The Fourth Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

Gail that Laila hadn’t worked in Parliament House. I knew that what she said was generally true.
    Gail spent a few minutes trying to get me to talk about Ivan and his relationship with Laila. I told her there had not been a relationship, but I could see she didn’t believe me. Either I was in denial, Gail’s expression said, or else Ivan was lying to me.
    When she realised I wasn’t going to open up, Gail’s eyes went hard and she said she had to get back to work.
    . . .
    I phoned Don Fletcher from my car. He sounded pleased to hear my voice and said there was no time like the present.
    On the way to Civic—I’d nominated the cafe where we’d meet, and it gave me an absurd feeling of being in control—I recalled a job Ivan had done for the Environment Minister’s office last year.
    The Minister’s principle advisor had asked Ivan to investigate some attempted break-ins to his computer that had not been reported to the police, or not at that stage. Ivan had traced the attempted break-ins to three—if I remembered rightly—internet cafes around Canberra, but had got no further.
    An odd choice for the portfolio, Richard King was better known as a numbers man than a politician with a track record of concern for the environment. He was also known for secrecy. Ivan had been expected to work with his hands tied and a patch over one eye. He couldn’t ask to see files; his questions went unanswered. It was a familiar story. Familiar also had been the way the trail had quickly fizzled out.
    . . .
    At first glance, Don Fletcher reminded me of Ivan. Not in terms of physique or facial features—Don was of medium height and neatly made; his dark brown hair was straight, not curly. Where Ivan’s skin was white and thickly-textured, Don’s was pale olive and so thin as to seem transparent. It was his expression of reproachful sadness that struck me as the same; sadness with anger knotting just underneath the surface. A wrong word or move by almost anybody, friend or stranger, might expose this anger and cause it to pour out.
    Don wore a hip-length brown jacket over dark green cargo pants. Both garments had seen better days.
    I realised that it wasn’t only Ivan this man reminded me of, but Tim Delaney as well. I was seeing the mixture of grief and barely contained fury common to those men who had been in love with Laila Fanshaw.
    â€˜I’m glad you called,’ Don said with a smile that struck me as sad as well.
    He couldn’t have known it, but the pile of bills shoved to one side of my desk were a powerful incentive. I told Don that it sounded like he needed a good lawyer.
    He suggested mildly that I should let him be the judge of that, and repeated what he’d said over the phone, adding, ‘I’ll pay above your standard rates.’
    When I warned Don that I wouldn’t be able to save his marriage, his expression indicated a rueful acceptance of the fact. ‘Of course that’s what I want.’ And then, more humbly, ‘I’d be happy if you’d help demonstrate to my wife that I’m not a murderer.’
    When I said I’d have to talk to her, Don made a face and said, ‘She barely talks to me .’
    Then he changed the subject. ‘That detective who’s in charge, he likes taunting people, doesn’t he? He told me about all the other men Laila had wrapped around her little finger. He wanted me to see how stupid I’d been. I’d already seen that, actually, without any help from him. He told me about your husband. He implied that Ivan—is it Ivan?—had a better alibi than I did. What’s he hope to gain by playing us off against each other?’
    I wasn’t about to attempt an answer to this, and gathered that Don did not expect me to. He continued with only the briefest pause, ‘I thought of a way to thwart him at his little game. Joining forces.’ He smiled again,