by Mark Dryden
MURDER BRIEF
by Mark Dryden
Published by Mark Dryden at Smashwords
Copyright 2016
PROLOGUE
Two Homicide detectives drove along the Princes Highway soon after dawn. The ocean glittered on their left and the sun sat on the horizon like a burning oil tanker.
However, Detective Inspector Paul Holloway couldn’t enjoy the scenery because his companion, Detective Sergeant Dan Brooks, kept moaning about his wife. True, she was a bitch. Holloway had met nicer serial killers. But Brooks was giving him the shits. He married her; now he should just shut up and do his time.
Brooks said: "You know, I keep having a strange dream."
"What dream?"
"I dream that I’ve got to arrest my wife."
Holloway felt a flicker of interest. "Arrest her? What for?"
"Don’t know. Never find out. But when I try to cuff her, she runs away."
"Yeah? What do you do?"
"I yell for her to stop, but she keeps running."
"Yeah, and…?"
"I take out my pistol and shoot her."
Holloway was shocked. "You mean, kill her?"
"Yeah, she's stone dead before she hits the ground." Brooks glanced sideways. "Weird dream, huh?"
Hard to argue. "No warning shot?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
Brook shrugged. "Dunno. Just don’t think of it, I suppose. What do you think the dream means?"
That you’re very fucked up. Holloway stared hard at his partner. "You know, you really should get some marriage counseling."
Brooks shrugged again. "Maybe."
Holloway decided that, from now on, he’d confirm every night, that Brooks had checked his pistol into the armoury.
Their destination was a beach-house, just north of Nowra, nestled in a clump of eucalypts. Holloway parked against the curb. They climbed out. A salty sea breeze ruffled their ill-fitting brown wool-blend suits.
Holloway knew little about the owner of the beach-house, Rex Markham. Just that he was a novelist and, last night, someone broke into his Sydney terrace and stabbed his wife to death. Now Holloway had to break the big news, if it was news.
Brooks said: "You think this guy murdered her?"
Funny question from a man who had just talked about shooting his wife. Holloway frowned. "Yeah. Probably."
"He’s a novelist, right?"
"Yeah."
"Read any of his books?"
"Nah, I don’t read much. What about you?"
"Nope. Don’t read at all."
Holloway pushed the doorbell. "Well, let’s see what story he’s got to tell."
After about thirty seconds, the door opened, revealing a tall, well-tanned man in his late-forties, with brown hair and intelligent eyes. He looked puzzled. "Hello. How can I help?"
Long practice had taught Holloway how to dull his feelings at moments like this. "Rex Markham?"
"Yes."
"I’m Detective Inspector Holloway. This is Detective Sergeant Brooks. We’re from the Homicide Squad."
Markham looked startled. "Homicide Squad?"
Holloway studied him closely, to see if his surprise was genuine. Hard to tell on such short acquaintance. "Yes. I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news." Holloway sucked in air. "Umm, your wife’s dead."
Markham’s jaw dropped. "Alice? You’re joking, right?"
He looked sincere, but Markham had met plenty of murderers who deserved Oscars.
Fortunately for Holloway, Brooks, showing his usual insensitivity, stepped forward. "I’m afraid not. She was murdered at your home in Sydney last night."
Markham put his head in his hands. "That’s crazy. It can’t be true. I don’t believe you. Show me some ID."
Brooks held up his official ID card and Markham studied it intently. "Satisfied?"
Markham went white and wobbled slightly. "I suppose so. God, this is terrible. What happened?"
"We’re still investigating. But it seems someone broke into your house and stabbed her to death."
"Someone? Who?"
"We don’t know."
Markham slumped against the door frame. His voice crackled. "I don’t believe this. This is crazy."
"Maybe. But when you feel ready, we’ve got to ask you some questions."
"Like what?"
"Like when did you last see you wife?"
"Umm, about a week ago. Just before I came down here to write."
