The Tower by Michael Duffy Page B

while, looking up at The Tower. The rain had stopped and much of the building could be made out, soaring into the night sky. It was strangely beautiful, and he stood there for some time looking at it, populating it in his mind with all the people he knew worked there. A thousand, someone had said. He wondered if Kelly had found a sergeant to head the strike force. Eventually, after checking his watch, he walked down Elizabeth Street until he found a cab.
    As they drove along Anzac Parade, Troy directed the driver to turn left into Lang Road and then into the Entertainment Quarter complex. He told him to stop down the end and got out and went over to a car parked next to the wall of the Fox film studio. A man was standing by the vehicle and they shook hands. The guy, a reporter from the Daily Telegraph , ran his eyes over Troy, pausing briefly at the ankles: the tracksuit trousers were about ten centimetres too short, and he wasn’t wearing socks. Troy gave him a copy of the statement and then turned on his heel, brushing away questions. The reporter followed him down the road, pleading for more information about The Tower, but Troy ignored him. He got back into the cab and told the driver to return to Anzac Parade and turn left at Alison Road.
    At the Shell service station he went into the shop and bought himself a bottle of orange juice. As he paid, he glanced outside at the parking spaces and saw a woman sitting in a car with the interior light on. He left the store and approached the car, and she got out.
    They shook hands; her grip was firmer than that of the man he’d just met. She introduced herself as Sacha Powell of the Sydney Morning Herald , and he began to tell her about what had happened. He knew McIver had spoken to her once or twice and he mentioned this, hoping there was some goodwill there. Her eyes lit up behind their glasses and he figured he was on the right track. For a moment he was tempted to lay out the political situation for her, describe Siegert’s antagonism, the decision the commissioner would have to make in the morning. But he’d told himself as he was waiting in Hyde Park there was nothing to be gained by explaining all this—you didn’t want to give these people any hint of your motives, it would make them suspicious. So now he stuck to the plan.
    â€˜Will Rogers support you?’ she said.
    He wondered if she’d heard anything, wondered why she thought Rogers might be an issue. But she was probably just fishing.
    â€˜Of course,’ he said.
    â€˜He’s a slippery bastard.’
    â€˜No comment.’
    She smiled. ‘Why are you giving me this?’ She waved the pages at him. ‘Tell me or I won’t use it. I need context. Your media unit’s not saying anything at all.’
    He felt nervous—no, more angry than nervous—about playing games like this.
    He said, ‘Do you fucking want it or not?’
    She put it behind her back and smiled again. He was beginning to dislike that smile. He wondered if anyone had ever told her it made her look like a shark.
    â€˜I have to go,’ he said.
    â€˜I need more.’
    He didn’t think so.
    For the rest of the drive home he felt a little wild, not sure of what he’d done. He recalled the feel of Powell’s cool skin when they’d shaken hands and ran his own hand along his thigh, as if to clean it. The fabric was unfamiliar and he looked down, for a moment forgetting what had happened to his own clothes.
    When he got home Anna was asleep in Matt’s room. He looked at them both, then closed the door gently. He and she had had a good life together, once. They’d argued about it, when she first started sleeping in the other room, but not anymore. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the arguing or the not arguing. Right now, though, he didn’t really care. He went to bed and fell asleep immediately.

Six
    R andall swung his Audi through the tunnels beneath