‘So, when you retire from the women’s circuit, where are you planning to live? Here or in the USA?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Oh, I’m coming home to Australia, and I hope to base myself in my old hometown of Adelaide. I figure if I get a job in the media requiring me to go to tournaments in Asia, the USA, and Australia, it’s just as easy to commute from Adelaide as anywhere else in Australia. Although I may need to keep my home in Florida as a base for the US golfing season.’
Rebecca pulled into Magill Estate, the home of Penfolds wines, driving through the few hectares of vineyard to get to the restaurant. These innocuous vines were shiraz that contributed to Penfolds Grange.
As they pulled up, the soft light of the setting sun bathed the bluestone, glass, steel, and corrugated-iron buildings. The fire-engine-red stone mouldings around the windows stood out and the red Penfolds lettering on the towering smokestack appeared to pop as if three-dimensional.
Sue and Rebecca climbed out of the car and for a few moments stood looking over the mass of green vines, heavily laden with grapes. Harvest was only days away. The green leaves, purple grapes, and crusty-brown soil eventually gave way to a distant view of the city silhouetted against the sea on the horizon.
‘Gee, this place gets more beautiful each time I come here,’ said Sue.
‘Wait until you get inside. What they’ve done to the place is stunning.’
They walked into the tasting room. Rows of wine bottles sat in checkerboard patterns in wall racks backlit by strong white light. The blond wooden floorboards matched the wooden cabinetry, mid-century modern tables and chairs, and even the acoustically designed ceiling panels. The stone and limestone walls of the older building sat alongside the clean lines of the new glass-and-steel extension.
‘Wow,’ said Sue.
‘I told you,’ said Rebecca. ‘Pretty cool.’ She scanned the room for familiar faces.
A young man with a tray of drinks came up to them. After discovering the red wine was a 2012 Max’s cabernet sauvignon, Rebecca eagerly grabbed a glass. She was shocked at Sue opting for a glass of mineral water.
‘Surely one glass of wine won’t hurt your playing prospects tomorrow?’
‘There’s one thing you learn if you want to be a successful professional golfer, Rebecca, and that’s discipline. My motto is not to drink alcohol during a tournament, and I’m sticking to it. It won’t be for much longer.’
The room was already crowded with journalists, golfers, and the inevitable hangers-on. Rebecca didn’t classify herself in the latter category, even though she wasn’t a professional golfer and, on this occasion, wasn’t an accredited journalist for the event.
She saw a sports journalist from the Australian talking to a rather handsome man and a woman who looked to be of Japanese origin. Rebecca grabbed Sue by the elbow and walked over.
‘Randall,’ she almost shouted, both to be heard over the din and to grab attention. ‘You know Sue Barker, of course?’
‘Of course,’ said Randall. ‘Let me introduce you to Walter Mildren, an executive with ESPN, and Keiko Takahashi. Keiko is an official from the sponsor of the Women’s Open, the Handa Group. Walter and Keiko, as you probably already know, this is Sue Barker, one of our Australian golfers.’ Pointing to Rebecca, he added, ‘And Rebecca Keith, a food and wine journalist at the Advertiser.’
Walter held out his hand to Sue.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
He then turned his attention to Rebecca, his deep hazel eyes looked her up and down. Rebecca knew she looked sharp in her classic little black shift dress. Walter shook her hand but didn’t let go. Eventually Rebecca pulled away so she could offer her hand to Keiko. Keiko gave a shallow bow. Rebecca was suddenly aware that Keiko was blind.
‘Very pleased to meet you both.’
Keiko turned to Sue and in impeccable English said, ‘It is an honour to meet you, Ms Barker. I have followed your career for many years. Now that I have taken this role with ISPS Handa, I am honoured to meet so many of the women athletes I have admired for so long.’
Rebecca turned to Walter.
‘I haven’t seen an ESPN executive out here from the USA before. Thinking of expanding into the Australian market?’ she asked with a cheeky grin.
