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

but did not refuse to meet me.
    . . .
    There was so much building going on in Kingston. Whichever way you turned your head, you couldn’t miss the new apartments. Bronwyn lived in a small semi-detached, one of a pocket of old houses being squeezed out by huge blocks of flats. It would not be cheap to rent, but I could see how someone working long hours in Parliament House would find such a house convenient. Whether or not they’d have time to stroll up and down the lake shore was another matter.
    The house wasn’t all that far from where Laila’s body, and Bronwyn’s car, had been found. A long walk, but by car no distance at all. The interior had been renovated, though not recently. It reminded me of the flat where my old boss, Rae Evans, used to live—anonymous and clean, the cleanliness not necessarily an indication of its tenant’s habits, but rather of the small amount of time she actually spent there.
    Bronwyn was angry. Anger shot out in a palpable electric current all around her. Her spiky hair vibrated with it. Her large, freckled hands made fists. Her long nose and chin were pointed, penetrating, both seeking and needing a target close to hand.
    She spoke in a high, staccato voice, filled with frustration at not being allowed to go home to Melbourne. She’d told the police everything she knew. It was ridiculous that they were making her hang around in Canberra.
    Bronwyn confirmed that she’d left Senator Fitzpatrick’s office three and a half weeks ago. Her contract had run out and she had decided not to renew it. She knew Laila, but they weren’t close friends. This came out like an accusation. She hadn’t had anything personally to do with Laila’s conservation group. Working for a senator was sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and more important, in her opinion, than waving banners and prostrating yourself in front of trees.
    I hadn’t seen any evidence that Laila’s group was into this activity, but I wasn’t about to contradict what Bronwyn said. Bronwyn couldn’t deny knowing Laila, of course, since it was her car Laila had been driving, but she refused to be drawn on where they’d met, or how long they’d known each other.
    â€˜That Monday I picked Laila up in Civic and she dropped me here.’
    Laila had been on her own, dressed in jeans and a white shirt and carrying a small back pack. She had not been wearing her red waistcoat. Bronwyn was adamant on that point. When I asked her if she knew whether the waistcoat had been a gift from an admirer, Bronwyn coloured deeply, and said she had no idea. They hadn’t fixed a time for her to bring the car back. Bronwyn had known that she was on her way to see Fitzpatrick, but not why. Laila hadn’t volunteered the information, and she hadn’t asked.
    The police had arrived shortly after ten. ‘There was a knock on the door. I thought it was Laila. They—I couldn’t believe what they were telling me. I didn’t believe it. I asked to see her. Of course they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t even tell me what had happened, just asked me all sorts of questions about my bloody car .’
    We talked about that night for a few more minutes, then I asked Bronwyn if she could recall what she’d been doing on the evening of Thursday 12 October last year.
    She stared at me as though wondering where on earth the question was coming from, then said curtly, ‘Parliament was sitting. I would have been at work.’
    Parliament had been in recess that week. I’d looked it up.
    â€˜What time did you finish?’
    â€˜It was months ago. How am I supposed to remember something like that?’
    When I asked about working for Senator Fitzpatrick, Bronwyn gave me the impression that she didn’t think much of Frances, or Jeremy Pascal.
    She looked disgusted as she said, ‘I’ve had enough of Canberra. It’s a bloody awful