by Mark Dryden
"But it appears he wasn’t your wife’s only lover."
Rex looked stunned. "You’re kidding?"
"No." She repeated Torkhill’s revelation that Alice claimed to have another lover.
Rex said: "That’s unbelievable."
"Not really. Once she had one lover, it probably wasn’t a big step to have two."
"You mean, she got a taste for it?"
"Why not?"
"But Torkhill can’t name the other guy?"
"Correct."
"Christ. Alice really did get around, didn’t she? I suppose she found that pretty easy with me spending so much time down at the beach house, writing my novels."
"Yep. So have you got any idea who the second lover was?"
Rex shook his head. "Not a clue."
"OK."
"How did you find out about Torkhill?"
Robyn had promised Beverley Nolan not to name her as the source. "I’ve promised not to say."
"OK. Is that the only reason you wanted to talk?"
"No, there’s another matter."
"What?"
"Your wife acted for a writer called Richard Olsen - or, at least, that’s his pseudonym. He wrote a novel called Waiting for Rain."
"I know. So what?"
"I was wondering if you know his real name?"
"Why do you want to know that? Is it important?"
She shrugged. "Probably not. But your wife thought Olsen was infatuated with her. And just before she died, Olsen sent her a new manuscript, which has now disappeared."
"And you think this Olsen - whoever he is - had something to do with her death?"
Robyn shrugged. "I don’t know. I just find the timing very curious. Don’t you?"
"Yes. But I’m afraid I can’t help you: I don’t know his real name."
"Alice never told you?"
"Correct. She said she’d promised not to reveal it and I didn’t press her. In fact, I wasn’t all that interested. I started reading Waiting for Rain and gave up after about thirty pages. It’s pretentious twaddle."
"So you didn’t write it?"
He leaned back and laughed. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Oh, no particular reason. Just idle speculation."
"Well, you’re wrong."
"And Alice didn’t write it?"
"No, I don’t think so. In fact, so far as I’m aware, she had no literary ambitions at all. Loved books, but not writing them."
A handsome young waiter appeared and they both ordered lunch. Rex also ordered a bottle of chardonnay.
As the waiter left, Robyn leaned forward. "How are you coping with the strain?"
A facsimile smile. "Surviving. At first, of course, I was stunned. I mean, almost overnight, I found out my wife had been murdered and I was the prime suspect. Suddenly got more publicity than I dreamed possible. That’s a lot to digest in one go. My whole life tipped upside down. But I’m slowly adjusting. Indeed, this whole farce is starting to feel quite natural."
"I think you’re very brave."
He smiled. "Thanks. I hope I can stay that way."
"I’m sure you will. So tell me about Alice. Did you love her?"
"Yes, at first, before everything fell apart."
"And how do you feel about her now?"
He frowned. "It’s hard to say. I mean, I’m very angry that she cheated on me. During our marriage, I stayed faithful: I had chances to stray and didn't. But I suppose my main emotion is guilt."
The last word worried Robyn. She prayed he wasn’t about to confess he murdered his wife. "Guilt?"
"Yes."
"Umm, why?"
"Because our relationship became so bitter. For some reason, we just grew apart. And now she’s dead I’ll never get a chance to say sorry and repair the damage. That feels horrible."
Robyn was intensely relieved he hadn’t confessed to murder.
Rex leaned forward. "Anyway, let’s talk about something else. I want to get my mind off this case."
"OK. Tell me how you became a novelist?"
He smiled and told her how, while working as a foreign correspondent in Jerusalem, he decided to write a novel about a Palestinian attempt to assassinate a visiting US President. "It was as if the novel had been sitting inside me all my life, waiting to pour out."
The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough. Rex gave her a potted summary of his literary career, the highs and lows. He slowly relaxed, growing more articulate and amusing, obviously finding their chat a great release.
It was nice to dine with a well-spoken man who used his knife and fork properly, didn't push his peas around the plate and could interpret a fancy menu. But she spoke the truth when she told Brian she didn’t find Rex attractive. Yes, he was intelligent and successful. But he was too old, too arrogant and in too much trouble. Nor could she forgive his violent altercation with his wife. No, when she totted up the ledger, he was well in the red. She sympathized with him, but that was all.
After Rex paid for lunch, they strolled out to the pavement.
He said: "Thanks for having lunch with me. You’ve really raised my spirits."
"Think nothing of it. I enjoyed myself."
Rex hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but just nodded his head. "We’ll obviously be seeing a lot of each other. If you’ve got any more questions, give me a call."
"Will do."
He turned and strolled off, whistling.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Just before midnight, Brian Davis sat in the living room of his big harbour-side apartment in Milson’s Point. It had a high ornate ceiling, polished cedar floor, white leather couches, art deco lamps and black onyx coffee table. Aboriginal paintings lined the three interior walls. Through a long window he watched the dancing lights of a ferry pass in front of Fort Denison. Beyond the fort were the ghostly shells of the Opera House.
The interior decorator he hired had promised to create "a very masculine environment". Brian was now convinced the decorator, who was ultra-camp, had no idea what "masculine" meant. How many of his guests had looked at the décor and wondered when Brian was coming out? Now he had to hire another bullshit-artist who'd charge double when he heard Brian was a barrister.
