Manipulation excerpt

Matt

1

Under the Norfolk Pine, the body lies, only half-concealed by crushed and bloody tussock grass. Running shorts and t-shirt are torn. Body is in foetal position. Blood seeps into sand. Eyes are glazed open and throat is slit. Dick is stuffed neatly, fully. Jammed into an objecting mouth.

* * *



Cars speed along The Esplanade, up the straight and towards the car park. From the road more cars bumper-to-bumper. Crime Scene vans nose into SAPOL and AFP vehicles.  One space left in the far corner. Slam the door; squint through trees and spot the shrouded figures on the distant beach. Show my badge to the lone officer standing at the perimeter.
      ‘Morning, Sir.’ Points with his torch to a break in the trees. ‘It’s a fair way up, but you’ll find them through there.’
    Head towards the light. Wind slaps sharp salt spray. I wipe my cheek. Heavy trudging up the narrow path, eyes down, blinking away sand. Follow the mess of footprints. Minutes later, the path breaks and I step out on the beach, my sneakers sink into sand. People stand in clusters; a hum of low conversation filters through wind. Duck into my coat collar: cold makes my ears numb. Bottom of trench flaps at my jeans. Pass a group of reporters held back by yellow crime scene tape. Lot of people here—maybe ten detectives shuffle on the spot to keep warm. Photographer pops in and around the scene. Top office looks on from behind thick woolen trench coats. Crime Scene dots the area with white coveralls. Cavalry is out for this one.
    Deputy Commissioner Irvine from beside me: ‘He was found around 3 this morning.’ ‘What the fuck was he doing out here in the middle of the night?’
Place a gloved hand on the man’s skin. Never seen a dead body before—AFP doesn't generally deal with homicide. My partner, Detective Senior Constable, Mick Chambers: dressed in crumpled white shirt, mustached handlebars at lips, sleeves rolled, oblivious to August air. Skin is tanned hide, stretched and scarred. Gunmetal eyes peer out from hooded lids. He stands hands on hips; round gut hangs like a laden-bellied possum. Surveys the scene.
    ‘Witnesses?’
    ‘Not yet.’ He wastes no words. You know how it is: too many years on the job; man keeps it close after a while. His eyes move over limbs and flesh, resting briefly on severed crusted edges. Bubbled gritty tissue hangs and clings like a lover unwilling to take a hint. It doesn't faze him; seen it all before. He is a man well used to 3 am calls and jaded dead. 
    Irvine points: Media. ‘How the hell did they get hold of it so fast?’ Pulls at his coat primly. ‘With what we have here, the last thing we need is the fucking five o clock news. We’ll have to inform the Prime Minister.' He indicates the cameras. ‘Don’t tell them who the fuck it is.’
    Cold, or body, makes him shiver.
    Chambers: ‘We’ll cover this up, from the air and the road.’
    Irvine rubs and rubs his head.
    Chambers winks at no one in particular; kneels beside the vic. Irvine watches him work, brows pulled together. Vic's bowels have emptied. The stink is like first shift at the treatment plant. Chamber's thick-fingered hands run smoothly over dead-lost skin. He lifts a limb and prods the torso.
    Pace a bit. Careful pacing—crime scene procedure one-oh-one, as it's usually an investigating officer accidentally transferring material into the scene. A small man with hurried step trudges up the beach: pathologist. ‘Jim Hawthorne,’ he says, professionally. Shakes first my hand, then Irvine’s. Chambers slaps him on the back. The man's tweed is poked and pulled into submission and slapped on beside his duffle and scuffs.
    Drop to wet knees. I need to know. ‘What do you think?’
    Takes his time opening his bag: determined click of each lock; removes a thermometer. Leans close to the head; small eyes slightly wide, as though surprised by the hacked and jammed bits of foreskin at his glove. Wind moans round our heads. Yells, practically, to be heard: ‘Probable cause of death: cut throat, body temp: twenty-five, and onset of rigor mortis.’ Talks with his lips inches from the ear of the corpse: ‘I’d say dead, approximately…five hours. Oh, look, here’s something interesting...’ Moves the shirt from the chest. On the abdomen are words written in texta in what looks like Cantonese.
    Chambers, to a nearby officer: ‘Get a translator.’
    Chinese…mafia? Main focus of Australian agencies at this present moment: drugs, prostitution, extortion, money laundering, but mainly heroin trafficking from South-East Asia. Well now, what’d you go and get yourself mixed up in?
    Hawthorne indicates the texta. ‘I can tell you what he ate for dinner and the condition of his lungs, but this one’s yours I’m afraid.’
    Waves, brutally depressing, break at our peripheral. Officers string up yellow restricted area tape. Wind whips the tape from hands and rain slams me. Christ, I'm drowning. Note details; scan the area: body and blooded grass—dick is an abstracted point of interest. 
    Chambers: ‘Right. I’ll do the door knock. I could use a couple of guys.’ It’s not a request. Two of my DC’s, posed on the perimeter, pounce at the flick of summons. Davis: heavily built: ex full forward. Walks feet planted, slabs of forearm swinging. Gum smacks loudly.
