by Mark Dryden
"Yes, quite a few times, and I quite like him."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "He’s no oil painting. But he’s intelligent, funny and quite nice."
"Single?"
"Yes. A bit of a loner, like many writers."
"What does he write?"
"Crime thrillers."
"Good ones?"
Beverley grinned. "Question of taste, I suppose. I’ve only read one. It was brutal, violent and misogynistic. But I rather enjoyed the lack of artifice. His style comes from within the story, rather than outside, if you know what I mean."
She didn’t. "And Alice liked them, I suppose?"
"I don't know. We didn’t really discuss them. They don’t provoke much critical reflection, and she didn't like him because of his command of the long sentence, if you know what I mean."
"What do you think about her sleeping with one of her novelists? Sounds a bit unprofessional to me."
Beverley smiled. "Maybe. But book industry people aren’t professionals. We’re in a small dying trade with lousy pay. That’s probably why there’s so much bonking, to compensate for the rotten conditions."
Robyn giggled. "OK. And tell me, have the police talked to you?"
Beverley lifted her eyebrows. "No. Should they?"
"Yes."
"Maybe they decided they’d charged the right man and there was no point."
"Maybe. Oh, and one last thing: do you have Terry Torkhill’s telephone number?"
"Sure. Let me get it."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I understand you write crime thrillers," Robyn said as Terry Torkhill led her down a short hallway to his living-room.
"Yeah. They’re variously described as splatter novels, blood ballets or nihilistic noir."
"What are they about?"
"I usually bring together a group of violent criminals who commit a dirty deed, like rob a bank or kidnap a wealthy industrialist. But, of course, the biggest crimes they commit are against each other."
"No good guys?"
Torkhill smiled. "The bad guys are the good guys."
"Any women?"
"Only if they like shootin’ and rootin’." Torkhill smiled. "So, as you can guess, when I write a novel, I don’t unlock the great mysteries of life or tear out a chunk of my soul and give it to the reader. I assume you haven’t read any of my books?"
"I’m afraid not. I’m out of touch with nihilistic noir, though I sometimes read detective novels, mostly Scandinavian."
"You mean novels about depressed policemen written in Ikea prose?"
She laughed. "Yeah."
The living-room was neat and clean as a dental surgery, with modular furniture on sea-grass matting. Glass doors fronted a balcony overlooking Bondi Beach. Hundreds of brown bodies lay scattered on the sand like the casualties of an invasion force. Swimmers bobbed about in the surf; wet-suited surfies scrawled on the front of waves. In the distance, two oil tankers crawled along the horizon like black slugs.
They sat and faced each other over a glass coffee-table. He was in his early forties, quite tall, with thinning brown hair and plain features. If she stood next to him on a bus, she wouldn’t remember anything about him when she got off, except maybe for his twinkling eyes.
He said: "Do you know the real difference between a so-called literary novel and a thriller?"
"No."
"There’s no objective standard for judging a literary novel. So if it's boring or badly written, the writer can easily blame the reader for being impatient or lacking insight. But with a thriller, the standard is obvious: it thrills or it doesn’t. The writer’s got nowhere to hide."
"I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’m sure yours pass the test."
"Opinions differ."
"How many novels have you written?"
"Half-a-dozen. But the last one didn’t sell too well. I think readers are getting a bit tired of me and the sub-genre. Time to reinvent myself."
"How?"
"I think I’ll start writing vampire or zombie novels. For some reason, they’re selling like hot cakes right now."
"You’re serious?"
"Of course. I’m a commercial novelist. I follow the market. I’d even put product placements in my novels if I could. I certainly don’t want to go back to my previous job."
"What was that?"
"I was a lawyer."
She laughed. "I fully understand."
Torkhill smiled and leaned back. "Anyway, on the phone you said you’re a barrister representing Rex Markham?"
When Robyn told him that, and asked for a chat, she expected reluctance. Instead, he immediately agreed in a friendly tone. Didn’t even ask what she wanted to talk about. Just told her to come right over, as if he had nothing to hide.
Now, she said: "Yes, that’s right."
"And how can I help you?"
"Well, umm, I understand Alice Markham was your contact at Grimble & Co?"
"Yeah. Looked after me for about five or six years: read my manuscripts, negotiated with publishers, stuff like that. I was devastated when she died."
"You got on well?"
"Yes, very well."
Time to toss her grenade. She cleared her throat and stared out at the white sand curving around to the headland. "Really? Well, you see, I’ve been told you, umm, had an affair with her."
Robyn expected a vigorous denial. Instead, Torkhill coolly sat back and crossed his arms, as if such accusations were a daily occurrence. "Who told you that?"
"I’d rather not say."
Torkhill shrugged. "Fair enough."
"Well, did you?"
He looked serene. "Yes, in fact, I did."
Robyn was surprised at his openness. "Really?"
"Yes, for a few years."
"And when did it end?"
"When she died."
"How often did you see her?"
"You mean, intimately?"
"Yes."
"Oh, once or twice a month."
"Here?"
"Usually."
Robyn was puzzled. The Homicide cops should have interviewed Torkhill. Yet he wasn’t even mentioned in the prosecution brief. Why not?
