No More Secrets No More Lies

by Amos, Gina

  ‘No need to resuc,’ someone joked. Jill covered her mouth and nose with the back of her hand.

  Rose had not finished the cup of tea she had been drinking. A thick film of grey mould floated on the surface of the liquid and the silence in the room was interrupted only by the persistent buzzing of flies. Ants had eaten the crumbed remains of an iced biscuit and the woollen coat Rose was wearing smelt of mothballs. Two empty packets of pills lay on the table. A sleek, grey cat sneaked out from the laundry, jumped onto the kitchen table and turned up its nose at the remainder of the mouldy tea in the cup.

  ‘Shit, what a mess.’ The paramedics covered their faces with masks.

  ‘Got any idea what’s happened here?’ Brennan asked the more senior of the two. The name tag on his uniform said Cooke; he looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Hard to say. I'm no expert, but by the look and smell of her, she’s probably been dead for a couple of days. Turn the light on will you fellas? It’s so dark in here we can’t see what we’re bloody well doing.’

  Brennan flicked the light on in the kitchen. She flicked the switch again. On, off, on, off.

  The police truck door was wide open. French was leaning inside to grab the roll of blue and white crime scene tape from the back seat when Detective Senior Sergeant Rimis approached the truck.

  ‘What’s happened here Constable?’

  French spun around and faced his superior. Rimis flashed his ID.

  ‘An old woman dead, Sarge. Senior Constable Brennan’s inside.’

  Rimis nodded stiffly and instead of going inside, he walked off in the direction of the next door neighbour’s house.

  ‘The lights aren’t working. Check the power will you, Dan?’ Daniel French was on the front verandah about to walk back inside when he heard Brennan call out to him. He checked the power board on the wall next to the door.

  ‘Looks all okay, the circuit breaker hasn’t tripped, maybe the power’s been disconnected.’ He closed the screen door behind him and walked into the kitchen to join his partner. ‘Better watch what you say, there’s a Detective Senior Sergeant snooping around outside. I don’t know what he’s doing here but he’s gone to talk to the next-door neighbour.’

  Jill nodded and tightened her short ponytail with her fingers. ‘Dan, can you check with all the electricity suppliers, find out what’s going on with the power, and while you’re at it, go back out to the truck and grab a couple of torches. It’s so dark in here. I’ll take a look through her belongings for some ID and any details of the next of kin.’

  ‘I can give you the details of the next of kin, officer.’ Ambah St John emerged from the dark shadows of the lounge-room. ‘The woman is the mother-in-law of my client. I’ve got her details and a business contact address for Mr Phillips, Rose Phillip’s son, here,’ Ambah said, as she tapped her phone and handed Brennan her business card.

  Brennan took the card and studied the real estate agent standing in front of her. She was a young, attractive, peroxide blonde, and her left ear was missing an earring. Her black stockings were laddered and a thin line of red lipstick smudged the side of her mouth. Limp strands of hair fell across her face, her cheek was grazed and the dried blood on her face gave her the appearance of a street kid. Jill had seen plenty of those since joining the force, especially on the night shift up at the Cross.

  Brennan looked at the pen and pocket-sized spiral note pad in Ambah’s hand. It was obvious she was taking advantage of a bad situation. She had been poking around the house, taking an inventory. Brennan didn’t feel sorry for the young woman standing in front of her anymore. More like a piranha than a real estate agent. Brennan thought she would have covered the dead woman’s body with a lampshade if this had been an ‘open house’.

  ‘That’s helpful, thanks. Do you want the guys to have a look at you? Looks like you’ve had a nasty fall.’

  ‘No, it’s just a scratch,’ Ambah said, as she touched her cheek gently with her fingers.

  ‘I need to get your details. You’ll have to come down to the station so we can get a full statement. Here’s my card. I also have to ask you if you’ve touched anything?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Ambah replied, offended by the police officer’s insinuation.

  ‘Can I also ask you again Ambah, to step outside?’

