‘This, of course, makes it look like suicide,’ continued the police officer. ‘Are we supposed to think that Jessie murdered her friend and was then overcome by remorse? But there are a few problems with this scenario. How did she get to The Gap from St Vincent’s after spending the night on a morphine drip? There’s no evidence she had money. She had no purse with her that night, did she, Miss Linderman?’
‘No, she wasn’t carrying a purse.’
‘So, no money for a taxi or tram. On foot then, on a hot day? Why did no one see her walking in broad daylight? Maybe she hitched a ride? Unless of course she was taken there at a different time—say, under cover of night. And why did the body wash up today? If she jumped last Monday, the tides would have brought her back in on Wednesday or Thursday at the latest. Did she go into hiding for some days and then commit suicide? The autopsy will reveal more.’
Miss Armfield turned a few pages of her notebook and took up the questioning. ‘Miss Linderman, you were with Miss Simmons the night she was attacked, correct? And you took her to the hospital?’
‘Yes, you took a statement from me about that night.’
‘In that statement you told me it was too dark to identify the man who attacked her.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Joan was on thin ice again.
‘And yet the other person present, a Mr Walter Greenwald, told us that, before he was knocked out cold, he got a good look at the man and even heard Jessie call him “Frankie”. Wally’s description of the man was a very good match with the gangster Frankie Goldman.’
‘I was scared; I think my memory was faulty,’ Joan admitted.
Bill was not looking at her now and had a frown on his face. Why hadn’t she just told the truth?
‘Do you now admit that Jessie’s attacker was Frankie Goldman?’
‘I think it probably was him.’
‘I want to ask you about your movements over the next few days after the attack on Jessie, Miss Linderman. On the Monday night you were seen to meet with a prostitute, Mavis Thorne, who worked with Ellie and was possibly the last person to see her alive. You bought her a drink at a sly-grog shop near the brothel and paid her money. Why would you do that?’
Joan was in a tight spot now. It was obvious she had been shadowed. Probably Bernie had too. It seemed that they were both prime suspects from the start. Joan had been lulled into a false sense of security by Armfield’s remark about their lack of resources: We’re pretty stretched what with all the troubles with the New Guard and the Reds. Joan had no choice now but to tell the truth, no matter how embarrassing. ‘I thought … I wanted to check with Mavis what really happened that night and ask her about some of Ellie’s clients.’
‘So, you were—what?—doing some detective work of your own?’
There was a stifled laugh from Inspector Richards. Joan could feel her pulse surge, her temper rising. Bill shot her another warning look.
‘I note for the record that the plot of Miss Linderman’s novel appears to be the murder case of Eleanor Dawson. As a writer, do you feel you can do a better job than the police, is that it?’
Joan gritted her teeth. This wasn’t fair. So far, she had given all the credit for the investigation in her novel to Armfield herself.
‘Tell me, do you know how your novel ends?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘So, you can’t say who the murderer is—at least, not yet?’
‘This is an absurd line of questioning!’ The solicitor’s eyes were bulging as if he had never heard anything so preposterous. (Was it the questions he found absurd, Joan wondered, or the thought of a woman crime writer for a start?) ‘A writer has not committed a crime because he—or she, in this case—chooses to write a story about it!’ ‘Or were you actually up to something else altogether, Miss Linderman, with your visit to Mavis?’ Sergeant Armfield persisted. ‘Persuading her to change her testimony, perhaps?’
‘No, no, it was not like that at all!’
‘Did Miss Thorne tell you she saw Ellie the evening of her murder with a bruise over her left eye?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘And did Miss Becker tell you how Ellie got that bruise?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Did she now? She admitted that she struck Eleanor in the course of an argument?’
‘While they were both drunk, yes.’
‘And you did not think this was worth reporting to the police?’
‘I believed Bernie … Miss Becker … when she told me that was as far as it went.’
‘I see. And then next thing we know you turn up at the Hotel Australia in a wig and a fancy frock. Would you like to tell us about that luncheon engagement?’
