The Alice Murders

by James Arklie

  Kline laughed. This analogy was getting ridiculous. ‘Something like that. Where are you?’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘Believe it or not, on a high-speed train from Paris to St Malo. There’s nothing ‘choo-choo’ about this thing, it’s almost flying. Due to arrive in about an hour.’

  She paused, giving a few seconds for a change of focus, then she said, ‘What are you thinking?’ There was a serious note in her voice.

  Kline looked out of the taxi window at the traffic. It was getting denser and slower as they got closer to the City. June was the Australian winter, but there was a blue sky and sunshine.

  ‘Simple scenario to start with? As a surgeon, Brownlee had easy access to drugs. He could supply Sam Little with what he needed to sedate and abduct Deborah Wilcox. An abduction conceived, discussed and planned to order.’

  Angie agreed, ‘Working closely together. I’ll go with that, but why didn’t Brownlee want Deborah in Southampton? Why Athens? And, he only wanted her there when he was ready. Why was that?’

  How did Little get her there, thought Kline? But then dismissed the question. It didn’t really matter now, not to this investigation. She was there, end of.

  The traffic slowed still further. Kline dipped his head to look out of the windscreen. Ahead were three lanes of static traffic. In the distance the tower blocks of the Central Business District gleamed in the sun.

  It was dawning on Kline how clever Brownlee had been. ‘This must have been carefully planned. For this to work, Brownlee must have negotiated it as part of his employment package.’

  ‘What? That his invalid wife will follow at a later time and the facilities required to look after her?’ Angie thought and added. ‘But that negotiation will have been two, three maybe more months ahead. It means he’d chosen Deborah way back.’ The confusion rang like a bell in Angie’s voice.

  That word, ‘chosen’ again, thought Kline, then said, ‘More than that, he’d selected her illness as well. That tells me he specifically wanted her for some reason. Otherwise, why go to such lengths?’

  Angie went silent. Kline’s taxi edged forward and stopped again. The morning sun suddenly streamed into the car. Kline thought he could hear Angie’s high-speed train rattling through the French darkness.

  Angie questioned their thinking, ‘You think they’d buy into a package like that? Why not employ someone else with less baggage?’

  ‘You heard Batten. Brownlee was building a reputation as a leading, cutting edge surgeon. Willing to explore, push at boundaries. They were a new hospital. Private, remember. They needed to make money, so attract the best, advertise you have the best and that will bring in the patients.’

  Angie accepted that. ‘Okay. Brownlee sets up everything in people’s minds and when Deborah arrived, they get and see exactly what they are expecting. He parades her round as his wife and puts on the doting husband act.’

  ‘Precisely. But what about the coma?’ Kline swallowed. He knew more about coma’s than most.

  Angie said, ‘Had to be drug induced. Despina said Brownlee visited every day, read to her, washed her. Plenty of opportunity to top up the dose. He’s her doctor, no one else will know.’

  The taxi driver switched lanes, made a few hundred meters and then stopped again. He caught Kline’s eye in the mirror. ‘Sorry, mate. Airport to City rush-hour.’

  Kline wasn’t really listening. A top surgeon everyone admired, so no one questioned. Kline could see it acted out. They may ask politely, ‘How’s she doing today, Mr Brownlee?’ and he replies day after day with, ‘Oh, you know. Same as ever.’ Delivered with a sad smile. So, so clever. Such great cover. Building empathy and sympathy. No wonder they all thought Brownlee was a saint.

  Then a deep realisation surfaced and slapped Kline hard. There was no point denying the truth. That was me, he thought. I did that as well. Until finally, everyone realised Jenny was brain dead. Then they stopped asking and started looking at him differently.

  Kline’s mobile gave him a low battery warning. It brought back his focus and he quickly wound up with Angie. ‘Think on this Angie, why did Brownlee want Deborah? He killed others, yet he went to great lengths to keep her alive. Like a pet.’

  ‘Think she’s still alive?’

