When she was back in control, Troy said, ‘So you’re the new ombudswoman.’
‘Ombudsman,’ she said, her voice slightly hoarse. ‘It’s a Swedish word. Not gender-specific.’
‘We’re just wondering,’ McIver said, ‘if you could tell us anything about Mark Pearson’s wife?’ It was abrupt, and Saunders looked at him with interest.
Williams frowned. ‘Emily and Mark had a good marriage. They collected paintings. That was their passion. And travel. And work.’
‘No children?’
‘No.’
‘Active social life?’
‘Busy people, lot of friends, he plays soccer. Goes to lots of galleries, subscribes to the Brandenburg. Every Monday night, he goes to the Matthew Talbot Hostel in Woolloomooloo and helps feed the homeless. He’s quite brilliant, but good with people too.’ Thought about it, said, ‘was.’
‘What about the pressure he was under from the job, how was he handling that?’
‘Okay. I think. He was used to pressure. I mean, being married to Emily . . .’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘An ambitious woman. Lots of energy.’ It didn’t sound as though she liked Emily.
‘Any vices?’
She smiled. ‘Sometimes, when things got tough, he’d go out and buy a block of chocolate.’
‘Okay,’ said Troy.
‘I think it was more for the walk than the chocolate. Most of it was eaten by the rest of us.’
McIver rubbed his jaw. ‘How bad are things in the office?’
She glanced at Saunders. ‘The complaint rate has exploded, up forty-seven per cent in three months. The complainants ring us to see how the complaints are going, we have to log and deal with each of those calls, which clogs things up even more.’
‘Did Mark actually know how bad it was?’
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Smart woman, thought Troy. ‘I’m not sure.’ Another glance at Saunders. ‘He’d had a good career before he came here, but he hadn’t actually been responsible for anything operational, not like this. From one or two little comments, nothing specific, I think he’d started to realise maybe he was going to fail. For the first time in his life. I think his father set high standards for him. And then Emily . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I shouldn’t say. It’s speculation, I only met her twice. She’s a high flier herself. I think, I mean I’d be guessing, she would have expected high performance from him.’
‘Would you say he was depressed?’
‘No. Not at all.’
McIver said, ‘We found some pethidine in his bag.’
She looked shocked, her jaw dropping in a way that in other circumstances would have been comical.
‘I had no idea.’
‘Can you think of how he might have got it?’
She lifted her hands. ‘This is not true. Do you understand that? I don’t believe it.’ She looked indignant at the very idea. ‘That sort of thing is kept under lock and key. I did a report on it when I was in audit, before I got this job. The systems are all in place, control is pretty good.’ Then, her forehead creasing, ‘But this is a hospital.’
‘And?’
‘Drugs go missing all the time. Hospitals attract people who like drugs.’
‘Workers, you mean.’
‘It would have had to come from one of the medical staff. Mark did not have access.’ She was flushed, trying to come to terms with it. Troy figured her as conscientious, probably a bit nervous. Loyal.
McIver said, ‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?’
‘Mark didn’t work on individual complaints, but he signed all the letters and attended mediation sessions. So everyone we reject would have his name.’ She nodded, as if to herself. ‘Some of them are pretty angry people, but there’s only one who’s ever threatened to harm us.’
‘Valdez?’
‘Our star complainant,’ murmured Saunders.
‘With reason.’ Williams kept her eyes on the detectives. ‘His wife presented to Emergency one Friday night six months ago. Some of your people brought her in; they’d found her wandering around, dazed and confused. She smelled like she was drunk, our people were rushed off their feet and put her on a trolley in a corner to sleep it off. She was an undiagnosed diabetic, went into a ketoacidotic coma and died at three am without anyone noticing.’
‘She had been drinking?’
‘It’s called ketones—your breath smells like you’ve been drinking but you haven’t been.’
McIver rubbed his jaw. ‘Sad. So Mr Valdez is unhappy.’