Joan could not, whatever the cost, involve Hugh. He had stuck his neck out to help her and her family. She could not repay him by admitting to the blackmail and getting him arrested too. Yet there was no way the cops would believe she had acted alone.
‘A gentleman who had been one of Ellie’s clients agreed to meet me. I thought he might know something useful. I was wrong, as it turned out. He has done nothing illegal so I would rather not betray his confidence. He paid for lunch. Old-fashioned type.’
Again, Abbott the solicitor spoke up. ‘Sounds harmless to me. As my client rightly points out, going to a brothel is not against the law. Nor is having lunch at the Hotel Australia.’
Armfield looked impressed by Joan’s coolness. ‘That same day you paid a visit to Ruby Dawson, Ellie’s mother, in Tempe. More detective work?’
‘Yes. And taking her some things she might need.’
‘Very charitable of you. And was she able to tell you anything useful?’
Joan hesitated for a moment. Should she drop Gordon’s name now, identify him as Ellie’s secret lover? Ruby would back her up. Joan was so angry at the cops’ contempt for her amateur sleuthing, she wanted to offer up something concrete, something that would change their view of the case. But then she remembered the threat: STOP NOW OR YOU WILL BE NEXT.
‘Not really.’
‘Frustrating, isn’t it? When people can’t remember the truth. Or choose not to tell you.’
The solicitor spoke up again. ‘My client has been very cooperative, Sergeant, answering all your questions to the best of her ability. But most of what you ask is based on speculation. Do you have any concrete evidence linking Miss Linderman to either of these deaths?’
Richards looked at Armfield, arms crossed. For a moment, Joan felt a stirring of compassion for the woman police officer she so admired. How ironic! If Armfield had been interrogating anyone else Joan may well have been cheering her on.
The sergeant addressed the solicitor. ‘I have a few more questions about the night of the murder. I assume that is alright with your client?’
Abbott looked at Joan, who nodded. She was exhausted, but she wanted this to be over.
‘Miss Linderman, can you explain why we found traces of blood on one of your brassieres?’
Joan flinched. Had she not washed that out? These were tiny flecks from the letterhead she had hidden there the night of the murder. ‘A nasty insect bite. I scratched it and it bled.’
‘Where was Miss Becker when you came downstairs on the night of the murder?’
‘She was in the corridor outside the bedsit.’
‘And her hands and blouse were covered in blood, is that right?’
‘Yes. She had tried to hug Ellie, or lift—’
‘Yes, that is what Miss Becker claims,’ interrupted Armfield. ‘You entered the room where the body was. How long were you in there for?’
Joan felt sick to her stomach. She was back in that room again, the pool of blood, the spray on the wall and the bedside table, Ellie’s throat and face …
‘I don’t really know. A minute at most?’
‘Did you remove anything from the crime scene, Miss Linderman?’
Armfield’s eyes were locked onto Joan’s, her stare unwavering. How in God’s name could this policewoman have
any idea that she had taken the letterhead? She was bluffing. No one knew about the letterhead other than Bernie and Hugh. Had Bernie said something?
‘Why would I do that?’ Joan countered, her cheeks burning.
‘To protect your closest friend, perhaps? Your mentor? Or to hide your own involvement in Miss Dawson’s death? You seem to know something about crime scenes, Miss Linderman; you would be well aware how vital every clue is to solving a crime. Did you take something from the crime scene?’
It seemed that Sergeant Armfield was building a case that Joan and Bernie had conspired to kill Ellie or that Joan was going to great lengths to cover up Bernie’s crime of passion. The police no doubt already had their trail of circumstantial evidence: the fact that she and Bernie were the first people on the crime scene with plenty of time to tamper with evidence; Mavis’s testimony about Bernie’s possessiveness, witnessed in the outburst at the brothel (Take your filthy hands off her!); Bernie’s threat to kill Ellie during an argument overheard by neighbours; Ellie’s black eye, reported to the police by Mavis but covered up by Bernie; maybe even eyewitnesses who had seen Bernie arguing with and assaulting Ellie; Bernie’s possession of a spare key to Ellie’s flat; the blood on her hands and blouse on the night of the murder. It was starting to look a lot like Ellie had been killed by a psychotically jealous lover. Bernie’s unpredictable mental state was not her fault but it could easily drag Joan down with her into a morass of damning evidence.