  Kline’s mobile died before he could answer, but he very much doubted it.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, his taxi pulled into the parking area of the Clinic. Kline walked up the stairs to the wide front entrance. The building was two-storey, tinted glass, with a lot of chrome on the outside that shone in the sun and a lot of highly polished wood and thick carpets on the inside that reassured the wealthy private client. It clearly wasn’t the ambulance entrance.

  Police officers get old and retire, but they never want to let go of a loose end. Like a golfer who only remembers the bad shots, they tend to forget the cases they solved and dwell on those they didn’t. They don’t sit well with the whiskey on a dark, reflective evening in the middle of retirement. Which was why Stamelos had met Angie and why Jared Jarvis was walking towards Kline, big smile, hand extended.

  To Kline, he was very Australian and wore tailored shorts, sandals and a green and gold sports shirt covered in advertising logos. As far as Kline could tell they were mainly for hunting, fishing and beer. He still looked fit and his blue eyes were sharp and clear.

  They shook, firm and friendly. ‘Never thought I would see anyone taking on this case again, mate.’

  They ambled across to a set of leather easy chairs and a sofa. At a nod from Jared the receptionist made a call. Kline dropped into one of the chairs and explained his personal interest.

  ‘First my wife’s sister, Evie, then my wife Jenny.’

  He gave Jared a two-minute overview of the case and finished with the recent murders of Audrey Waters and Alan Bleakley.

  Jared seemed stunned. ‘This bastard’s active again? After all these years?’

  Kline nodded. ‘No question.’

  He let out a long breath. ‘Mate, I hope he’s not going global again. We don’t want the son of bitch down here.’

  They were joined by a senior male nurse who was introduced as Barney. Fifties, cropped hair and thick, hairy forearms that protruded from a short-sleeved scrubs top. Leading the way though, was a lady from HR, Grace. Short, blond, young and officious. Australia was different to Greece. She wanted to play this by the book. No casual chats here. To Kline’s relief, Jared had it sorted and produced his badge and a letter of authority.

  She read the letter and then took a photograph with her iPhone. ‘For her records.’

  Kline began with the iPad ID parade. Barney nodded enthusiastically as he confirmed the identity of Richard Brownlee. He tapped the screen to show his admiration.

  ‘Damn fine surgeon, that fella.’

  Miss Officious also confirmed Brownlee’s identity from the file she had in her hand.

  ‘Here for one year in a senior consultant’s teaching post.’

  She held out a passport-sized photograph. Kline leant in, then took out his mobile, waggled it in the air. ‘Mind if I… for our records?’

  Beside him, he saw Jared start to smile and look away. Kline was thinking about the contract. One year. Another similarity. In, out, don’t stay long enough to get caught.

  He asked, ‘He was teaching, not operating?’

  ‘Both.’ Grace gave him a pleasant, patient smile that told him he should know better.

  ‘That’s how you teach surgeons. Hands on. At the table.’

  Kline gave her a flickering smile of thanks and took a breath ahead of the big question. He flicked to the picture of Deborah Wilcox. ‘And this woman?’

  Miss Officious shook her head. ‘Before my time.’

  Barney nodded and Kline felt a surge of adrenalin go through him. ‘Yes, mate. That’s Debbie, his wife.’ He gave Kline a half-smile. ‘I’m telling you, all love and dedication, that fella. To his wife and to his job.’

  Kline played innocen
t. ‘How do you mean, ‘to his wife’?’

  ‘Coma, mate. Medically induced because she’d suffered a brain trauma of some kind.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘That’s what he said. He was the consultant, mate.’ Barney was looking at Kline curiously, but he carried on. ‘Doted on her. Used to sit in her room for hours, reading to her, talking to her. He was always the one who washed her. He didn’t have to.’

  Kline’s head was spinning. What the hell was this? The medically induced coma was confirmed, but why? Brownlee was more than adept at snatching women, murdering them and moving on to the next. Yet with Deborah, rather than discard her and move on to another woman, he’d taken her to the other side of the planet and continued playing the charade. Was she his favourite sex toy? Drugged and compliant?

