by Pamela Hart
I nodded. ‘There’s just one thing …’
‘Yes?’
‘If I go back with that interview, the news director is going to ask for the name of the private investigator.’
Carter frowned. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can reveal that.’
‘Why not?’
It stopped him. He didn’t seem to be used to direct questions. ‘Uh, because it’s confidential.’
‘Why?’
‘Because any details of Dr Weaver’s personal life are confidential.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed. ‘He won’t be able to reveal anything to us.’
‘So why do you want the name?’
‘I don’t,’ I said, with convincing earnestness. I really didn’t. ‘But the news director will, and I’ll get in trouble if I don’t have it … it’s not like the investigator will say anything, but it would be great if I could give news the information.’ I smiled sadly. ‘They think education is a bit naff, you know.’
He thawed a little. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. His name is Garry Monahan.’
‘Thanks!’ I gushed.
Carter went out and Terry and Dave shouldered the equipment. I picked up one of the cases.
Before we went out the door, Terry said, ‘You’re good at that poor little girl stuff.’ His tone was faintly accusing.
‘Hey, when you’re dealing with a patriarchal arsehole like Carter, you’ve got to play the gender card as hard as you can,’ I said, laughing.
We went through the door and found Patience just on the other side of it, glaring murderously at me. Whoops! She’d heard.
I shrugged. ‘So shoot me. I don’t like your father.’
Her face went curiously blank. ‘Everybody likes Father,’ she said, in much the same way as she might say, ‘The sun gives off light.’
‘Not me,’ I said.
She turned on her heel and went to the kitchenette behind Carter’s office, disappearing as though she were hiding. That was interesting.
Carter and Eliza were nowhere to be seen, and the dragon let us out the door without comment.
We drove back to the city in silence except for ABC 702 on the radio, and I wondered if Carter’s tears had been based on religion, or on something more personal. What had been his real relationship with Julieanne?
CHAPTER NINE
I have to admit, it was a sweet moment when Tyler turned to me after viewing the tape and said, ‘Not bad. I don’t suppose you got the name of the private investigator?’ and I said, ‘Garry Monahan.’
After that, I gave my borrowed finery back to wardrobe and thankfully went home. I was exhausted, even though it was only five o’clock. Luna Park seemed a lifetime ago. As I pulled into a parking spot near my parents’ house I tried to remember what I was supposed to be doing tomorrow. The warehouse with fluffy toys. That was it. At least that didn’t start until nine.
My parents were quite excited about the scene of crime tech who had come to take their fingerprints. She liked fruitcake too, it turned out. I yawned my way through dinner and slumped in a lounge chair with a cup of tea afterwards, waiting for the interview to show up.
There was a short piece on the news about Julieanne’s death, complete with a quick grab of Julieanne explaining the significance of the pottery and footage Terry had shot of the pit and the living room. The strap at the bottom said Exclusive to the ABC. Reference was made to Julieanne’s bid for preselection. The anchor told viewers there would be an interview with Matthew Carter on The Daily Report. My parents were hyped about me showing up on the news, and even more excited about me being on The Daily Report. Just like a real reporter! Mum rang everyone in the family and got them to record it.
‘I can get copies from work,’ I said.
They didn’t listen.
I smiled as I heard Mum on the phone. She’d never say so to my face, but she kept making comments like, ‘Well, of course, she’s very good at her job’ and ‘They’re very pleased with her, you know’.
I got up to put my cup in the dishwasher and gave her a hug as I went past.
She patted me absently on the back and to my aunty in Brisbane said, ‘Well, it’s an ill wind.’ I guess she meant that at least Julieanne’s death was helping my career.
I’m sure Julieanne would have been delighted.
My Aunty Mary arrived in time to watch The Daily Report with us, complete with her special apricot rum balls and yet more fruitcake. She settled down comfortably on the lounge and announced happily, ‘I’m dying, you know.’
‘Shh,’ my mother said. ‘It’s starting.’
I logged in to Twitter—there were always people live tweeting #dailyreport and I wanted to see the reaction.
The show did a background piece on Julieanne and the Australian Family Party before they showed the interview. They’d managed to get a grab from Annie, bemoaning the loss of a valuable employee. Annie’s upset was genuine. Even though Julieanne was a bitch, she was a very capable and knowledgeable bitch, and she’d be hard to replace. Then they played the interview.
I winced as I watched it, of course. You always do. Because the mastoid bone carries your voice from your throat to your ear, as well as the sound coming through the air, we all think our voices are deeper than they are. Whenever I hear my voice on tape, I think I sound like a five-year-old. And no one else thinks it’s odd, so that means I really do sound like that.
Twitter was having a ding-dong row between left-leaning cynics and members of the Radiant Joy Church. They were certainly up with the social media pile-on. I wondered how many of the people in Carter’s electoral office were involved. Sure enough, I found the profile of the woman who had let me into the office; she was being vicious to anyone who criticised Carter.
Then—rather oddly, I thought—The Daily Report showed the interview with me. I would have done it the other way around, but I understood when they threw from the grab of me saying, ‘I hope the police can catch this monster,’ to a quick interview with Detective Sergeant Chloe Prudhomme, who was discreet and polite and didn’t give anything away, apart from appealing to anyone who may have been in my street the night before to come forward to police.
