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ONE

When he first met Sara Christie, John Order mid-forties, single, member of the Australian Capital Territory parliament and its deputy speaker, would have taken her for the professional type.

Mid-thirties, blonde ponytail, no rings and over a medium size figure a white shirt tucked into blue jeans tucked into boots, a heavy black overcoat carelessly draped across the chair. It was difficult to imagine her even in the neutral setting of this Thai restaurant in the depth of Canberra’s winter lying naked on a bed enjoying the sex thing. Too cool, too confident, too cold.

“Why don’t you join us, John,” his political colleague and friend now Government Whip Rob Glasson was saying as Order made this assessment. “Unless …”

“No, I’d like to,” he’d replied, quick to head off the unspoken question he was meeting someone and sat down beside the woman as Rob’s wife, Carol, made the introductions.

“Sara’s in IT,” Rob explained, “an’ was recommended to us to sort out a problem Carol has.”

“I’m freelancing,” the woman added, displaying the very qualities of cool confident professionalism Order had suspected, and went back to studying the menu.

Maybe it was Order’s charm, which had stood him in good stead with other women previously, maybe his availability as a rare mature male in Canberra’s crowded young singles scene, perhaps but probably not even his position as an important local person - the political groupie attraction - but whatever, it did happen. Well, in rather than on a bed in deference to the weather and the cosy qualities of an electric blanket.

Nevertheless, outside such enjoyable intimacy and always in public Sara Christie was exactly what he assessed her to be at that first meeting: the confident cool professional some men also regarded as cold and ached to cut down to size in a brutal caveman manner.

And Sara was a woman who would competently and disdainfully reject such advances, Order recognised, like any seriously intelligent self-confident female who could pick and choose her lovers and look after herself.

Until she became a suspect in murder.

* * *

The gruesome event occurred about three weeks into their relationship and predictably made front page headlines because it had the makings of a first class scandal.

The bodies of Sue Fullerton and Timbo Albee had been discovered in what appeared to be a murder-suicide at the Albee’s prestigious inner Canberra home by Albee’s wife upon her return from a visit to Sydney.

Jon Fullerton and Timbo Albee were IT specialists and business partners, yuppies in their late thirties and well known along with their glamorous wives in the local social and charitable scene.

As yet childless, both couples were part of a new breed of technocrat and their spouses who had come in increasing numbers to the national capital over recent years to benefit from government outsourcing contracts. Able and diligent they quickly prospered and of late there had been comment in the business pages that Simple Solutions, their company, was looking to expand. In fact, it was reported, Jon Fullerton had been exploring such opportunities in Singapore when the tragedy took place.

“Did you know them, John?” Liz, his middle-aged divorced secretary asked, using the familiar term of address they both preferred when by themselves.

Order already had noted both couples lived in his electorate, which he assumed had prompted the question, and declared that he didn’t.

“Bit too rich for me, Liz. An’ they’re in a younger age bracket,” he added, gazing at the social page photograph of the foursome on a happier formal occasion.

Order wasn’t into the Canberra social scene. He believed he attended more than enough events in his electorate and increasingly was standing in for Speaker Chambers at official functions. This schedule took up enough of his time, he told himself defensively, but he knew there was another reason as well: as a single man he liked to choose his partners with care and as a politician he needed to do so. A too regular partner set tongues wagging about possible wedding bells, a variety of women set the gossips off, enviously perhaps, about the playboy politician, while turning up alone could raise questions about your sexuality or absence of it. Far better not to attend.

“Wonder where he got the name Timbo?”

“Diminutive of Timmy or Timothy, I guess.”

This was when the telephone shrilled.

“John?” Sara’s voice sounded tentative when Liz wordlessly passed the hand piece to him and left the room.

How much his secretary knew about his private life was a constantly intriguing question which Order never tried to have answered, nevertheless he lowered his voice to reply.

“I need your help,” Sara said and, coming straight to the point which was an engaging characteristic of the woman, added: “I’ve been questioned about the killings.”

“What -”

“The Fullerton-Albee deaths.”

“That’s a murder-suicide.”

“Not necessarily what the police think, it seems.”

“How are you implicated?”

“Long story. Can we meet for coffee? Are you sitting? No? Then say half an hour over here?”

This gave Order enough time to glance through his morning’s mail and drive across Lake Burley Griffin to their popular but discrete coffee rendezvous at the Kingston Foreshores.

Sara already was inside the almost empty restaurant, bundled up in a suede jacket and scarf, jeans and boots, looking pensively out at a cold grey and uninviting expanse of water in front of a lakeshore of bare trees. Her smile of greeting from between long blonde locks was the warmest item in sight.

“I used to work for Timbo Albee,” she began after the coffee arrived and before Order could begin his questions. “I walked out because he put the hard word on me. Wanted me to sleep with him,” she explained, in case Order didn’t understand the euphemistic expression.

