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  ‘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.’

  August 19, 2011

  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.r />
  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.

  August 23, 2011

  Elizabeth Scott gazed up at the historical guard of honour, at the men, the good men, who had led the conservative forces through the last half-century. Menzies, Howard, Fraser – each a hero in his own way, all paid-up members of the Liberal pantheon.

  She would join them one day, her black-and-white portrait emblazoned with the words ‘First female Liberal leader’. But on this Tuesday morning, with her restless colleagues circling, Scott had more immediate things on her mind.

  Most weeks, the meeting of the joint parties – the Liberals and Nationals – was a mundane affair, punctuated by jovial banter and the odd policy stoush. But today, a pressing question needed to be asked and answered. Would the Coalition back the government’s request to give the stricken Foreign Minister Catriona Bailey a parliamentary pair? It was a vote that would help decide whether the Toohey Government survived or not.

  Scott was preparing to demand that her party back her judgement and say yes. It was a question of decency, she believed, but the Shadow Cabinet had baulked when she’d sought its support. So she was going to take the issue directly to her colleagues. It was a rare thing to do – to ask the party room to vote on a question of parliamentary tactics – but these were not normal times.

  The main hurdle was Emily Brooks, the hard-Right warrior who had been courting the support of the Nationals and the conservative flank of the Liberal Party, and whose tough-as-nails approach in the Senate and the media had been credited with bringing the Toohey Government to its knees. In contrast, Scott knew there was growing unease with her own leadership style, and her failure to put sufficient distance between her small-l liberal view of the world and that of the discredited Labor brand.

  So, she mused, it would come down to this: high principle versus brutal pragmatism. She would demand a vote to back her stance, with the implied threat of standing down if the party overruled her. It was a calculated, high-stakes gamble. But she didn’t believe the Coalition would risk a leadership change when the Toohey Government was on life support.

  She was wrong.

  The press gallery began getting a sense of the unfolding drama when the joint party meeting ran into its second hour. Then some MPs and Senators started texting their media favourites with messages like ‘Things not going well for Scott’ and ‘It’s fucking unbelievable in here. Very heated.’

  The television networks scurried to stake out the hallway outside the Coalition party room. They were joined by a gaggle of scribblers. The 24-hour broadcasters began to speculate that the leader had been rolled.

  Finally, the doors opened and Alex Jacobs, the Liberal Whip, emerged alone, to be immediately consumed by the media crush.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please,’ Jacobs pleaded. ‘I have a short statement and I won’t be taking any questions. There will be press conferences shortly.

  ‘Today, after a debate on parliamentary pairs, Senator Emily Brooks moved a motion of no confidence in the leadership of Ms Elizabeth Scott. The ballot was tied. Ms Scott then stood down. Senator Brooks was elected leader.’

  The gallery pack was dumbfounded. Scott had rolled the dice and lost. Like John Gorton in 1971, she had then done the honourable thing and resigned. The Scott experiment was over.

  As the Whip finished speaking, a triumphant Emily Brooks emerged from the party room, an entourage of beaming followers in tow. Half the journalists in the group split off to record the first words of the new leader while the others stayed poised to witness the bitterness of the vanquished.

  Cameramen positioned themselves in front of Brooks while journalists bombarded her with questions.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I am honoured and humbled.’

  ‘Do you feel sorry for Elizabeth Scott?’

  ‘Ms Scott is a great Australian and will be a great member of my team.’

  ‘How can a Senator be leader of the Opposition?’

  ‘Read the Constitution. Nothing stops a Senator from being Opposition leader or Prime Minister. But I will have more to say on that shortly.’

  ‘What does this mean for the Prime Minister?’

  ‘His worst nightmare.’

  She swept past the cameras, making for her office on the Senate side of Parliament House.

  Moments later Scott emerged with a couple of her staunchest supporters on either side. Her face was set, she looked tired, but in a triumph of will, she held her composure.

  From his suite, Martin Toohey watched as Scott made her dignified way back to her office. It was only about seventy metres from the party room but she was slowed by the crush of media.