This case needed to be refocused on the two people who had more reason to want Ellie to be dead than Bernie. It would be so simple now for Joan to confess to stealing the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead from the scene of the crime. At least then the cops would have a reason to check if the prints on the cut-throat razor found at the scene matched her uncle’s (Joan presumed they would have already fingerprinted Bernie and Frankie Goldman). But with what ‘probable cause’? What could the police reasonably argue would connect Olympia and Gordon to Ellie and justify their line of investigation? Had Bernie told them about their evening at the Ladies’ Bacchus Club? While the cops were happy to pull in two helpless women for questioning, they wouldn’t dare lift a finger against a powerful man like Gordon Fielding-Jones unless they had some solid proof.
And, of course, the consequences would not be simple or pleasant. ‘So, where is this letterhead now?’ ‘Uh, well, you see, we used it to blackmail my aunt and uncle and they’ve probably destroyed it. The important thing is they paid up: that must point to a degree of guilt on their part, doesn’t it?’ But then how hard would it be for the cops to dig up Joan’s family history with her aunt and uncle, the anger she felt about them cutting off her mother and father without a penny, for abandoning her shell-shocked brother Richard while her other brother, James, went missing in battle under Gordon’s command? Excellent motives for blackmail. And even better for framing an aunt and uncle for murder. Maybe they would accuse Joan of planting the letterhead at the crime scene herself. Maybe they’d think she made the whole thing up.
And who knew what nasty consequences might follow if she started to tell the truth. With a wrench she thought of poor Rimbaud, and the death threat to her and Bernice that had been left by his lifeless body.
‘Miss Linderman, did you hear my question?’
‘I did,’ Joan replied. ‘And the answer is no. I took nothing from the crime scene.’
That seemed to have concluded this round of questioning. Joan shot a glance at Mr Abbott and Bill Jenkins to reassure them she was telling the truth. They both looked anxious, nervously folding and unfolding their hands, but Bill at least made an effort to smile back at her.
‘Are you charging my client with anything?’ asked Abbott, though he already seemed fairly confident of the answer.
Richards looked at Armfield, who gave a slight shake of the head. ‘We will probably need to speak with you again at some stage, Miss Linderman, as the investigation proceeds,’ said the police inspector. ‘We thank you for your time and cooperation today. You are now free to go.’
‘Good luck with your writing, Miss Linderman,’ said Armfield with a sardonic grin. ‘I look forward to reading the finished story.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As they left the police station, Joan reflected on the fact that, despite being shadowed to her meetings with Mavis and Ruby and the rendezvous at the Hotel Australia, there had been no questions related to Hugh. Had they managed to miss those meetings? Or was this a strategy to make her think that, as they had not identified him yet, it was still safe to see him?
Mr Abbott and Bill stood with Joan back on Central Street opposite the sandstone archway leading into the police’s domain. ‘It was a fishing expedition. They haven’t anything very convincing on you, Miss Linderman. It was mostly circumstantial. But I caution you to be careful. I have no doubt you will continue to be under police surveillance. Do not do anything provocative. Maybe stop your detective work for your novel for a while.’ He enunciated the phrase ‘detective work’ archly.
Bill patted Abbott on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one.’
The sweaty, squat solicitor rolled off down the lane, planting his hat on his head as a parting gesture.
‘I need a drink,’ said Joan. ‘Where can we go?’
Up until a few weeks before, Ernest Good’s Wine Bar on nearby Elizabeth Street had been one of Bill’s regular watering holes, but the owner was persuaded by the government to relinquish his licence for a sum reported to be more than three thousand pounds. Good’s had attracted a fair few column inches in the city papers over the last few years for the peddling of coke, the purveying of sly-grog and sometimes fatal disagreements involving guns and razors. Now its doors were closed.
