‘Look,’ says Winifred, drawing her attention to the television. The ABC is crossing to a live event, a press conference out the back of the NSW Parliament. Someone turns up the volume. Graphics identify the pair fronting the cameras as a federal senator from New South Wales, Janine Trelore of the Labor Party, and the state’s deputy treasurer, Liberal Samson Fielding.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at short notice.’ The man takes the lead as if by right, voice sonorous and weighted with import, the pauses long and in all the right places. ‘In the past twelve hours, Senator Trelore and I have become aware of a most serious matter. We both believe it is important that we come forward as quickly as possible and be as open as we can in regard to this matter. However, we are constrained by active investigations by the police and other law enforcement bodies. We will tell you as much as we can, but we will be unable to take questions. Janine?’
‘Thank you, Samson. Last night and this morning, we have become aware of an investigation into what may or may not be a major criminal organisation. We have also learnt that we may have inadvertently—and, I must stress, entirely innocently—come into contact, at the periphery, with some of those being investigated. This association comes through our membership of a long-established and reputable dining club known as the Mess.’ She pauses before continuing; it’s not only Fielding who has been to Toastmasters. ‘It is essential to emphasise this point: neither Mr Fielding nor myself have been involved in any criminal activity. We are not accused of anything; we are not suspected of anything. We have not engaged in any unethical behaviour or behaviour that is in any way incompatible with our roles and duties as parliamentarians.’
Fielding takes up immediately where Trelore leaves off. The tag-teaming is remarkable for politicians on different sides of the aisle operating in different parliaments. ‘Our first instinct was to remain quiet, so as not to jeopardise police investigations, but we also came to understand that the Sydney Morning Herald’s D’Arcy Defoe, himself a club member, was preparing to go public with this story. We felt compelled, in the public interest, to reveal our own membership—asserting our innocence—and to defend the reputation of other highly respected members of our association who have also been caught up in this investigation inadvertently.’ He pauses for a Churchillian moment, then continues speaking with the weight of sadness in his voice. ‘You may see some very prominent names bandied around in the media over coming days and weeks. I implore all of you to act responsibly, and to remember that most of the people named, like Senator Trelore and myself, are completely innocent of, and completely ignorant of, any wrongdoing. They are simply the members of a dining club.’
There is a murmuring among the media, an attempt to insert a question, but Janine Trelore is not about to be diverted from the script, her voice strong and clear. ‘We believe inquiries centre on one rogue member, a man known to us as Harry Sweetwater. There is no evidence, as we understand it, of any other member being implicated at this stage. Should the police establish otherwise, let those cards fall as they may. If any Mess members are guilty of any crimes, of any impropriety, then they should face the full force of the law.’
Again, Samson Fielding takes over, perfectly. It seems so practised that Mandy wonders if they might be lovers. ‘Every month or so, a group of about thirty prominent Australians meet for dinner and conversation. Typically we hire out a small restaurant, or a private room at a larger restaurant. We meet to enjoy good food and wine, and to discuss the issues of the day. And that is all. The dining club is not politically aligned, it has no unifying objectives or agenda, it is simply a dining club, nothing more and nothing less. We attempt to keep the dinners confidential to protect the privacy of some of the members, who include politicians, union leaders, captains of industry, members of the judiciary and the wider legal profession and senior media figures.’
Janine Trelore’s turn. ‘Samson and myself have come forward in the interests of full disclosure. The big difference is we are public figures, while most other members are private citizens. It is entirely up to them to decide whether to identify themselves. Remember that: they are private citizens. So, thank you for coming. Mr Fielding and I wish we could tell you more, although to be honest, there is not a lot more to tell. Nevertheless, we don’t want to jeopardise ongoing investigations and we don’t want to assail the privacy of innocent people. Please be responsible in your coverage; please check your facts. Thank you for your time.’
There is the sound of camera shutters and yelled questions, then the vision cuts back to the Ultimo studio.
‘Covering their arses,’ says Winifred. ‘This thing is about to bust wide open.’
The television coverage has returned to the studio, where a tame academic is expounding on the history of secret societies. Martin’s phone rings: it’s Wellington Smith, his gradually recovering contact list identifying the number.
Martin speaks before the editor can start up. ‘Wellington, don’t worry. There’s plenty left for us.’
The mini mogul is so excited Martin can hear his enthusiasm fizzing down