  ‘The Via Dolorosa of loss,’ he said as he watched her journey, feeling every pain-filled step.

  Scott said nothing except, ‘We’ll have a press conference after you’ve heard from the leader.’

  ‘Well, Ms Scott,’ Toohey whispered. ‘You’re a better man than I am.’

  Emily Brooks arrived back in her Senate suite, shut the door to her office and punched the air. She had ousted her hated rival and could now focus on taking the battle up to Martin Toohey and his dreadful administration. There would be no quarter given.

  The Coalition would have one aim – to destroy Labor, quickly.

  First, she would have to deal with her status as a Senator. The Westminster convention is that the Prime Minister be a member of the chamber where government is formed – the House of Representatives. But that is not demanded by the Constitution. At her first press conference, half an hour later, in the same room where she had executed Scott, Brooks outlined her plan. She would stay in the Senate until the general election was called, then she would resign and contest a lower house seat.

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ shouted one journalist.

  ‘Why? Because you say it is?’ Brooks barked. ‘I don’t agree. It’s perfectly manageable. And you should remember two things. I expect an early election. And when it’s called I will not ask any of my colleagues to stand aside and hand me a safe seat. I will contest the Treasurer’s seat of Lilley. To win government we need to win Labor seats and I intend to play my part in that.’

  It was a bravura performance. Brooks exuded confidence – some would say cockiness – but no one questioned that she was a stone-cold political killer and that Toohey now faced a much tougher challenge.

  By contrast, Scott’s press conference was muted. When a party leader falls, even the press gallery feels a sense of pity.

  Scott appeared stunned, but was determined to hold it together. She had seen other leaders shed tears and thought it would only invite ridicule if she cried.

  In the end it was a kind of out-of-body experience. The crushing pressure she had felt since taking the top job was gone. In its place was the bitter hollowness of loss, coupled with a primal sense of relief.

  ‘What will you do now? Will you recontest?’

  The question seemed almost to come out of a fog.

  ‘I’m going to take my time and have a think about it.’

  ‘Will you serve Emily Brooks on her front bench?’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  When it was over, Scott made her way back to the Opposition leader’s office to find that her staff was already packing. Her personal assistant tearfully smiled at her.

  ‘The calls have started to flood in,’ she said. ‘Most of them congratulating you for showing some character and doing the right thing. They say it’s rare in politics now and they’ve changed their opinion of you.’

  ‘Pity they didn’t tell Newspoll that,’ Scott said, wearily opening her
personal office door. Sitting in the middle of her desk was a magnificent vase of flowers.

  ‘Those came a few minutes ago,’ the assistant said. ‘Here’s the card.’

  Scott opened the envelope and removed a card bearing the handwritten words of a verse from Paradise Regained.

  For therein stands the office of a king,

  His honour, virtue, merit and chief praise,

  That for the public all this weight he bears.

  Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules

  Passions, desires, and fears is more a king …

  She felt a lump grow in her throat as she read the beautifully familiar verse to the end. Her eyes glazed with tears. It was Martin Toohey’s handwriting.

  The assistant looked at the card.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody you’d recognise.’

  August 24, 2011

  Harry Dunkley scanned the rows of the mourning, uniform in their grief, and thought, what a pitiful crowd. Fewer than two dozen were seated in the spacious chapel.

  In the front row, Gordon’s soberly clad mother and sister sat solemnly, eyes rimmed with red, occasionally speaking softly to each other. Behind them, Ben’s small community of cross-dressing buddies huddled together in gloomy counterpoint, their too-short black skirts, killer heels and platter-sized hats seeming almost grotesque in broad daylight, as if they’d staggered out of the bar scene in Star Wars.

  In the second-last row, a man in a dark suit was sitting alone. His face was vaguely familiar. Dunkley made a mental note to seek him out when the service was over.

  Ben’s brother, Michael, had started to speak, welcoming the sparse crowd for what would be a short memorial. ‘And the eulogy today will be delivered by Ben’s oldest and dearest friend, Harry Dunkley …’