Troy hadn’t meant to suggest that, and he wondered if he should point this out. But for the moment it was more useful to sit back and watch the way Carter’s mind moved.
‘Anyway,’ the doctor said after a silence, ‘it was me suggested to Mark he get the figures. I told you that.’
‘You hadn’t seen them before?’
‘I would have. We see lots of figures. There were no alarm bells.’
Troy nodded, wanting to ask a lot more. But it was too soon. He said, ‘We’re just checking everyone’s alibi. It’s routine.’
‘You brought me in for that?’
Conti came back into the room and said Roz Herron was at lunch but was expected back any minute. She sat down and Carter stared at her, his eyes growing cold, and then turned to Troy. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t deal with Dirk Wainwright’s killer with such enthusiasm.’
It was a few seconds before Troy got it. Wainwright had been killed at a gay beat at Tamarama Beach and the initial investigation had been botched. Local detectives actually interviewed the killer in the first twenty-four hours, missed two important pieces of evidence, and let him go. It had taken the suicide of Wainwright’s mother three years later to have the investigation reopened and the murderer caught.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Troy said.
He knew Carter was manipulating him, but there was nothing else to say: he was sorry.
‘Dirk was my friend,’ said Carter. ‘I dealt with the police on behalf of the family, they were just like you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Conti. ‘We’re not all the same.’
She reddened and Carter began to laugh, and it went on for a long time. At some level, Troy thought, the man was under a lot of strain. But there might well be a legitimate reason for this. From what he knew of Carter, several reasons. Finally the doctor calmed down, shook his head angrily.
‘I’m the head of Oncology at a major teaching hospital, and you interrupted my day off to bring me here for something that could have been done by phone. You’ll be hearing about this.’
He looked hard at Troy, who wasn’t going to be bullied. On the other hand, they didn’t want to annoy the hospital, which so far had been cooperative. McIver had emphasised that.
He said, ‘The main reason we brought you in was to request your fingerprints and a DNA sample. We’re doing this to everyone who was at the party at Pearson’s last week. I’m sorry if this wasn’t explained to you before.’ Troy looked at Conti, who was stone-faced, and back at Carter. ‘Will you do this for us?’
‘Okay.’ Carter raised his hands. ‘Let’s get it over.’
He ran his hands over his pale face and Troy wondered why he’d calmed down so quickly. He added that question to the others he had about Carter. They were only trivial matters, but at least they were there. In an investigation, questions were a sign of life.
While Conti was taking a Buccal swab of saliva from the doctor, there was a knock on the door and a plainclothes came in. She placed a sheet of paper on the table in front of Troy. Roz Herron had called from the clinic and confirmed Carter had been there on the night of Pearson’s death. She’d volunteered the opinion Dr Ian Carter was a saint.
SATURDAY
Thirty-three
The police have come to talk to Leila about her mother’s death. There is a knock on the door and through the window she sees Ben Farrell with two detectives walking up the gravel drive. She is wondering why she heard the knock before they reached the door. She wakes up.
Three in the morning, and although it was a dream, the noise was real. And, as if her sleeping mind had kept notes and passed them on, she knows it was not a knock but the sound of breaking glass. There is another person in the house.
She reaches for her mobile on the bedside table and dials emergency, gets up and keeps her voice low as gently she shuts the door. When she’s given her details, she disconnects and goes back to the table and opens the drawer. Inside is a sharp hunting knife in a sheath, found in her mother’s room after she’d died. It’s one of those clues she’s come across this past week, suggesting Elizabeth was not quite the woman she thought she knew. She puts her phone down, removes the knife from the sheath, and goes back to the door, suddenly angry that some stupid man is daring to burgle the house of a dead woman. People at the funeral warned her this might happen; she thanked them and forgot about it. There were other things on her mind. There still are, and she knows as she opens the door she is not behaving as she normally would. But the police will be here at any moment.
The door squeaks faintly and this is intensely irritating: she’d assumed it wouldn’t, because it hadn’t made a noise when she closed it a minute earlier. The noise must be audible throughout the house, and she wonders if the intruder will come up. From the top of the stairs she sees a flicker of torchlight in the big mirror down in the hall, then hears the front door open with a bang and someone running on the gravel outside. The burglar must be as scared as she is. She waits, listening, and after a few minutes a car comes up the street, fast, and stops outside. Leila realises she is still holding the knife, and replaces it in the drawer.
When she comes downstairs, now with a dressing-gown over her pyjamas, there are two uniformed police in the hall. They identify themselves and tell her the intruder came in through a window in the dining room.
‘No security system?’ the male officer says.
‘No.’
This appears to give him a certain satisfaction. Leila sees that the door to the cellar is open and goes to close it. The female officer grabs her hand.
‘You left that open?’
‘I don’t remember.’
The woman produces some sort of stick and approaches the open doorway, calling into the darkness as she fumbles for the light switch. Turning it on, she disappears down the stairs, followed by the man. Leila looks around the empty hall, gazing blankly up at the white gloss paint and the mock Tudor beams, and pulls the collar of her dressing-gown around her neck more tightly. Soon the officers reappear.