  ‘Okay.’ Ambah was ready to leave anyway. She had seen everything she needed to see.

  French escorted Ambah to the front door and made sure she left this time. When he walked back down the hall he called to his partner, ‘Hey Jill, what'll we do with the cat?’ He poked his head around the corner of the kitchen with the cat cradled in his arms.

  Jill smiled at her lanky off-sider. She liked Daniel French, he was easy going and dependable. Just the sort of traits she valued in a partner. ‘Have a look in the cupboards, see if you can find something for the cat to eat, then ring the RSPCA and explain the situation. The family can decide what they want to do with it.’

  Jill returned her attention to Cooke who was standing next to the woman’s body. She smiled at him. ‘Good idea not to disturb anything.’

  ‘We’ll be careful, don’t worry.’

  Rimis walked through the front door and down the hall into the kitchen. The first thing he noticed when he entered, apart from the smell of Rose’s decomposing body, was the empty bottle of Scotch on the draining-board next to the kitchen sink. ‘Looks like the old lady enjoyed a drink.’

  Jill Brennan didn’t hear him enter the room. She looked up from her notebook, startled.

  ‘Highland Park – an expensive drop for someone who looks like they were down on their luck.’ Rimis flashed Brennan his ID. ‘We’ll need to call in the Crime Scene Police. Give them a call will you?’

  Jill realised that Nick Rimis wasn’t interested in pleasantries as he picked up the empty whisky bottle from the drainer and looked at the label.

  ‘There’s one thing I do know, Brennan, and that’s an expensive bottle of Scotch when I see one.’

  Brennan looked over her shoulder at the bottle on the sink and made the call.

  ‘Looks like she topped herself. Have a look around for a note and check her bedroom. You might also want to check who her doctor was and find out what meds she was on. Then you and French can go and notify the next of kin.’

  Brennan gathered up the bottle and the empty packet of tablets and placed them in a large plastic zip lock bag and marked the label with the time, date and location.

  ‘What’s this?’ Rimis bent over and picked up the corner of the business card from under the table with the tips of his fingers. ‘Ambah St John. Residential Sales Consultant.’

  ‘The real estate agent must have dropped it when she was snooping around.’ Jill Brennan rolled her eyes. Rimis handed her the card and she put it inside the file beside the one Ambah had already given her.

  *****

  Ambah St John was standing on the nature strip looking back at the house when Kevin Taggart walked up to her. He stood quietly beside her for a moment before he offered his outstretched hand and introduced himself. As if on cue, a bank of clouds, thick with moisture drifted in from the south and a flash of lightning raced across the sky in the distance. A heavy raindrop landed on Kevin Taggart’s nose. He wiped it away, turned and looked at Ambah. She was staring back at the house, deep in thought.

  ‘She probably died from pneumonia,’ Kevin announced. He was waiting for her to agree with his theory or at least to make a comment. ‘There are charities and community groups who look after people in trouble. Pride, particularly when you’re old, is a dangerous trait. Don’t you think?’ He realised she’d not been listening to a word he said, he had seen that look before on other women’s faces. She brushed past him and walked towards her car.

  Ambah wasn’t interested in what Kevin Taggart had to say, she thought he was a creep. She had been looking at the house and mentally going through a list of prospective buyers. At the moment she was only interested in the commission she would r
eceive from the sale and knew she wouldn’t have any trouble selling the house; she already had someone in mind and knew deceased estates sold quickly. Potential buyers always thought they were getting a bargain and 15 Eden Street would be no exception. The fact that Rose Phillips had died in the kitchen wouldn’t make any difference, she thought, or would it?