‘You were wonderful!’ Dad said.
My mother nodded. ‘You really came across as being very professional.’
I could have wished that they didn’t sound surprised, but that’s what happens when you’re the youngest of six: everyone is always astonished that you can tie your own shoelaces. It makes me very defensive. Normally, I would have said something like ‘I am a professional, Mum’, but she’d been so nice about me on the phone that I just smiled and said, ‘Thanks.’
Even Twitter didn’t criticise me too much, and I got a few new follows. The woman from Carter’s office had disappeared completely from the stream, along with quite a few others. Only interested in Carter’s rep, obviously.
‘Now, Mary,’ Mum said. ‘What are you dying of this time?’
‘It’s my blood pressure!’ she said. ‘I could drop dead at any moment. The doctor said so.’ There was a world of satisfaction in her voice. I tried not to smile, but I heard Dad turn a derisive snort into a cough.
Now her husband was dead, Aunty Mary amused herself with hypochondria. But ever since she had sailed through getting COVID-19 like a twenty-year-old, the family was less inclined to take her seriously.
‘That’s terrible,’ Mum said obediently (when someone says they’re dying you have to be polite, even if you don’t believe it), and then they were off on a long discussion of symptoms and medicines and the immorality of healthcare funds.
I left them to argue it out. Alex called before I got up the stairs to my bedroom.
‘You were fabulous!’ he said.
‘I sound like a five-year-old.’
‘A clever five-year-old, sweetie!’
I had to laugh.
There was a shout in the background at his end, and he went on, ‘Rick says don’t forget that Ruby’s party is on Su
nday and what should we get her?’
Ruby is Annie’s daughter; she’s turning eight. ‘Books about dragons. She loves dragons.’
‘Dragons are cool,’ Alex said. ‘How’s the house thing going?’
I caught him up on the council debacle, then spent an hour answering all the worried messages from friends, and thankfully went to bed. I had weird, anxious dreams about fat-tailed sheep chasing Julieanne across a big church.
It didn’t occur to me until morning that Stuart hadn’t come over as he’d promised.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday
The police showed up at the soft-toy warehouse the next day.
If you want surreal, I recommend you be interrogated about a murder in a big, big shed full of fluffiness: pink poodles and neon snakes and bears with red hearts appliquéd to their stomachs. And in the middle of all that stood Detective Sergeant Chloe Prudhomme, furious that I’d gone and interviewed Matthew Carter.
‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ I protested. ‘And you know what? He didn’t ask me anything.’
That stopped her in her tracks. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I showed up there and told them it was my house that Julieanne had been found in and they asked me not one single, solitary question about it. All they cared about was getting the political message across.’
‘Single-minded?’
‘Or else they already knew all about it.’
Chloe mused over that. ‘Two ways that could happen: they were involved, or they’d already got all the details from someone else.’
‘Like who?’ I was happy to encourage her to be suspicious of someone else.
‘Lang?’
I screwed my face up. ‘Don’t see it, myself. He’s not exactly political.’
Defending him was a mistake. It brought her back to her original line of questioning.
‘So, how well do you know him?’
I shrugged. ‘Only met him the other day.’ I was having trouble sorting out the days—was it three, or four, since Boris had found the bones?
‘The students say you were very chummy, going off for coffee together, walking home together after we let you go. Are you having a relationship?’
I wish. The thought came involuntarily and surprised me. Stuart, I thought next. And a small part of my mind whispered, But not Julieanne. Not any more. I shook my head to clear it, but Chloe took that as an answer.
‘Do you want a relationship?’
‘I have a boyfriend.’ Even if he wasn’t much in evidence lately.
‘Not an answer.’
‘Look, Tol’s cute, but no man is cute enough to kill for.’
‘Answer the question. Do you want a relationship with Dr Lang?’
I stared at her. The shrewd blue eyes bored into me. What the hell.
‘Tell you the truth, I’m damned if I know,’ I said.
She seemed to accept that. We turned and walked down an aisle full of purple aliens.
‘What about him? Does he want one with you?’
‘Hasn’t mentioned it if he does. Hasn’t called me to see how I am or anything.’ I couldn’t help the faint tone of bitterness in my voice, and I saw Chloe register it.
‘If he killed Weaver over you, contacting you would be the stupidest thing he could do.’
And right on cue, like we were in a movie, my phone rang. It’s him, I thought as I pulled it out of my pocket and excused myself to Chloe.
‘Hello?’
‘Would you like pasta or pan-fried chicken breast for tea?’ Dad asked.
Sometimes you just have to laugh.
‘Chicken, thanks, Dad.’
‘Okay. Pick up some milk on your way home, will you?’
‘Sure. Bye.’
My father doesn’t say goodbye, he just hangs up. I grinned at my friendly detective sergeant, who was now standing in front of a fetching background of bright pink flamingos. There was a very Las Vegas feel to those flamingos.
‘That was my dad,’ I said.
