Dirty Weekend

by Gabrielle Lord

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not very nice, getting mixed up in a murder investigation.’

  It’s not very nice being murdered, I thought but didn’t say.

  ‘And it’s real dark in there. The lights do funny things. Maybe I saw Tianna Richardson. Maybe I didn’t. You know.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I’d hate to give information that was wrong.’ We continued heading for the door and she stepped in front of me and opened it. ‘I hope I haven’t wasted your time.’

  She had, but there was little point in telling her that. Instead I thanked her for trying and stepped outside, going back to the wagon to think about what I should do next.

  After ringing Brian with the bad news that the positive identification of Tianna’s presence at the Blackspot was now seriously in doubt, I had a question. ‘We know now that there’s a prior, unidentified crime scene,’ I said. ‘What if Tianna was never at the nightclub at all? Just dumped there?’

  ‘To make us suppose she was there?’ said Brian.

  ‘Right. And who was in a position to do just that? Who knew she wanted to go dancing that night?’

  ‘It’s a no-brainer,’ said Brian. ‘Damien Henshaw. And I’m on my way to see the magistrate to get a warrant to search his place. Wish me luck.’

  ‘You have it,’ I said, ringing off.

  Next I drove to O’Halloran’s 24-hour Pharmacy, where I found Brian had already taken delivery of the relevant security tapes. I asked after the pharmacist who was on duty during the night and was given his phone number.

  I sat back in my wagon, feeling a headache starting. I reached into the glove box and found a couple of old aspirins that I chewed up, flinching at their bitterness. If I was smart, I could do the next thing I’d undertaken to do for Brian and then go to work. Sort that mail. Find out what new samples needed urgent examination. Just do my work. That way, I could go home at five and spend a happy, relaxed evening with Iona. Spend time with the people I loved.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the vicious way Tianna Richardson had been murdered and dumped and I wanted to know—I had to know—whether she’d died at the hands of the likes of Damien Henshaw or the unknown man in the photographs, or if being in the partner-swapping mob had created the conditions that led to her murder. Nor could I walk away from the cold-blooded shooting of a fellow scientist. How could I leave Claire Dimitriou and her peculiar cry, ‘She saw, she saw sixteen blue!’ Was it possible that these two women were linked to the partner-swapping group that the Calvinist had told me about? I needed to find out. Dallas Baxter had been forthcoming with information about the Terminator Rabbit project, but very evasive, I recalled, when the subject changed to that of sex. This could be the result of natural or conditioned reticence but I was keen to explore another—and much more likely—possibility. Almost on automatic, I checked to make sure I had Baxter’s phone number. I already knew his address. Finally, I had been touched by the killing of an old man in his house. It wasn’t in me to simply walk away from these people. It wasn’t just that I was as consumed with curiosity as a kid who’s spotted interesting parcels hidden on top of a tall cupboard a week before Christmas; my very humanity demanded that the persons who’d murdered these three people be brought to trial. And if I could help bring this about, I was going to do everything in my power.

  After ringing Sofia Verstoek and having an almost civil conversation with her in which she assured me she was on her way to the crime scene on the Ginnindera Road, I gave her the address of Damien Henshaw’s current painting job, a house in Kingston.

  ‘I want soil samples from there,’ I said, thinking of the coarse sandy particles.

  Sofia acceded in a surly tone, but I thanked her heartily before heading for the Cretan’s café and grabbing some takeaway souvlaki and salad for lunch later. Then I called the nightshift pharmacist and introduced myself.

  ‘He was in a pretty distressed way,’ he said. ‘Said he’d woken up with a bad attack only to find his inhaler empty. I gave him an immediate dose from his new inhaler and then put it back in its box for him. His breathing improved within a minute or so.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Oh yes, once he could speak. He said something about it being a small world—that he’d just seen someone he knew while he was waiting at the red light.’

  I felt myself tense with anticipation. ‘Did he say who?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I had to answer the phone. Woden Hospital rang and by the time I’d finished the call, Mr Vaughan had gone.’

