“Spit it out, Mr Maze Master. I know you’re holding something back about Fergus.”
I knew the piece of information I was about to offer Dusty would be like a crisp red apple for her; something she could sink her teeth into and munch on.
“Fergus is on the brink of bankruptcy,” I said. “He’s lost money on some wild schemes and risky investments.”
“Now you’re talking. A male who needs money. Even better, a risk taker who needs money.”
I had already given some consideration to the idea of Fergus killing his mother to get his hands on the money in a hurry and found what I thought was a stumbling block to that theory.
“But if Fergus murdered Marcia to get her money,” I said, “why hide the body in such a way that it would not be discovered for years – perhaps never? That would mean he’d have to wait until she was declared officially dead before getting his hands on the money.”
“He might not have anticipated the body being so well hidden. For one thing, he probably didn’t expect it to roll all the way down to the bottom of the gully. Either way, he would have anticipated the body would be found when the police searched the area after Marcia’s disappearance was reported.”
“Right. Why wasn’t her body found sooner?”
“I don’t know but, to be fair, it was a big area to search.” Dusty looked at me and smiled. “I can see by the look in your eye that you haven’t told me everything yet. You’ve still got something up your sleeve, haven’t you, Sean O’Kelly?”
Chapter 19
My big moment was interrupted by the arrival of Fergus. Apart from the DVD of the press conference, it was the first time I’d seen Fergus outside his home environment. He hesitated at the door, looking a little like a schoolboy about to enter his first classroom. I wondered if he was wary of being interrogated by Dusty without the support, or distraction, of his family.
Dusty showed him into the living area. Fergus waved away her offer of refreshments as we each settled in separate armchairs.
“Fergus,” said Dusty, “we’ve now eliminated Norman Roach as the murderer.”
“Eliminated?” His tone expressed his incredulity.
Dusty had called Roach’s friend Dave who verified that Roach had been in Coolangatta the weekend Marcia was murdered. He also said they’d been seen by several people who could collaborate their story. She explained this to Fergus.
“I’ve passed the information on to the police and they’ll chase it up, but I’m satisfied that Norman Roach had nothing to do with your mother’s death. That means I’m going to focus on family members.” Fergus began to protest but Dusty cut him off with a stern speech. “I need to eliminate family before I look further afield. Surely you can see that’s necessary. If you wish to prove to the outside world that the family had nothing to do with Marcia’s murder, I must demonstrate to them that I have investigated that angle thoroughly. When I accepted this project, I made it clear to you that no matter what happened I would be committed to writing the story.” She looked straight at Fergus and held his gaze. Knowing the power of her direct gaze, I felt some sympathy for Fergus. “Obviously,” said Dusty, “it’ll be better for me if I have the full co-operation of the family, but if that co-operation is withdrawn I’ll still write the story of your mother’s murder.”
Her determination was reflected in her set jaw and the tightness of her face.
Fergus lowered his eyes. “There’s no question of withdrawing co-operation,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a waste of time, investigating family members as potential murderers. However, I accept that it’s necessary. I only hope you’ll complete that aspect of your investigation as quickly as possible.”
“Of course. Now, let’s get down to business.” Fergus might be used to being in control but Dusty’s firm, brisk tone made it clear she was in charge and he must accept it. “My first question is about the trusts that Marcia set up. You each receive an equal share of her estate which amounts to millions of dollars.”
“Correct.” Fergus adjusted his sitting position.
“Did you all know that Marcia had made her will in that way?”
“Yes, she told us.”
“Did you or any of your siblings know that the trusts could not be accessed until five years after her death?”
Fergus looked at Dusty, his brow creased in annoyance. “We discussed this the other day.”
“I know. I just want to be sure.”
He hesitated, directing his gaze to the floor. Dusty waited, showing no signs of impatience. I wondered why Fergus was reluctant to answer. Was he considering the subtle shift in his relationship with Dusty; from bereaved family member to suspect? Had he realised that as a suspect he needed to be careful not to incriminate himself?
“I knew nothing about the five year stipulation,” he said, finally. “As far as I know, neither did any of my siblings.”
“In other words you believed that you would inherit millions on the death of your mother?”
“Yes. We all did. But we didn’t expect Mum’s death to happen for a long time yet. We most certainly didn’t expect her to die a violent death. None of us would have wished that on her, let alone caused it.”
“You and your siblings all knew what you stood to inherit, but you were the only one on the verge of bankruptcy.”
Fergus’s nostrils flared. Whether he was angry that we had found out about his financial situation or because we had pried into his private affairs, I was not sure.
“And you were at the walking track the morning Marcia died. That makes you the prime suspect, Fergus.”
“How dare you!” His sharp brown eyes fixed a cold stare on Dusty. A vein in his neck pulsed. “You know why I was at the track that morning.”
