‘EP?’

  ‘Executive producer.’

  About five minutes later a large, shambling bear of a man swiped himself through the access gates that separated the foyer from the rest of the building. In his sixties, Jackie reckoned, a lot of hard living behind him. His jeans were slung underneath his blowzy paunch, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a large hardcover notebook under one arm. He peered at Jackie over steel-framed glasses, extended a hand. ‘Norm Petersen,’ he said. ‘EP for the show tonight.’ He used his card to open the gate for Jackie, came through behind her, and ushered her down a staircase to the floor below.

  ‘Done this before?’ Petersen wasn’t trying for charm, but he exuded a sense of generosity and calm reassurance.

  ‘Been on TV, you mean? Only in media conferences, as a repre­sentative of the force. Not in a studio, an interview like this.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her, ‘it’ll be over before you know it.’

  Jackie kept her counsel.

  Petersen led her through a maze of white-walled corridors punctuated by closed doors on either side, here and there a glass pane showing an open-plan office filled with desks and monitors. Some desks were occupied, most empty. ‘Sunday night,’ he explained laconically. Then he stopped, said, ‘Jackie Rose. Rose. Your father?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Already here. He’s in the Green Room, talking to …’ Petersen opened a door, no different from all the others, and ushered Jackie into a room which looked like a miniature, shabby, Qantas lounge. In one corner, two long, black leather couches met at right angles; in front of them a scuffed wood-veneer coffee table displayed an open box of tissues. Plastic stackable chairs completed the circle. One long wall was given over to counters sporting a microwave, a well-stocked bar, a fridge and glass-fronted shelves arrayed with crockery. Two doors punctuated the wall opposite. One was labelled wardrobe, the other studio. The remaining space was filled with framed promotional posters and television monitors, at that moment blank.

  What drew Jackie’s interest, however, was the four men clustered together on the couches, heads close, like a football team before a match. When the door opened the heads separated and they looked up, expressions neutral.

  In the instant between recognition and greeting, Jackie realised what was going on. It was not yet five, but all the men held drinks. They’d been there a while, then, and this was the pre-pre-meeting, the caucus where actual decisions were made. She checked off the faces looking back at her. Her father, silver-haired and relaxed. Steve Panneck, Deputy Police Commissioner. What was he doing here? Alan Grant, his expression mutinous. And – fuck me, Jackie thought – Gregory Foreman, current Minister for Police.

  No sign of Harwood, Barnett, not even the actual commissioner. Had they been herded somewhere else? Had they not yet arrived? Had Petersen the EP made a mistake letting her into this little scrum?

  No, he hadn’t. Behind her, a walkie-talkie on Petersen’s belt beeped and a voice said, ‘Your other guests are in reception.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Petersen said. He turned to Jackie. ‘Here you are.’ He waved towards the bar. ‘Help yourself.’ Then he retreated.

  Stanton Rose was on his feet, arms wide, ready to give his daughter a fatherly embrace. Jackie had no choice but to submit, although she stood rigid within it. ‘Gentlemen,’ Stanton said, ‘my daughter, Inspector Jackie.’

  ‘Rose,’ snapped Jackie, immediately regretting it. ‘Inspector Rose.’

  Minister Foreman lifted his backside in a token gesture. Stanton, exuding bonhomie, introduced him. Foreman was a tall man in his fifties with the cadaverous look of the obsessive runner. His hair was gelled in a peak, his teeth too white to be real. ‘Inspector Rose,’ he intoned, making a joke of it. ‘Heard good things.’

  Deputy Commissioner Steve Panneck made do with a nod. Alan Grant, too, gave a slight dip of his immaculately coiffed grey head.

  Jackie wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to join such exalted company, but Panneck waved her to one of the plastic chairs. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. Then, to Foreman, ‘Greg, should we fill her in?’

  Greg. Not Minister Foreman, but Greg. Panneck was jostling for promotion. Everyone knew he was after the commissioner’s job. He’d been a shoo-in for it when it came up, but a drink-driving incident had put him temporarily on the nose and Liddell had leapfrogged over his back to claim it. The on-the-nose part was over by now and Panneck was determined to chisel Liddell out of what he considered his chair, white-anting her with every chance he got. His appearance here was obviously a strategic move. He was counting on Liddell to shoot herself in the foot.

