by Claire McNab
She swerved to avoid a cyclist who wobbled out from the curb, suddenly aware of how little attention she was paying to driving. With an effort of will she tried to push Carol out of her thoughts, but the moment she relaxed her concentration the pictures seeped back—images of bare skin, of her mouth, eyes, hair—the sound of her silver voice—and with them a longing for her so frightening in its intensity that she caught her breath. “This is just great, Sybil,” she said with an angry irony.
• • •
Bourke put his head round the door. “The Lab rang to say the baseball bat matches Pagett’s head wound, so it could’ve been used in both murders. The blood and hair are from Quade, though. And Alan Witcombe wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.” Carol nodded. Bourke continued, “I’m off to see Hilary Cosgrove again. Her father rang and said she was well enough to answer some more questions this morning. He also confirmed what Sir Richard told you. She is pregnant.”
“Could her boyfriend, what’s his name—Evan Berry? Could he have known about the baby? It’d give him even more of a motive,” said Carol.
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
Alan Witcombe folded his angular body into a chair and glared at Carol. “I’ll not have my wife subjected to filth!”
“I’m sorry?”
“Because my wife’s a light sleeper, she answered the phone when it rang about three this morning. She was horrified to hear a stream of obscenities!”
“What was said?”
“I would not ask Alice to repeat what she heard. Sufficient to say that she hung up as quickly as possible. She woke me, and then the phone rang again.”
“And you answered it this time.”
“Of course. It was some sick, depraved person, spewing forth disgusting allegations in a hoarse whisper.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“No, but I don’t think it was a student. What are you going to do about it?”
“We can have Telecom intercept all incoming calls to your number and vet them before your phone rings.”
Witcombe was waspish. “Apart from that perfectly obvious step, what are you doing about finding this pervert? It’s probably the same person who killed Pagett.”
“There may be some link. Could you write down what was said to you as accurately as possible, please. I’m sure you know you’re not the only person to receive these calls.”
Witcombe was reluctant to record the words in writing, but Carol finally persuaded him to cooperate. Handing over the sheet he said, “It’s the moral climate in the school, you know, Inspector. Corruption breeds violence.”
Carol was interested in details about the corruption, but apart from an accurate assessment of Bill Pagett’s character and activities, he was very vague about details and strong on broad, general impressions. Carol read through the words he had handed her. “The person actually started with ‘Alan, Alan darling?’” she said, “Didn’t this make you think it might be a woman?”
“Why? The degenerate who made this call wouldn’t worry about details like that. Have you read it all? Sick!”
The call had contained a series of libelous comments about Witcombe’s sexual inclinations and activities with both males and females, none mentioned by name, until the last—‘Syb’s a randy little bitch for you, isn’t she? Do anything to get it. Have you rammed it home, yet, Alan darling?’
Even Carol’s vivid imagination couldn’t imagine Alan Witcombe and Sybil in each other’s arms. Disconcertingly, she had a sudden vision of Sybil and Terry making love. She forced herself to listen to Witcombe as he said, “Pagett deserved to die for what he did, but no one had the right to kill him.” A look of satisfaction crossed his face. “But at least he’s facing judgment now, and he can do no more damage.”
Bourke came back bubbling with news. “Wait till you hear. It’s the redhead we most admire, our Sybil.” Carol tensed. “Yes?” she said.
“When I told Hilary Cosgrove we knew she planned to see Pagett on Sunday night, she denied it at first, but after a while I broke her down. She admitted sneaking out and walking up the hill from her place—it takes about ten minutes. She says she’d just entered Pagett’s driveway when she heard a loud argument and then a series of crashes and angry voices. She wasn’t sure what to do, and while she was standing there, Sybil Quade comes flying out of the house, leaps into her car, and roars off so fast she nearly skittles Hilary.”
“She’s sure it was Sybil Quade?”
“Positive. Hilary’s in her English class.”
“Did she hear any of the argument clearly?”
“No, only ‘you bastard’ from Sybil. And she says she thinks she was crying when she ran out of the house.”
“What happened then?”
“She said she was confused. She started to walk home again, got halfway down the hill, and then changed her mind. She went back, knocked on the door, and Pagett let her in.”
“And?”
Bourke looked pleased. “The really interesting bit is this,” he said. “When Hilary went into Pagett’s place, she found he wasn’t alone. Tony Quade was there. Not only that, she thinks they were having an argument, but they stopped it when she came in.”
“I can’t believe even Bill Pagett would tell her she had to get an abortion in front of Tony Quade.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Bourke with sarcastic emphasis. “Pagett showed unsuspected sensitivity. He didn’t mention an abortion, just talked to her for a bit and finally told her to go back home and that he’d see her the next night. But of course, he didn’t, because he was dead.”
“What was Tony Quade doing while all this was going on?”