She said: "Just out of curiosity, did any Homicide detectives talk to you about Alice Markham’s death?"
"Yes, they did."
"Really?"
"Yes. A little birdie must have told them I had an affair with her. Probably the same one who told you. They wanted to know if I murdered her."
Robyn desperately wet her lips. "And did you?"
A wry smile. "Alice was murdered on 17 September last year, correct?"
"Yes."
He leaned forward and his face lit up. "On that day I was in London, attending a writers’ festival. In the morning I chaired a panel discussion called The Death of the Femme Fatale; in the afternoon I gave a talk called Cherchez la Feminist. Snappy, huh? If you want, I can show you my passport. It’s got entry and exit stamps. So, when Alice died, I was on the opposite side of the globe."
Robyn’s heart sank. No wonder he was so blasé about admitting his affair with Alice. He couldn’t possibly have murdered her.
She said: "That’s a pretty good alibi."
Torkhill laughed. "Show me a better one."
Though not a suspect, he still might know some useful information. "OK. So did she talk much about her marriage?"
"No, not much. She came here to get away from her husband, not talk about him. But it was obviously a shambles, and she mentioned, a couple of times, that he’d hit her during arguments. He obviously has a bit of a temper. That’s one of the reasons she wanted a divorce."
"And what did you do, when she mentioned his violence?"
Torkhill sighed and looked guilty. "Nothing. She told me not to get involved - she could handle him. Now, of course, I wish I’d done something. She might still be alive."
"Have you met Rex Markham?"
"Yeah, a couple of times."
"You think he’s
capable of murder?"
Torkhill smiled. "Well, plenty of people think novelists are too wimpy to kill anyone: we’re observers, not doers."
"You don’t agree?"
"No. Novelists are as capable of murder as anyone - maybe more so. Remember what Graham Greene said..."
"What?"
"…that in the heart of every writer is a splinter of ice."
"And you think Rex Markham has that splinter?"
"I’m sure he does." Torkhill grinned. "And let me say, as a fellow novelist, that I hope he’s guilty. I really do. It would boost the morale of the whole profession."
Robyn suppressed a ghoulish laugh. "I think he’s innocent."
"Really? Have you read his latest novel, Jihad?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"At the start of the novel, the hero is in a bad marriage. One night, he’s driving home with his wife and crashes the car. He lives; she dies. For the rest of the novel he’s haunted by a fear that he deliberately crashed the car to kill her. That’s why he goes to Afghanistan to work as a doctor: to heal that psychic wound."
"And you think Rex was writing about his desire to kill his own wife?"
"Maybe."
"But it’s just a novel, right?"
"True. But there are no accidents in a novel. Everything means something, even if it's hard to work out what it is."
"Hopefully, the jurors won't read Jihad as closely as you. Thanks for your time." As she stood to leave, a new thought intruded. "Oh, and by the way, did Alice ever talk to you about a novelist called Richard Olsen?"
"You mean, the guy who wrote Waiting for Rain?"
"Yes, though Richard Olsen is a pseudonym."
"I know that. Yeah, we talked about him."
"Did she mention his real name?"
"Afraid not."
"Did you ask?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Asking would have been bad manners: novelists are entitled to hide behind pseudonyms."
"OK. Thanks for your time."
Torkhill smiled ruefully. "Sorry to disappoint you. I bet that, when you heard I was Alice’s lover, you got very excited: thought you could pin the murder on me."
Robyn flushed, but there was no point lying. "That crossed my mind."
A sly smile. "Well, don’t worry, all is not lost."
"What do you mean?"
"Alice had another lover."
Robyn had never considered that possibility, which seemed rather indulgent. Her jaw dropped. "What?"
"Alice had another lover."
"You mean, you weren’t the only one?"
Torkhill laughed at her consternation. "That’s what I just said."
"OK. Who was he?"
"I don’t know. You see, once, when we were kidding around, Robyn said I’d better stay on my toes, because I had a competitor."
"Did she name the guy?"
"Afraid not."
"She might have made him up?"
"That’s possible. But I doubt it."
"Maybe her other lover was Hugh Grimble."
"Why do you say that?"
"They worked together and he looks like a ladies’ man."
"True, but he wasn’t the other guy."
"How do you know?"
"Because I asked Alice that very same question for those very same reasons, and she denied it. Said he wasn’t her type."
"Maybe she was lying?"
"Maybe, but I don’t think so. I always got the impression she didn’t like Grimble and only put up with him because he was her boss. In fact, she often bitched about things he did at work and poked fun at his pomposity."
"OK. So when did she first mention this other lover?"
"About a year before she died. Then he became something of a running gag between us."
"You weren’t offended?"
Torkhill shrugged. "No. She knew I didn’t care. We had a good time together, but not a close, clingy relationship. In fact, she probably mentioned the other lover to emphasize that fact."
"You didn’t want to marry her or anything like that?"
"Definitely not. I mean, I liked her, I really did. She was an interesting woman. But I’m not the marrying type. I like my freedom; like my space. Having an affair suited me down to the ground."