  I wasn’t going to get any more than that. Maybe Harry’s post-mortem would yield further information.

  Ringing the secretary at Forensic Services, I told her I was out on fieldwork and would be in my office later in the day.

  ‘Is Sammy Samways back yet?’ I asked her, using Gavin’s more usual nickname.

  I held a moment while she checked. ‘Not yet. He’s on the roster for tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Please ask him to pop in and say hello when he gets back,’ I said.

  She promised she would and then I called Dallas Baxter at the Ag Station. Every instinct told me that this man was withholding something important and I was determined to winkle it out of him. I got through to Pauline and she told me he was having a flex day so I turned my wagon round and drove to his home.

  Airlie House, one of the best addresses in town was on a slight rise just on the other side of the city. An elegant Victorian mansion set in wide gardens, it had a three-storey tower and turret, verandahs running around two sides and wrought-iron lace everywhere. Despite the drought, both Dallas Baxter and his wife were passionate about restoring the grounds of Airlie House to their former glory. The old stables-turned-garage housed two cars and, when I looked over at the house, I noticed one of the French doors onto the marble tiles of the wide verandah stood slightly open. I hurried up the steps, passing the nymphs surrounded by falling late red roses, and pressed the brass doorbell on the imposing front door.

  ‘Yes?’ came Dallas’s voice from inside.

  ‘Jack McCain. I need to talk to you, Dallas.’

  Dallas’s anxious face peered out at me through the half-opened French door. He was clearly not keen on my idea. Nevertheless, he stepped back, allowing me through into a front room dominated by a huge chandelier, with a magnificent equestrian painting of a thoroughbred and its rider over the marble fireplace.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Dallas said, looking more uneasy every moment as he ushered me towards some chairs. Even though the newspaper near one of the club chairs was upside down, I could see it was opened at the report of Claire Dimitriou’s death.

  ‘You’d better sit down then,’ he said, indicating a stiff brocade lounge opposite the cushiony club chair from which he’d clearly just risen.

  ‘I would have rung,’ I lied, ignoring the offer and moving further into the room, ‘but I didn’t have your home number.’ Getting straight to the point, I said, ‘I’m concerned about a number of things, Dallas. All the time I was at your laboratories on Tuesday, I had the distinct impression you weren’t being straight with me.’

  I paused, but he remained silent.

  ‘And you did a curious thing,’ I continued.

  He looked even more uneasy.

  ‘We were talking about a problem at the Ag Station,’ I said, watching him intently, ‘and in the same breath you asked if the death at the Blackspot was anyone we knew.’

  I waited, letting the pressure of silence grow.

  ‘Why did you think you’d know this person?’

  Dallas picked up the newspaper, closed it, folded it and put it down.

  I took it up again and found the story about Claire Dimitriou’s death with its accompanying photo of a pretty, vibrant woman, which contrasted sharply with the lifeless corpse I’d turned over in the old Level Four lab.

>   ‘Why do I have this very strong sense that there’s something you’re not telling me?’ I said, tapping the report in the paper.

  Dallas shoved his hands in his pockets, walked over to the marble mantelpiece and fixed his attention on the fox-hunting English gentleman. When he turned, his expression was miserable and I saw he was looking past me, through one of the tall windows that ran along the northern side of the room. I followed his gaze to the end of the garden, where a figure was visible near the round summerhouse, through the lattices of autumn roses.

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ I said. ‘A woman—two women—have lost their lives. I’ve been conducting a line of inquiry that has resulted in some very specific information. I know a lot more than I did when I came to see you. Now I’ll ask you again: is there anything else you should be telling me?’

  A long silence ensued during which Dallas Baxter continued to stare out into the garden.

  ‘There was . . .’ he finally started, his face looking grey. ‘I mean there is . . . a group of people, from the department and the university . . .’

  I stood unmoving and silent, my back to the French doors, waiting.

  ‘. . . who enjoy a fairly liberal interpretation of marriage.’

  Exactly what the bartender from the Cat and Castle had said, in his own way.