He’d just arrived home and devoured a takeaway pizza, but still felt strangely empty. Something was wrong. He knew what: Robyn Parker. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Working closely with her on the Markham case had boosted his desire and frustration.
He’d kept his distance for a while now, hoping she’d appreciate his charm and tact. But she’d shown no interest. Of course, she sometimes batted her eyelashes or smiled at one of his jokes. But that meant nothing. All women flirted, even when they hated a guy, just for practice.
Still, he sensed she was keen on him - how could she not be? - but too shy and hesitant to take the first step. Maybe it was time to stop being tactful and put the hard word on her. Yes, that was what he'd do, at the right moment. Surely, she'd thank him when he did.
In the meantime, he definitely needed female company. Thank God he'd arranged to see Patricia Lenehan tomorrow morning. She was a barrister he’d been bonking for five years. They met secretly because she was already married. Indeed, before their affair started, she made it clear that she loved her husband and would never leave him. Brian assured her that he fully understood and would respect her wishes. Indeed, he was delighted to get regular sex without commitment. Later, when he discovered she was a sex maniac, he knew he’d hit the jackpot.
He often made sure she was briefed as his junior counsel in cases. That gave them a good excuse to meet in his room and shag each other silly. Fortunately, he had a "conference" with her pencilled in for tomorrow morning. He couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Robyn hadn’t told Brian Davis about her little investigation into Alice Markham’s murder, because he’d have tried to stop her, arguing she was a barrister not a detective. Now she had to lay her cards on the table.
The next morning
she strolled down to his chambers and asked the receptionist if he was available.
She glanced at the diary in front of her. "No, he’s in conference right now."
"Any idea how long he’ll be?"
"No. But it’s been going for a while. He shouldn’t be much longer."
"OK. I’ll wait."
Robyn sat in the reception area and watched Brian’s door. She only had to wait a few minutes before it swung open and a tall leggy woman in a business suit strode purposefully towards the lifts. Robyn had bumped into her a few times and knew she was a junior barrister called Patricia Lenehan. Something about her appearance today was a little odd, but Robyn couldn’t figure out what.
Patricia nodded casually. "Hi."
"Hi."
Patricia got into a lift and disappeared.
Robyn glanced over at the receptionist, who picked up her phone and told Brian that Robyn was waiting for him.
The receptionist put down the phone and looked at Robyn. "He won’t be long."
"OK."
Robyn unleashed her hyper-active imagination and wondered if Brian and Patricia really had a conference, or there was some hanky panky? Brian had a reputation as a mad shagger, but Patricia sported a wedding ring, if that meant anything these days.
Robyn had to concede the evidence for a tryst was very slender. And even if they were bonking, so what? None of her business. Good luck to them. Patricia was guilty of nothing except bad taste. Robyn gave up speculating and flicked through a women’s magazine.
Brian strolled out looking a bit flushed, reactivating her suspicions. Then again, his face usually had a reddish tinge.
He said: "Sorry. Just tidying up. Come in."
"Thanks. I see you just had a conference with Patricia Lenehan."
Brian frowned. "Oh, Patricia. Yes. You know her?"
"In passing."
"She’s prosecuting one of my clients. We were discussing a possible plea." He didn’t look her in the eye.
"Really?"
"Yes. Anyway. Come into my room."
He led her into his room and made her sit in a chair facing his desk.
She said: "You look a bit flushed."
He hesitated and shrugged. "I do? I went to the gym this morning."
She sensed he was lying, but reminded herself his love life was none of her business. "That's good."
He frowned and plopped into his armchair. "What do you want?"
"To talk about the Markham case. I’ve been, umm, poking around."
He stared hard. "Poking around? Into what?"
"Into Alice Markham’s life."
His face clouded. "You shouldn’t have done that. You‘re supposed to be a barrister, not a cop."
"I know. But it’s too late now. So, do you want to know what I found out?"
He sighed and shrugged. "OK. What?"
She explained what she’d done and learnt during the last few days.
Brian looked reasonably impressed until she mentioned having lunch with Rex; he grimaced. "You shouldn’t have done that either."
"Why not?"
"He’s our client. Only talk to him with a solicitor present. You know the rules."
"I know, I know. But he insisted."
"So what? You didn’t have to agree."
"OK, I take you point."
"Good. Anyway, finish your story."
When she’d finished, he said: "So Rex was right about Alice having an affair?"
"Yeah. Though, to be more accurate, she was having two affairs."
"And you’ve identified one lover, Torkhill - who’s got an alibi - but not the other?"
"Correct. So we’d better find out who he is."
"Yeah. Though, from now on, let Bernie handle this, OK? He can put the private detective back on the case."
"That guy’s hopeless. I’ve done a better job than him."
"Maybe. But rules are rules."
"You just want to cover your arse, don’t you?"
"Yes, and yours. I don’t want our client complaining that an amateur - namely you - handled the investigation into an important issue."
"Even though the professional’s a fool?"
"Correct. Nor do I want you having to give evidence. That would be a disaster for the client and you." He jabbed a finger at her.
