A Devious Mind
Page 4
Even though I now knew what had been upsetting her, I didn’t know how to react. Drawing attention to her emotional state by trying to comfort her might be the wrong thing to do. From outside came the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard followed by the rattle of a garage door rolling up. Ardem was located in a small court with a handful of other units. The garage door rolled down.
“It must have been hell for the family,” Dusty said, interrupting my thoughts. “Not knowing what had happened to their mother.”
“I couldn’t think of anything worse,” I said, putting as much sympathy into my voice as I could.
She raised her head to look at me and acknowledged what I said, and perhaps the way I said it, with a wan smile.
“Someone contacted Ken,” she said, tugging at a stray lock of hair.
She was referring to Detective Senior Sergeant Ken Nagle. He had been a junior investigating officer on her mother’s case. Nagle and Dusty had remained in touch and became friends.
When Dusty’s eyes met mine, I wasn’t sure what I saw in them: restrained optimism, I think.
“Someone who knows something about what happened to your mother?” I asked, hopeful on her behalf.
The strand of hair she had been pulling at sprang back into a spiral as she released it with a sigh.
“It was an anonymous caller who disguised his voice. All very cloak and dagger. He says he has information and wants to help but he’s afraid for his own safety. Ken didn’t push him; just tried to reassure him. He gave the caller his private number. He’s pretty sure the man will call back.”
“Right. So he thinks the caller is genuine, then?”
Dusty shrugged. “As far as he can tell. He says it’s not unusual for informants to want to speak to the investigator a few times before they reveal themselves. They need to become comfortable with the other person and start to trust them. That’s one reason why Ken didn’t put any pressure on him.”
“Right.” I didn’t know what else to say. I thought a change of subject might be in order. “Would you like to know what I found out at the pool tables?”
“I would,” said Dusty, with a smile.
“Right. Well, apparently Marcia had good relations with her children, her grandchildren adored her and she was well liked in the community. She was active in lobbying authorities in relation to local environmental issues and generous with her financial support of environmental causes.”
“Something in your tone tells me there’s a ‘but’.
“But,” I said, “the general consensus seems to be that she used her money to keep a level of control over her offspring. For instance, she offered to give each of them a generous deposit on their homes provided they bought in Walkara where she lives and didn’t sell those homes until at least twenty years after the purchase date.”
“That’s interesting. Very interesting. The way she organised her finances might lead us to a motive for her murder.”
“You seriously think the murderer might be a family member?”
Dusty gestured toward the television. “If you had to pick a murderer out of those four people we just saw on the screen, who would you pick?”
“They all looked genuinely distressed about their mother’s disappearance.”
“All of them? What about Fergus? He looked more, I dunno, contained, I guess.”
Something about Fergus must have gotten under her skin. She had previously dismissed the idea of his being the murderer.
“Does he have an alibi for the time of the murder?” I asked.
“No. On the morning in question he was at his home, alone most of the time. He admits to driving around to the walking track and to his mother’s house. He says he wanted to return her mobile phone which she left at his house the evening before. Marcia frequently used her landline so there was a risk she would depart for her trip without noticing that her mobile phone was missing.”
“How was he able to drive? Didn’t I read somewhere that he had a brace on his left ankle?”
“Apparently he took the brace off and, as his ankle wasn’t tender, decided it was safe to drive. His car has automatic transmission so he was using his right foot anyway.”
“And the others. Do they have alibis?” I asked.
“Monique was at home with her husband and Lucy was at home with her young daughter. Brad doesn’t have anyone to alibi him. He says he was at home and slept in until around nine.”
“Wouldn’t that make Brad a more likely suspect than Fergus?”
“Maybe,” she said. “One thing I’m pretty sure of is that the murderer is a male. Bashing someone over the head is more likely to be done by a man than a woman.”
“So women don’t hit each other over the head?”
“They might, but that sort of crime is more likely to be committed by a male. Besides, the crime statistics show that when a woman is murdered, there’s a high probability that the crime was committed by a male member of her family. By the way, we’ll be meeting Marcia’s family in real life on Friday at Fergus’s home.”
“Interviewing the family’s going to be a little awkward, isn’t it?” Dusty looked at me with raised eyebrows. “After all, you’ve basically been hired by them to find out who murdered their mother and you’re going to be interrogating them as suspects, maybe even accusing them, or one of them at least, of doing the deed.”
“Well, technically, I’ve been hired by Fergus, not the family. I have to assume he’ll want to know if one of his siblings killed his mother. On the other hand, I got the impression he was convinced Norman Roach was the murderer and he wanted me to somehow prove that.” She grinned, a familiar mischievous gleam in her eye. “But he’s going to find out soon enough I don’t work that way.”
