“Too nice to you,” said his sister with a teasing grin. She looked at Dusty. “Nan had a soft spot for Tobes. She never played favourites but you could tell there was something a little bit special between her and Tobes.”
Toby, with the typical self-centredness of teenagers, acknowledged his right to his grandmother’s special affection with a nonchalant shrug.
“The only stipulation we knew about was the one she put on the kids’ trusts,” said Fergus.
“You mean her grandchildren?” said Dusty.
Fergus nodded. “Yes, she left $10 000 for each of her grandchildren to be paid on their twenty-first birthdays. We knew nothing about the other; the business of not releasing the money for five years.”
“All this talk about how Mum managed her money is irrelevant, surely,” said Monique, directing her comment at Dusty. “If you’re here to find the evidence that will convict Norman Roach, pulling our mother’s character apart is hardly going to help.”
Dusty patiently explained that the book would give a comprehensive portrait of Marcia as well as explore what happened to her.
“Nan was the best,” said Toby. “I think she deserves to have a book written about her.”
“Of course she does,” snapped Monique.
“But let’s be honest,” said Brad. “The book is not just for Mum. It’s really for us: the family.”
“Brad!” said Lucy, looking aghast at her brother with wide brown eyes.
Ignoring her, Brad continued. “We want to stop people whispering about us behind our backs. We want them to stop thinking we are murderers. We’d all be better off ignoring the gossip and just getting on with our lives. Personally, I’d be happy to let them say what they want. In fact, being a suspected murderer kinda adds a bit of intrigue to a bloke. Might even increase the price of my artwork.”
“Can’t you take anything seriously, Brad?” said Fergus. “This is an opportunity to possibly get new evidence, maybe even enough to convict Roach. Are you saying we shouldn’t grab that chance?”
Brad raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Brad can say what he likes. I’m saying our first priority should be to put the killer behind bars,” said Monique.
“I intend to make sure the killer is put behind bars,” said Dusty, giving a searching look to each of the people around the table in turn.
“Yeah, funny that,” said Lucy, jutting her chin out. “If you’re so confident, why don’t you focus on doing just that, catching the killer I mean, and spend time on getting material for your book later?”
“What makes you think I’m not focusing on catching the killer? Getting material for the book is not my only goal today,” said Dusty.
I observed the people seated at the table as Dusty spoke those words. Summer and Toby exchanged a quick glance. Fergus, who was sitting next to Dusty, leaned away from her and moved his chair slightly to increase the distance between them. Monique gripped the edge of the table. Lucy’s mouth fell open. Brad, on the other hand, was smiling at Dusty. I fancied it was a challenging smile, the smile of someone who knew he had the upper hand over his opponent. However, if I’m honest, I’d have to admit I might have allowed bias to influence my perception of Brad.
Fergus was the first to break the spell. “Look,” he said, directing his attention to his siblings, “before I contacted Dusty we all agreed to give her carte blanche, to allow her to do things her way. In fact, that’s one of the conditions she stipulated. Since she’s got results that way in the past, it makes sense to let her do things her way now. The bottom line is, we all want the same thing; to honour Mum and to put her killer behind bars.”
Dusty nodded her head vigorously. “That’s exactly what I want,” she said. “I want that just as much as any of you. And if Roach is the killer, I’ll find a way to prove it.”
“If?” said Monique and Lucy together. A taut silence followed. It was Brad who broke the tension.
“A toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To Dusty’s success on our behalf.”
This time his toast was taken up. Everyone raised their glasses and repeated the toast, including Summer and Toby who were drinking mineral water.
After that, the conversation drifted to a discussion of the Byron Bay area. I was intrigued to learn that the town had not been named after the celebrated British poet, Lord Byron, as I had assumed, but after his grandfather John Byron, a Royal Navy officer who circumnavigated the world in the eighteenth century. No doubt Coco, who had remained in the roof room during the meeting, could have given me a full history of the area without needing to look up a single detail.
I also discovered that Summer was in the process of cutting an album.
“You’re a jazz singer, I believe,” I said.
Summer inclined her head, fixed her doe-like eyes on me and gave me her full attention.
“I sing jazz,” she said. “But I’m more of a blues singer.”
I found it difficult to connect this elfin creature of flawless complexion and youthful appearance with the blues.
“And guitarist,” said Toby. “Sums is a blues singer and guitarist. She has a regular gig at Rick’s.”
“Rick’s?”
“One of those retro type places,” said Toby. “Very swish.”
“Not an underground blues cellar then?”
Summer and Toby laughed and shook their heads.
“Come and see for yourself,” said Summer, with a shy smile. “Tomorrow night.”
That was an invitation I wasn’t about to pass up.
On the way back to Ardem, I asked Dusty why she hadn’t challenged Fergus about the attempted drowning of his friend.
“Not the right time and place,” she said. Then she added, “Do you know the most common reasons why women are killed?” I shook my head. “Domestic argument, revenge and…” She paused for effect. I obliged by waiting with an expectant look on my face.
“Money.”