‘Wrote to the newspapers, sent us a copy, then he came in twice, yelling and screaming, making threats against Mark. They had a shov- ing match the second time. We called security, they called the police. Turned out he had convictions for violence, so we took out an AVO.’
Troy looked at Saunders to see how he was taking this. He was keeping his eye on Williams, seemed okay with what she was saying.
McIver said, ‘So you’d rejected his complaint?’
‘On the contrary,’ Saunders said, ‘we acknowledged responsibility and apologised, offered him financial compensation. He rejected our offer. Alan had got Mark to handle it personally which is why Valdez focused on him.’
‘Mr Valdez talked about maybe wanting more money, launching a civil action,’ said Williams. ‘It wasn’t very clear what he wanted, he was upset and confused. And usually drunk.’
‘You mean really drunk,’ McIver said, ‘not just diabetes?’
‘We believed so. We were happy to talk, but since the AVO we haven’t heard from him. That was one month ago.’ She opened the folder and handed Troy some sheets of paper stapled together. ‘That’s the last address we have for him, and a summary of our dealings. Plus a copy of one of his letters. It’s all confidential.’
As Troy scanned the documents, McIver pulled out Pearson’s diary and showed it to Williams. As she’d already told Rostov, she had no idea about the 6 pm and 6.30 pm appointments written down for some of the days.
‘What about the initials LS?’ he said. ‘Not one of your colleagues?’
When she shook her head, he asked if Mark had been having an affair. She laughed and touched her hair, said this was not possible. Not Mark. There must be some other explanation for the initials. McIver smiled politely and turned to the page showing the night spent in Liverpool two weeks earlier.
‘What was the course about?’
‘What course?’
‘Every month, he spent a night in Liverpool. His wife says he was doing an audit course.’
Williams glanced at Saunders and flicked through the diary, thinking hard. Troy realised Rostov and Conti must have neglected to mention the course to her. Conti had realised it too; she was slightly red. Williams handed the diary back to McIver.
‘There was no course.’
‘You’re sure?’ he said.
‘The morning of the second day of the course marked for last month, he and I were in an eight o’clock seminar. Here.’
Her speech was slowing down.
‘Any thoughts on what was going on?’
‘No.’
She looked confused, and Troy was reminded for a moment of Emily Nguyen. But there was no anger here.
McIver wrapped things up and the detectives prepared to leave.
‘You think he was a drug addict, don’t you?’ said Saunders.
‘We might know more after the post-mortem,’ McIver said.
Probably they wouldn’t, Troy thought, but McIver was being polite.
‘Keep me posted.’
McIver considered this. ‘We’ll do what we can. This sort of investigation can be slow and secretive, of necessity. It’s im
portant not to jump to conclusions.’
‘I’d appreciate anything you can tell me.’
They all shook hands. Troy realised Saunders reminded him of an American president, one of the tall ones with big heads and strong jaws. A perfect match of physique and status.
Outside, he said to McIver, ‘You were nice to him.’
‘Man’s a power in the land,’ Mac said, checking his phone and dialling the message bank. When he was finished he added, ‘Saunders is a Knight of the Southern Cross, Catholic equivalent of the Masons.’
‘Does that stuff matter anymore?’
‘It did when Saunders started out. Gave a bloke a lot of good contacts.’
‘Most would be retired now,’ Troy said. ‘It’s history.’
‘History matters,’ McIver said, glancing up at the big building. ‘It matters here.’ He returned his gaze to the phone. ‘Rostov’s group have got all the files, we don’t need to drop in on them. They know about Valdez. He’s twenty-eight years old, two convictions for pub fights, the last five years ago. Gun licence, two rifles, looks like he’s a hunter.’
‘They’re paying him a visit?’ said Conti.
‘Yeah, lives at Bondi. The pethidine’s the puzzle.’
Troy nodded. If it was planted, this meant whoever had done it, presumably the killer, had access to the Pearsons’ bathroom. ‘Hard to place Austin or Valdez there.’
