's … it's been just great. You are great. I can't tell you how important tonight was, how … how it felt to … well, just talk.' Toohey seemed to be finding it hard to focus; he seemed almost nervous.

‘It was.' She didn't budge, didn't make a move towards the door. Half of her screamed, ‘Ask me! Just ask me!'

‘Well …' He shuffled on the spot. ‘Early morning and everything. I should get some sleep. So should you … Not that you need it, you look just … just great.'

‘You too. Goodnight.' She kissed him on the neck, turned without looking back, opened the door to her room and walked in. Alone.

She rested against the door and heard the click of his door closing. Surely, she thought, this is the moment when I feel good about myself, when I congratulate myself for being faithful.

‘So why do I feel so empty?' she said out loud. She surveyed the dreary decor and sighed. ‘If this is what victory over sin feels like, God, then it's little wonder you lose so many battles.'

She threw her coat on the bed. There was a knock and she could have sworn her heart actually stopped beating.

She opened the door on his goofy smile.

‘On indulgence, Madam Speaker, I'm sure there was something else I wanted to say … I just can't remember what.'

She threw her arms around him and they kissed. A glow started in her face and spread the length of her body.

He gently pushed her into the room, closing the door. Tenderly, he brushed aside her hair and kissed the exposed skin. At the hint of his hot breath on her neck, all her nerve endings tightened.

He undid the tie on her wraparound dress, lifted it off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The stubble on his cheek rubbed across her bare shoulders as his hands lightly brushed over her bra.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him towards the bed. There it was her turn. She unbuttoned his shirt and dipped her head to softly bite his nipples. Then she pulled his pants down and they both kicked off their shoes.

They weren't teenagers, there was no hurry. Toohey kissed her breasts through her bra as he softly ran his fingers over her panties. He kissed her neck, shoulders and back, lingeringly, almost lovingly. He unclipped her bra and pushed down her panties.

He tugged off his own briefs and, rolling her over, massaged her back. He slid his lips the length of her body, lightly brushing her buttocks, thighs and the backs of her knees.

She turned over, pushed him onto his back and straddled him. ‘This is the way I like it,' she whispered.

‘Me too.' He arched up to kiss her nipples and reached around to feel the beautiful curve of her back.

She drove down and those thousand nerve endings exploded. Her body tingled with goosebumps and she threw her head back and gasped.

‘Jesus,' he exclaimed.

‘Let's leave him out of this.'

The night was a blur of passion. Both knew it would be their first and last time together. And neither wanted to leave anything unexplored.

Like many reporters his age, Harry Dunkley feared the great era of newspapers was coming to a close. Crusading editors who were prepared to send their charges into the field had been replaced by bean counters, hired to prune budgets and slash expenses.

There were only a handful of heroes left, and more sinners than saints. Christ, there were some days when Dunkley questioned whether there was any principle or honour left in his once noble profession, now controlled by the vapid minds of those who chased celebrity and preferred fluff and polemic over hard news.

But today, a bright winter's day in the national capital, Dunkley awoke with a sense that maybe, just maybe, he was about to make history. He sprang out of bed, ignoring the painful call of the cold on his body, leaping fearlessly into a shower before the water had a chance to warm. Some obscure Top 40 hit from the '80s was ringing in his head, refusing to fade to grey.

The trumpet blare of
A.M.
signalled it was 8 a.m. Bruce Paxton, a renowned workaholic who was rumoured to have spent the odd night on his office lounge, would have been at Parliament House for the past few hours, maybe longer, devouring briefs, talking strategy and fending off the latest barbs from his Department. The Defence Minister was in the full throes of his reform agenda, carving large chunks from the military's bulging arsenal of overpriced kit. Dunkley privately shared Paxton's zeal for taking on the Defence establishment, but this was not about sentiment.

As the kettle whistle blew, Dunkley consulted his ‘Private' government directory, found the Minister's contacts page and punched the number into his BlackBerry.

Surprisingly, the phone was answered after a few rings with a gruff ‘Paxton'.

‘Minister, it's Harry Dunkley.'

There was a long pause. Clearly Dunkley was not the person Paxton was hoping for. ‘Yes, mate.'

Despite his vast experience, Dunkley was still nervous. He wiped a sweaty hand on a tea towel. ‘I need to speak with you, today, and … er … preferably alone.'

‘Well, mate, I'm busy today. Parliament's in full swing, in case you didn't realise. Give Adam a call.'

Adam Tracey, Paxton's press secretary, specialised in stonewall tactics and was legendary for answering even the most simple questions with, ‘Mate, by way of background, and strictly off the record, I have no comment.'

No, Dunkley thought, Adam Tracey didn't need to be part of this assignment. It was time to up the ante.

‘Bruce, I need to see you. Today. I know you're flat chat but these matters can't wait.'

Paxton clearly sensed Dunkley's urgency and granted him twenty minutes of valuable Ministerial time.

 

It was nearly a quarter to four and there was still no sign of the Minister. Dunkley mentally paced the small waiting room. He'd pumped himself up, written and then rewritten his briefing notes and memorised the questions that needed to be fired at Paxton. ‘C'mon, Minister,' he muttered, casting another glance at his watch.

An approaching swirl told him something was up, a flurry of bodies gliding by in the outside corridor and, finally, Bruce Paxton, Minister for Defence, swept in with two of his fawning advisers. He tensed up when he saw Dunkley, as if he suspected the next half-hour or so would prove as painful as extracting a tooth without anaesthetic.

