by Pamela Hart
I obediently waited until Steve Martin arrived and let him go upstairs in his natty latex gloves before explaining to Tol and Alain what it was all about.
Tol looked grim, and too late I remembered that if Julieanne had been meeting someone, she’d been two-timing him. Not only was it a horrible thing to find out, it gave him a terrific motive for killing her.
It was clear that Detective Martin thought so too. When he came downstairs with the bottles inside a big evidence bag, he approached Tol.
‘Lost your temper, eh?’ he said. He lifted the bottles. ‘Found out she was screwing someone else and lost it?’ He nodded. ‘I can understand that.’
He went on for some time, trying to be the good cop, us blokes know how it goes, you can trust me I’m just like you, I understand … a tactic that’s supposed to be irresistible to someone racked with guilt.
And right then and there, I became completely convinced that Tol hadn’t killed Julieanne. I don’t know why, exactly. Something about the set of his mouth—a barely restrained impatience with Martin, irritation at being interrupted at his job. No guilt at all. I was filled with irrational happiness. It didn’t matter, did it? But it did.
Tol let Constable Martin talk himself out and then said, in a calm, reasonable voice, ‘I didn’t know about it. I don’t know who she was meeting. I didn’t kill her.’
It infuriated Martin, but there was nothing he could do. He left grumpily.
Tol stood in the pit and looked up at me. His eyes were bleak. ‘Do you think I killed her?’
‘No,’ I said.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed and the corners of his mouth unclenched a little.
‘Good,’ he said. He turned back to the floor of my house, searching between the uncovered beams for evidence of slaughter. I looked at the bearer where Julieanne’s head had hit and shivered. Slaughterhouse, I thought, but I couldn’t afford to think like that. I loved this house. So I pushed the images of Julieanne as a lamb to the slaughter out of my head. More like a goat, I told myself and somehow that image stayed with me. A sacrificial goat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That night, Stuart came over for tea for my sister Carol’s birthday. A family birthday like that gathers in around twenty people, all of whom can carry on at least two conversations at once. It was just the usual family spread: roast lamb, turkey roll with stuffing, ham, roast vegetables, gravy, cauliflower with white sauce, my Aunty Samantha’s crumbed pumpkin mash (fantastic!) and peas, as a vague concession to good health.
Everyone loved the fact that my house had been a butchery, especially Dad. My nephews (eight and ten) wanted to come over and dig for skeletons so they could take them to school.
‘Any skulls?’ Josh asked. ‘A sheep skull would be cool.’
‘I’ll ask Tol to save you one if he finds any,’ I promised.
‘You were meant to get that house,’ Aunty Mary declared. ‘It’s a sign.’
I thought so too.
We were in the middle of the meal, with Stuart advising on superannuation choices for my brother and another of my aunts, and everyone for once was listening in case he let fall some information that would make them rich, when the doorbell rang.
My nephews raced to answer it, and went silent.
‘Who is it?’ my mother called. ‘Bill, you go and see.’
My father hoisted himself up and disappeared to the front door, then came back leading Detectives Chloe and Martin.
‘Could we have a word with the two of you, in private?’ Chloe asked me and Stuart.
The table of faces turned to stare at her, at me, at Stuart, and back at her. She remained stolid, but Detective Martin shifted from foot to foot.
‘Are you going to jail? Cool!’ Josh said.
‘Course she’s not!’ his older brother said scornfully. ‘Like she could kill anyone!’
‘She could too!’ Josh was defending my honour, I knew, but the timing was unfortunate.
The family was divided between laughing and shushing the boys. My cousin Mark, who was a police sergeant in Randwick, said, ‘Hey, Steve,’ to Martin, who nodded back warily. I grinned and winked at Josh and led the police into the kitchen, Stuart following.
‘Hungry?’ I asked, indicating the platters of ham and turkey.
Chloe looked momentarily rueful, as though she were very hungry but it was against regulations or something to take food from a suspect. I started to put food into the takeaway containers Mum used to store leftovers.