"OK, and where were you last night?"
"Here, of course. Why? You don’t think I …"
Holloway interjected: "At the moment, we don’t think anything." He held out a folded document. "But I’ve got to serve you with this."
Markham took the document and stared at it blankly. "What is it?"
"A warrant to search these premises."
Markham looked nervous. "Search? Why?"
"Don’t worry, Mr Markham. This is routine - just routine. You’ve got nothing to worry about."
CHAPTER ONE
Robyn Parker had appeared in some shabby courtrooms during her four years at the Bar, but this one took the prize. It was a Local Court with a low ceiling, bad lighting, cheap pine-panelled walls and diseased carpet; an overflowing waste bin and not even a water carafe on the bar table. It made the law seem like a cheap commodity.
Her client, Mavis Vandervelt, sat in the witness box. Mavis, 72, with her silvery bun, half-moon glasses and prim lips, looked like she should be selling cakes at a church fete. Hard to believe she’d been charged with swearing at a police officer. According to the cop, after he stopped her for speeding, she called him a "prick", a "piece of shit" and a "fucking turd".
Before the trial, Robyn was sure the cop was lying. True, there was something a bit spooky about Mavis' relentless niceness. But Robyn believed her story that the cop used the bad language and, after Mavis complained, charged her out of spite. It was well known that dead-beat cops often used an offensive language charge to flex their puny muscles.
However, Robyn had already cross-examined the cop without much success. He seemed surprisingly decent and well-mannered. Obviously, a good actor.
Still, if Mavis performed well under cross-examination, she would be acquitted. And surely she would - surely her patent decency would shine through.
The bald and burly police prosecutor didn't mess around, quickly accusing Mavis of swearing at the police officer.
She pursed her lips. "No I didn’t. I was brought up properly: my mother taught me to never use bad language."
The prosecutor glared. "Really? You’ve been charged with using offensive language before, haven’t you, Mrs Vandervelt?"
Mavis had told Robyn she had no criminal record. Robyn felt a shiver of concern, but remained confident. This must be a mistake.
"No, I haven’t."
"Yes you have. Ten years ago, you worked as a receptionist for an accountant called Frank Tucker, didn’t you?"
Mavis frowned. "Ah, yes."
"And he sacked you, didn’t he?"
A nervous wiggle. "I stopped working for him."
"Yes. And then you started making obscene telephone calls to his office, didn’t you?"
Mavis reddened. "That is untrue - a total lie."
"But you were charged and convicted, weren’t you?"
She rose slightly and grabbed the front of the witness box, face red. "Yeah. But only because that bastard told lies."
Robyn was shocked to hear Mavis swear; her timing couldn’t be worse.
The prosecutor grinned. "That what?"
Mavis frowned and sat down. "I mean … umm …I mean, Tucker, Frank Tucker."
"You just called him a bastard, didn’t you?"
"No, I didn’t."
"You m
ean, you don’t remember calling him a bastard?"
Mavis looked genuinely perplexed. "I didn’t call him that - I didn’t."
"Yes you did."
Mavis’ hands gripped the witness box even tighter. "No, I didn’t."
The prosecutor shrugged. "Well, Mrs Vandervelt, have it your way. But you made obscene calls to his office, didn’t you?"
"No I didn’t."
"Yes you did. In fact, the police taped one of your calls, didn’t they?"
"It wasn’t me on that tape."
"Yes it was."
"It wasn’t."
"It was, because you just can’t control your bad language, can you?"
Her eyes bulged, as if some demon inside was trying to break out. "Yes I can."
The prosecutor barked. "You can’t?"
Mavis could control herself no longer. Her eyes gleamed, nostrils flared and lips twitched. Her mask of normalcy hit the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces. She stood and half-screamed. "Yes I can. So don’t keep talking to me like that you, you, you arsehole." The word sprang from her mouth like a battle-cry.