  Foreman said, ‘Might as well wait for the full complement to arrive. Get yourself a glass of something, Inspector Rose.’ Same joke. He didn’t know when to let go. Obediently, Jackie opened the fridge. Alcohol aplenty, but this was a soft-drink occasion. She cracked open a can of Coke and poured it into a tumbler. Brought the glass back to the men, pulled up one of the plastic chairs.

  Petersen reappeared, this time leading Commissioner Liddell in full uniform, in her wake Brad Harwood and Mitch Barnett, his strut hiding his nervousness. When Liddell saw the group on the couch, she froze. A millisecond only, but no doubt about it; she hadn’t expected either Panneck or Foreman. Then she moved forward, shook hands, expressed happy surprise. Harwood and Barnett didn’t rate individual greetings. After general introductions, they, too, took their plastic chairs.

  Drinks were organised. Spirits or beer for the men, sparkling water for Liddell. Two young women appeared. Petersen introduced them as Wardrobe, there to check that what the panel wore wouldn’t strobe on screen. Satisfied, they withdrew. An even younger woman arrived, filled and placed bowls of peanuts and rice crackers, said she’d fetch people for make-up around six. Hours, then, to fill before eight-thirty, when the show went to air.

  Petersen the EP took a seat next to Jackie. He opened his folder and addressed the group. ‘Good to have you together in plenty of time. So. Great Australian Mysteries and The Week on Sunday are joining forces for a special edition tonight. Marsha Quintana will join us later. I’m sure you know her work. Alan here has prepared questions, but Marsha will ask them. She’ll introduce you all, and she and the floor manager will make sure things run smoothly.’

  Liddell, seemingly over the shock of ambush, addressed herself to Alan Grant. ‘Before we go any further, Alan, I need to know what these surprises are, the ones you haven’t told us about, though you’ve promoted them all over the place. We were promised transparency and unless we’re clear about what we’re facing tonight, nobody’s going anywhere.’

  Grant’s face was a study in pain. He shot a look at Foreman, who gave a reassuring nod. ‘Photographs. We’ve decided not to use them,’ Grant said.

  Jackie realised she was clutching her glass so tightly her hand hurt. She tried to ease her fingers, shot a look at her father. He and Minister Foreman exchanged glances. Foreman turned to Petersen. ‘Norm, can you give us the room?’ He pointed at Harwood and Mitch Barnett. ‘You too. This won’t take long.’ Foreman checked the other faces, to see who else should be excluded. His gaze fell on Jackie. He opened his mouth, closed it again, his train of thought clear. The daughter? Leave her. She’d be a safe pair of ears.

  Petersen, unruffled, left by the door to Wardrobe. Harwood, his back stiff as a board and Barnett, ruffled and strutting, followed. Stanton waited until the door had closed behind them and said, ‘What I’m about to reveal is, as far as I’m concerned, classified. It is not to leave this room.’

  Foreman echoed him. ‘That directive comes from me as well.’

  Stanton placed his empty glass on the coffee table, opened his hands as if cradling an imaginary ball. He cleared his throat. ‘Recently, Trevor Curran brought a set of photographs to Alan here, insisting that they be revealed on air tonight. Those photos show that back in the late eighties I had a very brief, very casual, affair with Belle Fitzgerald.’ He waited for a reaction. Jackie felt heat in her cheeks, forced herself to keep her face blank. Nobody spoke.

  Stanton nodded, sighed. ‘Had Curran checked with me first, I would have explained that I was acting under orders from Bensimon and Monroe. Orders that, in my undercover role, I could not refuse, because to refuse would have meant exposure and perhaps, who knows, death.’ He brought his hands together, entwined the fingers, met the gaze of the group. Let a long moment pass. ‘Of course, my superiors at the time were aware of my actions. We weighed them up against our goals. Our eyes were always on the bigger picture, the end that justified the means. What I had to do was difficult, and came at great personal cost. But –’ he lifted his head, defiant ‘– I’m proud of the results I achieved.’