‘We don’t appreciate having our time wasted,’ Detective Chloe said.
‘Sorry?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Did you think it was funny, sending us on a wild goose chase after the wine?’
I just stared at her, not understanding at all. Next to me, Stuart moved his feet uneasily, and I glanced at him.
He looked at me and hissed, ‘You told the police?’
‘Of course I told the police!’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Then it dawned on me. ‘Your fingerprints were on the wine? You did put it there, didn’t you?’
He winced. ‘Um, well—’
‘When did you put the wine there, Mr Douglas?’ Chloe said with an edge to her voice.
Stuart floundered. ‘Um, well, what happened was, you see, it was just a coincidence …’
‘For God’s sake, Stuart, just spit it out!’ I snarled. He’d lied to me. Actually, reviewing our conversation about the wine, he hadn’t exactly lied. He’d just avoided answering. Avoided it with great skill.
He flushed. ‘I was coming over here,’ he said defensively. ‘And I walked past the house, because I was hoping that, er—well, that you’d be there, Poppy, and we could, um … which was why I had the wine … Anyway, I walked past the house and the light upstairs was on, so I knocked at the door, and that woman answered, like she was expecting someone.’
‘This was Tuesday night?’ Chloe specified. Stuart nodded, sweating.
‘What time?’
‘Seven o’clock. But nothing happened!’ he protested. ‘I just told her who I was and I wanted to put the wine in the bedroom for later and she—she let me.’
‘She let a strange man into my house?’ I asked.
‘She knew me!’ he said. ‘She’d seen us together that first night they were digging there.’
I’d forgotten that.
‘And then?’ Chloe prompted. Martin was taking notes.
‘Then I left,’ Stuart said. He looked relieved, as though he’d finished something difficult, but it wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot, and if he thought it was … Not for the first time, I wondered just how bright Stuart was. At accountancy, obviously, but his people skills were a bit suss. ‘I went home.’
‘Why not come here?’ I asked.
He ran his hand over his head, embarrassed. ‘I just wasn’t in the mood to socialise with your family.’
Softly, Detective Chloe said, ‘That makes you the last person to see Julieanne Weaver alive.’
I couldn’t resist it. I said, ‘Except the person who killed her.’
‘Let me tell you how we think it went, Stuart,’ Martin cut in. ‘We think you went in all ready for a bit of nooky and then Poppy wasn’t there. But Julieanne was. Looking pretty good, too, eh? And maybe you thought, a bird in the hand … and tried it on. Put the wine upstairs and maybe suggested she share it with you. But she wasn’t interested. Went downstairs. Asked you to leave, maybe. And then you got angry. Don’t like being told no, do you? You’re a big bloke, didn’t take much, just a push. She was in those high heels, wasn’t she? Just a little push. She went off balance and over she went, hit her head and it was too late.’
‘We know you didn’t mean to kill her,’ Chloe said.
It sounded so plausible. The trouble with being a scriptwriter is that you see everything in terms of film scenes. I could imagine it. Low, noir lighting. Julieanne in her tight blue dress, Stuart looming over her, a push on her shoulder, a stumble … that all seemed just possible—but Stuart being pushy
about sex? I couldn’t imagine that.
Chloe seemed to read my mind.
‘Maybe it wasn’t about sex,’ she said. ‘Did she say something about Poppy? Julieanne didn’t like her, did she? Were you defending her?’
I tried to imagine that, too, but somehow that was even less believable than Stuart trying it on with Julieanne. Which was a thought I put aside for later.
Stuart was shaking his head. ‘No way! She was fine when I left. Anxious to get rid of me. I think she was waiting for someone.’
‘Any idea who?’ Martin pounced.
‘A man. I’m pretty sure it was a man.’
‘Why?’
Stuart hesitated. ‘The way she opened the door … The way she stood … She smiled—and then she saw it was me. Her whole face changed. I don’t know—she was expecting a man.’
There was a pause. Stuart couldn’t resist filling the silence.
