Crossing the Lines

by Sulari Gentill

  She made tea, muttering to herself. Every past irritation with Lillian was resurrected, sharpened and nailed into the coffin.

  Frustrated tears. She wanted to write, but she was too angry, clenched. She sat down with the computer nevertheless. How dare Lillian! Who did she think she was? Hugh did not need her to advocate on his behalf. It was six o’clock. He would probably not be home for hours yet.

  Madeleine wiped her eyes to focus properly on the screen, to read over what she last wrote and to think about something other than her own life, about which she had no right to complain. Lillian’s words…“dozens of women who’d give anything to be married to Hugh Lamond.” Who did she mean? Was Lillian trying to warn her? For the first time she wondered why Hugh would think she’d been checking up on him. Why he’d been so angry…why he was now so distant.

  She forced her mind back to Edward. He wouldn’t treat Willow like that.

  “I wouldn’t treat you like that.” Edward replaced the cap on his pen.

  “You don’t know me.” Madeleine smiled at herself. “Willow’s the love of your life. I’m just a writer.”

  “Just?”

  “Yes, just. I tell stories, that’s all.”

  “Do you need to do more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to do more?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  He was close to her now. She might have touched him if she reached out. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to brush his hand with hers; quickly, as if the contact might burn, or worse. Edward smiled at her, still, reassuring, amused by her uncertainty.

  Madeleine pulled back, a little shocked. She’d felt something of substance, she was sure. A pressure and a warmth against her fingers. It should have frightened her but instead she was strangely elated…and curious.

  Was she stepping through the looking glass, she wondered. Would she be able to step back? Was this just a moment of indulgence, of madness, or something more?

  Madeleine shook her head and returned to the laptop, to her story where Edward McGinnity actually belonged.

  ***

  Bourke set off the security alarm, and so he and his colleagues were admitted in a flurry of code-punching panic as Edward disarmed the system.

  “Detective Bourke,” Edward said when the sirens had finally been silenced. “Good morning.”

  Bourke nodded. And then he served his warrant.

  “You want to search my house again?” Edward stared at the document perplexed. “You searched it just a couple of days ago.”

  “We’d also like you to accompany us to the station, Mr. McGinnity. We have a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “We’ll explain at the station.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “If you won’t accompany us voluntarily, we’ll be forced to arrest you.”

  “Arrest me? What the hell for?”

  “For the murder of Geoffrey Vogel.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am very serious, Mr. McGinnity.”

  Edward rubbed his shoulder absently as he contemplated resisting. There probably wasn’t any point. “I need to make a phone call,” he said in the end.

  “You can do that at the station.”

  “Fine.” Edward gave up. It was clear he didn’t have a choice.

  “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. McGinnity.”

  “Always happy to volunteer, Detective,” Edward replied curtly.

  Madeleine’s breath came evenly again now. This was classic crime fiction—evidence, accusations, red herrings—this she understood.

  ***

  “The backseat, if you don’t mind, McGinnity,” Bourke said as Edward reached for the front passenger door of the police car.

  Bourke’s partner held the rear door open and waited for Edward to climb in. The car smelled of cigarette smoke and some kind of pine-scented air freshener that was not up to the task. Edward watched what seemed like an entire regiment of police officers file into his house as the police car reversed out of his driveway.

  “Could you tell me what you’re looking for, Detective?”

  “Let’s just wait till we’re at the station, why don’t we, Mr. McGinnity?” Bourke met Edward’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  Edward shrugged, wincing as the movement caught his injured shoulder.

  They gave him a moment to make a phone call in the sparsely furnished interview room. He stopped halfway through dialling Andy Finlay’s number. Finlay was acting for Willow now. Edward didn’t want to risk compromising that. But he didn’t have another lawyer. He groaned. If only Madeleine d’Leon wasn’t a figment of his imagination…of course her specialisation was corporate, but she did write crime. He took a deep breath clearing the ridiculous train of thought from his head, and he dialled the number of Leith Henry.

  He told her briefly where he was and why.

  She told him she’d be there with a lawyer within the hour.

  Bourke returned, introducing the detective who accompanied him as O’Neil, before inviting Edward to sit. They offered him tea, which he declined, and then water, which he accepted.

  “Right, Detective Bourke,” Edward said. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Has Mr. Vogel ever been in your house, Mr. McGinnity?”

  “Vogel…no. We weren’t friends.”

  “Could he have been admitted when you were not there, by your housekeeper, perhaps?”

  “No. Mrs. Jesmond doesn’t let anyone in when I’m not at home. She’s particular about that sort of thing.”

  “Does anybody else have a key to your residence?”

  “My agent, Leith Henry.”

  “Might she have admitted Vogel?”

  “No. She didn’t like him either. She definitely wouldn’t have let him into my house. What is this about?”

  “We found traces of blood in—”

  “Of course. I bled all over the kitchen a couple of days ago, if you recall.”

  “It wasn’t your blood.” Bourke glanced at his partner. “Can you think of any reason why we might have found traces of Mr. Vogel’s blood in your house, sir?”