"You weren’t excited about her getting divorced?"
"Not really. I wanted her to be happy, but I didn't want to change our arrangement."
"OK, thanks."
"Sounds a bit sordid, doesn’t it? But I did nothing wrong. I didn’t cheat on anyone. She did, and that was her business, not mine."
"Don’t worry. I’m not here to judge you. Far from it."
He smiled. "Thanks."
Robyn headed towards the front door.
He said: "Hey. You want to read one of my novels?"
Robyn didn’t, but didn’t want to be rude. "OK."
Torkhill went to a bookshelf and removed a paperback, which he handed over. The title, Slash and Burn, appeared above a blood-spattered knife. Though Robyn had no intention of reading it, she dropped it into her bag, next to a copy of Waiting for Rain that she’d bought an hour ago.
She said: "Thanks."
Torkhill looked her straight in the eye. "If you’ve got any more questions - about the novel or anything - give me a call, OK."
She averted her gaze. "Sure."
When she reached the pavement outside, she mobile phoned Beverley Nolan at work.
They exchanged hellos and Robyn said: "I’ve just been speaking to Terry Torkhill, who told me something very interesting."
"What?"
"He claimed that Alice Markham had two lovers. He admitted he was one of them, but couldn’t name the other one."
Beverley sounded genuinely surprised. "You’re joking, right?"
"No. Alice told him she had another lover."
"She might have been lying."
"He doesn’t think so."
"Well, I don’t know who the other guy might be. Alice only told me about Terry."
"I thought she told you everything?"
"She did and that’s why Terry’s probably wrong."
"OK. But if you work out who the other lover might be, give me a call."
"Don’t worry, I will."
It was now almost six o’clock. Robyn headed straight home. When she got there, Veronica wasn’t around. She ate some left-over lasagna, went upstairs, lay on her bed and started reading Waiting for Rain.
As Hugh Grimble had said, it was about a drought-stricken country town where everyone is going mad. The townspeople suffer from boredom, alcohol abuse, violence and heat. Someone starts killing cats and dogs, then graduates to little old ladies. Eventually, the police discover the culprit is the local priest, who’s lost his vocation. The novel ends with the priest immolating himself in his church.
Robyn couldn’t stop reading it. Four hours later, when she’d finished, she knew that Richard Olsen was a brilliant writer. She also suspected he was slightly demented. But demented enough to kill? She had no idea and was curious to find out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If Robyn wanted to ask Rex Markham any questions, she was supposed to funnel them through her instructing solicitor, Bernie Roberts. But she was too impatient to take that course. The next morning, she phoned Rex direct.
"Hello, Rex Markham here," he said guardedly.
"Rex, this is Robyn Parker, your junior barrister."
His voice brightened. "Oh, yes, how are you?"
"Fine. Look, I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve got a few questions to ask, about the case."
"You want to ask them right now?"
"Yes, if you don’t mind."
He paused. "I've got a better idea: why don’t we have lunch together? Then you can ask as many questions as you want."
Barristers weren’t supposed to meet their clients without their instructing solicitor present. "Umm, I’d rather not."
"No, I insist. What about Olivia’s, in Paddington
, at 12.30."
"I really don’t think I should."
"Good. I’ll see you there." He hung up.
Robyn hesitated. Should she go? Oh, hell, why not?
Olivia’s was a posh French restaurant on Oxford Street, with tables spilling out onto the pavement. When Robyn arrived, Rex sat inside, next to the front window, idly munching dry bread. Several other patrons eyed him discretely, reveling in his notoriety.
In the strong light, he looked pale and drawn, which was hardly surprising. In his position, she’d have lost all her hair and ground her teeth down to the gums.
She said: "Sorry I’m late."
He rose and shook her hand. "No problem. Thanks for coming."
She sat and scanned the restaurant. It was a fancy place that served morsels artistically arranged on a plate. The waiters all slid around on the balls of their feet, looking intense. Most were probably aspiring actors. Right now they were playing waiters and giving the performances of their lives.
He said: "I should apologise for forcing you to lunch with me. But, right now, I’m rather short of lunch companions. Most of my fair-weather friends have stopped calling." Rex glanced around. "Even now, I can feel eyes drilling holes in me."
"Forget about them. You’re innocent."
He smiled. "Thanks. But business first: you said you’ve got some questions?"
"Yes. You see, I’ve been digging around a bit, to find out if anyone else had a motive to kill your wife."
"Really? Any luck?"
"Yes. If I recall, you thought she was cheating on you?"
"That’s right."
"Well, I’ve discovered she was."
Rex filled his cheeks and exhaled slowly. "Christ. Who with?"
"A writer called Terry Torkhill."
"Torkhill? The crime writer?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Yeah, but not well. I’ve only met him a few times."
"Alice handled his career."
"I know. Are you sure they were, umm…?"
"Yes, I spoke to him yesterday and he admitted it."
"Wow. Do you think he murdered her?"
"No. He’s in the clear."
"Why?"
She described Terry Torkhill’s cast-iron alibi for the night of the murder. "So, you see, he was 15,000 kilometres from the murder scene."
Rex sighed. "Damn."