Free Eden by Dorothy Johnston Page B

in order to ­discover who might be responsible for missing dollars, or the leak of information. Usually, by the time Ivan was called in, the trail had already been stamped on by half-a-dozen others, then abandoned as too messy, or because the security people supposed to be doing the tracking might themselves be implicated.
    It had been a change to have a decomposing body and the suggestion of a sex scandal to mull over. In the currents surrounding Carmichael’s death, my questions about his connections with CleanNet had seemed no more than a ripple. I wasn’t about to admit this to Lucy, but I’d begun to wonder who took filters seriously, apart from lobby groups and kindergarten teachers. I had the feeling that everyone else, from Senator Bryant down, with the possible exception of Ken Dollimore, was only pretending to. A professional would not have overturned my office looking for a CD, or a few sheets of paper. Was I barking up the wrong tree? Had the thief been after something else entirely?
    I had a quick breakfast, two cups of strong black tea, and went on with my cleaning up. As soon as I thought he’d be awake, I rang Peter at Port Arthur. He was full of excitement, chattering about his plans for the day. They’d been walking in a national park, and now they’d come to the part of the trip that he’d been looking forward to—convict history, the more gruesome the better. I said nothing about the break-in. I hadn’t intended to. I just needed to hear his voice. When Derek came on the line, I didn’t tell him either, replying to his, ‘Is everything okay?’ with ‘Sure’, aware that I could not expect reassurance from my ex-husband.
    I phoned Gail Trembath later in the morning. ‘Seems I might be dealing with an amateur.’
    Gail said, ‘If that makes you feel better, dear.’
    I thanked her for her sympathy.
    Deciding that it was a good opportunity to get rid of a lot of useless junk, and coughing from the huge amount of dust that had settled in amongst it, I carried piles of paper out to the recycling bin, every so often distracted into reading something I’d forgotten about. I pictured Ken Dollimore’s silver eyebrows clenched in concentration, his growing fury as he emptied one drawer after another. Whoever he was—whether Dollimore, or a complete stranger—he was out there, on the other side of brick and concrete barriers I had foolishly believed secure. Had he been at the funeral? Had he driven to my house and parked outside? Had any of my neighbours seen or heard him?
    I sent Lucy an email, then door-knocked up and down the street. Hardly anyone was home. Both my next-door neighbours had gone to the coast. One elderly man, opening the door after I’d knocked about thirty times, regarded me with undisguised alarm, as though I was telling him that he would be next.
    I stood at the counter of the city police station to fill in a report, trying to ignore the young constable whose expression said that I was wasting my time. I knew there were a dozen burglaries in Canberra on any given night, and I couldn’t even claim that my belongings had been stolen. I wished Brook was there, upstairs in his office, trading insults with his old friend Bill McCallum. I forgot what I was supposed to be doing for a moment, and stood with my pen in my hand, imagining dinner with Brook in a pub overlooking the ocean, picturing myself swimming in the sea. Brook was a strong, yet cautious swimmer. If there were flags, he’d be between them, yet far enough out to catch the good waves, bodysurfing them to shore with his action of a well-groomed seal.
    . . .
    Gail turned up in the middle of the afternoon.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ I asked her.
    She grinned. ‘A nice welcome. Come on, show me the damage then.’
    My office was pretty much back to normal. Gail looked disappointed at having to settle for a description of