Squeals erupted from the party of school-children in the back of the court. Robyn’s heart sunk. Now she had two clients, one of whom was barking mad.
The prosecutor looked surprised and delighted. "What did you call me?"
Mavis scowled savagely. "I call you an arsehole, because you are one - a fucking arsehole." Her spittle doused the court reporter sitting just below her.
The usually benign magistrate stopped mangling his paper clips and scowled at the gorgon in the witness box. "Madam, please control yourself. You’re in court."
Mavis glared at him. "I know where I am."
"Then behave yourself - and sit down."
She waved a finger in his direction. "I am behaving myself. But that … that bastard’s talking shit."
Robyn wanted to crawl under the Bar table and hide. But they’d soon come looking for her.
The magistrate frowned. "Madam, don’t talk like that."
"Fuck you, you knob-head" she said with true abandon.
Knob-head. Robin hadn't heard that expression for a while.
The Magistrate went crimson. "Madam."
The police prosecutor smiled triumphantly. "No further questions, your Honour."
The magistrate turned to Robyn, trying to balance shock and amusement. "Umm, Ms Parker, any re-examination?"
She couldn’t repair this damage. The jig was up. She sighed. "No, your Honour."
"Wise decision."
The Magistrate told Mavis she could leave the witness box. Scowling and muttering to herself, Mavis stomped over to a chair behind Robyn.
The police prosecutor and Robyn only made perfunctory final addresses, because the result was obvious. The Magistrate spent five minutes giving his reasons and declared Mavis guilty.
Robyn stood. "Your Honour, before you pass sentence, I think you should order a psychiatric report."
The magistrate nodded energetically. "Yes. That would be a good idea. I so order."
He adjourned the matter for several weeks so the report could be prepared.
As he left the bench, Robyn saw that Mavis had put her saccharine mask back on - Client Number One had returned from somewhere - though her eyes still had an eerie glow.
Mavis said: "So what happened dear?"
"You were convicted."
"I lost?"
"Correct."
"Why?"
"Because you swore at the magistrate and the prosecutor."
Mavis smiled with the beautiful calm of the true hysteric. "No I didn’t."
No point telling someone who’s mad that she’s mad. Robyn shrugged. "Well, he found you guilty anyway."
"Can I appeal?"
Robyn pictured the appeal judges snickering over the transcript, but didn’t want an argument. "Yes, you can."
"Good. Well, I don’t want to sound rude, deary, because I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I think I’ll get another barrister to represent me from now on."
Robyn was delighted. "Please do."
Mavis smiled serenely. "You mean, you don’t mind?"
"Not at all."
"That’s very sweet of you."
As Robyn left the courthouse and strolled towards the train station, one question was uppermost in her mind: how did she end up appearing in the Local Court for clients like Mavis Vanderveldt?
CHAPTER TWO
Robyn's most vivid memory of her father was of the time, when she was five years old, that her mother took her to watch him preside over a trial. They sat in the back of an impressive mahogany courtroom with a huge coat of arms hanging high above the bench. Her father, wearing a wig and gown, argued for a long time with two fat, red-necked men also bewigged and gowned. One wig was so yellow and shabby it looked ready to disintegrate.
Robyn had always found her father rather distant and forbidding. Now he seemed quite scary, particularly the several times he half-yelled at the barristers. But she was also proud that he wielded so much power and authority.
Most of her other memories of him were rather grey. He flitted in and out of her life, rarely showing much affection. She couldn’t remember him ever picking her up - she had no memory of his hands - or saying anything nice. Instead, he often ordered her to "stand up straight and speak clearly".
Maybe, in time, they’d have got close. However, when she was seven, her mother tearfully explained that he'd gone off to heaven and wouldn't be back - a disappearance she found strange rather than upsetting. Only several years later did she learn that he suffered a fatal heart attack while sitting in his chambers, writing a reserved judgment. His associate found him slumped over his desk.