  Stunned, Edward stared at the detectives.

  O’Neil opened his notebook and flicked through it until he found the page he was looking for. “Traces of Mr. Vogel’s blood were found in the sink of and on the shower door of the upstairs bathroom adjoining the master bedroom.”

  Again Edward said nothing.

  “Can you tell us why Mr. Vogel’s blood would be found in your bathroom, Mr. McGinnity?”

  Edward shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

  They asked him the same question again several times, in several different ways. They suggested that now would be the best time to confess, that perhaps it was an accident, a careless belligerence at the head of the fire stairs.

  “No.”

  “I think Mr. Vogel’s blood might have been transferred to you when you were trying to help him after the fall. Perhaps you checked his pulse.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you check his pulse? Was it that obvious he was dead?”

  “No—”

  “So you didn’t realise he was dead.”

  “No.”

  “Well, why didn’t you call for help, an ambulance or—”

  “I wasn’t there!” Aware he’d raised his voice, Edward sat back, trying to regain his composure as the detectives drew conclusions from the fact that they’d rattled him.

  Edward’s head throbbed, and the light seemed bright and pounding. He fumbled inside his jacket and extracted a small canister of pills.

  O’Neil moved quickly to take them from him.

  “It’s pain medication, Detective,” Edward said we
arily. “I was supposed to take a couple of pills about an hour ago.”

  Bourke checked the label. He stood. “I might just have this checked, to be safe.”

  “Fine,” Edward said resigned.

  Bourke returned without the pills, sitting down to continue the interview with only a vague explanation that the contents of the canister were being “verified.”

  “In the meantime, Mr. McGinnity, perhaps we could go over the events of the night Mr. Vogel was killed.”

  “Yes, fine,” Edward said distractedly. His various injuries were competing for attention as the previous dose of painkillers wore off.

  The detectives interrogated him about the night of Willow Meriwether’s opening. The questions were aggressive, accusatory. Edward remained calm, batting back with denials, though increasingly preoccupied with the tightening band of pain around his temples and the tenderness of his ribs with every breath.

  A constable came in and Bourke and O’Neil left with her, telling him they would not be long. When they returned, however, it was with Leith Henry and a man she declared to be Edward McGinnity’s solicitor.

  Edward stood to shake Ian Denholm’s hand. The lawyer’s grip was firm, his manner assured.

  “Are you all right, Ned?” Leith studied Edward’s face. “You look pale.” She felt his forehead. “You’re warm.”

  “I’m a bit late with the pills the hospital gave me.”

  “Well take them now!”

  Edward glanced at Bourke. “The detective is having them checked.”

  Denholm turned to the policeman. “Am I to understand, Detective, that you deprived my client of his pain medication before questioning him without the presence of legal counsel?”

  Bourke said nothing.

  “I take it that since Mr. McGinnity does not appear to have been informed of his rights, he is not under arrest?”

  “Mr. McGinnity is voluntarily helping us with enquiries.”

  Edward snorted.

  Denholm’s brows rose. One side of his mouth curved up, a lawyerly combination of satisfaction and contempt. “We’ll be leaving now, Detectives. If you’d just return the medication my client was prescribed.”

  Bourke and O’Neil consulted briefly. Then Bourke stepped aside. “If you’ll come this way?”

  ***

  They went directly from the station to the city offices of Fitzgibbon Etheridge at which Ian Denholm was a partner. The lawyer’s personal office was large but looked out upon the car park. The desk still had that brand new lustre, the upholstery that just-unwrapped smell. Edward assumed that Denholm had not been a partner very long. The idea did not bother him. A lawyer in ascendency was better than one on the way down. He wondered what Madeleine would make of him.

  Ian Denholm moved and spoke efficiently. He had tea brought in on a tray, and once he’d ascertained that Edward was well enough to answer, posed questions and took notes copiously on an electronic tablet. This interrogation was different from that of the detectives. The questions were searching and precise. Denholm gave him time to think, indeed, he insisted that each response be considered carefully. And he did not ask whether or not his new client had killed Geoffrey Vogel.

  Edward volunteered that just to be clear.

  “I didn’t kill that pompous git.”

  “Good. That might make it easier to defend you.”

  “Might?”

  Ian Denholm smiled. Madeleine remembered that smile. It invoked a rush of girlish memories. She’d had a massive crush on Ian Denholm at law school. She hadn’t seen him since graduation but she’d wondered about him from time to time. Ian’s passion had been environmental law back then. It was unlikely he’d be working for a big city criminal law firm, but it was nice to see him nevertheless.

  “Bourke says they found Vogel’s blood in the sink of my en suite bathroom,” Edward said.

  “When did they find it?”

  “The night I was attacked.”

  Denholm scowled. “You were attacked in the kitchen, on the ground floor, weren’t you? Why were they searching your en suite bathroom?”

  “Perhaps they thought someone was still hiding in the bathtub.”

  Denholm stood, and walked to the window. He looked out. When he turned back, he was smiling again. “Sounds like an illegal search to me.”

  “And that’s good.”

  “Yes. It could also taint the current warrant.”