‘Well, actually, yes. I’m out here to start up ESPN Australia online and on Foxtel. I’m actually on the hunt for Australian commentators across a range of sports to join our new Australian-based team. Interested?’
His gaze was disconcertingly direct. Momentarily Rebecca wondered if the red wine had left a joker-like stain above her upper lip, and this, rather than her beauty, was fascinating him. She tried to lick her upper lip in a discreet way. It failed.
‘Well, no, I’m not the one interested, but I know someone who is, and she would be a terrific asset to you.’
‘Who?’ asked Walter, smiling seductively.
Rebecca slapped Sue on the back.
‘Sue Barker, of course. Sue is retiring from the circuit in a couple of months and would be perfect for you. She has it all—credibility, intelligence, access to the world’s top women golfers, and she’s a good broadcaster and a great writer. She ticks all the boxes.’
Walter looked at Sue and said, ‘Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. We must talk, Sue.’
‘Happy to,’ said Sue.
Just then an almighty crash made Rebecca jump. She turned around to see a tray of drinks smashed on the floor and heard Pixie Browning before she saw her.
‘You idiot, Sol! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t you talk without flailing those skinny arms around?’
‘I’m so sorry, Pixie,’ said Sol in a heavy New York accent. He grabbed a linen napkin from the waiter and attempted to dab at Pixie’s silver sequinned tube mini-dress, paying particular attention to her breasts.
‘Stop doing that!’ Pixie yelled at her manager, pushing him away. ‘You’re always ruining everything. I don’t know why I put up with you.’
Rebecca watched as Pixie stormed off with Sol Semler rushing after her.
The Adelaide-to-Grange Line
Rebecca had drunk more than she should have. When the phone alarm went off at five o’clock, she had to stop herself from flinging it across the room. She listened to the news and weather on the radio.
She couldn’t face breakfast and instead spent the extra time in the shower.
It was just before seven o’clock as she walked alongside the railway tracks at Royal Adelaide, heading to her position on the second tee. The course was again bathed in a golden glow. Her footsteps left imprints on the fairway still damp from the overnight watering.
Rebecca heard the train’s whistle, signalling it was about to pull off from the Seaton Park station. She could hear the ding of the boom gates. Within a couple of minutes, she saw the train in the distance as it emerged from the bushes by the fence line and started its journey alongside the fairway.
Rebecca was surprised when she heard the train’s whistle again. It startled her. Something was wrong. The train only whistled as it approached walk-crossings on the golf course, and it wouldn’t be approaching one for a few hundred metres. It shouldn’t be sounding its whistle now, nor should it be putting on its brakes. She could tell by the screeching that the train was stopping hard. Rebecca looked along the tracks and spotted a large red duffle-like bag sitting squarely in the train’s path. There wasn’t enough time to stop. She watched as the red bag was flung aside, rolled down the embankment, and came to rest just on the edge of the fairway.
Rebecca stood up and started to jog toward the train. Before she reached it, the driver jumped out of the cab and ran toward the red bag. He looked distressed. Within moments, Rebecca was standing next to him and they were both looking at a bloodied, severed arm lying a couple of metres from the torn bag. The duffle bag appeared to be made from expensive silk, embossed with what Rebecca thought was Chinese calligraphy. She was in no doubt the rest of the body was in the bag. The protruding bloo
died leg was a giveaway.
‘Oh my God,’ moaned the train driver as he lowered himself to a crouch on the ground, resting his head in his hands.
Rebecca was pretty sure whoever was in the bag was dead, but she needed to know for certain. She walked up to it, undid the drawstring at the top, and gently lowered the silk to uncover the victim’s lacerated face. Rebecca stared. The glazed lifeless eyes appeared to be gazing up to the sky. Rebecca not only knew the victim was dead, she also knew who it was.
‘I’ll ring the police,’ she said calmly. Inside, her stomach was churning.
Rebecca grabbed her mobile phone from her pocket and clicked on her favourites. She hit Gary.
