Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller

by Richard Beasley

  ‘Tell us what happened.’

  ‘Well . . . this is hard. In the car, Justin started to kiss Klaudia again. She told him to cool it. She hit his hand away at some point. He was really drunk by then. When we got to my place, she sort of backed away from him – especially when he brought out the cocaine.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I got angry,’ Richter said. ‘I – look, it was the end of an awful week. Justin had gone to my fridge, opened champagne . . . He’d had enough to drink. I told him to put the drugs away. He was already wasted.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He said he’d brought them especially to cheer me up.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I went to my study and shut the door. I hoped he’d just go.’

  ‘What then – after you went to the study?’

  ‘Klaudia walked in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We talked. She didn’t want to have any coke. She said she was mad at Justin for bringing drugs given how – given how Nikki had died.’

  ‘How long did you talk for?’

  ‘Fifteen or twenty minutes. She ended up telling me about her visa problem. She told me how much she liked Sydney – she started to cry.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I offered to help her, and said I’d take her home.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Richter nodded. ‘Pretty much straight away. I’d been drinking, so I couldn’t drive, and I didn’t want to put her in a cab so late. I called Mario, and asked him to come back. He doesn’t live far away.’

  ‘What happened when he did?’

  ‘I thought I’d drop Klaudia home, and deal with Justin when I got back.’

  ‘What about Elena Mancini?’

  ‘I asked her if she wanted to leave. I think she thought about it, but Justin was pushy about her staying, and she seemed okay with him at the time, even though he was so drunk. I said I’d get Mario to drop her home when we came back from Klaudia’s . . . I really . . .’ He put his head down, then shook it, before looking up again at Aitken. ‘I shouldn’t have left her with Justin when he was in that state.’

  ‘You went to Miss Dabrowska’s apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Near Bondi. A couple of blocks back from the beach.’

  ‘And when you arrived at her flat?’

  ‘I went in with her. She made coffee, and we talked for maybe twenty minutes. I said I’d try and help her get a work permit – that was about it. Then I went back home.’

  ‘And what did you find there when you returned?’

  Richter then told the jurors about the shock of finding Elena Mancini on the floor of his lounge room, a pool of blood leaking into his carpet. He checked for a pulse, and found none. Nearby, Matheson was also on the floor, breathing but not conscious. Richter rang triple 0, asked for an ambulance first, then the police. One of the ambulance officers eventually roused Matheson.

  ‘You also called a lawyer?’ Aitken asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Elena was dead in my house. I’d let Justin take drugs. I knew that was the wrong thing to do. I knew the PR damage it could do to the company. I thought – people would’ve expected me to call a lawyer, so I did.’

  ‘You gave a statement to police?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Aitken nodded. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some unpleasant questions, Mr Richter,’ he then said.

  ‘I’ve been expecting that,’ Richter replied, and forced a smile.

  Aitken had two ways to go with the evidence about Nikki from Sally Cook’s files. He could ignore it, and try to object to Tanner using it. The defence case, however, was that the wrong man was on trial. Attacking Richter would pass the relevance test; preventing it would be akin to depriving the accused of raising his defence. Aitken would deal with the weaker part of his case himself – that way he could contain the damage, and change the message.

  ‘You were separated before your late wife died, Mr Richter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your lawyers had received letters from a divorce lawyer acting for Mrs Richter? From Sally Cook & Associates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in that correspondence, your wife indicated she wanted a divorce?’

  ‘I was hoping that was just anger, but yes.’

  ‘You still loved her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell the court . . . and forgive me for asking. Why had you separated?’

  Richter shook his head, and did his best to look pained. ‘We’d . . . from time to time – Look, both of us had done the wrong thing by each other a few times.’

  ‘The wrong thing?’

  ‘I’m sorry to be coy,’ Richter said. He sighed. ‘We’d both been unfaithful. I work long hours, and travel a lot. We were both lonely from time to time. People know who I am. They know I have a lot of money. Women – I let myself down a few times. Nikki did too, once when I was away. With someone I thought was a mutual friend. Out of spite I . . . well, I guess I went looking for revenge. It spiralled out of control. I wanted us to get back together, though. I really did.’

  ‘The letters from your wife’s lawyer also detailed incidents of alleged violence and bullying. In particular –’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Richter said loudly. ‘None of that was true.’

  ‘Just let me finish my question, Mr Richter,’ Aitken said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you violently attack your late wife in August last year?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you threaten to kill her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you begin choking her that night with your hands around her throat?’

  ‘No,’ Richter said firmly. ‘I did not.’

  Tanner wondered if Aitken was going to take Richter to the photos in Sally Cook’s files showing Nikki’s bruised neck, but he didn’t – he’d got the denial he needed. By not introducing the photos himself, Aitken could still object if Tanner tried to, saying they weren’t relevant to Matheson’s guilt or innocence, or simply more inflammatory than probative.

