The Holiday Murders

by Robert Gott

  ‘I’m not convinced by the connection. Maybe I’m losing my touch.’

  Maude laughed.

  ‘It’s been a while since you’ve asked for a reassuring pat on the head. It’s rather nice.’

  ‘It’s funny. I had a go at Joe this afternoon for a self-pitying whinny that he gave, and here I am doing the same thing.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Just exactly what you are doing — listening to my self-pitying whinnying, and all the other horrible stuff, too.’

  ‘Surely I can do more than listen. Unofficially, of course.’

  Without the slightest hesitation, Titus began to fill Maude in on the progress of the investigation.

  ‘Helen Lord went to both murder scenes this afternoon with Joe. She telephoned me when she got home, and she had an interesting observation to make. I’m going to talk to Martin Serong about it tomorrow, although I know he’ll say he just takes the photographs, and that interpreting them is our job.’

  ‘Can I see the photographs?’

  ‘All my instincts are against it, as are the regulations.’

  ‘Good. I’ll come to your office tomorrow morning.’

  It wouldn’t be the first time that Maude was to have a look at horrifying photographs that Serong had taken at the scene of a murder. Maude assumed these pictures of the Quinn killings were particularly ghastly, and she assured Titus that after all these years she was beyond squeamishness.

  ‘I need to see what you see,’ she said. ‘I hate the idea that you have things in your head that are too awful to confide.’

  ‘If I didn’t have you, Maude, I don’t think I could do my job. I’m interested to know if you notice what Helen Lord did.’

  ‘Come to bed, Titus.’

  ‘There is something I’d like you to do for me, after you’ve looked at the photographs.’

  ‘I was quite interested in the first half of that sentence, but go on.’

  ‘I want you to take Helen Lord out for lunch. All three of us will go, and I’ll suddenly have something very important to attend to. I want you to find out as much as you can about her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like to know who I’m working with, and Constable Lord is something of an enigma.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. If she’s as smart as you say she is, she’ll be on to me.’

  ‘She’s smart, but you’re smarter.’

  They stood and kissed deeply. When they separated, Titus said, ‘There’s just one more thing. I’m going to ask Joe Sable to talk to your brother Tom about Australia First.’

  ‘He used to read The Publicist, Titus. He never had anything to do with Australia First.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He might still be able to help Joe in some way, though, or he might know someone who knows someone. That sort of thing.’

  Maude shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry that I mentioned that he used to read the wretched thing. He’ll be furious with me.’

  ‘Just a few minutes ago you were counselling me not to be too protective of Helen Lord.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Touché. He’s a big boy, and, as you say, his perspective might be useful.’

  ‘We were on our way to bed,’ Titus said.

  27 December

  -12-

  When Joe Sable came down his stairs and stepped onto the nature strip, his attention was drawn to a small, distressed-looking group at the far end of his street. Something bad must have happened — a crying woman was being held in the comforting arms of another, and then a couple of people broke off and went into the second house from the end of the street. Joe knew that an elderly couple lived there, although he didn’t know anything about them. Maybe one of them had died during the night. It had happened that way with his father. David had gone to bed, as he’d always done, at 11.00, and Joe had gone to bed soon after. Their bedrooms shared a common wall, and there’d been no sound, no cry, nothing. Joe had simply found him the next morning. His father had died — that was all.

  Joe walked down Pigdon Street towards the tram stop at the corner of Lygon Street. The arrival of the tram stabbed Joe’s memory with the images he’d seen of Sheila Draper’s body. He wondered if the female conductor on this tram knew her.

  Joe was anxious to get on with investigating the Quinn and Draper murders. He had to organise a priority pass for the train to Daylesford — he’d telephone Chafer at Intelligence for that — but there was nothing else for him to do that day in relation to Australia First. He’d hoped that he’d get the opportunity to work with Constable Lord on the murders, but that hope was dashed almost immediately. Inspector Lambert was already in his office when Joe arrived, and he called him in.

  ‘There was an incident last night in your street, Sergeant.’

  ‘Really? That would explain the small crowd I saw on the nature strip this morning. What happened?’

  ‘At about 11.45 last night, an elderly lady was beaten with a wooden paling.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Someone threw a rock through the bedroom window. The husband is pretty much bedridden, so his wife got up and went to the door. By the time the husband managed to struggle out of bed, his wife had been injured and was lying in the hallway — not badly injured, but badly shaken up.’

  ‘The house is some distance from my flat. I didn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘They’re a Jewish couple. We haven’t seen that level of violence against Jews here, so I think it’s more likely to have been something personal. I’ve got Sergeant Peterson looking into it.’

  Joe was disconcerted by Inspector Lambert’s casual dismissal of the possibility that the assault had been targeted. Did he not understand what was lurking in the shadows in this city? Did he not feel, as Joe now did, how fragile were the supports that propped up civilised society? These murders, that assault, were symptoms of a menacing malaise.