  It was a virtuoso performance. The hero, proud but humble, explaining away his flaws by pointing to the white light of victory. Heading off attack by arguing official sanction. Another pause, then Stanton went on, still in the same overly formal tone, ‘However, those photos reveal more than their contents. Trevor Curran took them, obviously without our knowledge. In some he used a telephoto lens. Curran stalked us. I don’t know why. He could have been jealous, or acting for the developer, or hoping for a story, or have been acting for some other unexplained reason …’ He shrugged his bewilderment. ‘I only wish he were here to explain. His suicide is tragic, but understandable, given the circumstances.’

  ‘All very well,’ Grant snapped, breaking the spell, ‘but we’re still in a bloody deep hole. We promised the viewers something amazing and now we’ve got bugger-all.’

  Liddell and Foreman spoke together, Liddell conceding to Foreman, who said, avuncular, ‘May be able to help you there, Alan. Tonight might be a good time to announce that Stanton Rose has agreed to stand for preselection as Labor candidate in the seat of Balmain.’

  Jackie, stupefied, felt the atmosphere shift. Everyone in the room knew what was happening. However damaging the photos, they’d never see the light of day. And if they did, if Alan Grant ever made the career-ending move of releasing them, or causing them to somehow appear, there would be people standing beside Stanton, patting him on the back for his over-the-top courage. She had to hand it to her father. He’d flipped the worst thing that could happen to him into a new and glittering prize.

  Grant wasn’t happy. ‘With all due respect, Minister, that’s not a good idea. It’ll draw focus from the show and besides, a state-based political announcement for a national audience is hardly what we promised the punters. Won’t exactly turn the world upside down. The show tonight will be a fucking – excuse my French, ladies – a damp squib.’

  Foreman conceded. ‘You’re probably right. We’d planned to announce later this year anyway.’

  Commissioner Liddell said, ‘I may be able to help you, Alan. Where’s the producer gone?’

  ‘Petersen?’ Alan Grant, hope flickering, bounded to the Wardrobe door, knocked. Petersen, calm, returned. First Barnett, and then Harwood, followed.

  Liddell waited for Harwood to sit down and settle in. ‘It concerns Trevor Curran,’ she said. ‘Chief Inspector Harwood, please explain.’

  Harwood, as if called on by a teacher, sat up straight. He sent a finger to loosen his collar, rolled his neck, and began. With a surprisingly impressive grasp of the facts, he outlined the findings at Trevor Curran’s house, the implications of the shrine and the St Christopher medal. He explained how these elements, together with the way Belle’s Fitzgerald’s body had been laid out, led inescapably to the conclusion that Curran had murdered and buried Belle Fitzgerald. Although he noted that Jackie and her team had made the discoveries, he gave the impression he’d been directing them.

  As Harwood spoke, Jackie kept her eyes on her father. Neither his position nor his expression changed. He knows, she realised with a shock. This is not a surprise. Because surely, if he were hearing this for the first time, if he grasped the implications of Frankie’s innocence and what he’d done to her, he wouldn’t be so calm. Even he couldn’t summon such superhuman self-control.

  Liddell sat back, satisfied. This was a massive win, a gold star on the reputation of the force and on her standing as a leader. Jackie saw Minister Foreman purse his lips in appreciation, saw Steve Panneck drop his head. No way Panneck could top this and, deflated, he made an excuse and left soon after.

  Meanwhile, they had to reconfigure the show, and time was short. Alan Grant’s script had to be reworked. Norm Petersen decided this was above his pay grade and called in the station heavies. The director of news and current affairs and the chief legal counsel presented themselves. Each was flanked by underlings and followed by PR crews, including a couple of people who looked to Jackie like teenagers, and whose job it was to manage social media.

  Harwood was ordered to repeat his explanation. The lawyer and director of news left the room to confer and when they returned they gave the panel the go-ahead to tell the nation about Curran’s obsession and his shrine, as well as the St Christopher and its implications. At which Jackie spoke up, the single dissenting voice. What about fair trial, she argued, what about innocent until proven guilty? But she was overruled: by the lawyer, who insisted his was the word of God; by the director of news, who could smell ratings, and by Commissioner Liddell, who saw this case as an opportunity to get people’s minds off the never-ending drug shootings and onto something the cops were doing right.