  ‘You had a pre-nuptial agreement with Mrs Richter, did you not?’ Aitken asked quickly, segueing from the injury to what he no doubt wanted to suggest was its real cause.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One that specified a financial settlement in the event of divorce, depending on the years of your marriage, whether you had children, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without children, and if she divorced you after less than ten years of marriage, what did the agreement provide in terms of financial settlement?’

  ‘Nikki would get five million if it was five years, a million more for each year after that, I think.’

  ‘So seven million for seven years?’

  ‘Not very romantic, but yes. It’s pretty standard for someone in my position who’s likely to inherit a big share in a major corporation.’

  Aitken tendered the pre-nup, without objection from Tanner. ‘Your late wife was seeking more than seven million, wasn’t she?’

  Richter nodded. ‘She wanted an apartment worth eighteen million for a start, then a lot more.’

  ‘How much?’

  Richter paused, probably just as he’d been prepped to. ‘Fifty million in cash on top of that.’

  Aitken nodded slowly to let the figure sink in. ‘Fifty million,’ he repeated. ‘And your response?’

  ‘I think that’s when I realised how angry she was.’

  A few people in the gallery laughed nervously, embarrassing themselves.

  ‘And the allegation about abuse – that came in a letter sent immediately before the letter seeking the apartment and the fifty million?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Aitken tendered the letters, then checked his notes.

  ‘One last th
ing, Mr Richter. And again I apologise, but I’m just trying to save Mr Tanner the trouble of asking you. Did you hurt Elena Mancini on the morning of 9 October last year?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Did you do anything that killed her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Richter.’

  It was nearly one when Aitken sat down, and the judge said he’d adjourn for lunch, and that cross-examination would start at two.

  Tanner gave Porter instuctions that he and Jane were not to be disturbed in the defence room during lunch, other than to be given sandwiches and coffee. A quarter of an hour later, his phone started to vibrate. No caller ID. He answered anyway.

  ‘I’m calling about your offer of work.’ It was Mark Woods from the drug squad. ‘I’ve decided I’ll look into it tomorrow morning, as you’ve suggested.’

  ‘And what I want?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘You’ll let me know what you find?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘I’d like instant gratification. Time’s precious.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Woods said, then hung up.

  ‘What was that about?’ Ross asked when Tanner put his phone away.

  Tanner stood and picked up his papers. ‘I have to make a quick call.’

  She motioned for him to stay put, and picked up her own folders. ‘I’ll see you in court.’

  When she’d left, Tanner rang Lisa Ilves.

  ‘How’s the trial going?’

  ‘It’s only really about to start now.’

  ‘Do you need something? Company tonight?’

  ‘Meet me after court tomorrow.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘We may have something to discuss.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Is that all I get?’

  ‘I’m due in court. I’ll see you Tuesday.’

  49

  It wasn’t often that Tanner felt his job was to find the truth. Usually he had to avoid it, blur it, pour doubt on it. This case was different.

  ‘You described Miss Dabrowska as flirtatious?’ he asked Richter to begin his cross.

  ‘To a degree.’

  ‘And you produced her employment file to the prosecutor’s office?’

  ‘The company that owns the complex did.’

  ‘My apologies. That file had some complaints she’d made against members who – let’s use your term – may have gotten the wrong idea about Miss Dabrowska. Is that fair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In Miss Dabrowska’s file, there’s no criticism from her employer about her flirtatiousness, is there?’

  ‘No. I think we – I think the manager may have talked to her about how guys, if they’ve been drinking . . . you know . . . can get the wrong idea.’

  ‘Let me show you some film from the Olympus CCTV cameras.’

  The lights were dimmed, and within seconds the court’s video screen showed Justin Matheson and Klaudia Dabrowska in the main entrance of the entertainment complex. Then the kiss started. Eleven seconds went by. Tanner had it played again. He had it paused after nine seconds. Klaudia Dabrowska had her tongue down Matheson’s throat.

  ‘Is that flirting, Mr Richter?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘You said she was flirtatious, and Mr Matheson may have gotten “the wrong idea”. I’ll ask again, is she flirting?’

  ‘In part. What I meant was –’

  ‘Which part? The part where she puts her hand at the back of his head and drags it towards her, or the part where she’s got her tongue in his mouth?’

  ‘I object, your Honour,’ Aitken said.

  ‘I’ll ask a different question. Which part of what we just saw was my client getting “the wrong idea”?’

  Aitken rose to object again, but Richter started answering anyway. ‘That’s not what I meant. Justin had been drinking, and –’

  ‘Miss Dabrowska hadn’t though, had she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see yourself standing to the left of Mr Matheson and Miss Dabrowska in the film we’ve just seen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were looking at them?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it was quite a –’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Richter, what idea did you get from looking at Mr Matheson and Miss Dabrowska kiss?’

  ‘I object, your Honour.’