‘So I gathered.’ She studied her notebook for a minute, letting the silence lengthen. ‘Detective Constable Martin thinks you did it. It was your house, your alibi isn’t that great, you didn’t like her, you fancied her boyfriend, she’d threatened to slap you around in front of witnesses and to top it all off she was getting that preservation order served against you. He reckons you just lost it and pushed her.’
I ignored all that and fastened on the interesting bit.
‘Is that how she died? She was pushed and hit her head or something?’
Chloe looked annoyed with herself. ‘I can’t release that information until the forensic pathologist makes a formal report. Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘What do you want me to say? “I’m innocent”? Of course I’m innocent! But all of that is true, so it’s no good me standing here bleating, “But I didn’t do it, officer”, is it? What worries me is that if you concentrate on me, you’re going to overlook the real murderer.’
‘It might not have been murder.’
‘Accident?’
‘Manslaughter, say. Possibly even self-defence, Poppy.’
I realised that she was offering me a way out, good-cop style. Confess to me, she was implying, and we can make it okay. I know you’re not really a murderer, Poppy. Just tell me the truth and I’ll help you.
‘Julieanne Weaver had a lot of enemies,’ Chloe said. ‘You don’t, Poppy. That tells me something.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It should tell you that one of them did it.’
She pressed her lips together and strode a few paces, then turned and regarded me sternly. The effect was spoiled a little by the fluffy devil figures brandishing pitchforks behind her. Perhaps I was getting a bit hysterical, but I couldn’t help noticing that the black and red ones had smaller pitchforks than the white and pink ones. Was that a subtle reminder from the designers: beware devils who pretend to be angels? God, I was tired.
‘There’s only a limited amount of time that I can help you in, Poppy,’ she said. ‘If you refuse to cooperate.’ I wondered if there was some kind of interrogation school that taught detectives to use the suspect’s name a lot when they were being good cop.
‘Cooperate in being railroaded?’ I said. ‘Didn’t do it, Chloe. Wouldn’t do it, Chloe. Am not going to say I did when I didn’t, Chloe.’
Okay, maybe all the parroting of her name was a mistake, but wouldn’t you have been peeved?
She wasn’t happy. She collected Detective Constable Martin from the front door where he’d no doubt been waiting to give her a chance at good cop. Next time, I bet, he’d be unleashed in full bad-cop mode. Something to look forward to.
It seemed as though they seriously suspected me. I confess, I hadn’t expected that, and it unsettled me. Or maybe they suspected Tol more.
I wished that I’d got his number when I’d given him mine. But that was an oversight that could be remedied. As soon as we’d finished at the warehouse, I left, refusing offers of free fluffiness (ABC policy again), and went to see Annie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I got to her office, Annie was on the phone laying down the law to a subcontractor who had failed to deliver some display cases on time. With a final ‘See that you do’, she hung up and turned to me, getting up and coming around the desk to give me a hug.
‘Poor possum,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’
I hugged her back and almost cried. She’s tiny, really; her head only comes up to my ear, but right then I felt like I could lean on her as hard as I liked and she’d cope.
‘A bit,’ I said.
‘It was a good interview, though,’ she said judiciously. ‘Tell me everything.’
So I filled her in, including the fact that I was apparently suspect number one.
‘Oh, how stupid,’ Annie snapped. ‘I could point out at least four people right in this building who would have liked to kill her more than you.’
‘Would you mind telling Detective Chloe about them?’
Annie looked thoughtful. ‘I just might,’ she said. ‘For a start, there’s Paul Baume.’
Paul was curator of domestic technology, which covers everything from spoons to dishwashers and, incidentally, had introduced me to Stuart at a museum event a few months ago. Paul and Julieanne had been a couple for almost eight months—which may have been a personal record for her. They’d broken up only a month or so ago; right before Tol appeared on the scene.
‘What happened there, anyway?’
‘Just between us?’ Annie asked. I nodded. ‘Well, I heard he asked her to marry him and she not only turned him down, she laughed at him. Said she had her eye on someone a lot better connected and a lot better off, and he’d just been a smokescreen.’
‘Really? Sounds like something Detective Chloe really should know. “A smokescreen” could mean a married man.’
‘Mmm. That’s what I thought.’
‘Paul was upset?’
Annie bit her lip. She quite liked Paul. But her sense of loyalty to me won out.
‘He was ropable. More than that, really. I think he really had been in love with her. Finding out she’d played him the whole time was a very deep cut. He hasn’t had many other relationships, you know.’
Most of the curators were sane, happily partnered, reasonable people. But the job did also attract the slightly unusual type. This type of curator is obsessive about their speciality, with poor social skills, few friends and no interest in being ‘normal’. Paul was definitely one of them. He was also, when you got past the awkward front, witty, well read and very sweet. When he’d taken up with Julieanne the people who liked him had assumed that she’d been impressed by his physique and that he’d demonstrated some of his better qualities to her while they were working together on a project about early washing machines.
Annie hadn’t been sure if Julieanne was a good thing in Paul’s life or not. ‘At least he’s seeing someone,’ she’d said when I’d told her to protect Paul by getting Julieanne transferred to another project.
I nobly refrained from saying ‘I told you so’ now.