  Jared caught Kline’s eye and pulled him back from his thoughts. Kline handed the iPad back to Barney and asked him to look at the other pictures. He stopped at one, his face hardening.

  ‘That bastard was here. Nasty.’ He held out the picture of Alan Bleakley.

  ‘He was here? In this building?’ There was no hiding the surprise in Kline’s voice.

  ‘Not for long, mate, because I threw the bastard out.’

  Kline tilted his head to ask the question of ‘why’. He sat forward for the answer.

  ‘Easy, mate. I heard a commotion in Debbie’s room one time. Went to look and this little shit had Richard by the throat.’

  Kline blinked. It had become a protective ‘Richard’ now. ‘Why?’

  ‘Richard would only say it was historic.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘This guy was spitting bile. Something like, ‘I know what you’ve done’. Or maybe it was, ‘what you’re doing’.’ Barney shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Do you know what he was referring to?’

  Barney finished looking at the pictures and handed back the iPad. He sat back. ‘Didn’t really care, mate. I just had to get that son of a bitch out of there.’

  Kline and Jared left ten minutes later and crossed the car park. The sun warmed their faces. Jared paused by a bin and retrieved the letter from his pocket.

  ‘By the puzzled look on your face, mate. I’m guessing you got more than you came for.’

  Kline unloaded some of the thoughts that were crashing and rolling round inside his head. While he spoke, he watched Jared carefully rip the letter of authority into small pieces.

  In the end, Kline questioned him with a frown. Jared laughed. ‘World’s going to the dogs, mate. Mr Compliance will be our next prime minister if we’re not careful. I knew she’d want something, so….’

  He dropped the pieces into the bin like a shower of confetti and said, ‘You reckon Brownlee’s your man and he killed the guy Alan Bleakley to keep him quiet? Brownlee thought you were on to him so came out of retirement to tie off a loose end?’

  It was the logical conclusion, but Kline didn’t want to start following logic pathways. That’s what Brownlee wanted him to do. That’s where the traps lay. He had to step round them. Keep on opening the gates.

  Kline spoke slowly round a thought that was forming in his mind. ‘We went to interview Bleakley about Bryony James, not about any relationship he may have had with Brownlee. We didn’t know about Brownlee then. But next day Bleakley’s dead. It suggests Bleakley knew something else about Brownlee. Something we haven’t discovered yet.’

  Jared folded his arms, widened his stance and swayed on his hips, enjoying the theorising. ‘Brownlee panicked, mate. Simple as. He was afraid that as soon as you got closer to him, you would go back to Bleakley and ask the right questions.’

  Kline tried to force his new thinking to the front of his mind. ‘Whatever it is, it was so important to Bleakley that he followed Richard Brownlee across the globe to confront him about it.’

  Bryony James, it had to be about her. Kline drifted into the thought. The beautiful, vivacious, flirty Bryony had followed Kline’s investigation across the globe and sashayed into the party uninvited and unannounced.

  *

  While Kline waited in Sydney airport for his flight across to Auckland, he followed Angie’s example of dictating and emailing a report and then settling down to write it.

  He sent the voicemail to Angie, Artie and Dave Barker. He wanted Dave to know that they were making headway and this trip wasn’t a waste of time. Kline had paid for his own flights, but the force was still paying their salaries.

  Kline sent a separate email to Artie and told him to treat Brownlee as their prime suspect, focus all his time on him. He wanted everything, from the cradle. And if he found Brownlee’s current location to let Dave know immediately.

  Artie replied straightaway to say that he was already on it. Yes, thought Kline, but it won’t be that simple. It never is with men like Brownlee.

  Kline fought off the time-zone chaos raging in his body until he’d settled in his seat. Then he mentally passed the baton back to Angie and let sleep take him.

  *

  It was late in the evening when Artie made the call to Samuel Arthur, Chesney’s father. His voice sounded slurred and when Artie mentioned what the call was about, he was told to hang on and clearly heard the glug of a wine bottle.

  Samuel’s voice was gruff, annoyed and sad. ‘Yes. We flew her body back.’