  ‘The swingers?’ I asked. ‘The partner-swapping group?’

  Dallas looked shocked. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Was Claire Dimitriou one of them?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘In a place as small as this, people notice things, Dallas. Various staff and patrons of the Cat and Castle have been helpful. I’ve been told by more than one source about a group of people from the university and the Ag Station who played a certain game involving envelopes and coloured paper.’

  Dallas shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, looking even more miserable. ‘Oh, dear. I’ve been dreading something like this.’ He looked up at me. ‘It’s all consensual, adult business, you know. And we prefer to call it share-mating.’

  The term sounded like something in animal husbandry. ‘Was Tianna Richardson also a member of the group?’ I asked.

  ‘The woman who was murdered at the nightclub? I don’t know. There have been locals involved over the years. She could have been one of them,’ he said.

  ‘I think you suspected that and that’s why you asked me if she was anyone we knew. Isn’t that so?’

  His silence was the answer I sought.

  ‘Was Cheryl Tobin part of the group?’

  Dallas blinked. ‘Cheryl Tobin?’ he repeated. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘That’s something I’d really like to know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t even know she existed until I’d spoken to Annette Sommers. Was she one of the share-mates?’

  ‘But that was over two years ago,’ he protested.

  ‘Was she one of the share-mates?’ I repeated.

  ‘No, as far as I know. I’m surprised you’re interested in her.’

  ‘Peter Yu put her off from the laboratory and possibly also out of his bed. Then he took on Claire Dimitriou. Don’t you think that might create a motive to murder?’

  I could see the idea shocked him. ‘But Cheryl was only a little thing,’ he said.

  ‘When it comes to handling firearms, Dallas, size really doesn’t matter. And furthermore,’ I continued, ‘the reason you know so much about the group is pretty clear too.’

  A movement from the garden took my attention and I watched his wife, hatted and wearing gumboots, appear from behind the summerhouse, pushing a wheelbarrow of grass cuttings over to a compost pile near the fence.

  ‘You’d better tell me everything,’ I said finally.

  He walked away and I moved to block him, thinking he was going to leave. But all he did was pick up his jacket from the back of a chair.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘But not here.’

  Thirteen

  Not long after we were back at the Ag Station in Dallas’s office. A stiff brandy had helped him regain some of his gloss. I declined his offer of one and watched as he put the bottle back on the shelf above his desk.

  ‘You’re not really on duty,’ he said. ‘Not like a police officer.’

  ‘It’s not that. I don’t drink.’

  ‘I’m not sure where to start,’ he said, ignoring my comment.

  ‘Try the beginning,’ I answered.

  ‘There were about half a dozen of us originally,’ he said, standing by the window looking out at the the nearby holding paddock. ‘Not Ellen, of course. My wife is very straight-laced about that sort of thing. She doesn’t like sex much at all.’ He looked at the remaining brandy in his glass, swirled it around and then tossed the lot down. ‘Or, at least, sex with me.’

  Genevieve had discovered the same disinclination towards me.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but as far as some things go, I’ve found marriage unsatisfactory,’ he stated, putting the empty glass on the windowsill. ‘And from asking around, I find that a lot of people—men and women—have the same problem.’

  Memories of Genevieve surfaced like a rolling shark. I would have used something stronger than unsatisfactory myself. The word ‘impossible’ came to mind. ‘Intolerable’ and ‘unbearable’ were more like it.

  ‘So tell me how it worked and who was involved,’ I said.

  ‘There was me,’ he said, then paused, picking up his glass and going back for a refill. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’ he asked.

  ‘Very sure,’ I answered. I’d never forgotten where bottles like this one had once taken me.

  ‘Like I said, there was me and Anthony Dimitriou and Claire. Although, as I recall, Claire wasn’t as keen as the others. It started up about three years ago,’ Dallas continued. ‘Peter Yu was a pretty active member, together with whatever girlfriend he might have had at the time. If she was willing. I guess you could say that we were the founding members.’ He looked up at me and his distress was palpable. ‘There’s still been no word on Peter?’