Chapter 7
Friday was a mild spring day; the warmth had brought Byron Bay’s bush-turkeys out. Several of these large birds were foraging along the edge of the park as we drove by on our way to the place where Marcia Hamilton was last seen alive: the home of her eldest son, Fergus Nixon. By this time, I had learnt more about the background of the murder victim from Dusty.
Hamilton was Marcia’s maiden name. She grew up in Dubbo where her father, Jack Hamilton, had a highly successful and lucrative concrete business. Dubbo is an inland city with a population of over forty thousand, situated in an agricultural region in central northern New South Wales. At the age of twenty two, Marcia had married hard working Edward Nixon; a local lad who had his sights set on success in real estate. After building his reputation and a solid business in Dubbo, he and Marcia moved to Sydney where he went from strength to strength to build a highly successful and lucrative real estate franchise.
They had been married twenty-five years when he died suddenly of a heart attack. Despite his business success, he had not left his wife a fortune; most of his money had been frittered away on bad investments. With their children now adults, Marcia, who had always dreamed of being a writer, launched her career. Her books quickly became world-wide best sellers and she made for herself the fortune she might reasonably have expected her husband to leave her.
The ocean breeze swirled in through the open windows of the car. Kombi vans and other vehicles belonging to the surfers out on the waves lined both sides of the road.
“By the way,” I said, remembering something I had heard around the pool table. “I picked up a bit of gossip about Brad Nixon the other day.”
“Do tell.”
“Right. He’s the odd one out in the family. He’s an artist, has never married, hasn’t had many girlfriends and rumour has it that he prefers the company of men.” Dusty turned her head slightly to give me a quizzical look. “He doesn’t tow the family line,” I continued, “and isn’t too concerned about the family fortune.”
“Is that right? Sounds like my kind of person. Can’t wait to meet him.”
By now we had reached our destination: a luxury residence overlooking the ocean at the back.
“These people live in st
yle,” Dusty said as we cruised along the semi-circular driveway.
The property had an entrance and an exit so that cars could drive into the grounds through a pair of large wrought iron gates and either turn off to park at the front of the house or follow the semi circle around to the back. As instructed by Fergus when she arranged the appointment, Dusty followed the drive around to the back and pulled off into a parking bay in the centre of the semi circular arc where the house faced the ocean. When it was time to leave, we would complete the semi circle by exiting through the other matching wide gates.
“Let me guess,” I said, surveying the luxurious surroundings. “Fergus is a hedge funds manager.”
Dusty laughed. “You couldn’t be more wrong. He’s an actor. Lives here in Walkara but spends a lot of time in Sydney for work.”
“Not a bad place to camp between jobs,” I observed.
“When I see people living like this, I can’t help thinking it’s all wrong.”
“Wrong?”
Dusty was gazing at the white exterior of Fergus’s multi-level home fitted with balconies and abundant windows to take advantage of the ocean views.
“Wrong that some people have so much money, so many advantages, while other people, good honest people, have to rely on charities just to feed themselves and their families.”
What seemed wrong to me was that the person making that comment was one of those with ‘so much money, so many advantages’. Dusty, who had turned to look at me, nodded.
“Your thoughts are in your eyes, Sean O’Kelly. You think I’m a hypocrite and you’re absolutely right. I don’t have as much money as the Nixons but I have made plenty of money from my books.”
“I wasn’t thinking you were a hypocrite.”
“I am though. I wouldn’t give all my money away to help needy families.”
“You just expect people like the Nixons to give theirs away.”
Dusty laughed. “Exactly!”
Fergus was waiting for us on the back decking which was high enough to offer views of the area as well as the ocean. He called a greeting as we made our way toward the stairs along the winding path bordered with dense green bushes and tall ferns. Wearing an open neck shirt and cotton pants, he looked more relaxed than he had on the DVD of the press conference. When we arrived at the top of the stairs, I saw that the decking was furnished with an elegant wooden dining table and matching chairs, several deck chairs and a large barbecue that looked more like an outdoor kitchen.
Floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors opened into the spacious open-plan living area inside which featured gleaming timber floors, white walls and a sunken lounge. The house was imbued with a sense of wide open spaces and freedom. The smell of brewing coffee greeted us. I realised Fergus must have observed our arrival through the glass doors of the living area through which it was possible to see the driveway clearly except for a small section near the path which was screened by trees covered in magnificent purple flowers that were rippling in the breeze. I later discovered they were jacaranda trees.
“My sisters and brother will be here soon,” said Fergus, gesturing to the straw coloured sofa chairs. “And my children are upstairs. They’ll join us for lunch.” He turned to Dusty. “I assume you want to meet all the family?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
Fergus served our steaming cappuccinos in bowl shaped glasses. As there were no handles, I was torn between a desire to drink what appeared to be delicious coffee and a reluctance to burn my fingers. Dusty quickly came to my rescue.