    Harris: sniffs; eyes dart; can't settle.
    They talk at once: ‘A lot of people are going to be freaked, sir—’
    ‘—Where do you want us, sir?’
    ‘I want you on the door knock. Canvas the area. Find out what the neighbours know. You stay calm the public will stay calm. Check in with me later.’
    They trail Chambers with nervous gawks and shuffles.
Two Technical Service Officers, with Forensic Investigator splashed across their back, work the crime scene.
‘Anything?’ I've grit my teeth so many times my molars feel married.
TSO picks up a crime scene kit; points gloved hand at body and ground. ‘This, is the primary crime scene. Looks as though he was killed here. No drag marks, the body appears to be in the same position as at the time of death. We’re still processing, so we’ll let you know if anything comes up.’ She's already moving away—results to find, tests to run.
    ‘Good.’ Scratch at the hair on my face. ‘I’ll wait for the report.’
    One of those rare quiets amidst the chaos. I reflect: in all of Australia’s history, despite theories behind the disappearance of Harold Holt, there’s never been a murder of a member of parliament.
    But, now, we have the former Prime Minster of Australia, current Minister for Foreign Affairs. Turning grey.
    My head is reeling. Straight murder, I can take. Place some understanding upon it. But what’s with his goddamn penis? Revenge? A message? As far as wacky goes this one takes the fuckin’ sponge cake.
    Punch in the station’s number. Can’t see jack shit. Roadblocks are being set up. Helicopter buzzes. I run back to the body. ‘Cover him up.’ Pathologist lays down a body bag. Watch the chopper dip low; stinging sand rises from beating rotors. Bag flaps, threatening to lift; we hold it down. Pilot’s mirrored sunglasses glint. A man beside him yells into a headset. A flash of camera, another pass and they're gone. 
    Irvine: ‘This is turning into a fucking circus.’
    ‘Out now, sir. Nothing we can do.’ I pull on gloves and show him the message.
    'I have to call the Prime Minster. Matt, you need to work fast here.’ When he leaves, he does so with relief.
Crime Scene Officers set up numbered yellow markers. Beach is pitted with footprints. Reporters talk into phones; yell at us from behind tape that reminds them of their place. Passing uniforms ignore them. Pathologist and assistants lift the body onto a gurney. Wheels squeak up the ramp into the van. Pathologist slams the doors shut: two thuds, while hierarchies make for back up the beach, heads in bureaucratic conversation. What’s this mean, for them, for Australia, for me?    
    Call the station and speak to the incident room coordinator. Ocean, the sand, and the length of beach: it all looks so fuckin’ blah. ‘Jen, I need you to set up the brief. Hope your family understands; you’re about to go abandonment.’ I cut the call before she can respond.
    DS Brown, from behind me: ‘We all are.’ I watch her laden approach. She's my right-hand man: early thirties, obsessive. A no-fuss-moisturiser-only-sensible-shoed-kinda woman. Pours hot coffee from a flask.
    ‘You must be psychic.’
    Hands me sandwiches.
    ‘Thanks.’
    Shrugs. Part of her job. ‘Boss...’ Hunches down on her legs. Opens the ever-present notebook. I follow her outstretched finger to a row of houses.  ‘His address is 201, The Esplanade. Looks like he’s not too far from home, sir.’
    Talk through sandwich, ‘I’m telling the wife. You’re with me.’
    ‘You need to hear this, boss.’ She waves over a man. Uniform escorts him to us.
    ‘This is Bob.’
    Pumps my hand; rallies at Brown: ‘Bloody dog. It’s the tablets, you see? Make him friggin’ bark, see? He was barkin’ from the laundry. It’s where I have to keep him, see? Since the op’. Wasn’t ‘appy. The Missus thought it funny. Should've kicked her fat arse out of bed to walk the stupid mutt. Who walks their fuckin' dog at 3 in the morning?’
    I pinch my nose and read Brown's notes.  Pages flip in the wind. ‘And you say you, “tripped over the body”?’
    ‘S’right. Fell on me arse. Bloody area’s gone to the pack. Was promised paradise, we was. Won the money on the 'orses, we did—‘appiest day of me fuckin' life. Fuckin' Australia, 'ere we come.’  Leans his ten-day stubble into Brown's personal space. ‘Keep the whining bitch ‘appy, you’d think? Not bloody likely.’
    ‘Did you notice anyone around?’
    ‘Who'd fuckin' be out at that time of the morning?’
    Brown: ‘You were.’
    ‘Yeah, but I’m a friggin' mug. Saw no one. Called you lot the minute I realised. Damn near stopped me ‘art.'
    ‘Did you call anyone else, Bob? Like, say, the media?’
    Bob finds the ground suddenly captivating.
    ‘You’ll have to go to the station and give a statement. We may need to talk to you again.’
    The man chuckles; runs a hand over his grayness. I leave him to Brown.
    Walk the scene until I reach the spot. Psychologically this is fucked up. Not sure why I'm surprised. Violence lives in every corner shop. Kids are spoon-fed death and sex at their Playstations. We're breeding fucking dysfunction from the womb. But here, today, a line's been crossed. You take out Government you fuck with normality. Uneasy? Fuck uneasy, I'm goddamn fucking panicking. Put my hand upon the sand. The House of Representatives is now in recess.