‘Lot of wine you’ve got down there,’ says the man. ‘Must be worth a bit.’
‘You didn’t find anyone?’
‘We’ll just check upstairs.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘We have to be sure.’
Leila shrugs and wonders if she should offer them a cup of tea. Her heart is pounding now, as it wasn’t in the minutes after she woke up. Emotion postponed for tranquillity.
When they’ve finished their search, they decline the offer of tea.
‘We can get someone down here if you like,’ the man says. He is chewing gum: he is trying to hide it, but you can tell. She wonders if all police chew gum. ‘Dust for fingerprints and that. Leaves a lot of mess.’
‘There’s not much chance of catching them, is there?’
‘To be honest? Bugger all.’ The man shakes his head solemnly, feeling her pain. ‘We can help you put something against the broken window, keep you secure until you get it fixed.’
‘There’s twenty-four-hour glass people,’ the woman says. ‘But they’re a real rip-off. You want to do it during the day, get a few quotes.’
‘Thank you.’
They go into the dining room and the officers move chairs about. Leila sweeps up the glass on the parquet floor, and then helps the police turn the big table on its side, slide it on the Persian rug so it is up against the broken window.
‘You will think about getting a burglar alarm?’ says the male officer, puffing a bit after the exertion with the table.
‘I’ll give it my serious consideration.’
She wonders if Ben Farrell has talked to the police about his suspicions, if these people are aware she is possibly a criminal. But the male officer is just standing there looking at the furniture, moving
his jaws. Maybe he’s interested in antiques as well as wine.
The female cop says, ‘Have any strangers been here the past week or two?’
Leila thinks for a moment about a police investigation that would involve interviews with all the people who’d been in the house since her mother died. People such as Stuart Emery. She is about to shake her head when she remembers the wine man. Tami gave her the name of a fellow who used to run a local wine shop until Dan Murphy’s drove him out of business. Paul Gorman is his name, and he ekes out a living as a consultant. Leila called him two days ago and he agreed to come by and do an evaluation of the wine in the cellar. He wasn’t sure when he could make it, so she left a key out for him, hidden beneath a pot around the side of the house. In case he called after she’s gone back to work.
All this she now explains to the police, repeating that Gorman is aware of where the key is. The male officer shakes his head sadly while the woman pulls out a notebook and takes details.
‘Is any of the wine valuable?’
‘It might be.’
‘Any Grange?’ says the man.
‘I believe so.’
‘Some of that’s worth over a grand a bottle.’
Leila shrugs.
‘Maybe we should get crime scene down here anyway?’ says the female officer.
The man looks at the table up against the window.
‘We’ll have a talk to this bloke,’ he says to Leila. ‘Let you know if there’s anything.’
When the police leave, she goes back to her room and puts a chair against the door. It has a lock but she’s never seen the key. Getting back into bed, she tries to read, but her mind keeps drifting. A few times she shivers, despite the heat of the night. It isn’t the burglar worrying her but the police. Their presence has made her realise how concerned she is about Ben Farrell’s threat. She feels angry with herself for this cowardice, but can’t fight it, decides tomorrow after she’s found the diary she’ll go home, back to Rose Bay. That will be more convenient anyway, for when she starts work on Monday. This is the last night she will spend in this house. Her brothers will be upset, but if they want it cleared in a hurry, they’ll have to come do it themselves.
The prospect of telling them this lifts her spirits.
Thirty-four
McIver had given Troy the weekend off. The Clinical Excellence Commission’s response to the stats wouldn’t be ready until Monday, and the investigation had stalled. The sergeant wanted a chance to think it over, work out where to take things. He was meeting with Alan Peters some time Sunday for a review.
Troy slept in, got to the hospice at nine.
There was an armed security guard in the foyer, and he stood up when Troy came in, as though he recognised him. Troy flashed the guy his badge and kept going. The man stood back instinctively but Troy could tell his mind was starting to turn over. It was a slow job that tended to keep your reaction time down.
Luke was asleep in his room, which was in semi-darkness. There was a drip in his arm and he seemed peaceful, his snoring nice and steady. The cat was sleeping on top of the blanket, nestled against Luke’s hip. Troy took the priest’s hand and squeezed it gently, stood there and tried to calm everything down, bring himself into some kind of sync with the man on the bed. He shook Luke’s shoulder, spoke to him, but there was no change in the rhythm of his breathing. Shook him some more, but it made no difference.
Troy sat down heavily and looked around the room, at the get-well cards on the windowsill. He reached out for some and read:
You’re a good man, Father. Stand by you always.
I was one of the boys on the Colo camp and I know you didn’t do this thing. Stay strong.
We will always be grateful for the ten hours you prayed by our Steve on his last night on this earth. Knowing you for fourteen years we know you are innocent.
