Under the Cold Bright Lights

by Garry Disher

  ‘I’ve already told it a hundred times.’

  ‘Not to us.’

  Neill wore a sleek suit, with a white shirt and green tie. He loosened the tie, a busy man undergoing a harrowing experience, and placed his forearms on the table. He smelled faintly of antiseptic soap, and his moist, sorrowful eyes sought Colfax’s. ‘I’m frightened. I think Janine intends to murder me. I’m positive she murdered—’

  ‘Let’s take matters one at a time, shall we?’ Colfax said. ‘First, if you think your life’s in danger from your wife, we can protect you. And until we can sort this out, you might consider avoiding all contact with her.’

  ‘Do you think?’ he sneered. ‘I’m driving straight to our country place as soon as I leave here. Janine’s staying in the city. She has a conference this weekend. Melbourne University.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go back to the beginning. In 2004, your first wife, Eleanor, died of a mysterious illness.’

  Auhl watched Neill’s face. Bewilderment, then anguish. ‘You’re bringing that up? I thought we’d moved past that. Yes, El died. She got ill, and she died.’ His fists were two earnest clumps near his heart. ‘These things do happen.’

  Colfax was soothing. ‘I know they do, Doctor Neill.’

  Of course, Auhl had looked into the death of Eleanor Neill while investigating the death of Siobhan Neill eight years later. The first Mrs Neill, a hospital admin secretary then aged twenty-seven and in the sixth year of her marriage to Neill, had suddenly begun to complain of vomiting and diarrhoea. A week later she was dead. Asphyxia—too sudden to get her to hospital.

  Colfax said, ‘And then in 2012 your second wife, Siobhan, died suddenly; also in apparent good health until that point.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Neill said, shaking his head at what life can throw at you. ‘It was ruled a heart attack, in the absence of anything more compelling. At the time I thought it was a ghastly coincidence. Unfortunately that’s not what the police thought.’ He glared at Auhl. ‘However, given the drugs I found yesterday in Janine’s car, I now think Siobhan’s death was murder. Except I didn’t do it and it’s time I was vindicated.’

  Auhl stared at him steadily. Siobhan, aged thirty-two, had been found dead in her bed one morning. The post-mortem found no poisons in her system, no physical trauma, no signs of disease. But there were indications of a heart attack, and that was the pathologist’s ruling.

  Her parents were not satisfied. They approached the Homicide Squad and, making no effort to conceal their loathing for Neill, pointed to the sudden death of his first wife. Auhl’s team weighed it up: one husband; two fit, young, healthy wives, one dying after suffering vomiting and diarrhoea in the days preceding death, the other of a possible heart attack. Neill had married Siobhan, the speech therapist with whom he’d been having an affair, less than six months after the funeral of his first wife. This was generally thought to be bad form, but no one talked about murder.

  They started to when it was revealed that, at the time of Siobhan’s death, Neill had been having an affair with the woman who became his third wife. Janine was also married at the time of the affair. When her divorce came through, a week after Siobhan’s funeral, Neill sent her a hundred red roses. Seven months later, he married her.

  Auhl recalled the coronial inquiry, Neill claiming he’d been Janine’s friend, not lover, at the time of Siobhan’s death. In a record of interview played to the court, he’d sobbed: ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be viewed as a brilliant doctor yet unable to save the lives of those you love.’ He’d gone on to say he’d thought long and hard about the events and, yes, was spending a fair amount of time blaming himself.

  Now Auhl heard Helen say, ‘Siobhan was murdered, and you think your present wife did it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Neill shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know what you’re thinking, you think I’m a serial womaniser, but things were shaky with Siobhan and I was flattered when Janine started to pay me attention. Then when Siobhan died, Janine was there for me and…I was weak, I admit it.’

  ‘And history repeats itself and things get shaky with Janine and you find yourself a new girlfriend,’ said Auhl.

  Neill flushed. He turned to look at Debenham. ‘Do I have to listen to this?’

  ‘Sergeant Auhl apologises for his tone,’ soothed Colfax, kicking Auhl under the table. ‘Returning to Siobhan: do you think your present wife killed her so she could have you to herself?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Was Janine around when your first wife died?’

  Neill was astounded. ‘God, no. She would have been still at school.’

  Auhl suppressed a snort.

  ‘I’ve just about had it with you,’ Neill said.

