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sleek helmet suited her. She was tall and slim, dressed neatly in a navy pants-suit. Air-conditioning made her club’s small foyer a pleasant twenty-two degrees.
    I asked her if she’d mind showing me around.
    Her nod of agreement was a small, economical, unrevealing gesture. Silently, she led the way to the back of the building, where I heard music and laughter through a door.
    Margot opened another door and stood to one side. In the centre of the room was a queen-sized bed, covered by a dark-blue quilt. The walls and ceiling were painted creamy-white, the blinds fully closed. A TV and DVD player stood opposite the bed. Apart from this, a polished pine bedside table with a lamp, and a chair upholstered in heavy cotton were the only furniture.
    It was very still, the only sound coming from the air-conditioning. I pictured the room when it was occupied, filling out, becoming a space lit subtly by the lamp, taking on the shape of a couple having sex. Daylight would fade, night bring its own custom. I gazed around the room, knowing, without having to ask, that it was the one Eden Carmichael had died in. Though there were no obvious, outward indications, I sensed that it had become a kind of shrine.
    I turned to Margot. There seemed to be a filament of blown glass between us and the world outside, and I felt suddenly close to her, as though, if we remained there a few minutes longer, I would grasp what lay behind her silence and her self-control.
    She turned quickly on her heel, and led the way back to the front of the building, where there was a reception desk with a computer, phone and fax machine.
    Positioning herself behind the desk, she looked me up and down, noting my bare legs, the awkward repair job I’d done on one of my sandal straps, my plain denim skirt and T-shirt. My hair was almost as short as hers, cropped for the summer, and I wore no make-up. Perhaps I should have felt discomforted by Margot’s scrutiny, her hint of disdain for someone who took as little trouble over her appearance as I did, but my aim just then was to give her the impression I was harmless, and I hoped I was doing that.
    When she decided to speak, her voice was brisk, with an undertone of contempt. ‘I run a good business here. You know reporters, and you’re pally with the cops. They kicked me out of my own club for two days while they went over everything with their fingerprint brushes, and took the mattress away for DNA testing. A lot of good that will do them. I can’t see them taking samples from half this town’s MPs to get a match, can you?’
    Knowing I wasn’t expected to answer, I asked a question instead. ‘How did Eden Carmichael die?’
    â€˜He had a heart attack. The autopsy confirmed it.’
    I didn’t say what was surely obvious to Margot, that the death of a cross-dressing politician was bound to be treated as sensitive. The forensic people were not likely to risk taking short cuts.
    â€˜I’m being treated like a suspect,’ Margot complained. ‘All I want is for someone to give me a fair hearing.’
    She’d agreed to my visit because she thought I could help her. But ‘pally’ was not a word I would have used just then to describe my relationship with the police. I wondered how much she knew about my association with Detective Sergeant Brook, how much she’d made it her business to find out.
    â€˜At least the TV cameras have gone,’ she said, ‘but the phone keeps ringing all the time. If it’s not some preacher abusing me, it’s a reporter trying to trip me up. “Sixty Minutes” wants to do an interview.’
    â€˜Not “Sixty Minutes”. Say no.’
    â€˜That’s what I thought. But who?’
    â€˜My friend works for The Canberra Times ,’ I said.
    â€˜Them! They published that revolting photograph.’
    â€˜They’ve also published the letters of complaint.’
    â€˜Yes. But not