  The PR teams dispersed to prepare, and for a short while the room fell into silence. At seven precisely, Marsha Quintana arrived. She was a doll-sized woman who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, with a pointed chin and charisma to burn. She settled herself down with a glass of wine, lit up despite the no smoking signs, went through the questions and, that done, chatted briefly to each panel member. Paying particular attention to Stanton Rose.

  At seven-thirty, they were taken in pairs to Make-up, where they were primped and powdered and prepared for the nation. The make-up lady stood behind Jackie. ‘Lovely skin,’ she said. ‘Mind if I do something with your hair?’

  Jackie hated being pawed by strangers. ‘I’m a cop, not a film star.’

  The make-up girl, unfazed, went to work.

  ‘Look at that.’ She had a point. Tinted foundation and powder had disguised Jackie’s haggard tiredness, and her hair had been subtly rearranged in a way that suggested beauty. Whatever. All Jackie wanted to do was to get through the next couple of hours.

  And then they were herded out of the Green Room and through a door leading into a cavernous studio, a large, bare warehouse painted black, entirely utilitarian. No make-believe world of theatre here. The audience in their raked seats would see how the illusion worked. Lights and equipment hung from steel beams. Cameras on dollies stood idle, their snouts directed at a white circular desk with the words the week on sunday emblazoned in red running across the front and five barstool-like chairs spaced carefully at the back. Behind the chairs, a curved white cyclorama echoed the circle.

  The lights, blindingly bright and angled towards the set, prevented Jackie from seeing the audience, already seated. Tickets had been allocated using a lottery system, the floor manager explained. The lucky winners fidgeted and occasionally coughed but were otherwise silent, overawed by even the presence of cameras. Around them, in darkness beyond pools of light, men murmured into handheld transceivers.

  Marsha Quintana entered, to fervent applause. She bowed, raised a regal hand, and hoisted her petite frame into the middle chair, allowing a technician to arrange the clear spiral cord connecting the earpiece in her right ear to the radio taped to her back. Then the panel members were led to their allotted places, also to applause, this time scattered and polite. Cops on Quintana’s left: Jackie first, then Liddell. Two panel members only, they’d been told, and obviously the commissioner should be one. The other spot had been hard fought, and Jackie, field officer and Stanton Rose’s daughter, voted in. Harwood hadn’t taken his exclusion well and Jackie guessed she’d pay for it later. The Great Australian Mysteries team sat on the right. Alan Grant was placed next to Marsha, and Stanton Rose next to him. Minister Foreman, Harwood and Barnett trailing behind, entered the studio. Foreman was ushered to a reserved seat in the front row. The other two were squeezed in behind him.

  The make-up artist returned to inspect every panel member’s face, dabbing powder on foreheads with a large, soft-bristled brush. She retreated. The floor manager signalled silence and counted down. Introductory music, and Marsha Quintana swung into action. She acknowledged the traditional owners, introduced the program and did a stellar job of recounting the disappearance of Belle Fitzgerald and the discovery of her remains, finishing with Bensimon’s death. She said nothing about Trevor Curran.

  Lastly, she introduced the panel. ‘On my left,’ she said, ‘are Commissioner Janine Liddell, head of the New South Wales Police Service, and Inspector Jackie Rose, who was tasked with investigating the most intriguing cold case so far this century. To my right is my colleague Alan Grant, the force behind one of this network’s most popular programs, Great Australian Mysteries, and next to him is someone I’m sure you all recognise: Stanton ‘Rosie’ Rose, former police officer, recipient of several awards for his undercover work in Kings Cross, right at the time Belle Fitzgerald went missing. What you may not know is that Stanton is Jackie Rose’s father. What a dynasty!’

  Marsha Quintana returned an unsmiling gaze to the camera. ‘The origins of this tragic case go way back into the 1980s, when Kings Cross had a reputation as the centre of Sydney’s underworld. I must warn viewers that what we are about to discuss might be confronting. It will include descriptions of violent acts, including suicide. If this touches you or someone you know, I urge you to seek help and support.’ As she spoke, details of helpline contacts were projected on the screen behind her.