* * *

We walk to The Esplanade; palms are sweaty. Rigging wire balustrade frames the steps. From the deck, the view is blue sunshine. Polished boards look recently glossed. 'Flowery' hangs in the air: pots hold dramatic plants—the other half lives.I knock. Brown takes her position to the left of me. We reflect in the glass: The shaven-headed, scruffy-faced tall guy dwarfs the tougher-than-she-looks coppa. Brown’s image warps in the glass as she puts her face to the window. ‘Nice house.’ Cups her hand so she can see inside. I tug at my cuffs and smooth down my plain black t-shirt. Times like these, I wish I was the kinda guy to wear a tie. Rap the door again. Murmur of television filters through to where we stand. Hours ago, this lady would have kissed her husband on the cheek and waved him to work. But, in true ‘life sucks' nature here I am about to shatter. It frightens me. It's enough to frighten anyone, the fuckin’ fragility of it all. Footsteps. Key unlocks. Big eyes and heavy fringe make her look like the child beside her. She doesn’t look strong enough for this. Brown picks up the girl and carries her in. I take her to the sofa and tell her quietly that her husband's been murdered. She doesn’t get it.
    ‘Mrs Riley, can I call someone?'
    Shakes her head.
    ‘We need you to make the identification.’ I'm careful with her. She, of course, cries and I let her. I phone for a support officer. Clock behind the sofa tick-tocks the seconds. There's no way to do this kindly. ‘Does your husband have any enemies?’
    Her hands don’t stay still. ‘After what happened, he was devastated. He loved his country. He loved his job. Watching him take to that podium…watching the tears in his eyes…it broke my heart. It broke the heart of a nation.'
    She’s a true politicians wife.
    Touch her arm. ‘I watched his speech. He was a true gentleman. You can be proud.’
    ‘He truly had the Australian people’s best interests at heart. He did so much for this country. To oust him the way she did, well…’
    Power shifted after what many are calling a ‘bloodless Parliament house coup’. Andrew Riley had decided not to contest the leadership ballot. Ms Jennifer Kennedy now leads a divided nation. Riley’s spectacular downfall made him the first prime minister to be dumped from office before completing a first term. Now he’s dead. What this killing will do is anybody’s guess.
     ‘Has there been anything? Threats? Anything unusual? Has he behaved differently, changed his movements?’
    Looks at me like I’m soft. ‘What? Aside from changing his entire existence? What kind of question was that?’
    ‘A stupid one. I’m sorry.’
    More tears. ‘There's no one who'd want to hurt him. Everyone really felt for him with what had happened.’
    I’m not stupid enough to make it obvious, but I need to look around. My gut tells me the guy was clean, but he was clearly caught up in something far over his depth. But what? Can’t believe it has anything to do with recent events. Still, has to be ruled otherwise. I’m betting he was involved with something that smells just like wrong.
    Mobile. Quan: ‘Ok, so in becoming foreign minister he was responsible for helping to form the foreign policy. He specialised in Foreign Policy Analysis (FPA). Now, from government to government, a foreign minister’s power varies, leaving him with significant influence in forming policy, except when a government is dominated by a strong prime minister, then, he’s limited to a marginal or subsidiary role…’
    ‘Well, with this shit that’s gone down, the government is anything but strong, however, Prime Minster Kennedy is the almighty power. So basically what this means is Riley was given a token position.’
    ‘A peace offering if you will. He was a figurehead at best. Ousted, but provided with a satisfactorily powerful enough role to appease.’
    ‘His latest movements?’