Chapter 11
The bushland was a regular haunt for Norman Roach. He had broken his usual habit of visiting the track in the late afternoon, perhaps because the local police had had a quiet word after complaints about him from women using the path.
Whatever the reason for changing his routine, unfortunately for Marcia, he had chosen to carry out his voyeuristic activities in the early morning. He liked to sit at Humpback Lookout which was well fitted out with benches and viewing bays. Interested visitors could learn about the many species of dolphins and whales – including the humpback dolphin and the humpback whale – that can often be seen from the vantage point. Norman Roach had probably never read the information plaques. He used the lookout to leer at women in tight jogging gear. As they passed, they might have observed him apparently enjoying the ocean views but they would not have seen him turn to ogle them in rear view, salivating at the movement of their buttocks.
That morning, he saw Marcia walk past. Although she was not dressed provocatively and not in the age range that normally attracted his lecherous eye, for some reason he had followed her. Perhaps it was simply because she was famous. She had passed the lookout and not noticed him, her mind on other things. Roach had quietly slipped from the bench where he had been sitting, almost hidden from view, and followed her with experienced stealth.
At some point he picked up a heavy piece of wood from the forest floor with the intention of whacking Marcia over the head with it. Marcia had paused after crossing the footbridge and fished out her notebook and pen to record some ideas that had come to her during her solitary walk. That’s when Roach struck. It’s possible he did not intend to kill her but to simply knock her out and make off with her jewellery. Marcia wasn’t wearing a lot of jewellery but what she was wearing was of the finest quality. Roach was living on government benefits and liked to gamble. The money he envisaged getting from the sale of Marcia’s jewellery would have been enough motivation for him to assault and rob a defenceless grandmother.
According to the pol
ice and the Nixon family, that’s what happened to Marcia.
“Roach is still the prime suspect,” said Dusty. We were walking along the bush path that Marcia had used on the morning of her death. “But the police haven’t got enough evidence to make a case, haven’t got any evidence. He slipped through their fingers once before due to lack of evidence and they want to be absolutely sure this time. They’re keeping a close watch on him, hoping he’ll slip up.”
“How?”
“He might try to dispose of her jewellery. Or his trophies. Marcia’s note book, for instance. He might have kept that as a trophy.”
“Right. Did they search his house during their investigations?”
“Yep. He lives in a public housing flat. They didn’t find anything. He could have buried the jewellery in the bush somewhere and stuck a rock over it. Anything’s possible. If he did keep any items as trophies, eventually he’ll go back to where they’re hidden.”
Dusty had arranged to meet Norman Roach at Humpback Lookout this morning. The combination of the physical exercise and the salty sea air overlaid with the wet smell of the rainforest was making our walk an invigorating one. We had started at Marcia’s home: a magnificent three-levelled house with outdoor decks to take advantage of what must be breathtaking views. A two-minute stroll from there took us to the walking trail. Marcia would have been able to access the trail virtually unseen which would explain why none of her neighbours saw her leaving for her walk that Saturday morning.
“There are steps leading down to the beach along there,” said Dusty, pointing to the right. “That’s the only place along the walking trail where the beach can be accessed. We’re not going that way though. Marcia didn’t use the beach for her morning walks.”
We followed the bush path that meandered through lush palm rainforest allowing glimpses of the ocean along the way. What a bounty to have virtually on your doorstep.
“Marcia went for her walks at six-thirty each morning,” said Dusty. “We’re a couple of hours later than that, but we should still get a sense of what it was like that morning.”
We moved aside to allow a jogger wearing headphones to overtake us after being alerted to her approach by the sound of feet pounding on the earth path. Later a middle-aged couple coming in the opposite direction nodded a friendly greeting as they walked by.
“Even at this hour it’s not teeming with people,” I said.
“No. It’d be a lot busier in the tourist season, of course.”
“What about when Marcia was killed?”
“August. Not many tourists about then.”
She stopped and pointed to the right. “There’s the lookout.”
I could see a pathway deviating from the main track but it wasn’t until we were close that I was able to see the lookout. It was well hidden from the track by shrubs and trees and at a higher level to accommodate ocean views. The well-trodden dirt path was like a ramp leading up to the viewing area.
I didn’t see Roach until, in a movement that was slow and stealth-like, he appeared from behind a pole. He must have been watching us even as we approached on the track. The grubby stub resting casually between two fingers identified him as the source of the faint smell of a burning cigarette that I had detected a few moments earlier. I disliked him at first sight. I might have described him as fair-haired had his hair not been shaved so close to his scalp as to hardly be there at all. His blue eyes and chubby baby face somehow made him look more sinister than childlike. Even the warmth of the morning sun could not completely ease the chill in my body.
Roach barely suppressed his excitement when he looked at Dusty. In his eyes I could see his appreciation of her well moulded body and her youthful good looks. The vile thoughts revealed in that look caused a wave of revulsion to rise in me. I instinctively moved closer to Dusty.
