Read Online The Fourth Season by Dorothy Johnston - Free Book Online

acting for the conservation group, or flying solo. Had Laila’s attempt at hacking, that night at the internet cafe, been interrupted, and, if so, by whom? Or had no one interrupted her? Had she done her best and failed, leaving a trail that led to the cafe, if no further? Had Laila believed she was more skilled at stealing information than she really was?
    . . .
    Peter was reluctant to talk about Rowan. For some time now, he’d been keeping his school life to himself.
    When I mentioned Rowan’s name, Peter glared at me and said, ‘That drop kick. What do you want to talk to him for, Mum?’
    Most of the kids in Peter’s class had a home computer, and access to the internet. I knew this because I’d given a talk on security issues to the P&C. First, I’d helped them prepare and circulate a questionnaire. According to the responses, the first choice of those who didn’t have a home computer was the free internet service at Dickson library. My talk had been well publicised, and had helped me win the education contract. I thought I could make a reasonable guess as to why Rowan was paying for sessions at the cafe, and Peter confirmed it for me.
    â€˜His parents have put this filter on. It blocks out heaps of stuff.’
    â€˜Did Rowan tell you that?’
    â€˜He carries on. I told you, he’s a drop kick.’
    â€˜What does he carry on about?’
    â€˜Just stuff, okay! Why’d you have to go and ask him all those ­questions? He won’t let me forget it.’

Eight
    Laila Fanshaw, the committed environmentalist, had tried to break into a computer in the environment minister’s office, stolen sensitive material from the department, and then been murdered on her way to see a Greens senator.
    When the senator’s former staffer, Frances Hollinger, held out her hand to shake mine, greeting me with a shy smile, I realised I’d been unconsciously running her together in my mind with Gail. It was because of Gail that Frances had agreed to talk to me. But I couldn’t recall Gail shaking my hand once, in all the years I’d known her, and she was anything but shy.
    I’d had a bit to do with parliamentary staffers over the years. Without exception, they had condescended to me. Frances met me at a coffee shop in Civic—her choice—and I noticed that she looked around carefully before walking to a corner table at the back.
    She began our conversation by telling me she’d found another job. She spoke in a breathy voice, in which relief was mixed with guilt. Why should she continue working for a man whose environmental politics were faultless, but who shouted and threw books at her?
    Why indeed?
    When I asked Frances about the call from CSIRO, she said, ‘It’s still a mystery to me why Brian got so upset.’
    She explained that he’d been in a meeting, so she’d taken the ­caller’s name. When, later that day, she’d passed on the message, Brian had hit the roof.
    â€˜He should have apologised. Like straight away.’
    Nobody else had been in the office. The other two staff members, Bronwyn and Jeremy, had been at another meeting. I asked about Bronwyn and learnt that it was indeed her car Laila had borrowed the night she’d been killed.
    Frances frowned. ‘All this is for your partner, right? You’re worried about him?’
    I said I was. ‘He’s taken Laila’s death very hard.’
    Frances’s expression indicated that she was well aware Ivan was a suspect. No doubt she and Gail had discussed this at some length. But she gave me the impression that she saw me as a woman in trouble, whom she would help out if she could.
    She explained that the senate had been sitting on the night of Laila’s murder, so they’d all been working late. She’d arranged to message Brian when Laila arrived. Brian hadn’t left the House all evening. He’d grabbed something to eat