‘Hi, Rebecca,’ said Gary cheerfully. ‘You’ve caught me just before a workout. I’ve been meaning to call you but I’ve been flat out.’
‘Gary,’ Rebecca interrupted. ‘This isn’t a social call.’ She left a couple of seconds of silence, gathering her thoughts before continuing. ‘There’s a dead woman. I’m at Royal Adelaide Golf Course volunteering as a marshal at the Women’s Australian Open. The body is in a red silk bag. It was on the railway tracks and has been hit by a passenger train. I don’t know if she was alive before the train hit her, but she certainly isn’t now.’ Rebecca hesitated before adding, ‘It’s Pixie Browning. The dead woman is Pixie Browning, a professional golfer from Illinois in the United States. World number eleven.’
She wasn’t sure if it mattered what ranking Pixie was but decided to add it anyway. She knew she would include the ranking in the story she was about to write.
Gary replied in a measured tone.
‘Okay, Rebecca. Stay where you are. Don’t let anyone touch anything. Don’t let anyone leave. I’ll send some patrol cars now, and I’ll be there in twenty minutes with forensics. Stay calm.’
Rebecca knew that, despite the gruesome scene, Detective Chief Inspector Gary Jarvie would not be shocked when he arrived. She knew he was used to seeing gruesome scenes, but she was concerned it would catch up with him one day. She knew it would catch up with her one day. For now, she had to push the panic down and get on with it. She had a job to do, just like Gary.
Rebecca turned to the train driver.
‘The police are on their way.’ Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said gently, ‘Why don’t you come back to the train? You need to settle the passengers and let them know the police will be here soon. You should also contact your manager. Let him know what’s happened.’ Rebecca helped the driver to his feet and led him back to the train. That done, she rang the tournament manager, Philip Hendy.
‘Bloody hell!’
Rebecca had to move the phone from her ear.
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ demanded Philip.
Rebecca restrained herself from saying, How about doing what you are paid to do and show some leadership?
‘I suggest you cancel today’s play. The police will not allow anyone to get near this fairway today and possibly for a few days. You need to consider moving the rest of the tournament or cancelling it completely,’ said Rebecca.
Hendy gave what sounded to Rebecca like a nervous clearing of the throat before saying in a more composed and authoritative manner, ‘Okay. I need to shut this place down before we have thousands of spectators to deal with. I’ll get my staff onto it immediately. And I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.’
Rebecca knew that her next call had to be to Reg. She knew she was no longer on leave and that once again she would be taken off the majority of her duties as food and wine editor to work on this murder case. It was déjà vu. It was only a few months since the Popeye Murder had consumed her life.
‘Hello,’ came the grumpy greeting. ‘Why are you calling me so early when you’re on leave?’
‘Reg, trust me, you want to take this call.’ She could tell by his silence that she had his attention. ‘I’m standing on the second fairway at Royal Adelaide, in front of the dismembered body of professional American golfer Pixie Browning. She’s been hit by the Grange-to-Adelaide train. I saw it happen. Police are on their way.’
‘Is she dead?’ asked Reg.
‘Of course she’s bloody well dead.’
‘Fantastic!’ cried Reg.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Rebecca, trying to sound shocked despite knowing this was exactly the response her news would elicit.
‘Blood on the Tracks! Brilliant headline! How soon can you give me three pars?’ Reg uttered breathlessly. ‘We need to get this online now. And I’ll need three pars every fifteen minutes. We have to own this story. I’ll get a photographer down there ASAP.’
‘I’m on it already,’ said Rebecca, smiling to herself at Reg’s ability to come up with a great headline within seconds. ‘You’ll have the first copy within a couple of minutes. I’ll send it as a text. I’ll also text you a couple of photos I’ve taken with my phone.’
Rebecca could see golf carts filled with officials, including Philip Hendy, coming toward her, and she heard sirens in the distance. She knew she had to send the photos and text quickly.