Dusty remained calm. “I know why you said you were there. But that could simply be the story you had prepared to give you an excuse for being on the walking track. It’s a clever idea. It allowed you to be quite open about your whereabouts. The only part you had to leave out was the bit about seeing your mother come along the track and sneaking up behind her and killing her.” Dusty ignored the flush of rage creeping up Fergus’s neck. “That was the only risk you took but it was a low risk. You knew that not many people use the track early on a Saturday morning.”
Fergus folded his arms across his chest and snorted, much like a bull about to charge. “That’s a preposterous suggestion! Besides, how was I supposed to sneak up behind anyone when I was still limping with a sore ankle?”
Dusty was prepared for this objection, had no doubt been expecting it.
“We only have your word for that. For all we know, you might have been walking normally on your ankle.”
“If you had taken the trouble to check with my doctor –”
“I did check. I know your sprain was genuine. But some people heal faster than others. Your foot may have healed enough for you to put weight on it.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Fergus looked first at Dusty then at me as if trying to work out if one of us might have faith in him. Disappointed in what he saw in our faces, he threw his hands in the air.
“Fine!” he said through gritted teeth. “Then answer me this. Why would I invite you to investigate my mother’s murder, if I were the one who had done it?”
“That’s a very good point. Except it wasn’t your idea, was it? It was Toby who suggested I could help, wasn’t it?”
Fergus glared at Dusty. “Yes. The suggestion came from Toby, but I was in total agreement and I was the one who followed through.”
“I know it’s hard not to take these questions personally, Fergus,” said Dusty, “but I do have to ask them. It doesn’t mean I think you had anything to do with what happened to your mother. It’s just that I have to put all the facts before my readers.”
Mollified somewhat, Fergus relaxed his posture. However, if he thought he was off the hook he was about to be disabused.
“I’m afraid I do have something else I need to
ask you about which might be difficult for you.” Suspicion clouded Fergus’s face. He eyed Dusty warily. “I believe one of your school friends, a boy named Luke, accused you of trying to drown him.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Fergus picked up his car keys and stood up. “I invited you to take the case to help us; to help the family. Not to dig up gossip. This has gone far enough.”
“Sit down, Fergus!” Dusty’s tone was sharp and authoritative.
Fergus was so taken aback he hesitated on his way to the door.
Dusty repeated her command, this time in a quieter tone. “Sit down, Fergus. I’m the best in the business. That’s why you contacted me. If you really want to know what happened to your mother, you’ll do things my way.”
Fergus, tight lipped, returned to his chair, sat down and dropped his keys back on the low table.
“All I want is for you to tell me in your own words what happened,” said Dusty.
Fergus sighed; an expression of resigned acceptance etched on his face.
“I was a thirteen-year-old kid,” he explained with some reluctance. “Both of us were thirteen. We were just mucking around on the rocks. I said I had to go home but Luke wanted me to stay longer. He jumped into the water and challenged me to a race. He said he was going to swim to Julian Rocks. You would have seen those rocks – they’re about three kilometres out from the beach, which is where Luke and I were.”
We both nodded. Julian Rocks Marine Reserve was clearly visible from just about anywhere along the beach. A brochure I’d read relates the local Aboriginal legend that the rocks formed when a jealous husband threw his spear at a canoe carrying his wife and her lover. The canoe broke in two and sank to the bottom of the ocean. Only the back and the front of the boat stuck out of the water, creating a rock formation.
“I wouldn’t get into the water. Luke kept beckoning me to get in. And then he started pretending to be drowning just to make me jump in. I thought he was pretending. He’d done it once before and laughed his head off when I did the brave rescue thing. I told him to stop being an idiot, but he started gasping and bobbing up and down and raising his hand up in the air.”
“Did you hold out your hand in a gesture of help and then pull it in quickly so that he couldn’t reach it?”
“Of course not. He was too far out for me to reach him by hand anyway. Besides, if I really believed he was drowning and needed help, I would have jumped in and dragged him out of the water. But I knew he was a good swimmer and there was no reason for him to be drowning.”
“So what happened?”
“Some of the other kids who were on the beach ran down and jumped in and rescued him. I was pretty disgusted. I still thought he was joking. I was disgusted with him at endangering other lives just because of a silly joke. So, I walked away and went home.”
“But he wasn’t joking, was he?”
Fergus averted his eyes, turning to look at the outdoor area. He rose, walked over to the open glass doors and out into the courtyard. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, gazing up at the sky. Dusty and I exchanged glances.
“Let’s give him a couple of minutes,” said Dusty.
She checked her phone, which had been on silent, and saw that she had a voice message. I went into the kitchen to make coffee. I could hear Dusty on the phone and heard her say ‘Ken’. The message must have been from Senior Sergeant Ken Nagle. I tuned out while I busied myself at the coffee machine. A few minutes later, Dusty appeared at the breakfast bar, holding her phone and looking disappointed.
“Ken left me a message to call him,” she said. “He must be in a meeting or something; his phone’s switched off.” She released a heavy sigh and smiled regretfully. “Never mind, I’m sure he’ll call me back as soon as he can.”
I nodded my agreement and gestured toward the courtyard.