  ‘That’s four violent incidents in four days,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s a big city, and this one bears no resemblance to the others. I think we can assume they’re unrelated. Peterson is a competent investigator, and I’ll keep an eye on it, of course. Now, Sergeant, I have a job I need you to do, and it requires some discretion.’

  Joe was simultaneously flattered that Inspector Lambert thought he was capable of being discreet, and slightly annoyed that Titus thought he had to draw Joe’s attention to the need for discretion.

  ‘I want you to interview my brother-in-law.’

  Joe wasn’t expecting this.

  ‘In relation to what, sir?’

  ‘In relation to his interest in The Publicist. Tom Mackenzie was once a keen reader of that journal. My wife says that he lost interest when it became rabid, but I think it’s worth talking to him. He’s a group captain in the Air Force, based at Victoria Barracks. He should be arriving at work about now. I’ve already contacted his section, and you’re expected. I should warn you, though, that he might not be pleased to see you. I got the impression from my wife that he doesn’t like being reminded of his erstwhile reading habits.’

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know about Group Captain Mackenzie?’

  ‘No, there isn’t. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts, but I don’t want to influence you.’

  Joe passed Constable Lord on his way out. He’d enjoyed having a cup of tea with her the previous evening, and he told her so. Their conversation didn’t stray from the investigation, apart from their mutual observation that Inspector Lambert managed the unlikely double of being both intimidating and accommodating. They agreed to meet at the end of the day at the Liberty Bell to exchange information. It wouldn’t matter if they were seen together there by Mitchell Magill or Peggy Montford; in fact, it would consolidate the story they’d given at the Glaciarium.

  On hi
s walk down to Victoria Barracks, Joe thought about Constable Helen Lord. He admired her — he suspected that she was indeed a much better detective than he was — but he wasn’t sure whether he liked her or not. The truth was, he had to admit, she intimidated him almost as much as Lambert did. She made him feel clumsy and awkward, and guilty about having achieved his position in Homicide by dint of his sex rather than his talent.

  Joe had passed Victoria Barracks many times. The imposing bluestone edifice that sat so solidly on St Kilda Road was the military equivalent of St Patrick’s Cathedral — an architectural exclamation mark about authority and permanence. Joe had never been inside it, and when he’d been signed in at the gate and directed to a side door, his first impression was a poor one. The bluestone facade didn’t dress a gorgeous interior or a clubby atmosphere. Instead, he found a warren of tiny offices and undecorated corridors. It was a working building, and the demand for usable space had resulted in a claustrophobic jumble of partitions and boxed-in corners. Military Intelligence was in here somewhere, masquerading as the Office for Native Policy on Mandated Territory. It was unlikely he’d run into Chafer or Goad on this visit.

  The area he found himself in was clearly dedicated to the Air Force. There were blue uniforms everywhere, and one of them pointed Joe to a door with ‘Requisitions’ on it. Joe knocked.

  ‘Come!’

  Joe went into a room that could be so described only in the sense that it was enclosed by four walls. It must once have been part of a larger room, because one of the walls cut a window into thirds. The window was open, which allowed some air to travel through it, but it wasn’t within the gift of the room’s occupant to control whether it was open or shut — the mechanism needed to achieve this was on the other side of the partition. This complete indifference to the balance of a room, or to the comfort of those confined in it, was disconcerting to Joe.

  The man seated behind the desk bore an unmistakeable resemblance to Maude Lambert. He was younger than she was — he looked about thirty, Joe thought — but the planes of his face, the shape of his nose and lips, and especially his eyes, were remarkably like those of his sister. His face had a feminine cast, which he sought to banish by wearing a thin moustache.

  ‘Group Captain Mackenzie?’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Joe Sable. Homicide.’

  ‘I was told to expect you, Sergeant. I’m all agog. You work with my brother-in-law?’

  ‘Inspector Lambert. Yes.’

  Mackenzie’s demeanour was pleasant, so he couldn’t have been tipped off about the purpose of the visit.

  ‘How can I help you, Sergeant?’

  He indicated the only other chair in the room, and Joe sat down in it.

  ‘I’m sorry about the squeeze. It could be worse. Some offices don’t have even a part of a window. How is Titus? I haven’t been round there for ages.’

  ‘He’s busy, as you can imagine. All our departments are short-staffed.’

  Tom Mackenzie nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I want to talk to you about a magazine you used to read — The Publicist.’

  Tom Mackenzie’s smile contracted into a look of firm displeasure.

  ‘What’s this about, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder.’

  ‘And you think I might be involved?’

  Tom Mackenzie seemed to be hurrying to a point of self-righteous indignation, and Joe rushed to head him off.

  ‘No. You are not a suspect.’ Joe felt slightly silly saying this. ‘You may, however, be able to provide us with some background that may prove useful in helping us with one aspect of the case. At this stage it’s a fairly tangential one, and we need your expertise. I can’t go into details, and I know that this all must seem as clear as mud.’

  ‘Maude should have telephoned me to warn me.’