After his death, he remained a ghostly presence in her life, particularly when her mother repeatedly told her that, if he was alive, he’d have want her to go to the Bar and rise to become Senior Counsel. "Think how excited he would have been if you took silk," her mother said. That was not an emotion she associated with her father. But she nodded dutifully.
For a long time, Robyn resisted the whole idea. She always had plenty of drive and ambition. At high school, she was an outstanding student. But she didn’t want to live in her father's shadow or do her mother’s bidding. She’d choose another profession.
However, during her last year at high school, she still hadn’t chosen one and started to toy with the idea of becoming a barrister. She’d always enjoyed debating at school, and surely she could do better than the fat guys she saw in court. True, there were downsides. She suspected that, until now, she hadn’t really dealt with her father’s memory and becoming a barrister might force her to do that. But so what? Everybody had baggage. She could handle hers. Yes, she’d study law and go to the Bar as soon as possible.
So, after graduating from university with first class honours, she worked for a couple of years in a big corporate law firm before heading for the Bar, trembling with excitement.
So far she had gained little traction. After four years, she was still appearing in suburban Local Courts for petty criminals like Mavis Vandervort.
She now realized her whole approach had been dreadfully naïve, because she thought she could succeed without help and acted as if she was on a quest rather than building a career. That was a recipe for disaster. Success at the Bar depended on patronage and contacts. Without them, she would never get a chance to shine.
There was, of course, a simple way to remedy her mistake: she was not unattractive and there were plenty of lecherous senior barristers around who, if she slept with them, would send work - good work - in her direction. She didn’t want to stoop that low. But failure was not an option. Maybe it was time to toughen up and stop being a princess.
CHAPTER THREE
Most of Sydney’s barristers occupied drab buildings that lined both sides of Phillip Street, just before the street reached the 23-storey concrete tower that housed the Supreme and Federal Courts. It was a legal canyon in which
barristers stripped clients of their money and judges stripped them of their illusions.
When Robyn arrived at the Bar, a hoary old barrister advised her that it was vitally important to buy a room in "the right set of chambers". However, with typical stubbornness and naivety, she bought a room in Fisher Chambers instead. True, the room was cheap. But there was a reason for that. Fisher Chambers occupied the fourth floor of a squat building with a green-tiled façade festooned with rusted air-conditioning units. A decade ago, it was a leading set of chambers with a dozen heavy-weight silk and plenty of successful juniors. But its glory days were over. Judicial appointments, retirements, costly divorces and defections to other floors had drained its strength. Now, it only had four bantam-weight silk - who brought in little work - and about twenty struggling juniors like Robyn.
The next morning, she sat at her desk, munching a bagel and flicking through the Sydney Morning Herald when, to her surprise, Brian Davis strode into her room. He was in his early forties, tall and well-built, with prominent features and expensively maintained hair. He wore a Zegna suit and a Rolex glinted on his wrist. He looked like he was dressed by a valet.
Brian belonged to Lord Mansfield Chambers, a couple of floors below, but much higher in prestige. It was bursting with busy silk and successful juniors. But none shone brighter than him. He was a silk with a huge criminal law practice and a glowing future.
In a rare stroke of good fortune, a solicitor friend of Robyn had recently briefed Robyn to act as Brian's junior. They appeared for the accused in a big heroin importation trial.
When she first met him, she thought he was arrogant, superficial and doused in self-regard. He probably looked smug while asleep. Nothing he subsequently did changed her opinion. However, to her surprise, in front of the jury, he did a great impersonation of a bluff, straight-talking barrister while, at the same time, twisting the evidence out of shape. Indeed, after their client was acquitted, he leaned over to her and grinned. "You know, I hope I didn’t mislead the judge and jury too much."
During the trial, he seemed anxious to impress her and even asked her out to dinner. She politely declined, saying she was too busy. She wasn’t quite sure why she said no. After all, he was good-looking, bright and articulate - light-years ahead of the sorry bunch of losers she’d dated recently.