    ‘Ok, he’s been to Europe and Africa, participating in high-level African Union and World Economic Forum meetings.  He’s been to Ethiopia, to meet with the prime minister there, he’s been discussing Australia’s economic interests in Africa, i.e. the 20 billion in Australian investment, in Africa’s resources sector, the common interests to work side-by-side in multilateral and regional goals to meet global challenges like climate change and United Nations reform. He’s been discussing bilateral and regional security, i.e. the situation in Sudan and terrorism. Oh, and he opened the Australian embassy in Addis Abba.’
    ‘Breathe out, Quan. Next?’
    ‘He was scheduled to go to Turkey to meet with the foreign minister to discuss Australia’s agenda for bilateral, and other, cooperations with Turkey; closer security defense and the G20 and WTO Doha Round negotiations, including disarmament and non-proliferation.’
    So where the fuck does China come into all this?
    ‘What’d the texta say?’
    ‘The writing on his abdomen was Cantonese, like you thought. It loosely translates to, “What happens in Fight Club, stays in Fight Club.”’
    I swear I can’t speak for 2 minutes. ‘Like the movie?
    ‘You got it, boss.’
    This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
    I Hang up and scan the room. Bits and pieces on shelves, plants in corners, brown cardi discarded across a chair, chocolate on a table. Stuffy. Smells like lemon. Framed photo: they look happy. He sure as hell don’ look like any Tyler Durden. ‘Welcome to Fight Club’. This is Melbourne for fuck’s sake.
    I leave the  wife still crying on the sofa. Walk down the hall. Tidy house. Pull on gloves and find an office. With half an ear out, I search the desk, opening drawers, lifting files. Diary. Read it. One name pops up more than once: Tony Cameron, Finance Minister. I’d met Cameron a couple of times on protective detail. What a pompous prick. Diary marks his name, with a red circle, once a month. That’s all.
    Come on. I refuse to believe these two overweight, over-aged polly’s were meeting in some kind of underground Hollywood copy-cat. Flick through pages. Almost every third day in the last three weeks, spent with Cameron. Now, while I have my doubts, they sure were up to something.
    Switch on the computer. Password protected. Mental note: send in Quan. I shove at drawers’. One won’t close. Put a hand in and feel around; piece of cardboard's jammed. Pull at it, hoping not to tear it. Delicate job, fingers are clumsy. Just get it between my thumb and middle finger and ease it out. Business card. Three words: Rebecca Cameron Design. On the back is scrawled: 9 pm. Don’t be late. Okay...so I'm a little fuzzy and blink several times. Rebecca Cameron?  The wife? So he was literally beating the shit out of his opposition, in some kinda underground dogfight, and then fucking the wife on Thursdays. Damn, I shoulda been a writer.
Doorbell. Put the card in an evidence bag; tuck it under my arm. On the step, behind frameless glasses stands a white-haired woman: Support Officer. 'Helen Beckett.' Nana type. Chosen especially. She helps the wife get a bag packed. Brown follows them outside with the child in her arms. Chaos: van pulls up; two men jump out. Car races up the drive and parks in the garden. Slick brunette hurries a cameraman up the path. Bulbs flash. Riley's wife, in dark glasses, leans at Helen for support. Her hand touches my arm. Can just see her eyes. She puts her hands in the pockets of her long jacket and lets Helen lead her down the stairs and into a car. We all ignore the reporters. The high-drama moment fizzles out like it has no heart. Brown moves from the top step to stand beside me. ‘So what’s this all about then, boss?’

Hand her the card. 'A woman. What else?'

* * *

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