Troy took out his phone and rang his sister, Georgina, who was a psychologist. She and her family had been on holiday in Sicily and he wasn’t sure if they were back, but she answered after a few rings and they talked about the vacation. Georgie and he had been brought up separately after their parents died. For years the two of them hadn’t got on, but lately, before Anna had left, their families had been seeing each other a bit.
When they’d finished with the family news, he told her what Tim Kalnins had said about Luke. Without mentioning names, he asked if a man who was having a passionate physical affair with a woman would abuse a young boy at the same time.
‘It’s unlikely. I’d say almost impossible,’ she said.
Her voice was warm and strong; she’d make a good expert witness.
He saw someone had come into the room, and told Georgie he had to go. She told him she loved him and disconnected.
‘Detective Troy. They couldn’t keep you away then?’
‘Hello, Ms Moore. You work weekends?’
‘It’s Dr Moore, actually. You need to go now, you’re trespassing.’
He looked down at Luke’s face. ‘He’s sleeping well.’
‘It’s the drugs. Without them, he’d be awake and in a great deal of pain.’
‘I’d like to stay for a while.’ He rubbed the cat’s fur lightly. ‘We’re not doing any harm.’
She reached for her phone, staring at him. Bitch.
He stood up heavily. ‘Was the archbishop here yesterday?’
‘His Eminence visits most days. He’s been very good to Father Carillo.’
She picked up the cat, murmured ‘Dexie’ and nuzzled it with her jaw. Her phone fell onto the bed and Troy picked it up for her. They walked out. At the doorway, the cat twisted out of her arms and ran back to Luke’s bed.
‘Good judge of character,’ said Troy.
She smiled, shook her head. ‘He knows, that’s all.’
‘Knows?’
‘When someone’s near the end.’
He went quiet and she said nothing, letting him absorb it. He could see that from her point of view he was a pain in the arse.
On the stairs he said, ‘Why do you think Luke doesn’t want to see his old friends?’
‘Maybe it’s a sense of shame. This type of revelation can change a person, you know.’
‘I was just wondering, because I know for a fact he didn’t do what he’s being accused of.’
He’d wanted to surprise her, but she just gave him a look of pity. Of course.
They reached the lobby and Troy looked over at the security guard, who averted his gaze.
‘That man was confused by your badge,’ Moore said loudly. ‘It won’t happen again. Next time we’ll call the police. I mean it.’
Troy nodded. ‘If this is maybe my last visit, could I say goodbye to the nurse I met before, Julie? She was good to Luke, I’d like to thank her.’ He hoped he wasn’t getting her into trouble.
‘Julie’s not here anymore.’
‘She moved on?’
Moore cleared her throat, looked tired. ‘I’m afraid she died,’ she said. ‘It was peaceful. Apparently she had an undiagnosed heart condition.’
He stopped in the doorway and stared at her. ‘Dead?’
For a second her confidence faltered. ‘I know. In a hospice, it’s not the staff you expect to die.’
Her attention was distracted by a man coming in from the street, and she turned to him. ‘Carl,’ she called. Then to Troy, ‘This is Julie’s boyfriend. I have to go.’
The man was in his mid-thirties and had a pale, fleshy face and short blond hair. He avoided Troy’s eyes and Moore’s too as he stopped and spoke to her about getting something from Julie’s locker. He was looking at the ground as though human contact was difficult for him at this time. Troy walked away, thinking about Cornish and her kindness to Luke.
For the rest of the day he was on the b
each, and had dinner at the home of one of his fellow lifesavers. He left early because he felt pleasantly exhausted. It had been hot and they’d performed three rescues, always satisfying but they took it out of you.
Not long after he got home, Anna called. He’d been thinking about ringing her but had put it off because of Conti, afraid he might give something away through his tone. But he must have sounded normal, because they chatted amiably for a long time. He was in the right mood for the phone, weary but not ready for bed. They talked about Matt and then Troy asked about the strange call he’d had from Mary. Anna said she didn’t know about it, sounded embarrassed.
They moved on, he told her about Ruth being pregnant, thought she’d be happy.
‘How old is Mac?’ was what she said. ‘Forty-six?’
‘In his prime.’
‘So he’ll be sixty-seven when the child turns twenty-one. That’s too old.’
‘I don’t think he planned it this way.’
‘Is that an excuse?’
‘You’re a hard woman.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘You’ve got to think of the children’s interests. What if he gets sick? Sixty-seven’s not young. Are they having more kids?’
‘There’s supposed to be more in the Telegraph tomorrow,’ he said. ‘About Luke.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘I’m postponing it. I need to think.’
‘Luke,’ she said slowly. ‘How sad.’
He wondered if he should tell her Luke was innocent. But he’d made his promise.
‘I’ll try to see him tomorrow.’ Told her about the trouble he’d had at the hospice that morning.
‘I want to see him too.’
He said, ‘You’ll have to come to Sydney to do that.’
‘I am in Sydney.’ No, he thought, you’re in Brisbane. ‘I’m staying with Wendy and Ralph.’
The Simple Death Page 21