  ‘I withdraw the question.’

  ‘You said it was Mr Matheson’s idea to go back to your house, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said you didn’t think it was a great idea?’

  ‘Not with the amount Justin had to drink.’

  ‘But you said yes.’

  ‘Like I told Mr Aitken, I didn’t think I could say no. Justin had been good to me since Nikki passed.’

  ‘You owed him?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You couldn’t say to him, Justin, it’s late, my wife just died, it’s been a rough week, see you later? You couldn’t say that?’

  ‘I could have, but I didn’t.’

  ‘You invited not only Mr Matheson to your home, but Elena Mancini and Miss Dabrowska as well.’

  ‘Justin invited them.’

  ‘It’s your home, isn’t it, Mr Richter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have the right to quiet possession, not Mr Matheson?’

  ‘I object. Your Honour –’

  ‘You could have said no?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So even though you say Mr Matheson wanted to keep the party going, and you didn’t, the four of you ended up in your car, driven by your driver, and back at your home, correct?’

  ‘I didn’t say no to Justin. I agree with that.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the club first before we get in your car. What time did you go to Pantheon?’

  ‘About eleven thirty.’

  ‘And you said it was about half full?’

  ‘Maybe two-thirds. I don’t know.’

  ‘You had some drinks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. And at some stage did you go to the toilet?’

  Richter screwed up his face, looking at Aitken, then at the judge.

  ‘Is this relevant, Mr Tanner?’ Knight asked.

  ‘I was about to object, your Honour,’ Aitken said.

  ‘It is, your Honour. If you let me proceed for a few questions?’

  ‘Make it relevant quickly.’

  ‘You went to the gentlemen’s room at some stage, Mr Richter?’

  Richter shook his head, and smiled. ‘Probably. I don’t recall.’

  ‘Well, it was pretty memorable for one of your guests. Do you recall a discussion with one of them in the men’s bathroom?’

  Richter paused for a few moments, making his decision: deny everything or admit something, then deny what’s crucial. ‘Not really.’

  In criminal trials there were various pre-trial discovery obligations on both the prosecution and the defence. In New South Wales, the prosecutor had to supply the defence with a statement of the facts they intended to prove, a statement from each witness, and copies of all documents the Crown intended to tender and of any expert reports. The defence was also entitled to every document the police had given the prosecutor, and to all documents that might relate to the credibility of a witness.

  The obligations on the defence were fewer. The accused had to supply an outline of the defence, and of any alibi. The defence had to serve a copy of any expert reports, but that’s where its obligations ended. Tanner didn’t have to give the prosecutor a list of witnesses. Which meant he hadn’t had to tell Aitken about Greg McPherson.

  ‘You don’t recall someone passing on their sympathies for your wife’s death?’

  ‘I’ve got a vague memory, now that you mention that.’

  ‘And when that man passed on his sympathies, did you tell him to “shut the fuck up” or use words of a simila
r kind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you physically stand over him in a threatening way and tell him that if he even looked at you again, you’d have him thrown out of the club?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with what happened to Elena Mancini, your Honour,’ Aitken said.

  Knight looked at Tanner.

  ‘My client isn’t the only person proximate to Elena Mancini on the night she died, your Honour. I’m entitled to explore the frame of mind other witnesses were in. If you need me to explain that further, we might need the jury to retire for a moment while I do.’

  The judge paused for a few moments to think. ‘I’ll let you continue for a little longer, Mr Tanner.’

  Tanner turned back to Richter. ‘Do you need the question repeated?’

  Richter shook his head. ‘I wasn’t in the best mood,’ he said. ‘It’d been, as I said, the worst week of my life. If I was touchy –’

  ‘When you say “if I was touchy”, what do you say that means? Do you agree you threatened him?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I may have been, you know, short with him.’

  ‘Does “short” mean you swore at him, threatened him physically, and said you’d have him thrown out of the club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what does it mean?’ Usually Tanner wouldn’t ask a question that allowed an explanation. Sometimes, though, you need to give a witness some rope.

  ‘Like I said. It was a bad week. I may have used a more aggressive tone than usual.’

  ‘You’d agree you probably frightened Mr McPherson with your aggressive tone?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could have been frightened.’

  ‘Have you ever been scared of something, Mr Richter?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘So you agree that a person can feel scared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who do you think is in the best position to assess whether Mr McPherson was fearful or not – you or him?’

  ‘What I meant was –’

  ‘Is Mr McPherson in the best position to say if he was feeling scared by how you spoke to him, or are you?’

  ‘I object, your Honour. Mr Tanner is harassing the witness.’

  ‘I’m doing no such thing, your Honour, but I’ll ask another question. Let’s leave Pantheon for a moment. I want to discuss your late wife.’ Tanner’s plan had been to cross-examine out of chronological order, to jump from topic to topic without letting Richter become settled. ‘Your late wife was a fashion model when you met her?’