‘Mr Dunkley, give me a few minutes, would you?' Paxton's demeanour was pure business. It would need to be.

Dunkley shuffled in his seat, scanning inside his leather work bag, making sure his A4 notes and small digital recorder were there, for the umpteenth time.

A few moments later, he was ushered into the Minister's inner office.

‘Righto, Mr Dunkley, what is it that couldn't wait?' Paxton got straight down to business. He'd taken a beating during Question Time and Dunkley noticed a slight twitch in his right shoulder, the body language of a man under severe pressure.

Dunkley motioned to Adam Tracey, sitting to Paxton's right. ‘Minister, I appreciate your time, but I really want this to be just the two of us.'

‘Well, you can get fucked, Mr Dunkley. Adam stays, got it?'

Dunkley briefly considered standing his ground, but the risk wasn't worth taking.

‘Okay, Minister, Adam stays, as you wish.' He pulled a sheaf of papers from his bag, five A4 pages held together by a paperclip – a summary of a two-month investigation that had begun on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin in the murky freeze of that fateful June morning.

‘Minister —'

‘Just a moment, Harry.' Tracey leaned across. ‘You don't mind if we record this?' He placed his own digital recorder between the two men, hitting ‘record' with an exaggerated press of his finger.

‘Sure, no probs. Minister, for the past two months I've been researching your time with the CFMEU and the United Mineworkers —'

‘Oh, terrific, mate, I'm flat chat trying to reshape Defence and you're about to give me a fucking history lesson.'

‘More than a history lesson, Minister. In 1982, you made a trip to China. You were WA Secretary of the Mineworkers at the time, correct?'

‘If you say so, mate.'

‘You made contact with Zhou Dejiang and Zheng Wang, two of China's up and comers. Mr Zhou is now in charge at the Ministry for State Security and Mr Zheng … well, the son of the Red Capitalist has done very nicely out of his various business ventures.'

Paxton's face was impassive.

‘One of those ventures was Guangzhou Mining. Zheng set that up in 1982, supported by his father and the Chinese Government which deemed him a “safe” entrepreneur. He was a busy boy, our Mr Zheng, establishing Guangzhou as one of the vanguard Chinese export companies. He took tentative steps at first, forging links with the West … there were various projects in Brazil, the US … and Western Australia.

‘And that, Mr Paxton, is where you come in.'

‘Really? How exactly?'

Dunkley took a deep breath. This was the key moment and he wanted to get it just right.

‘The United Mineworkers Federation – Workplace Reform Association.' Dunkley spoke slowly, deliberately. He wanted to emphasise its importance, and make sure that Paxton got it. From the slight grimace on his face, Dunkley gathered that he had.

‘Guangzhou had big plans for its investments in WA – it was looking at iron ore, nickel and possibly gold. It had the backing of the Communist Party and an endless line of credit.

‘You were briefed on those plans during another trip to China, late in 1983. At an informal dinner that Mr Zheng hosted for you and, let me see, three others. You sought him out some time after this, didn't you? You wanted to talk turkey and, by all accounts, he was eager to listen. Let's face it, Mr Zheng was keen to foster ties with those in the West who could help his business expand and you … well, as a senior union figure, you were exactly what he was looking for.'

Paxton interrupted. ‘This is all very impressive, Mr Dunkley, but where's it leading? I'm running behind time thanks to the Coalition's brains trust – now, that's a contradiction in terms …' He smiled, for the first time in a while.

‘Yep, I know Minister, but I need to spell this out, methodically. You made arrangements with Zheng, offered him a priceless deal – industrial peace, provided he gave you what you wanted: money. And he did.' Dunkley checked a figure on a page of his notes. ‘To be precise, $385,900 paid into a Commonwealth Bank account held at the Northbridge branch in Perth. This was the account affiliated with the Workplace Reform Association, except its purpose wasn't to help the members of the UMF, was it? You wanted this money for much less noble purposes, like ensuring your re-election as State Secretary …'

Dunkley's confidence was growing. He had documents to back every word. ‘Then there was the house, the nice pad near Freo, all paid for by Guangzhou. And then – the big one. As if it wasn't bad enough using Chinese money to buy union elections and personal property, you channelled nearly $80,000 into your '96 campaign to win Brand. Those nice Community Voice newsletters, the endless mail-outs to voters, those sponsorships of the local netball and footy teams – all paid for by China Inc. And you never declared one red cent, did you?'

The two men stared at each other, each loath to blink first.

Dunkley felt a surge of excitement. He knew he had his man.

The Minister started to clap, really slowly, the heavy hand of sarcasm.

‘Well, Mr Dunkley, that is quite a story. Congratulations, it must have taken some time to piece it all together. I reckon you could enter that in the Walkleys, perhaps in the Best Fiction category. Tell you what, son, you might think yourself pretty fucking smart but you can't prove one word!'

Dunkley reached into his leather work bag, pulled out his digital recorder and placed it in front of the Minister's snarling face. He turned up the volume before pressing play.

‘Good morning, my name is Douglas William Turner, Vietnam Veteran, 2RAR, and a former Assistant State Secretary with the CFMEU. This is my declaration before the law. For eight long years, I was a loyal bagman for Bruce Leonard Paxton. And I kept records of every transaction. Oh, and Bruce, if you're listening to this, you are a dead man …'

Dunkley watched as Paxton sank back in his chair, his usual bluster gone. He shook his head with the disbelieving look of a man headed for the executioner's chair.

The Toohey Government – already on the edge – was about to head straight over the falls.