‘Not impossible, at the party Wednesday night. Security door open, front door open, lots of strangers.’
‘They had to know a party was on in the first place.’
‘Not impossible. Improbable.’
His phone rang and he took the call, walking up and down the footpath, keeping in the shade. When he’d finished he said, ‘Peters wants you two at Parramatta to do another search of the squats. One burned down a few hours ago, they’re wondering if Austin did a triple-F.’ Fire fucks all forensics.
‘Any proof?’
‘No sign of him. Reckon he’s mixed up with some druggies’ dispute out there, might be still on the run.’
‘Why can’t the locals do the search?’
‘They’ve already done two sweeps, have expressed the view we’re not pulling our weight. Plus that thing on YouTube, Peters is insistent we contribute. The reputation of Homicide is at stake.’ No smile necessary. ‘He wants me to see the judge and the wife. Give them the news.’
He rubbed his jaw, looking tired. It was the heat, Troy thought.
‘You want me to come?’
‘No.’ McIver laughed strangely. ‘I can just about manage this.’
‘You okay?’
McIver squinted in the harsh light, said, ‘Kids, eh? Hostages to fortune.’
Conti laughed uncertainly; McIver didn’t have any children. ‘Don’t go soft on us, Sarge,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’
Twelve
In the car after the cremation, Leila drives while the others talk. Drives and thinks about last Wednesday night. It was just the two of them in the lounge room where they’d moved her mother’s bed months ago. Elizabeth had taken double doses of Maxolon the previous days, to prevent vomiting when she drank the Nembutal. She had a light dinner at seven and looked at the family photo albums. The week before, she’d been through them thoroughly, put post-it notes on the pages with pictures she wanted to go back to now. Leila went to the kitchen and used pliers to remove the steel cap of the one-hundred-millilitre bottle she’d bought at a veterinary supply shop in Tijuana. The label actually said Sedalpharma, but Stuart had assured her it was a trade name of the right drug. It was an awkward business, and for a while she thought she might have to stab the rubber in the middle of the top with a vegetable knife, but after a struggle the thing came off. She poured the liquid into a small glass and thought about sniffing it, decided not to. Stuart had said it was very bitter, the taste best disguised with a chaser of whisky or Baileys. Her mother didn’t like either but had insisted on Baileys, as though it was part of some ritual she dare not break.
When Leila went back to the lounge room, the thin figure in the bed was so still that for a moment she thought she was dead already. Then Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked down at the album on her lap. One hand went up to her dry, pale hair, but stopped as though the effort was too much, and moved back down to the book. Like a claw.
‘Those terrible coats your father wore,’ she murmured.
The photo, from the 1980s, was of the family at a restaurant Leila didn’t recognise, her father and brothers smiling with a happiness she didn’t remember. She’d felt little connection with her family during adolescence. Chris and Pete had spent much of their time playing sport or, with their father, watching other men play; it was hard to think of them as fully human. Her mother had done the cooking and cleaning and pretended to take an interest.
‘It hurts, Leila,’ Elizabeth whispered.
With sudden energy a skinny hand reached out and took the glass of clear liquid, drank it down. Leila was surprised and upset: she’d spent hours wondering about this moment, thinking of what she would say. Now it was happening much too quickly. Had happened.
Her mother coughed and Leila swapped the glass for the one with the Baileys. Elizabeth drank some and coughed again, put the glass down on the high table next to the bed.
‘That’s better,’ she said, and fell asleep.
Absurdly, Leila felt a moment’s panic, her hand straying towards her mobile, call the ambulance. But this was the way it was supposed to be, just how Stuart had described it. She forced herself to sit down. Be strong. It felt as though she were outside of things. She waited in the silence, trying to identify the faint noises in the distance, outside the house. There was the soft sound of television from the neighbour’s, and the murmur of the trucks on Pennant Hills Road a kilometre away. She wondered if there was anywhere left in the city now where it was truly quiet. When she looked down again, her mother was perfectly still. Motionless for the first time in sixty-eight years.