  Auhl folded his arms. ‘Have you been feeling ill recently, Doctor Neill? Vomiting? Diarrhoea?’

  Neill looked at him. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. Janine’s drug of choice is sudden and undetectable. She used it to kill Siobhan, and she used it to kill Christine.’

  ‘The bodies just keep piling up,’ Auhl said. ‘Who’s Christine?’

  Debenham, the Homicide Squad detective, gave Auhl a bleak smile. ‘Christine Lancer, a friend of Doctor Neill, died suddenly a few weeks ago.’

  Auhl opened his mouth but Helen Colfax kicked him again and said, ‘Perhaps you could tell us about Ms Lancer, Doctor Neill.’

  Neill said primly, ‘Chris is, was, a physio at the Epworth.’ He made a rolling motion of his wrist: ‘Naturally I’m always conferring with physiotherapists in my line of work.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Auhl, visualising Neill’s type: pretty young blondes who looked about fifteen. And, crucially, blondes who were not doctors. Neill didn’t want to shack up with an equal. Or, indeed, with someone who might recognise she was being poisoned.

  The thought earned him another kick from the boss, who apparently could read his mind.

  ‘How did Ms Lancer die, Doctor Neill?’

  ‘I think my wife—’

  ‘No, Doctor Neill, leave her out of it for now. How did Ms Lancer die?’

  ‘It was ruled a heart attack.’

  ‘Just like Siobhan.’

  ‘Just like Siobhan,’ confirmed Neill. ‘Do you believe in coincidence? I don’t.’

  Nor did Auhl. ‘Are you saying Janine used something in both cases that mimicked the symptoms of a heart attack?’

  Neill’s moist eyes glittered. ‘I am indeed, and I found the evidence. Sux.’

  ‘Sucks?’

  He smiled and leaned in. ‘Succinylcholine.’

  ‘How do you know she used that particular drug?’ asked Colfax.

  ‘Because I found her stash, hidden in her car.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ said Auhl. ‘What makes you think she used it to kill anyone?’

  ‘Because deaths from succinylcholine reproduce the symptoms of heart attacks.’ A catch in Neill’s voice as he said it, and he swiped at the leakage from his eyes.

  Debenham gave him a look of impatience tinged with sympathy. Auhl sensed from Helen, too, not exactly sympathy but a willingness to hear Neill out. ‘Tell me about this stash,’ she said.

  ‘Two ampoules, each twenty-five mils, one half-used, sufficient to kill several wives.’

  Auhl said, ‘Found in Janine’s car? Why did you decide to search it? And when?’

  Neill shot him a testy look. ‘Yesterday I went out to buy wine. Janine’s car was parked behind mine so I borrowed it. I was getting out some coins for the parking meter and dropped them—they rolled under the drivers seat somewhere. When I got out and started peering around, I saw this little Velcro bag.’

  Neill took out his iPhone, swiped at the screen and placed the device face up on the table. Auhl leaned over to look: a dark but mostly clear image of the underside of a car seat, and a rectangle of fabric. Leaving the phone in place, Neill swiped again: the bag, open, showing a syringe and two ampoules, one full of fluid, the other half-full.

  It was enti
rely possible that Neill planted the stuff, but Auhl let that go. He said, as though curious, ‘It doesn’t have to be refrigerated?’

  ‘It’s stable for a few weeks at room temperature.’

  ‘Let me play devil’s advocate,’ Helen Colfax said. ‘Let me be your wife’s defence barrister. She’s a hand therapist, right? Damaged tendons, other painful injuries? One day she’s needed the succinylcholine for some reason—maybe an emergency procedure—but the hospital’s run out, so to make sure that never happened again she stocked up. Hid the stuff under the seat of her car so junkies wouldn’t steal it or whatever.’

  Neill shook his head dismissively. ‘There’s no legitimate reason why a hand therapist would use sux. It’s used in operating theatres.’

  ‘But a skilled surgeon might use it?’ asked Auhl, all innocence.

  Neill scowled. ‘Yes, I’m a surgeon, and yes, I’m skilled. Tendons, bones, sinew, nerves. Microsurgery when someone chops off a finger with a bandsaw, for example. But sux isn’t used for that kind of procedure. Sux is a muscle relaxant used in emergency or critical procedures where it’s necessary to intubate. It sedates and paralyses extremely quickly. In fact, the lungs stop working, but the patient then breathes by way of a respirator.’