‘It’s not even lunchtime, Joanie,’ Bill said with an awkward laugh, looking a little startled. ‘I agree we need to talk, but later. I’ve gotta head back to the office.’
‘Look over there,’ said Joan, nodding towards the other side of the street. ‘See that red-faced bloke with the grey moustache, pretending to read a newspaper?’
‘Yes, I see him.’
‘He’s watching us, isn’t he?’ Joan had recognised her uncle’s henchman, Geoffrey.
‘Yes, I believe he is.’
‘Let’s walk to the train station,’ said Joan, pointing in the direction of St Andrew’s Square. ‘He’ll follow.’ The new Town Hall station, with its decorative ironwork, tiled walls and wooden escalators, had been officially opened to the public only two weeks earlier, another engineering triumph by Mr Bradfield to complete the loop of the City Underground and the railway line across the bridge. Joan talked low as she walked. ‘You were right, I have been playing amateur detective. And I know who killed Eleanor and probably Jessie too.’
‘How on earth … ?’
‘Bill, please just listen. I don’t have much time. I screwed up royally. In a moment of panic I took an important piece of evidence from the crime scene. It was a letterhead from my aunt’s ladies’ sex club and it had my Uncle Gordon’s work phone number written on it.’
Bill’s eyes almost popped out of his head. ‘Shit!’
‘It gets worse. Hugh persuaded me to use this evidence to blackmail my uncle in order to help my poor parents and Richard. It seemed like a good idea at the time. That’s why I was at the Hotel Australia. The gentleman who’s behind us now is the one who delivered the packet of dosh!’
‘Holy fu—’
‘I know. So I’ve no doubt that evidence has been destroyed. But Ellie’s mother, Ruby, told me that Ellie’s secret lover for the last few months was a man named Gordon who had promised to rescue her from her shitty life. It seems Ellie took that literally, which was why she had her bags packed. But she wound up dead. Killed by Gordon? Or maybe by Frankie at Gordon’s request? Who knows? It’s also possible, you see, that Gordon and Phil Jeffs have a business partnership going on. None of this has anything to do with Bernie’s insane sexual jealousy except that Bernie socked Ellie in the eye
earlier that evening.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Bill was shaking his head, as if he was having trouble taking it all in.
‘It’s complicated.’
They were walking briskly now past the stately facade of the Regent Theatre, the most imposing cinema in the city. Posters were up announcing Greta Garbo in her latest film, Susan Lenox.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Joan. She stopped to buy a newspaper and then, as they crossed the street to Cathedral Square, she flicked through the advertisements. ‘There’s a screening of a Laurel and Hardy flick at four-thirty this evening at the Kings Cross Theatre. I’ll meet you in the dress circle. I’ll bring you hard evidence of Gordon and Ellie’s relationship that I took from Gordon’s study last night.’
They descended the stairs from George Street to Town Hall Station, pushing through the lunchtime tide of dark suits and grey homburgs.
‘Jesus, Joanie!’ Bill gasped. ‘Why don’t you just hand this stuff over to the cops yourself?’
‘When I got home last night someone had killed my cat and left a threatening note.’ Joan shivered as she thought again of Rimbaud’s stiff little body and glassy eyes. ‘Probably one of Gordon’s thugs, which would explain why his bloodhound is on my tail today. And I have no idea what informants his mate Jeffs has inside the CIB.’
‘Okay, okay, I get it.’
‘Maybe you could take this stuff to the cops. Someone you trust. I can’t think any further ahead than that.’ Joan was breathless now, aware of a panicky note in her voice, struggling hard not to give in to tears. ‘Walk me down to the platform. I don’t want that arsehole catching my train.’
‘Will do. Where are you headed?’
‘I don’t know right now. Anywhere. Just away from him.’
Joan paid for a ticket and so did Bill, and they passed through the turnstiles.
As they stood on the underground platform, their words almost drowned out by the noise of the rattlers thundering through the tunnels, Bill asked, ‘Where’s Hugh? Shouldn’t he be watching out for you?’
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 21