Prime Suspects
Philip Hendy and a few officials jumped from their golf carts. Rebecca watched Hendy stare at the bloodied limb lying on the fairway before he moved his gaze to the red bag that contained the remainder of Pixie Browning.
Hendy gestured to a couple of officials.
‘Go over to the train and check on the driver and the passengers.’
Rebecca said, ‘I’ll help with the train driver and the passengers. Not much I can do here.’
As part of the story Rebecca was already writing in her head, she knew it was important to get a sense of how the passengers were responding, and she knew she would have to declare herself a journalist to those she interviewed. She took off her marshal’s cap.
Rebecca was already interviewing her second passenger when she saw two police cars pull up next to the golf carts adjacent to Pixie’s body. Five police officers got out, two pulling out blue-and-white chequered barricade tape to stake out the area. Two officers went up to Philip Hendy. Rebecca saw Hendy quickly close a booklet he was writing in, while the male officer opened his own notebook and the female officer pulled out a tablet. The fifth officer put on plastic gloves and made a cursory examination of the body in the bag before making her way to the train.
The officer stood at the doorway of the carriage and asked everyone to sit down. Rebecca took a seat next to the driver.
‘There has been an incident. A personage is deceased.’
Rebecca was never surprised at police saying the blindingly obvious in the most awkward fashion.
The officer continued, ‘Our commanding officer is on his way and will want to speak to you. You’ll need to remain here until further notice.’ That was it. She jumped down from the train and walked back to join the other officers.
Rebecca could see more patrol cars and two unmarked cars making their way up the second fairway. Gary was in the front passenger seat of the first unmarked car.
Rebecca’s eyes didn’t leave Gary as he climbed out and pulled on his suit jacket. She watched him make his way to the officers who were speaking to Hendy, ask a few questions, then look over at the train and straight at Rebecca. He strolled purposefully toward her. Rebecca felt her pulse quicken. She had hoped their relationship would be more advanced by now but through covering The Popeye Murder for the paper while Gary was in charge of the police investigation, there was little room for romance. She couldn’t believe her bad luck that she was now at the scene of another murder and duty bound to cover it for the paper, while Gary was again in charge of a murder investigation. It was beyond belief.
Gary climbed into the carriage and made his way to the front so he could see the faces of the passengers he was about to address.
‘I’m sure you’ve all had a shock this morning,’ he said, ‘but we can be thankful that no one on the train has been injured. Shortly we will be taking you to the clubhouse where you will be made comfortable
before we begin the interviews. We will also provide those who don’t have a mobile with access to a phone to call your place of work and your family to let them know what is happening. You should be on your way by about ten o’clock. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.’
Rebecca thought he looked handsome in his grey suit over a crisp white shirt. He rarely wore a tie, and today was no exception. His wavy dark-brown hair sat just below his collar. Suddenly his deep brown eyes were upon her.
‘Ms Keith, may I have a word in private, please?’
Rebecca leapt off the bench and in her eagerness almost shirt-fronted him.
‘Come this way,’ said Gary as he hopped off the train and held out his arms for her. He grabbed Rebecca by the waist and swung her down to the ground. She could manage the descent herself but was more than willing to accept Gary’s help.
They walked a few metres away from the train.
‘Are you okay?’ he enquired gently.
‘Sure,’ said Rebecca in a deadpan voice. ‘I’m getting used to seeing dead bodies.’
Gary didn’t laugh.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she added in a more reassuring tone. ‘I also need to tell you that I’m on the job. I’ve already filed copy, and I’m about to file again. Reg is sending a photographer.’
‘Oh great,’ said Gary in an exasperated tone. ‘You couldn’t have waited until the body was moved?’
‘What sort of journalist would I be if I didn’t file immediately? If I waited for the body to be moved, every other news outlet in town would be onto it, and I wouldn’t be first with the story.’
Gary rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, I understand. Let’s just keep this professional, then.’ He took out a notepad and began. ‘Tell me exactly what you saw. And I’ll need times.’
A Royal Murder Page 2