"OK, I understand."
He sighed. "Even if we identify the other lover, we’ll still have to show he had a motive and opportunity to kill Alice."
"Yeah. But what if we can?"
A grin. "Then I'll make some very nasty accusations about him."
"OK." She wondered if she should mention "Richard Olsen". Brian would probably regard her suspicions about the pseudonymous author as crackpot. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself. "And there’s another potential suspect?"
"Who?"
As briefly as possible, she described what she’d learnt about "Richard Olsen" and his missing manuscript.
Brian looked annoyed. "So what? Alice handled a novelist too shy to use his own name. What’s that got to do with her death?"
"Maybe he murdered her?"
Brian’s eyebrows fluttered. "You’re kidding, right?"
"No, I’m serious. I mean, it’s rather strange, isn’t it, that this novelist, who hasn’t written anything for several years, suddenly sends a new manuscript to Alice, just before she gets killed. Then the manuscript goes missing."
Brian shook his head. "It doesn’t sound strange to me. It just sounds like you're over-interpreting some unrelated events. Co-incidences happen, you know? That's why we've got a word for them."
"OK. But don’t forget that Alice told this guy - who was infatuated with her - that his novel needed a lot of work. That must have really stung. Or maybe he killed her to protect his identity."
"Both motives sound ludicrous."
"Murderers often do crazy things."
A shrug. "True."
She frowned. "You’re not interested in this angle, are you? You don’t want to unmask Richard Olsen?"
"No, I don’t."
Another frown. "Well, I’m still waiting for you to come up with a brilliant strategy - indeed, any strategy - to win this case. At the moment, all Rex has got is a piss-weak alibi. Unless we come up with another culprit, damn fast, he’ll be sniffing other guys' B.O. for the rest of his life."
"Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. Just don't go off on a wild-goose chase. We’ve got to focus our energy."
"Energy? You haven’t used any energy at all."
"Yes I have. But you've obviously used too much. Like I said, don’t get emotionally involved."
"What do you mean, ‘emotionally involved’?"
"I mean, don’t start liking him too much."
Jesus, he sounded jealous again. The presumptuous bastard was acting as if he owned a part of her. She wanted to kick him in the shins, hard.
"Look, I’m just trying to get him acquitted, OK? That’s all. Nothing more. He’s just a client."
A frown. "Good. Then there’s no problem, is there?"
"No."
"Fine, then I’ll see you on Monday morning to start preparing for the hearing."
He paused and looked like he wanted to say something important. Instead, she stomped out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On Monday morning, Robyn headed for Brian’s room, to start their final preparation for the Markham trial, now just a week away. Her stomach knotted. She probably wouldn’t have to say anything during the trial, unless Brian fell under a bus. But that was a possibility and the stakes were huge. When the trial was a long way off, she’d fantasized about making a big impact, maybe even saving their client’s skin. Now she just wanted to avoid making an idiot of herself. Please God, grant that wish.
Brian sat behind his desk, flicking through the brief. He looked up and smiled brightly. "Hi. Now we earn our money."
His coolness calmed her nerves. He was right in the firing line; if he could stay composed, so could she.
They spent the next two days carefully analyzing the prosecution’s witness statements, identifying any inadmissible evidence - there wasn’t much - and discussing possible lines of cross-examination.
Then Brian leaned back in his chair and outlined his strategy. "You know, I’d love to point the finger of blame at someone else. But we don’t have a good candidate. So I’ll just keep hammering the prosecution’s high burden of proof. Unless the jury totally disbelieves the alibi evidence of Rex and Grimble, they must acquit."
"You think that’ll work?"
He shrugged. "There’s a chance."
"A good chance?"
"Won’t say that."
On Wednesday, with Bernie Roberts present, they re-interviewed their client, taking him back and forward over his evidence, making it fresh in his mind and giving him a chance to explain any inconsistencies.
Rex was understandably nervous. Yet, Robyn also sensed some relief that he’d soon know his fate.
The next day they re-interviewed Hugh Grimble, who stuck firmly to his story. However, he got annoyed when Brian, after giving him a few tips about how to conduct himself in the witness box, casually suggested Grimble not wear his bowtie.
"Why not?"
"I’m afraid most jurors don’t really understand men who wear bowties."
Grimble frowned. "Well, I’m wearing it. I feel naked without it."
Brian frowned back, and shrugged. "Fair enough. Up to you."
Grimble left and Brian muttered, "Tosser".
On Friday, with Bernie Roberts again present, the barristers interviewed the four friends of Rex Markham who were going to give character evidence. They were a famous historical novelist, the headmaster of a GPS School, a merchant banker and the sports reporter, Tim Nolan. All spoke highly of Rex and said they couldn’t believe he’d murder anyone, let alone his wife.
Robyn found the novelist, Dudley Kline, the most interesting. Balding and pot-bellied, he’d written numerous novels about Australia’s colonial past. The latest, about Ned Kelly, won a swag of literary prizes.
After the barristers satisfied themselves that Kline would be a good witness for the defence, they chatted for a while about Ned Kelly, whom Kline had portrayed as a psychopathic killer with no redeeming qualities - a controversial depiction that many regarded as treason.