She picked up her glass of hot coffee, wrapped her fingers around it without flinching and said, “I love drinking coffee from these double walled glasses.”
Double walled glasses? I had never heard of such a thing but they were obviously insulated to protect the fingers from the heat. I picked mine up without hesitation, determined not to show my disquiet, and was surprised to feel hardly any warmth at all through the glass. Dusty smiled at me, like a mother proud of a child who has just made a new discovery.
Over coffee, Fergus outlined the reasons he had invited Dusty to write about Marcia’s murder.
Having wealth and a world famous matriarch had made the Nixon family an easy target when Marcia was murdered. Fergus explained that, since Marcia’s death, the family had been subjected to intense media speculation as well as false rumours. Many people had quickly concluded that Marcia had been killed by one of her offspring for her money. Some wild theories suggested all four children had plotted her demise. Fergus had contacted Dusty and asked her to write about the death of his mother in the hope that a book exploring the full circumstances of what happened would help put an end to most of that.
“The family has suffered so much since Mum… since Mum died. As if it wasn’t enough for us to go through the agony of not knowing what happened to her, and the trauma of finding out she was murdered, we have also had to endure suspicion and innuendo and sometimes downright rudeness. Not only here in our own community but the press have been having a field day all over Australia, running with any little piece of news, inaccurate or otherwise, that might show us in a bad light. It’s because we’re a prominent family, of course.” He looked at me. “If you haven’t been in Australia long, Sean, you might not know much about our family.”
My accent had obviously given me away. “I know that your mother was a wealthy celebrated author.”
“My mother was rich; rich and famous. In Australia that’s enough to make us targets of all sorts of gossip. People have jumped to the disgusting conclusion that one of us murdered our mother.” He paused, the look on his face defying me to challenge that statement. “Asking Dusty to write about Mum,” he continued, “is the best way to make people out there aware of what happened; to present a full and accurate account.”
“Right. So your aim is to stop false rumours rather than catch the murderer?” I said.
That probably sounded accusatory but it came out of my mouth before I could stop it. I shot a quick glance at Dusty, expecting to see a frown of disapproval but was relieved to see instead, a hint of appreciation in her eyes. Fergus, however, punished me with a glassy stare.
“Not at all,” he snapped. Reining in his annoyance, he continued in a more cordial tone. “Obviously, our primary objective is to find convincing evidence to convict the killer, to get some sort of justice for my mother as well as for the family’s sake. However, even if we don’t manage to do that at least the book Dusty writes will make all the facts public knowledge. That’ll carry a lot of weight coming from someone of her status and with her reputation for impartiality.”
“Even that won’t stop all the gossip mongering,” said Dusty.
“I know that,” said Fergus, his impatience with those who cast aspersions on his family expressed in a snort. He tapped his fingers along the side of his glass as he continued. “There’ll always be some people who believe only what they want to believe regardless of what facts come to light, but at least reasonable people will think more deeply about it and question the rumours.”
By reasonable people I guessed he meant his friends and others in his social set. Even those who supported the family might still harbour doubts. He wanted to quell those doubts and get back full respect for the Nixon family.
“What we need to do is expose the killer,” said Dusty with her usual confidence. “That’s the best way to stop the whispering and restore the family’s reputation.”
I knew she had already decided she would catch the killer. I hoped she was right. But I also knew that many murderers did not get caught and one day she was bound to come across a case she couldn’t crack. Was this going to be that case?
“We already know who the killer is,” said Fergus, draining the last of his coffee and placing his empty glass decisively on the coffee table. “The difficulty is finding the proof to convict him. He’s not locked up because the police don’t have enough evidence to charge him.”
“You mean Norman Roach?”
Muted sounds of movement upstairs reminded me of the presence of Fergus’s teenage children. Dusty gave Fergus an appraising look before responding.
“Yes. That’s a possible scenario. But it could just as easily have been someone who was obsessed with her. She was a famous writer. She must have had the usual cranks contacting her – that sort of thing. We have to consider the possibility that one of them followed her that day.”
“Mum always let the police know about people like that and most of them stopped their nonsense as soon as the police got involved. Anyway, the most recent pests have all been interviewed by the police and cleared of any possible involvement.”
“Was Norman Roach one of those obsessed with Marcia?”
“Not that we know of. The word around town is that he’s an habitual pervert.” Fergus screwed up his face in disgust. “The women he pesters don’t have to be famous; being female is enough for his warped mind. What he did to my mother, sneaking up on her like a snake in the grass, is exactly the sort of furtive behaviour to expect from him.”
“Believe me, if he’s the one who took your mother’s life, he won’t get away with it.”
I knew the certainty in Dusty’s tone came from a genuine belief in her own abilities.
“That’s what I want to hear. I knew you were the right person to help us,” Fergus said, his face creasing into a warm smile which mellowed his features, causing him to look more amiable.