‘She looked hot,’ he said. ‘And—triumphant, sort of. As though she was going to get something she really wanted.’
‘A lover?’ Chloe mused out loud.
‘Preselection,’ I said.
But Martin wasn’t going to let go of Stuart that easily. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were there?’
‘You didn’t ask,’ Stuart said weakly.
Martin snorted.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were there?’ I asked. I felt vicious. I wanted to bitch-slap him. How dare he? How dare he lie to me about things that happened in my house?
He hung his head and looked like a sad beagle. ‘I just didn’t want to get involved in the—the—’ he indicated Chloe and Martin.
‘We’d like a DNA sample,’ Martin said.
Stuart blinked. ‘A DNA sample? What for? We didn’t—I told you, nothing happened!’
‘Then there’s no reason not to give us a sample, is there?’ Chloe said.
‘I don’t think I want to do that, or answer any more questions, without a solicitor present,’ Stuart said suddenly. He stood straighter, looking like someone at home in international boardrooms.
Chloe nodded, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. ‘Certainly, Mr Douglas,’ she said. ‘We’d like you to come into headquarters tomorrow and make a formal statement. By all means bring your solicitor.’ She handed him her card. ‘Ten o’clock would be convenient.’
Stuart took the card reluctantly, as though he hadn’t expected that. ‘I’ll see you there,’ he said.
‘Might be a good time to go home, then,’ I said. ‘And ring your solicitor.’
He flinched at my tone, but one look at my face told him that it wasn’t the right time to try to talk me out of it.
‘Of course,’ he said, quite formally. ‘I’ll go now.’
He left by the back door, wimping out on walking past the family, and let the door slam shut behind him. Rude pig! He could at least have said goodbye to Mum.
I hesitated. There was something Stuart had said that I just didn’t believe. Should I tell Chloe? Again I felt like a stupid suspect in a murder mystery, the one who held back the vital piece of information. But he was my boyfriend … Not any more, part of me whispered. Not on your life.
‘He was lying,’ I blurted out.
Detective Chloe spun towards me, eyes intent. ‘What?’
‘He said it was seven o’clock.’
‘So?’
‘He never misses the seven o’clock news. Never.’
Martin humphed. ‘He must—’
‘Never,’ I said. ‘It’s a ritual. I believe him about everything else, but I guarantee you it wasn’t seven o’clock.’
They thought that through, and Martin smiled. I shivered.
‘We’d prefer it,’ Chloe said, ‘if you didn’t contact Mr Douglas again before his interview.’
‘Hah!’ I said. ‘I may never contact Mr Douglas ever again.’
She smiled tightly. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said. It was the first sign of humanity in a while from her. ‘You really didn’t know about it, did you?’
I shook my head. ‘I thought Julieanne had put the wine there herself. For whatever assignation she was there for.’
‘And you nominate Carter?’
‘Seems likely to me. Why else would he champion her for preselection? She didn’t exactly fit the party image.’
‘There’s a problem with that theory,’ Martin said. He looked to Chloe for permission, and she nodded. ‘Carter has a cast-iron alibi. He was called to a meeting at the church to discuss the preselection. They were at it until one in the morning.’
I mulled that over. ‘That doesn’t mean she wasn’t expecting him,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone else turned up instead.’
‘Someone like Douglas,’ Martin said with satisfaction. ‘Innocent people don’t ask for solicitors.’
I felt I had to say something in his defence. ‘Stuart works with solicitors all the time. It would feel more natural to him than to most people.’
‘Maybe,’ Chloe said.
I had to know if Stuart really was a suspect, so I said, ‘Was she really killed? Deliberately, I mean? Or could it have been an accident?’ Please let it have been an accident.
Chloe paused, then shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you the details, but she was definitely murdered.’
I felt sick.
‘Someone who hated her,’ I said. ‘Really hated her.’
‘Or was angry. Or afraid,’ Chloe said. ‘Violence has a lot of causes.’ That was the voice of an experienced cop, world-weary and full of distaste.