  Artie was sensing the pain and knew he had to be careful. ‘I’m sorry to ask but after the ceremony was there a burial or a cremation.’

  Artie blinked because for some reason that brought a bitter laugh and an angry comment. ‘Cremation. No bloody point burying her. Half of her was missing.’

  In the background Artie heard a female voice plead gently and quietly, ‘Dad, don’t…’

  It got an angry retort. ‘Well you fucking talk to him then.’

  Artie’s felt himself start to sweat. It was the first time he’d encountered anyone’s raw grief, worse still had to interview them through it. He knew he didn’t have the experience to handle it properly and thought about backing off. He could go to Dave Barker and ask for a more senior officer to assist him.

  But then the female voice came on the line, soft and apologetic. ‘Sorry. This is Amanda, Chesney’s sister. Is that Detective Kline?’

  Artie explained who he was and the question he’d asked. He apologised again. ‘We’re looking for links between several women and…’

  Amanda cut in. The softness in her voice had gone. ‘Her organs were stripped for donation. Without my father’s consent. He feels his daughter never fully returned to him. Sounds strange, but it’s hard for him.’

  Artie touched the still tender bruising round his eye. Stripped? That was a powerful word to use. He asked gently, ‘What was taken?’

  Amanda’s voice had a bitter edge. ‘Everything. Absolutely fucking everything. They sent us back a shell.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Day Fifty-five

  Angie had flown to Paris and immediately made the three-hour train journey to St Malo. She stayed overnight, Intra Muros, inside the walls of the ancient city, in the Hotel de la Cite.

  She’d had plenty of time to think about Joe’s report and what they’d found so far. Richard Brownlee has to be the man, she thought, even though we still haven’t found anything to tie him directly to the ALICE women.

  They were building a picture of a respected surgeon who flew under everyone’s radar on the wings of respectability and respect for him as a person. A clever and talented surgeon who doted on an invalid wife. A killer with an ego, hiding in full view and revelling in a self-satisfying, sweet smelling bubble bath of his own cleverness.

  At nine am Angie crossed the square and settled at a table under the red awnings of the Café de l’Ouest. She’d spoken with Pierre Gaspin during her train journey and gave him a brief overview of where they were with the investigation. He said he would contact the private hospital where Brownlee had worked. There had also been something else in his voice which she cou
ldn’t identify. Excitement?

  When he arrived, Pierre was not what she was expecting. He was a lanky, thin man, who had to bend his bony frame into his chair and stretch his long legs sideways because they wouldn’t fit under the low table. He still had a decent head of grey hair and a grey moustache, the middle of which was stained orange from years of smoking Gauloise.

  He ordered them a breakfast basket of croissants, strong black coffee and, in addition for himself a small brandy. He shook a Gauloise Disque Bleu from a soft pack and lit it.

  He blew the pungent smoke up and away from Angie. ‘Dr Alain Caron will be here shortly.’ He stirred a spoonful of sugar into black coffee. ‘In the meantime, please tell me more of the case.’

  Angie filled him in with more details. Attentive brown eyes focused on her through the smoke drifting from his Gauloise. In the way there had been something in his voice last night, now he carried it in the thoughtful way he was listening.

  When Angie finished, he whistled. ‘Ai, ai, ai. And the ice in the bucket. All so clever. Tous si premedites. Do you wish to visit the apartment?’

  Angie shook her head. There was no point. It was too long ago.

  Five minutes later the doctor arrived. Alain Caron was a silver fox. Hair slicked back, designer suit, tanned face, deep brown eyes, slim build and thin leather briefcase. He had a gold bracelet and several gold rings. In short, he was a successful man and he dressed to show it. His eyes assessed Angie warily.

  There was a long conversation between him and Gaspin in French during which more coffee, croissants and brandy arrived. Alain Caron was looking uncomfortable with some of the things being said. His eyes occasionally flicked to Angie and then away.

  Eventually, Pierre Gaspin turned to her. ‘Apologies. I was just setting the scene. Emphasising the importance of your investigation.’

  Angie produced her iPad. ‘Is this the man you knew as Richard Brownlee?’