  He swung his head from one to the other: Debenham, Auhl, Colfax. ‘If it’s used in the absence of a respirator the result is immediate paralysis of the diaphragm. Breathing stops, followed by fatal brain damage. In a matter of seconds.’

  ‘Let’s say for the moment we believe you,’ Auhl said.

  Neill curled his lip. ‘That’s it, I want a lawyer.’

  Helen Colfax said, ‘I apologise for my colleague, Doctor Neill. But humour us for the moment. Alan?’

  Auhl said, ‘I merely wanted to ask where you think Janine obtained the sux.’

  ‘She stole it from the hospitals she works in.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have records? Wouldn’t she be found out?’

  Neill said, ‘Not if a hospital is missing just one vial. It would be explained away as sloppy paperwork. But if two vials went missing, it would be another story. Thus, to avoid arousing suspicion, Janine took one from the Epworth and one from the Alfred—two of the hospitals she works in.’

  Thus. Wanker. ‘It’s injected and acts quickly?’ said Auhl.

  ‘Acts in seconds.’

  ‘Surely there are symptoms?’ Helen said.

  ‘Sux is the perfect killer. It’s quick, not much is needed and the victim gives every indication of dying from a heart attack,’ Neill said.

  ‘There was a pretty thorough post-mortem when Siobhan died,’ Auhl said. ‘Why didn’t it turn up anything?’

  ‘Not even a good pathologist would think to test for sux. A specific urine test is needed, which isn’t part of the protocol. And the results can be inconclusive.’

  Auhl glanced at Debenham. ‘Can we get the pathologist to have another look at this girlfriend of his?’

  Debenham gazed back levelly. ‘Cremated. And there was a family history of heart problems.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  Auhl watched Neill for…what? Smugness? Relief? ‘We have two perhaps unexplained sudden deaths and photos of two tubes of some liquid. None of it is proof of murder.’

  Except he knew there had been murder. Murders.

  Neill said, ‘I can tell from your face you don’t believe me. Nor did Sergeant Debenham, at first. I’ll lay it out for you, okay?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Auhl said, earning another kick to the ankle.

  ‘First, I admit I started an affair with Chris even though I’m still married to Janine. I was lonely. I hardly ever saw Janine and when I did she was cold and remote.’

  Auhl opened his mouth but Colfax got in first. ‘And Janine found out?’

  ‘I left my phone in the kitchen and Chris texted me one day. Janine read it.’

  ‘She tackled you about it?’

  ‘No. But I could see she’d opened the message. It was pretty frank, you know, sexual. And her behaviour changed.’

  ‘Changed how?’

  ‘She became hard and vindictive and had this air of triumph, as though she’d thought it all out. Kill Chris like she’d killed Siobhan, then kill me.’

  ‘Why kill you? Revenge?’

  ‘Well, yes, revenge. And money, of course.’

  AFTER NEILL HAD BEEN escorted downstairs, Colfax, Debenham and Auhl discussed tactics.

  ‘At the very least we serve a search warrant on Mrs Neill,’ Debenham said. ‘If we do find she’s stolen this drug, we can apply pressure regarding the other business.’

  ‘You mean the murders,’ said Auhl.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you believe him. His present wife killed his previous wife and his new girlfriend.’

  ‘Don’t give me the shits,’ Debenham said. ‘An accusation has been made. We have to follow up. And you know it yourself, two sudden deaths.’

  ‘Three sudden deaths,’ said Auhl.

  ‘Boys, boys,’ said Helen Colfax.

  Auhl wasn’t finished. ‘But what, realistically, can Homicide do? Wives number one and two are long dead, and the girlfriend was cremated.’

  ‘We serve a search warrant,’ said Debenham patiently, ‘and we check hospital records. Maybe Janine’s on camera with her hand inside the drugs cupboard.’

  ‘Shit.’ Helen Colfax twisted suddenly in her chair. Debenham and Auhl watched, fascinated, as she snapped her hand around to the back of her neck and dug beneath the collar of her shirt, a new-looking candy-green item. ‘Bloody tag’s digging into my skin.’ Tugging the fabric away from her neck, she said, ‘But what if the good doctor planted the drugs?’