  Edward shook his head. “I still don’t understand how—”

  “Well, clearly, as you didn’t touch Mr. Vogel, it must have come in on someone who did. Possibly it was left in your sink deliberately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Denholm tapped his stylus against the tablet. “You say that Ms. Meriwether returned with you to your house the evening after Mr. Vogel was killed.”

  “It was the early hours of the morning by then, but yes.”

  “And what exactly did you and Ms. Meriwether do?”

  “We ate cake and talked.”

  Denholm waited as if he expected more.

  “That’s it—we ate cake, drank coffee, and then I took her home.”

  “Did Ms. Meriwether go upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me if this is an indelicate question, Mr. McGinnity, but are you and Ms. Meriwether involved?”

  “No. We weren’t…She went upstairs to get a sweatshirt.”

  “Why did she need something to wear?”

  “She was cold, I think. Possibly she didn’t want to risk spilling cake on her dress.”

  “So she went into your bedroom alone?” Denholm was clearly sceptical.

  “I was making coffee. She knows where everything is. I’m not sure I understand…”

  “So Ms. Meriwether might have used your en suite bathroom?”

  “Yes. No. You’re not suggesting that Vogel’s blood came from her?” Edward stood.

  “Calm down, Mr. McGinnity. I’m not suggesting anything, just canvassing the possibilities that lead away from the conclusion that the blood was transferred from you.”

  “Well, that’s not a possibility.”

  Denholm studied him for a moment, and then he went on. “The blood may well have been planted.”

  “Why would Willow—?”

  “By the police or perhaps by the men who assaulted you.”

  “Again, why—?”

  “We are not concerned with why, Mr. McGinnity. It is sufficient that there are other explanations for the presence of Mr. Vogel’s blood in your bathroom, since you are adamant that Mr. Vogel himself has never been inside your house.”

  Edward rubbed his face. The pain at his temples had not yet dissipated completely. “So what do I do now?”

  “You go home and clean up.”

  “Clean up?”

  “The police are searching your house, Mr. McGinnity. They’re thorough but not often tidy.”

  Plots

  Madeleine stopped, steadied by a familiarity of rhythm. Edward’s story was hitting its stride. The plot was gathering a pace and logic and momentum of its own. It would be easier now. One thing would lead to another and she would just have to take it all down. Every book had this moment—when suddenly there was enough, the point of self-perpetuation, when you knew the words would breathe on their own.

  She was more than a little intrigued that this story seemed to be inviting so many people from her own memory into its pages. Ian Denholm. She had been so smitten with him at law school. Even now he seemed to glow in recollection. Madeleine laughed. It had been such a silly infatuation. Perhaps Ian had known…he had always been charming and so friendly. Perhaps he pretended not to notice the way she looked at him—a kindness, some form of noblesse oblige, a gracious acceptance of the burden of being so attractive.

  This was
before she’d met Hugh, of course. The memory was radiant, the perfection of Ian unsullied because she’d never known him particularly well. He’d never had the chance to disappoint her. Thinking of him reminded her of being young and naïve and believing in happily ever after. It was silly, but nice to remember.

  Madeleine had fought with Hugh again that morning. She had broached the subject of trying again. He had suggested she see a counsellor to help her come to terms with the last miscarriage and the three before that.

  The suggestion had winded her, infuriated her. What the hell was he talking about? She had not sat about weeping, she had not turned to religion making bargains with some god, she had not missed a day of work, she was not some shaking, self-pitying, histrionic wreck. She had only wanted to try again. For that moment, she’d hated Hugh Lamond.

  Perhaps this was why Madeleine took such vindictive pleasure in writing Ian Denholm…a kind of secret infidelity. A return to the man she’d loved before Hugh. She cringed. When had she become so ridiculous?

  It was the first day of Spring, so clear and bright that the air seemed to sparkle. For the first time in months there was real warmth in the light as it heated the soil and called growing things towards it. Madeleine decided enough was enough. She needed to do something other than write before she became weird. She would weed. In weeks to come, when the tulips showed, she would be glad she had.

  She threw on jeans and a cotton jumper, thick socks, and Hugh’s work boots. They were a couple of sizes too big but she’d always worn them to garden. She wasn’t entirely sure why.

  There was still dew in the shadows, those parts of the garden where the sun had not yet placed its drying hand. It was quiet. Not noiseless, for the house was surrounded by natural bushland which had its own voice—birdsong and the movement of trees—but quiet. Away from the loud silences of the spaces she shared with Hugh. The garden was hers.

  Madeleine weeded the little plot beneath the weeping cherry first, pulling the long grass at the base of the cement plinth on which sat her stone cherub. She could feel the sunshine on the back of her neck and shoulders, and the lazy hum of bees about the lavender made it seem somehow warmer. With every miscarriage, Madeleine had planted more bulbs within the box-hedged circle. Perhaps it was some kind of horticultural exorcism; perhaps she’d just need to do something to mark the loss. Green spears, furled and pale, poked from the soil now, and in a short while there would be daffodils and tulips. And perhaps one day there would also be a child.