It was impossible to gauge Dusty’s reaction to Roach. She was professional and polite, even friendly. I tried to position myself so as to keep some distance between Roach and Dusty but somehow he managed to end up sitting next to her. Forced to choose between sitting beside him or on the bench opposite, I chose the bench and almost choked when I caught a whiff of Roach’s body odour: a nauseating blend of cigarette smoke, stale clothes and unwashed skin. Dusty slipped her large bag, one she always carried with her, on the bench between her and Roach. I noticed she used this as an opportunity to ease away from him. Oblivious to our negative reaction to his presence, Roach was smirking. He was enjoying this moment – being the centre of attention and being in the presence of the famous Dusty Kent.
With the introductions over, and after first obtaining Roach’s permission to record their conversation, Dusty began her interview.
“Is this where you were sitting the morning Marcia Hamilton was killed?”
Roach nodded. He raised the cigarette butt to his lips, inhaled and pointed his head skyward as he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils.
“I know you’ve given the police a statement, but I hope you don’t mind going over it again for me. I need to get as much firsthand knowledge as I can for the book I’ll be writing.”
“No problem,” said Roach, clearly eager to go over his story again for a new audience.
“You told the police you didn’t see Marcia walk past that morning. Is that right?”
“Yeah.” Mumbling appeared to be his normal manner of speaking. “Didn’t see no-one come past that morning.”
“You must have seen someone.”
“Nope. Not even an animal.” He giggled. “Saw a couple of birds, the feathered variety.”
“What about Andrew Morehouse?”
“Who?”
“Andrew Morehouse, the jogger who saw you sitting here and gave your description to the police.”
Andrew Morehouse was a long time resident of Byron Bay; a medical practitioner and owner of a local radiology clinic. He often took a morning jog along the walking trail, although he didn’t stick to a regular time. The morning that Marcia was murdered he had opted for an early jog. He was on his return journey when he paused near Humpback Lookout at six forty-seven, jogging on the spot while he took a call from his wife on his mobile phone. The call lasted only a short time, but long enough for him to observe Norman Roach. He didn’t know Roach by sight but the description he gave was good enough to convince the police who it was. Morehouse had been interviewed and quickly cleared of any connection with the crime. He had no personal or professional association with Marcia Hamilton and he was well known in the area as a man of integrity.
“Oh, yeah,” said Roach in response to Dusty’s question. “Him. Yeah, saw him. Course I did. But I didn’t see no-one else.”
“That’s strange,” said Dusty. “I would have expected more than one jogger to be on the track that morning.”
Roach shrugged. “I was only here for… I dunno… half an hour or so. That’s all. Nothin’ to see so I went home.”
“You mean you were hoping to see whales or dolphins?” said Dusty, pretending to misunderstand him.
Roach grinned. “Maybe. Lots to see here.”
At that moment a young woman wearing trainers and body-hugging leggings jogged along the path. A peaked cap and sunglasses protected her face from the weather. Her tight top didn’t fully cover her taut midriff. Roach’s eyes slid sideways to catch a view of her. If she had seen his licentious devouring of her body from head to foot, she would surely have bolted away at top speed. He smirked after her until she was out of sight.
“It’s nature. That’s why I like comin’ here. Natural views and all that. It’s good, eh?”
With his last statement his glance sidled over to me. He was obviously expecting me to engage in some sort of man-to-man appreciation of the ‘natural views’. He might have even winked had I not given him a cold stare. Instead, he lowered his head, still grinning, enjoying his private appreciation of what he had seen.
Dusty remained calm and professional, but I knew her well enough to know she would probably hav
e been happy to pick him up in an expert karate hold and throw him over the edge of the cliff. I found myself wishing she would do just that.
“Didn’t you watch Marcia Hamilton walk past and then follow her along the path?”
“Nope. The police think I did, though, don’t they, eh?”
“Yes,” said Dusty, a thoughtful look crossing her face as she studied him.
“They got no evidence, though, have they? She was famous, wasn’t she, Marcia Hamilton? A famous author. Like you.”
He nodded as if to confirm that he was rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Dusty ignored his attempt at flattery.
“The police think Marcia had a notebook with her that morning: a jotter with a pen attached. It wasn’t found on her body. She might have dropped it along the walking track. Did you see anything like that?”
Roach shook his head. “Did you see her dead body?” he asked, a grisly gleam in his eye.
“Did you?”
“How could I?”
“Maybe you killed her.”
His glance, which held a hint of triumph, went from Dusty to me. “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
Dusty made a show of making an entry in her notepad, which she often used during interviews even when she had the digital recorder on. Roach leaned over in an attempt to see what she was writing.
“Want me to spell my name for you?”
Dusty declined with a smile. “Norman,” she said, snapping the pad shut. “Do you know Fergus Nixon, Marcia’s son?”
“Seen him ’round. Everyone knows them – the Nixons.”
“Did you see him that morning?”
“I already told you,” he said, his smug expression indicating he thought he had avoided a trap Dusty had set for him. “Didn’t see no-one. Except that bloke who saw me, of course.”
“What about when you were leaving. Did you see anyone along the path?”
Roach shook his head.
“Did you go down to the beach?”
“Can’t get down to the beach from here, can you?” Once again, his expression indicated satisfaction that he had avoided falling into a trap.
A Devious Mind Page 7