  Ambah hobbled over to her parked car. The heel of one of her shoes had snapped when she slipped on the front steps as she was leaving the house and her awkward gait reminded Kevin of Charlie Chaplin. All she needed was a walking stick to complete the picture in his mind. He watched as she slipped behind the steering wheel of her black Audi and threw him a backhanded wave. Ambah knew all the rules of selling real estate and one of them was that it didn’t pay to get off side with the neighbours, no matter what you thought of them. She pushed her sunglasses back onto her head and put the car into drive. Even though she had been shaken by the morning’s discovery, the thought of a large commission soothed her nerves. After all, no big deal, the woman was old, and everyone has to die sometime.

  ‘Pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction,’ Kevin called after Ambah as she drove up Eden Street and turned left into Parklands.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Excuse me, William, the police are here to see you,’ Anita said anxiously as she led the two officers into his office and closed the door behind her on her way out.

  If William Phillips was surprised, he didn’t show it. He stood and pushed his chair back from his desk. They were both fresh-faced kids and looked as if they had just graduated from the Academy. William imagined that they would be more at home by a roadside in the middle of the night attending a crash scene, than standing here in his plush office with the antique carpets on the floor and expensive art work on the walls. He noticed the female officer looking at the Joan Miró painting hanging on the wall behind him. She was obviously drawing her own conclusions as to the type of person he was.

  William sized them up quickly, the way he usually did when he met a client for the first time. She was short, solidly built, but had a pleasing body, even though it was concealed behind an ill-fitting uniform. Her straight mousey-blonde hair was neatly tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail, making her look even younger than she probably was. He couldn’t help but notice the Glock in her holster sitting neatly on her hip. Her sidekick was spotty faced and tall, and William wondered how he would hack it in a tight situation. They flashed their IDs at him and introduced themselves.

  ‘Senior Constable Jill Brennan.’

  ‘Constable Daniel French.’ They nodded, straight-faced as they each shook William’s hand. They were fidgeting with their caps, looking at each other, half expecting the other would take the initiative and speak first. Finally, it was Brennan who broke the silence by addressing William in a clear and in an almost too confident voice. ‘Side kick’ looked down at his polished boots concentrating too hard William thought, perhaps he was hoping to see his reflection in them.

  ‘Mr Phillips, we need to ask you a few questions,’ Brennan said.

  As the female police officer looked down at her notes William wondered what was coming next. He was sure he had paid all his outstanding speeding fines and was puzzled by their unexpected presence in his office.

  ‘Can you tell us your mother’s full name and address, please?’

  William worked the back of his neck with his fingers, looked into her eyes which were framed by thick lashes and answered her question. ‘What’s all this about anyway, officer?’

  Brennan cleared her throat. ‘Unfortunately, I have some sad news, Mr Phillips. It’s your mother. She was found dead this morning in her home. A real estate agent found her in the kitchen.’

  William's head began to spin; he grabbed the side of his desk and sank slowly into his chair before inviting them to take a seat. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re not sure at this stage. We don’t know the circumstances surrounding her death.’

  William and Brennan locked eyes. He was searching for answers and wondered if she knew more than she was letting on.

  ‘Mr Phillips, can I ask how old your mother was?’ She was holding a police issue note pad and William wondered how many times she had delivered news like this.

  A knock on the paneled door broke the silence. Anita slipped into the office and set down a cup of milky tea in front of William. ‘Can I offer you anything officers? Would you like tea, coffee?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’ Brennan replied for both of them.

  William sipped from the white china teacup. The tea was hot and sweet and it coated the back of his throat as he swallowed. He thought of his mother and took another sip. The cup chinked against the saucer as he set it down. As he turned his thoughts back to his mother, he concentrated on how old she was as he massaged the back of his neck again, a quirky habit he had when he was exhausted, troubled by work or by something he was feeling deep inside and didn’t want to talk about. He replied that she was eighty-five, not eighty-six until her birthday at the end of the year, which he realised after he had said it, was a dumb thing to say.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to identify your mother’s body. Do you think you’ll be capable of doing that or can you suggest someone else who could do it on your behalf?’ Brennan asked.

  Anita slipped out of the office quietly closing the door behind her and William realised the whole office would soon know about his mother.