“Pacing around drinking a can of beer. Pagett was nice enough to drive Hilary home, and when they left the house, Quade was still there. She says he looked angry, but she doesn’t know why. In the car, she started to ask Pagett about Sybil Quade, but when she did, he turned on her, so she shut up.” Bourke shook his head. “Sybil Quade has been lying to us,” he observed.
“Yes,” said Carol.
Chapter Eight
“Mrs. Quade?” Bourke said. “Inspector Ashton has asked me to contact you. I’m afraid there are a few details to clear up, and it would be a help if you could be available this afternoon here at the Bellwhether police station. I’ve already asked Mrs. Farrell to have your lessons covered. Would you like me to send a car for you, or would you rather drive yourself?”
She said she would rather take her own car, agreed on two o’clock as the time, and slowly replaced the receiver.
“What was that about?” asked Terry, who had come into the empty staff room as she had been speaking.
“The police. They want to ask me some more questions.”
Terry was bitterly hostile. “Oh, really? Didn’t that blonde bitch ask you enough questions yesterday evening?” At her startled look he smiled with grim satisfaction. “Yes, Syb. I went round to your place, just to see if everything was all right. And who should I see arriving but Inspector Bloody Ashton.”
“You’re spying on me.”
“I don’t see you have any reason to be angry. At least I’m not lying to you the way you are to me. Why did you fob me off by saying you had a headache?”
“For God’s sake, Terry! Why must you always want something from me? Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Surprisingly, Terry’s face softened. “Don’t get hysterical, Syb. I know you’re under pressure. I wouldn’t say these things to you if I didn’t love you.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” she said, flooded with relief at the realization that he had no idea what had happened between herself and Carol. She suddenly felt immensely tired. “Terry, about tonight . . .”
His black eyes met hers. “Yes.”
She didn’t have the energy to fight him. “I don’t want to go out for dinner. I don’t want to see anyone, or run the risk of reporters . . .”
He smiled. “Ah, Syb, I’ll look afte
r you. Pick you up and take you back to my place, eh? Cook you a wonderful dinner.”
She surrendered. “All right,” she said.
Carol looked formidably cool and efficient. “Would you sit down,” she said formally. Bourke gave Sybil a slight smile, reminding her of the first interview after Bill’s death. But it wasn’t the same. They both knew so much more about her now, about her private life, about her feelings. She lifted her chin and returned Carol’s look but it was Bourke who asked the first question.
“There seem to be some discrepancies in what you say and other reports we have received,” he said.
“Could you give me a specific example?”
How cool you are, thought Carol.
Bourke continued, “You said you didn’t see Bill Pagett on Sunday, the night before his death. We have a witness who says you did. What’s more, we have information to suggest you had a violent argument with him.”
Sybil sat silent. Pride is everything, she thought. The ancient Greeks looked at things the right way—it’s how you face disaster that’s important, not what happens afterwards.
“Would you like to comment?” asked Bourke.
“No.”
“You do have the right to legal representation if you feel it’s necessary,” said Carol.
“It’s not necessary.”
“Do you deny being at Bill Pagett’s house on Sunday night?” asked Bourke.
“No.”
“You also stated that you hadn’t seen your husband since he returned to Australia, but we are informed that he was present that evening. Is that true?”
“No.”
“Are you saying you didn’t see him?” asked Carol.
“I didn’t know Tony was there—if he was.” Sybil stood, and Bourke rose also. Sybil wondered fleetingly if he thought she was going to do something violent. She wished she could, just to release the spring of tension that was wound to breaking point. “I don’t have to answer any of these questions, do I?” she said in a voice of polite inquiry.
Bourke looked thoughtful. “If you choose not to, Mrs. Quade, then that’s your decision. However, your answers might be of considerable help to our investigations.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be of more help,” said Sybil. She hesitated for a moment, then walked quickly out of the room.
Bourke flicked the pages of his notebook. “We’ve got to get more out of her than that,” he said. He grinned at Carol. “Do you want me to make a house call? Use the famous Bourke charm?”
Carol was playing with a silver pen, turning it over and over in her fingers. “No, Mark. I’ll give it another go myself.”
Bourke shook his head. “It’s going to break my heart if she’s guilty,” he said.
Sybil expected her, but when she saw the car draw up in the drive her pulse still leaped in fear and excitement. She opened the door to Carol’s impatient knock and stood aside to let her in.
Carol flung down her briefcase on a couch and strode to the open windows. She took a deep breath and turned to Sybil. “Now’s the time to stop lying, Sybil. It’s too dangerous to worry about your feelings anymore.”
“I can’t help you. Nothing that happened has anything to do with Bill’s death. I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did.”
Carol’s voice was tight with rage. “Can’t you see. . .” She threw up her hands. “Sybil, you look more guilty every time another crack appears in your story. You can keep repeating you’re innocent all the way to Mulawa Women’s Prison, if you like. I happen to think it would be a lot easier if you just told me the truth.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Just tell me.”