  ‘Why would she need to warn you?’

  ‘I see. Everything I say from now on is going to be met with portentous questions, is it?’

  ‘Look, Group Captain …’

  ‘Call me Tom, for goodness sake. Formality is pointless, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Tom, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Your sister didn’t ring you, because there was nothing to warn you about. There is nothing you need to worry about. You’re not under any sort of investigation. I need to know something about The Publicist magazine without going to the trouble of reading every back issue — that’s all. You used to read it, according to your sister, and that, as far as I’m concerned, is an uncontroversial fact.’

  Tom Mackenzie drummed his fingers on the table.

  ‘Given what the magazine turned into, Sergeant, it’s not an uncontroversial fact at all.’

  ‘Most people have never even heard of the magazine, Tom.’

  ‘People who matter have heard of it, and an association with it could have a bad effect on a career, especially a defence-force career.’

  ‘Were you a subscriber?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t even a purchaser.’ He sighed. ‘When I was in my twenties, I was a great admirer of the writer Xavier Herbert. Do you know his work?’

  ‘I know he wrote Capricornia. I haven’t read it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should. I read The Publicist only when Herbert had a piece in it. I don’t think he wrote for it before 1938, so I suppose I read the odd copy that year. I didn’t think much of the other articles. The art and book reviews were conservative and pretentious. When it became offensively fascistic, I stopped looking at it, even if Herbert had a piece in it. I wasn’t surprised when I read that its editors had been interned.’

  ‘So, 1938. Were you at university when you became interested in The Publicist?’

  ‘At the risk of repeating myself, Sergeant, I wasn’t interested in The Publicist per se. I wasn’t flirting with fascism. I was interested in reading a writer who I admired and who happened to be published in a particular magazine.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be in this building without having been given a security clearance, Tom. I’m not suggesting for a moment that you have any sympathy for the politics of Australia First.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting? Why are you here? I presume it’s not because of a fascination with my reading habits.’

  ‘I need to get a handle on The Publicist and Australia First. Your interest in the magazine was clearly limited, but were you aware of its readership more generally? I presume you were at university when you were reading it. What were your disciplines?’

  ‘Classics. There’s not much call for it here in Requisitions.’

  Tom Mackenzie leaned back in his chair and considered Joe Sable. It galled him to be quizzed by the younger man, but at least Joe seemed to be a cut above the policemen whom Tom had come into contact with.

  ‘I wonder why it isn’t my brother-in-law asking me these questions.’

  ‘You’re not a suspect, Tom. He thought a junior officer would suffice.’

  Tom liked that answer.

  ‘Titus is a good man, Sergeant. I like him a lot. I don’t mind that Maude gave him the low-down on my reading habits. If my sister thought it might be of some obscure significance to your case, I’ll try to be patient with you. Fire away.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with any of your university friends?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘When you were reading The Publicist, were any of your friends reading it as well?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Well, I know so, yes.’

  ‘Were these people reading Xavier Herbert’s articles?’

  ‘Yes. We discussed them.’

  ‘Were they reading the rest of the magazine as well?’

  ‘Possibly. Occasionally there’d be a piece of art criticism that we’d argue about.’

 
‘Did any of them remain interested in The Publicist after you lost interest?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ He paused. ‘That’s not quite true. There were two blokes I was aware of at university who were keen on the way that Germany was rebuilding. They weren’t among my friends in Classics. I knew of them, as opposed to actually knowing them. I don’t recall their names, although I’d probably remember their faces. They used to sell The Publicist, or try to. One of them got very badly beaten up. No one was ever charged. Everyone knew who did it, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was one of the Bolsheviks. There were a few of them about back in ’38. That was the year I left the university, after which I’m afraid I lost touch with everyone. I did hear on the grapevine that one of the Bolshies was found dead in the Yarra River — the chief suspect was the bloke they’d beaten up, but nothing was ever proven. By then I was at Oxford, completing a degree that would equip me perfectly for making sure that the Air Force has enough underpants to go around.’

  As Tom was talking, Joe was reminding himself that, at this moment, Intelligence was more his master than Homicide was. Tom Mackenzie would be of little help in the murder investigation, but he might be of great help to Joe in getting somewhere with the brief from Intelligence. Joe had been given instructions to use whatever means necessary to get close to Magill and his followers — and here was one way to do that, close at hand. Tom Mackenzie clearly had some knowledge of The Publicist and its contributors, or some of them. If Tom was willing to play along and go with him to Candlebark Hill, his presence would corroborate Joe’s claim in the Liberty Bell that he had friends sympathetic to Magill’s cause. He might also recognise someone there as one of the ex-students he’d mentioned. That might be very useful indeed. Joe knew that this was a risky strategy, especially because he knew nothing about Mackenzie beyond his relationship with Inspector Lambert. With a suddenness that was uncharacteristic — he’d never been impulsive — he decided that now was the time to take a chance.

  ‘How would you like a small break from the desk job, Tom?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I’m listening.’