  ‘Mr Phillips?’ Brennan was waiting for an answer to her question.

  William knew there was nobody else. ‘No, I’ll do it.’ His voice was hoarse and his face paled beneath his suntan. He coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘Mr Phillips, I'm not sure if you realise, but because your mother hasn’t seen a GP in the last three months, by law, an autopsy needs to be performed to determine the cause of her death.’ Brennan wondered if William Phillips had heard a single word of what she had just said.

  He nodded, his face crumpled.

  ‘If you have any questions, or if we can be of any further assistance, don’t hesitate to give us a call.’ Jill was standing over him now and impulsively she placed her hand gently on his shoulder. He looked up at her, surprised. She stepped away embarrassed. She and French handed their cards to him. He took them and placed them on his desk.

  ‘Is there anyone we can call to be with you?’ French asked kindly.

  ‘No, there’s nobody.’

  ‘You sure?’ Brennan asked.

  ‘Yes, really. I just need some time for all of this to sink in.’

  As the two officers left his office, William remained motionless at his desk. The reception area outside his door was deserted and the noisy background buzz of what was usually a busy office, was surprisingly quiet. He looked at the ivory coloured business cards sitting in front of him, examined the solid wording, then tucked Senior Constable Brennan’s card in the top pocket of his business shirt and threw Constable French’s in the waste paper bin.

  William stood and walked towards the bank of windows which looked out across Sydney Harbour. The dark clouds which had been hovering around earlier in the morning had all but disappeared and the sun was now shining. He rested his closed fists on his narrow waist and with his flat, glassy eyes looking back at him, he saw the pride and stubbornness in them, the result of a working life spent asserting the rights of others. He still had a youthful look about him for a fifty-four year old and as he combed his fingers through his hair, a loose strand fell across his eyes and he realised he needed a haircut.

  William Phillips had put in the hard yards, worked long hours, made all the important deadlines and had delivered ‘the goods’. The sacrifices he’d made in his personal life had paid off. He was a corporate counsel in Lewis Stockland, a leading city merchant bank and he wasn’t ashamed of the means by which he had used his contacts and colleagues to get to where he was. Considering his humble beginnings, sitting in a swanky corner office on the fifty-second floor of a pres
tigious office building located in the heart of Sydney’s financial district was something of which he was proud.

  Now as he looked out at the breathtaking harbour view, his thoughts turned to his wife and hoped Suellyn didn’t have anything to do with the death of his mother. It was all he could think of when he dialed their home phone number. It was engaged. ‘Typical,’ he thought. He hung up. He would try again later. He was still clutching the handset, staring at the whites of his knuckles, contemplating what he would do next, when he wondered how long his mother had been dead before her body had been discovered. The police said a real estate agent had found her in the kitchen. That didn’t make any sense to him, no sense at all. What was his mother doing making appointments with real estate agents? She didn’t even own the Eden Street house, technically Suellyn did. It had been bought in her name for tax reasons. William knew that Suellyn had been trying to persuade his mother to move to a retirement village for months. He’d told his wife to leave her alone, told her she was wasting her time. He knew his mother and knew she was stubborn enough not to allow herself to be happy living anywhere else. He wasn’t surprised when Suellyn told him Rose had said that the only way she was leaving the house was in a pine box. Rose Phillips was one hell of a stubborn woman and she wasn’t going to be told what to do by her daughter-in-law or by anyone else for that matter.

  The last time William had spoken to his mother was in a café in the city almost ten years ago. They had both said things to each other, things that perhaps shouldn’t have been said, and now, it was too late. He had told her that he couldn’t forgive her deceit, no matter what the reason and he regretted that now, regretted that he didn’t give her the chance to explain and that she had been too proud and too stubborn not to make him listen. In hindsight, she was his mother and that should have counted for something. But Rose Phillips never attempted to contact her son, and they never spoke to each other again. William realised it was now too late for apologies, too late for anything. Death was permanent.