  ‘At last someone sees sense,’ Auhl said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. But our Homicide colleague is right, we need to obtain a warrant and have a word with the third Mrs Neill.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’ She looked at Debenham. ‘I’m suggesting a joint operation.’

  ‘No skin off my nose,’ Debenham said.

  AUHL FINISHED AT 5.00 p.m. and decided to walk home. He was crossing Princes Bridge when his phone rang. ‘I am wish to speak to Mrs Fanning, please.’

  A mature female voice that seemed to reach Auhl from an echo chamber. ‘This isn’t her number. But I am a friend. May I ask what it’s about?’

  Then a hint of muffled sounds and urgent whispers.

  ‘Are you Mr Auhl?’

  ‘Yes. And you are…?’

  ‘I am station attendant at Southern Cross. I have little girl here. She is cry very much.’

  Then Pia was on the line. ‘A. A.?’

  ‘I’ll come and collect you.’

  ‘I tried to ring Mum and your house but I ran out of coins.’

  She must have tried the only payphone left in the world, thought Auhl. Then: We need to get her a mobile phone. ‘Your mum’s at work, sweetie.’

  ‘I didn’t know what tram to get or what direction or anything,’ and she was wailing.

  Then the woman was on the line again. ‘You come now, Mr Auhl?’

  ‘Yes. Ten minutes.’

  He found Pia standing with an African woman beside one of the ticket barriers. She hurled herself at him; fresh tears. Auhl knelt, and murmured, and patted, and finally stood to thank the attendant.

  Who was wary. ‘How you know her?’

  ‘She lives with her mother in my house.’

  ‘Where her mother?’

  ‘At work.’

  The woman didn’t want to let Pia go yet. ‘Where her father?’

  Auhl explained: the access visit, a father who made things difficult for mother and daughter.

  The station attendant began to unbend. ‘You be smiling, little girl,’ she said, with a gentle push to Pia’s shoulders.

  They walked to the tram stop. ‘Thought you were coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘Dad said he was too busy.’

  Auhl nodded. Too busy for his da
ughter. His daughter an inconvenience. So he’d put her on the train back to the city without letting anyone know. Without even thinking about how she’d get home once she reached the other end.

  10

  SATURDAY. THEY TACKLED Janine Neill at 7.00 a.m. Found her awake. Dressed, but looking drawn and fatigued. Last night’s conference dinner? wondered Auhl.

  ‘What is this? Is this going to make me late? I’m delivering a paper at ten.’

  She stood in her front hallway, frowning at Auhl, Colfax and Debenham on her doorstep, the uniformed search constables on the garden path behind them. Auhl regarded her. Still a classic Nordic blonde, dressed in a narrow skirt, snug jacket and court shoes. Showing plenty of the tall, shoulders-back certainty he remembered, but with a hint of bewilderment. And doubt…guilt concealed as bluster? Recognising Auhl, she said, ‘Not you again.’

  ‘I’m getting a lot of that lately,’ Auhl said.

  Helen Colfax shot him a look. ‘Mrs Neill, we have a warrant to search your house and car, if you don’t mind. May we come in?’

  ‘I told you, I’m giving a paper this morning.’

  ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Mrs Neill,’ Debenham said, ‘but you may have to postpone your talk.’

  He handed her the warrant. ‘The keys to your car, please, Mrs Neill.’

  The driveway to the little 1890s house was narrow. Auhl confirmed one aspect of Alec Neill’s story: there was room for two cars only if one parked behind the other.

  ‘My car? Whatever for?’

  ‘The keys, Mrs Neill.’

  ‘All right. Come in.’

  A dim cool hallway hung with small watercolours. Ornate ceiling fixtures, a long rug on polished floorboards. The hallway passed bedrooms and a sitting room, and opened onto a broad, sun-drenched, glass-walled living area: kitchen, dining room and lounge. The keys were in a glass bowl at one end of a long bench. Janine Neill picked them up, but her fingers seemed not to work and they fell to the bench. Nerves, thought Auhl. She stepped back and said, ‘Help yourself. But why?’

  Debenham ignored her and murmured instructions to the search constables. Two of them entered the hallway rooms and two went out to the car.

  Meanwhile Janine Neill was pacing, glancing at her watch. She looked tentative now. She swung around on Auhl, squirrelly and apologetic. Closer to, she was beautiful, beautifully groomed. ‘Sorry I was rude before. Just tell me what’s going on.’