“That’s sexual harassment,” Order suggested, remembering the letter he had left unopened upon his desk that morning.

“Of course. But I wasn’t shocked or outraged and I’m not the only one he’s tried it on, so there was nothing unique in his behaviour towards me.”

Sara paused and Order waited.

“He’s a handsome guy. Well, was. They both are. Fullerton’s a spunk too, but I didn’t want to get involved with a married man. Too messy, so I decided to leave.”

The voice of experience, Order wondered, but instead asked why such a minor unresolved incident should have the police asking questions.

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps they’re interviewing anyone who had anything to do with Sue and Timbo.”

“But why track you down? After all you haven’t worked with him for what, months?”

“Months,” Sara agreed. “But it’s not difficult to identify a source because my ex-flat mate Melanie still works there.”

“An’ she knew?”

“She knew alright. That’s why she’s an ex-flatmate. She fancied Timbo herself,” Sara explained, seeing Order’s puzzled expression, “an’ made her jealousy all too obvious. She probably told the police.”

“Who don’t think it’s murder-suicide,” Order reflected aloud.

“Would appear not an’ that’s why I need your help.”

“Howso?”

“The police want to know where I was on the night of the deaths.”

“I see.” And Order did see, very clearly.

“I was with you, Mr. Politician. In your bed. You’re my alibi, but before I gave out your name, I thought I should discuss the implications with you.”

“Very considerate of you, Sara, and my thanks.”

“My thoughtfulness doesn’t solve your problem however, John. These deaths are a juicy scandal for the media an’ your involvement, however peripheral, could add more garnish to the story.”

This was true. The fourth estate in general respected the private lives and peccadilloes of politicians provided they didn’t flaunt themselves in public. So getting drunk was unremarkable and unreported, getting charged with driving under the influence was not and the offender was fair game.

Order didn’t see why he should be identified by name as Sara’s alibi, but he wasn’t any nameless boyfriend and knew there was a risk, however small, of the information becoming public. And there were enough wowsers in the electorate - and the Party - to disapprove of their bachelor parliamentary representative carrying on with an attractive blonde while other voters would be envious even without salacious details. It was publicity he could do without and without the added problem of the unopened letter back in the office.

Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t avoid involvement. He’d have to take a chance the media wouldn’t find out or would overlook his minor role in this big story.

“Okay. If you want me to confirm your alibi, I’ll do so. Who do I speak with?”

“Thanks, John.” Sara reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” she whispered with a naughty grin.

“Before I take you back to the flat straight away,” he protested, “who do I contact?”

“A detective inspector named Williams,” she replied.

TWO

“Get another chair,” Gabby Williams said to Sergeant Shanks.

“Does he have to sit in?” Order whispered, while the officer was out of what appeared to be an interview - or was it an interrogation - room at the Civic Police Station. Whatever it was the windowless walls were fading white, furnishings were sparse and Order could imagine some people would confess to anything to get out of the claustrophobic space.

“This isn’t the 87th Precinct or a TV show, John. We’re not questioning you. Shanks is here to keep me company, if you like. You asked to see me, remember?”

Order decided in the years he had known the laconic policeman, Gabby’s explanation had to be one of the longest speeches he had heard him make. Behind him he heard a chair scrape and the door close then Sergeant Shanks came back into view.

“It’s about Sara Christie,” Order began.

“Really?” The big inspector’s sleepy eyes registered nothing but didn’t leave his face.

“She couldn’t have done it. The killings.”

“Nobody’s suggesting she did, but why not?”

“Out of character,” said Order, who had known her less than a month.

“Why?” Williams was back to his unsettling monosyllabic questioning technique.

“I know this woman,” Order replied clumsily, as he knew.

“No alibi,” Gabby threw in, breaking up the assembling defence.

Here we go, Order admitted to himself. “She has,” he said quietly.

Williams simply raised his eyebrows.

“Gabby, this is a little awkward.” Order looked quickly toward an impassive Sergeant Shanks. “I’m a politician, single; she’s an attractive also single woman-”

“She was with you?” the inspector asked helpfully.

“With me.”

“You might have to give evidence to this effect in court, John,” Gabby cautioned.

“I understand. However, as friends and free agents I’ve nothing to hide an’ neither has Sara - Ms. Christie.”

“Understood. Your confirmation should clear Ms. Christie as a suspect,” Williams said confidently, “particularly if you’re prepared to testify, if necessary, to her being with you over the entire period under investigation.”

Williams careful words, perhaps delivered with satisfaction, gave a warning and alerted Order to ask what time scale they were addressing.

“One died sometime before midnight, John, while the other died later, probably between two and four in the morning. You’re still sure about Ms. Christie?”

As he reconfirmed his alibi for Sara, Order saw his predicament, even to the headlines over this tasty snippet of gossip, and thought again of the unopened letter in his office.