Sybil’s eyes filled with furious tears. “And everything I tell you goes into a report, doesn’t it? For people to read and snicker over. How would you like it? I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt like I do. I hate the idea of people peering into my life.” She gave an angry laugh. “The well-known invasion of privacy, Carol. I can’t stand it.”
“Tell me. I’ll only put into my report what I have to.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you?”
The anger faded from Carol’s direct gaze. “You’ve got to trust someone, sometime. It might as well be me.”
Sybil stared at her. Is it easier to trust beautiful people? she thought irrelevantly. I want to lean on you and ask you to help me. Aloud she said, “What do you want to know?”
“What was your real relationship with Bill Pagett?”
Sybil sat down so she could look out at the sea. “I hated him.”
Having said that, there was no point in holding back. She continued calmly, “Bill was Tony’s best friend. As I told you, the first time I met Tony was at Bill’s place. And Bill was everything he admired—member of a famous family, up with all the political gossip, popular with everyone, outstandingly successful with girls . . . Tony thought he was wonderful.”
“Was there any suggestion of any sexual attraction between them?”
“No, there wasn’t anything like that. It was the good old Aussie mateship in operation, at the expense of everything else.”
“At the expense of your marriage?”
“As long as I behaved as a wife should, there was no reason to expect any trouble. You know how it is, Carol, indulging them—letting boys be boys.”
“I know,” said Carol.
Caught by her tone, Sybil said, “Have you been married?”
“Yes.”
“Divorced?”
“Yes. Go on about Pagett.”
“Bill didn’t approve of the way I behaved. For one thing, I fought against changing my name. It wasn’t Bill’s ridicule that made me give in, but Tony, who said it was very important to him. Afterwards, I was sorry I agreed, but I decided it wasn’t worth making a fuss.” She smiled without humor. “It seems the easy way, doesn’t it, to give in? Now I know it’s weak and stupid. Even if you lose, at least you can say you tried.”
“Did you and Bill Pagett openly argue?”
“Of course not. On the surface it was all in good fun. He used to call me a randy little bitch, just joking, of course, but I knew he was serious.”
“Would many people know he used that term?”
“You’re thinking of the phone calls, of course. He often said it when others were around, but always with a kind of affectionate charm. I think Bill and I were the only ones who knew what he really meant.”
“Which was?”
“That he wanted me to know he thought I was like all the rest—just to be used. Women were fair game. If they cooperated and played along with him, he was happy. If they didn’t, there was something wrong with them.” Sybil began to pace up and down. “Carol, I don’t think many people would agree with me over Bill. Almost everyone liked him.”
“He told Florrie Dunstane that you had fallen in love with him.”
“What else did he say?” said Sybil bitterly.
“In essence, that you threw yourself at him and he had to gently refuse you because of his friendship with your husband.”
“How typically Bill,” said Sybil contemptuously.
“Why did you write that note to him?”
“I was a fool, wasn’t I? It was when I still thought I could, or should, save my marriage—that I still owed something to Tony. Bill got me alone, called to see me when Tony was out. I was a challenge to him, a woman who didn’t melt when he felt her up—all in fun, of course.” She swung around. “Bill was so much fun!” she said bitingly.
“What happened?”
“He put the hard word on me. I don’t think he could believe I wouldn’t give in to him if he really tried. And I think he wanted Tony to come home and find us together. It was horrible. He tried to physically force me . . . and then we both heard Tony driving in. Suddenly he was back to the usual charming Bill. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want him to think that afterwards I’d say anything to Tony, because if he did, he’d concoct some story to say I’d made th
e first move. I suppose I knew Tony would believe him rather than me. Now, I can’t understand why I bothered, but it was important then, important to make sure Tony didn’t suspect anything.”
“Why write a note? Why not ring him?”
“I don’t know if you’ll understand. I hated him so much I couldn’t bear to speak to him. But I had to stop him from saying anything, so I wrote that note and then drove over to slip it under his door. It was such a stupid thing to do. It just gave him ammunition to use against me.”
“The night before Bill Pagett died—why did you go to see him if you couldn’t stand him?”
Sybil sighed. “Bill rang me and said he’d heard from Tony, and that he was returning to Australia. I didn’t want him back, I didn’t want to have to face him. Bill said Tony was tossing up whether to return or not, that it depended on me. He said we’d have to discuss it face to face. I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t just leave it. Finally I said I’d call over. He was alone. I didn’t see Tony, but you said he was there. Was that true?”
“Hilary Cosgrove was outside. She’s one of your students, isn’t she? It seems she and Pagett were lovers. She saw you leave, couldn’t decide what to do, so started to walk home, then she changed her mind and went back. She said your husband was there with Pagett.”
“So Tony could have arrived while she was starting to walk home? He might not have actually been there when Bill . . .”
“When Bill what?” Carol looked at her expression. “Sybil, it’s all right. Please tell me.”