‘Stuart barely knew her.’
Martin sneered down at me. ‘Refused by a pretty woman? Doesn’t take much to get a horny man angry. We see it all the time.’
Depressingly, I knew he was right, even though I had trouble seeing Stuart in that role.
Chloe glanced towards the dining room, which was full of eloquent silence. The family had heard the back door slam and were waiting for me to come back in. She smiled with real humour. ‘We’ll let you get back to your meal,’ she said.
I put the lids on the takeaway containers and silently offered them to her. Chloe held my eyes for a moment, then took them.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Come on, Steve.’
They left through the back door, too, but they closed it quietly. I went into the dining room and spent the next ten minutes fielding questions. I told them all the truth (except about why Stuart might want to find me alone in the house). And why not? Discussing Stuart’s perfidy was the perfect way to let off steam. I found that I didn’t even want to defend him when my brothers started tearing him to shreds. He deserved it. And he was everything my brothers said he was: anal, weird, rigid.
My mother was trying hard to think the best of him. ‘Perhaps it happened just the way he described.’
‘Even if it did, Mum, he should have told me about it.’
Suddenly I felt like crying. Stuart hadn’t been the love of my life, but we’d been close. I felt like I’d been deceived, betrayed, duped. How well did I really know him? I felt stupid and that, of course, made me angry.
‘He’s a wuss,’ Josh said, summing it up with an eight-year-old’s insight. ‘He was scared of the police.’
Right on the money, Josh. But the question was, did Stuart have reason to be scared? Had I been sleeping with a murderer?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wednesday
Stuart tried to call me three times the next day. I ignored all the calls and finally blocked his number for both calls and texts. Then I spent a nice calm morning at work, dealing with lots of minor matters that had accumulated while I’d been out of the office, and viewing the rough cut of the Luna Park episode. Jennifer Jay wanted some archival footage of the park opening so I toddled over to Ultimo and had a pleasant afternoon spooling through footage from the opening in 1935, the re-opening in 1982 and the re-re-opening in 1995. I found the story of the park reassuring—in spite of all the machinations of big business, Sydneysiders’ love of the place had kept i
t alive.
Then I came across the story of the Luna Park Ghost Train fire in 1979, which killed six people: a man and his two sons, and four other boys who were there together. The man and his sons had been on a family outing, and his wife wasn’t on the train because she wanted an ice cream. She watched the ride burn and had to be dragged away from it by security guards, knowing her family was inside. I watched the news reports of the time, and then googled it. There were all sorts of explanations including rumours of gangland involvement and arson, but faulty electrical wiring was the official verdict. Forty years later, no one was sure what had happened. I sat in the viewing room and cried for the dead and the bereaved, and for Julieanne, remembering coming off the roller coaster and getting the phone call that had told me Julieanne was dead. Exhilaration and death, happiness and grief.
It was too dark a story for the little kids who would watch the program, for which I was glad. I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to go back to Luna Park.
I went straight from Ultimo to my house, and opened the front door in time to find Detective Chloe asking Tol for a DNA sample.
Why would they be asking for DNA so long after the death? If Julieanne had had sex just before she was killed, they’d have known that straight away, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t have needed a full autopsy to tell them that—
She’d been pregnant. They wanted Stuart’s and Tol’s DNA to see who the father was.
Julieanne, pregnant. I hoped, fervently, that it hadn’t been Tol’s baby, but I wasn’t sure why.
Tol was still in the pit, although Alain had climbed out and was standing uncomfortably to one side. The fact that Tol wasn’t showing his usual good manners made me uneasy. He was looking mutinous—much the same look as he’d had when I’d suggested interviewing him for the show.
Detective Chloe was playing the mild-mannered nice cop. I slid into the room and nodded at them all. Tol nodded back, but he still glowered at Chloe.
‘I thought you said she didn’t have sex with anyone that night,’ he said.
‘I don’t think I said exactly that,’ Detective Chloe answered calmly.
‘But why now?’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you ask me before?’