Leila touched Elizabeth’s cheek and stood up uncertainly. She was crying. The tears had come without any corresponding emotion, as though they couldn’t wait. She wanted to hug her mother and she could do it now, because Elizabeth could no longer feel pain. But that might disturb things, so of course she mustn’t. I am not here. She put her hand on her mother’s thin shoulder, and then on her forehead, and leaned over and kissed her. She thought of saying something, but the words she’d half prepared for the final minutes had gone. So she picked up the empty glasses and walked out of the room.
It is not such a big crowd back at the house, about fifty people. Leila moves among them, spreading herself around and offering food and drink. After half an hour Chris appears by her side and asks if he can have a word, ‘in Mum’s room’. He means the room she once shared with their father, upstairs. When she gets there she finds Peter and her sisters-in-law. Elizabeth’s jewellery box is open, its contents spread on the dressing table.
Chris says, ‘Where’s the necklace?’
Elizabeth owned one piece of really valuable jewellery, an Edwardian necklace of lapus lazuli set in gold. Although in Leila’s opinion hideous, it is valued at seven thousand dollars.
‘It should be there,’ she says, wondering when she’d last seen it.
‘Well, it’s gone.’
‘I see you’ve been searching.’
‘We were just here talking,’ Chris says, ‘and Carol noticed.’ He looks at his wife.
‘The box was open?’
‘For God’s sake, Leila. It’s the most valuable thing in the house.’
Families, Leila thinks, are overrated. I should feel more, but I don’t.
She turns to go, wondering if Carol is aware of the Roberts’ painting. It is highly unlikely.
‘You’ll look for it?’ says Chris.
‘When these people leave.’
‘We have to catch a plane at four.’
‘So?’
‘We were hoping . . . you know, Mum wanted Carol to have the necklace. You always said you didn’t like it.’
‘When I find it,’ she says, ‘I’ll pop it in the mail.’
Peter is in front of her, blocking the way to the door.
‘Are you all right?’ he says, taking her hand.
‘I’m fine.’ She pulls the hand away, gently, and pats her hair. The gesture reminds her of her mother.
‘If it’s gone you should call the police.’
‘I’m sure it’s somewhere.’
They are looking at her as though she’s mad.
Carol says, ‘A seven-thousand-dollar necklace has disappeared, Leila. You need to call the police.’
‘Now?’
Peter says, ‘Were any strangers in the house while Mum was sick?’
‘No one,’ Leila says. ‘Just friends. You know.’
He looks away. He hasn’t been here, so he doesn’t know.
Then, ‘We should still call the police.’
‘One more day won’t make a difference,’ she says coldly. The cold is inside her now, running up her spine, as she wonders who might have taken the necklace. ‘I promise I’ll sort it out.’
They seem unhappy, but Peter steps aside and lets her leave the room. They know she has a few more hours’ hard work to do, on their behalf, and they won’t stand in the way of this.
Later Stuart arrives, after calling to make sure the coast is clear, and she takes him aside and thanks him for what he’s done. She’s always thought it a bit strange he should be so passionate about helping people to die, but we all have our strengths. And our weaknesses. At the moment she is just very glad he exists. If he is a fanatic, it is in a good cause. Leila has never met a reformer before, but suspects from her knowledge of history they must all have been a bit odd, it would be a necessary quality of character if you were to set yourself against society. Ordinary chaps sneered at William Wilberforce when he told them they should free their slaves. And Stuart, apart from a little coldness of manner, doesn’t seem too odd. He is clasping her hands, pressing them firmly, without any suggestion of desire. She really does admire him. Now her mother is dead, she can creep back into the comfort of her conventional job and beliefs, but for Stuart this is just one more step along a lonely and dangerous road. Impetuously she puts her arms around him and hugs, feeling him tense up.
The Simple Death Page 9