“Yes,” she said. “Coffee might be what Fergus needs right now.”
Fergus turned when he heard us enter the courtyard and joined us at the table. It wasn’t until I had poured us each a cup of coffee that he spoke.
“You’re right,” he said to Dusty. “Luke wasn’t joking. It’s not a pleasant memory for me.”
“What happened?”
Fergus stared into his coffee cup. “Apparently, he’d swallowed water.”
“And yet he was a good swimmer?”
“He said his foot got caught on something underwater. He panicked when he realised he was being dragged down. If I’d known he was really drowning, I would have jumped in straight away. Anyone would.” He drank some of his coffee before continuing. “Later, he said he understood why I reacted the way I did, but we were never close friends again.”
“How did the other kids treat you after that?”
Fergus shrugged. “Some were okay – accepted what I said. But others… Well, I think some of them still, even today, believe I deliberately left Luke to drown. Of course the story evolved into one of attempted murder. The fact that he had his foot caught in something I couldn’t possibly have placed in the ocean was conveniently forgotten.” He straightened his body in a gesture of defiance. “But I have a clear conscience about that day. I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did if Luke hadn’t tried the drowning joke before. I wasn’t to know he was serious that time.”
“Fair enough,” said Dusty. “Before I let you go, I want to ask you about the car you saw when you went to return your mother’s mobile phone.” Fergus raised his eyebrows then relaxed and nodded in agreement as Dusty continued. “According to the police reports, you saw another car, a dark coloured car, in the parking area that morning. The police haven’t been able to find out whose car that was because you couldn’t give them a full description. Can you remember anything more about it?”
Fergus shook his head. “I didn’t take much notice. I kept my eyes on the walking track most of the time, looking out for Mum. As I told the police, I think there was someone sitting in the driver’s seat, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Dusty then spent several minutes trying to prompt Fergus’s memory with a series of questions and suggestions about possible make of car. Fergus responded each time with a shake of his head.
“I wish I could remember,” he said, running his hands through his hair. Then he paused. “Wait,” he said, pointing at Dusty. “Something you said…”
He fell silent, his eyes fixed on the floor as he tried to recall something. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence that followed. Finally, Fergus spoke.
“When you said ‘wagon’, something clicked,” he said to Dusty. “A picture of the car flashed into my mind. It was just a flash and then it was gone.”
“What do you remember?” said Dusty.
“It was a wagon,” Fergus said, nodding his head. “Dark colour, black I think, with tinted windows.”
“What make?”
Fergus shook his head. “Hard to say. Could be a Honda, maybe a Subaru. Something like that. Not a new model, probably around five or six years old.”
“What about the person sitting in the driver’s seat? Man or woman?”
“I just couldn’t see clearly. I’m not even sure if there was someone in the car. It could have been just a shadow.”
When Dusty closed the door behind Fergus a few minutes later, she grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen area.
“Right,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten about that last bit of information you haven’t shared with me as yet. I’m beginning to wonder if it has something to do with Chris.”
Chapter 20
I emptied a packet of crisps into a bowl and followed her outside.
“Nothing to do with Chris, as it happens,” I said as we made ourselves comfortable around the table.
Dusty had been right in suggesting I’d been saving something till last. I had hoped to impress her with its dramatic impact.
“It’s about Perry Doran,” I said.
Anticipation shone in her eyes. “Don’t tell m
e you’ve dug up some dirt on that quasi Frenchman.”
“Don’t know about dirt but possible dirty dealings. By all accounts, he has the artful ability to extract money from others.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Who did he extract money from?”
“He received a huge payout from Marcia when they divorced.”
“A huge payout?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars. It was a private arrangement brokered through Marcia’s solicitor.”
Dusty let out a long whistle. “Serious? He got almost a million dollars after only two years of marriage?”
“He did. And that was in addition to the money she gave him to help set up his restaurant.”
“Sounds like a greedy flimflam man to me,” said Dusty, shaking her head in disgust. “I’d love to add him to our list of suspects. It’s inconvenient, him being on the other side of the continent the weekend that Marcia died. That means we’re stuck with the Nixon family. Our murderer is in that family, take my word for it.”
Shouts and laughter drifted over the back fence from people walking along the track on their way to the beach.
“You’re right,” continued Dusty, as the noise faded into the distance. “I mean about what you said earlier with your hand across your heart. For someone to murder their own mother is unthinkable – almost unthinkable, anyway. We’re looking for someone who’d be capable of committing such an act. The sort of person who might do that is someone who is, as I said before, a narcissist. Someone, probably a male, who has – among other things – an overinflated ego, a deep need for admiration and is drawn to risky behaviour.”
“That narrows the suspects down to the two males, Fergus and Brad.”
“Yes, if we’re talking about matricide they’re the likely suspects.”
“If? You just said it was matricide.”
“I said our murderer is in that family. That doesn’t necessarily mean direct family.”
Before I could ask her what she meant, a distinctive tune emitted from her phone.
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