  ‘I want to know how it worked,’ I said, not letting him get off the hook, thinking of the small white envelopes and the coloured flint paper the bartender had mentioned.

  ‘Did you write names down on bits of paper?’ I asked.

  Dallas shook his head. ‘No. No names. Not in writing. I was paranoid about Ellen ever finding out and a couple of the others were just as cautious. I never went to the hotel meetings for that reason. The younger ones didn’t worry about that sort of thing.’

  ‘You said there were six of you originally, but you’ve only mentioned three men and two women.’

  ‘Yvonne Abernathy was also a member,’ said Dallas. ‘She was particularly concerned about secrecy.’

  ‘She rang you the morning I found Claire’s body,’ I said, remembering Dallas’s evasive manner. ‘She must have heard something about Claire already.’

  ‘I’d actually rung her first,’ Dallas confessed. ‘I’d asked her if she knew anything about any extra involvement Claire might have had.’

  ‘The coloured paper? Was that part of the code?’

  ‘Yvonne’s idea. She’s a primary school teacher and she was the one who brought the flint paper along. She chose red, I was white and Anthony was purple. I only remember his colour because he hated it. I can’t remember Claire’s colour because she used to pull out more often than not.’

  ‘Who was blue?’ I asked.

  Dallas shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was a while ago.’

  Someone had seen blue. Someone had seen him or her at a place he or she shouldn’t have been—perhaps a motel or a hotel. At last, Claire Dimitriou’s cryptic cry was making some sense. Was that why she’d had to die?

  ‘What about the other
envelope? With the plain cards?’ I asked.

  ‘They each had a number written on it and each number stood for a motel or hotel. We tried to use places a bit off the beaten track. But it was still risky.’ He paused. ‘That was part of the excitement. You’d pick a number to see where you’d go that night. And a colour.’

  So much for Canberra being dull.

  ‘We used lots of motels and hotels in the district—some as far as Queanbeyan. Then, as other people became involved, we used even more colours. Lime, aqua, orange, gold—I forget now. But everyone had a different colour or shade.’ He paused and his voice when he spoke sounded tired. ‘It sounds pathetic now, like kids playing cloak-and-dagger games. But at the time it somehow made everything feel more exciting, pulling out a number and a colour. Riskier.’

  I recalled the old board game, Cluedo—Mrs Plum in the library with the candlestick, Miss Prim in the dining room with the revolver. ‘So you’d get a colour and a number. You might pull out number four and then the red?’

  Dallas nodded again. ‘Red meant you met Yvonne Abernathy and I can’t quite recall where four was—could have been the motel off the highway near Collector.’ He looked away into the distance.

  ‘You said you used to be part of the group,’ I said, considering his earlier words. ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of Peter’s girlfriends got a crush on me,’ he said, not sounding too displeased about this. ‘Suzie started ringing me at work, wanting to see me. Then she started ringing the house and hanging up if Ellen answered. My wife suspected something was going on. She started asking questions. I told her it was one of my Hong Kong postgrad students, having a hard time away from home, seeing me as a father figure—which was largely the truth.’

  I saw him look at the brandy bottle again, consider another drink, then think better of it. Thinking better of it was something I’d never been able to do.

  ‘I started to panic,’ Dallas was saying. ‘I couldn’t afford any scandal. It was getting too dangerous for me. I’d never intended to put my marriage in jeopardy.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m very fond of my wife. You get used to a person. We’ve got along very well for a quarter of a century now. I know my wife—she’s a proud woman. If I made a fool of her, played up on her—especially with a student from the university—she’d divorce me in a flash. And I couldn’t afford that. It’d ruin me. Airlie House means a lot to me. It’s listed among the ten most famous colonial residences in Australia in private hands. And it all belongs to Ellen. If she divorced me, I’d lose my beautiful home. The children would never forgive me. After the Hong Kong student, I got scared. So I pulled out of the group. That was last year. I don’t really know how things stand these days.’