“But surely that’s not possible,” he scoffed, challenging the wide time variation so damaging to him. “Nobody broods for hours over a body before killing themselves.”

“That’s an aspect we’re not happy about either,” volunteered Gabby Williams.

“So you’re suggesting-”

“I’m suggesting nothing, John. Thank you for providing us with an alibi for Ms. Christie. We can now exclude her from further enquiries.”

Williams stood and shook hands, Sergeant Shanks opened the door, led him through the building labyrinth to the street entrance and Order walked back to his office in a cold wind beneath dull winter skies.

“The Whip wants to speak with you, ASAP. Could you phone him please an’ a man wants to talk to you about a Ms. Christie. Wouldn’t leave his name.”

Order thanked his secretary and phoned Rob Glasson. The mysterious man who wouldn’t leave his name was forgotten: politicians had more than their share of such people who often turned out to be cranks.

“Looks like the Young Turks are moving on Bernie, John,” Glasson stated without preliminaries.

“So soon? What grounds?”

“Grounds? Whoever worried about a reason?” Glasson said sourly. “They just think he’s too old.”

“An’ the best strategist we’ve got.”

“They don’t accept that. These are arrogant young university graduates, minders in politicians’ offices, when they’re not politicians themselves. They’ve seen bugger-all of life; they regard the punters as peasants an’ believe they’ve a right to power.”

Glasson could have saved his breath, Order knew all about the minders and their insatiable thirst for political intrigue. Usually they reserved their faceless maneuverings for preselection mischief but with at least two years to go before fronting the voters again, they were restless.

So elderly, shy, balding Bernie, chain-smoking cardigan-wearing Party Secretary who gave sound practical political advice following the election of new members of parliament was to be dumped for no other reason than he was too old.

Glasson was still talking but Order’s mind had wandered back to examples of the old man’s counsel over the years:

- Learn the jargon of government and public service speak

- Never make a decision alone

- If people betray you, don’t get mad, get even

His advice to a nervous new government committee chair when Order thought he might get the job was a textbook example of how matters should progress: the committee secretary will do all the work and as chair you keep the committee members in line, ensuring they don’t make recommendations critical of our government. And be gentle with the witnesses coming before the committee.

“But if I do that, won’t the witnesses expect we’ll bring down a sympathetic report?” he recalled asking.

“And do so,” Bernie had replied. “John, you must make sure the committee brings down a report calling for whatever is called for. The Government then accepts the report and promises to give it serious consideration. In due course and after the heat has died down - because that’s usually why a committee looks at something - the Government gives a response to the parliament, probably agreeing to most of the recommendations, after all it was a government-controlled committee. Then, unless we’re dealing with a hot emotional issue like child abuse, the implementation of the report’s suggestions disappear into the political never-never.”

He’d protested, Order recalled. What if the Opposition wanted to know what had happened to the report’s recommendations?

Bernie had regarded him with a look of disappointment.

“The Government’s working on them, of course. Rome wasn’t built in a day and to do justice to the committee’s thoughtful and eminently sensible suggestions a departmental task force must be assembled to work out the most efficient - read financial - and desirable way to implement … You understand?”

And this was the wise old cynic they wanted to get rid of?

“- an’ he’s saved your political future a few times, John,” Glasson stated.

Protected me from angry party enemies, confirmed Order to himself.

“So how do we save Bernie?”

“Same as always, dirt an’ favours. I’ll be in touch,” concluded Glasson, hanging up.

Order was relieved the Whip had taken responsibility for saving Bernie, because he had enough problems of his own. He wondered selfishly if Bernie knew of the threat to himself and if the knowledge would affect his help if Order needed him.

Impatiently he picked up the unopened but identifying letter from his desk, a move which said let’s-get-this-over-with to anyone watching, and roughly wrenched the contents from the envelope.

He wondered why he’d delayed for so long, because it repeated exactly as he’d read in the first piece of unwelcome correspondence, albeit as a cautionary reminder.

Irene Holmes (nee Watson), said the one page letter from a firm of suburban Sydney solicitors, was seeking maintenance for her twelve year old son, John, conceived out of wedlock following a brief affair before their client’s departure overseas to Canada and subsequent marriage. Upon the dissolution of that union eighteen months ago, their client had returned to Australia with the boy and by fortuitous (but unspecified) circumstances had succeeded in tracking down daddy after all these years.

At the best of times no politician wanted a paternity suit with its high risk of attendant career-killing publicity, but now with Sara’s obvious sleep-over if he was to provide her with an alibi, Order faced the stark choice of pay up to shut up or be seen as some oversexed parliamentary satyr.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Creator:	Cornwell, Greg, author.
Title:	Order and the Luckless Lovers / Greg Cornwell.
ISBN:	978-1-925681-36-9 (ebook)
Series:	Cornwell, Greg. John Order politician & sleuth series ; Book Five.
Subjects:	Detective and mystery stories. Canberra (ACT)--Fiction.