by Mark Dryden
Two days later, Detective Inspector Holloway phoned Robyn to report that he’d charged Beverley with murdering Alice and attempting to murder Robyn.
Robyn said: "You can prove she murdered Alice?"
"Oh yes. For a start, some of her hair was on Alice’s clothes and - wait for it - we found traces of Alice’s blood in her car."
"You’re kidding?"
"No. She must have deposited it there when she fled the scene. Very careless."
"Strong evidence."
The detective laughed. "Yeah. But best of all, she’s confessed."
"Really?"
"Yep. Ignored her solicitor’s advice and gave us a full interview. Answered all our questions. Gave us a blow-by-blow account of how she murdered Alice and tried to stab you. You know, I think she wants a medal for bumping off Alice: kept calling her ‘the bitch’. Said that if she spends the rest of her life in prison for killing her, it was worth it."
"Boy, one angry woman."
"Got that right."
"She’ll plead guilty?"
"I expect so."
"So you’ve finally got the real culprit."
"Yes, and I suppose I should thank you for that - for solving the case."
"I’m sure you’d have solved it eventually," Robyn said politely.
"No I wouldn’t. I was positive Rex Markham was the murderer and got off the hook because of his smart-arse barristers. I’d already closed the file. As far as I was concerned, it was over."
Robyn giggled. "Which just shows, doesn’t it, that there’s a role for smart-arsed barristers?"
An uncertain laugh. "Sometimes - just sometimes."
For the next few days, there was blanket media coverage of Beverley being charged with murder. The stories highlighted Tim Nolan’s affair with Alice and authorship of Waiting for Rain. Robyn was credited with solving the mystery, so lots of people called to congratulate her, including Rex Markham, sounding a little embarrassed, but very pleased he was no longer under suspicion.
She even got a call from Gary Torkhill, the crime novelist, who sounded a little nervous. "Hi. I read in the paper that Beverley killed Alice and you solve the mystery. Congratulation."
"Thanks."
"I’m not surprised Beverley dunnit. I only met her a few times, but always thought she was tuned to the wrong frequency."
"Good assessment."
He paused. "You know, I think you should publish a book about the trial. It would make a great true crime story."
"I’m not a writer."
"I know. So I’ll ghost it for you. Your name will appear on the front cover as the author, and you’ll be the heroine of course, but I’ll do all the writing."
"No thanks."
"Why not?"
"Because I think the name of the real author should always appear on the cover. Saves a lot of trouble."
Torkhill laughed. "Hah, yes, I see your point."
"Anyway, I’ve already returned my brief in the Markham case. It’s time to move on."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He paused. "OK then. Well, I suppose I should get to the other reason I called: I was wondering if I can buy you dinner one night."
Robyn had decided to start dating again. But Torkhill was definitely not the sort of guy she wanted. True, he was intelligent and amusing. But he was obviously a self-contained loner, and she'd grown wary of novelists. She wanted something stable and lasting.
She said: "Thanks. But I don’t think that would be a good idea."
He sounded disappointed. "Why not? Because I had an affair with Alice?"
"Oh, no. That’s none of my business. I’m not judgmental about that."
"Then why not?"
"Because I glanced at your novels in a bookshop and saw they’re all dedicated to different women."
A friendly laugh. "Touché. But if you change your mind about dinner, or the book, let me know, OK?"
"Sure."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
After the Markham trial, Robyn became used to arriving at work and finding one or two new briefs sitting on her desk. However, one morning she found a square package, which looked too small to contain a brief. Puzzled, she opened it and found a red enamel tin with the intitials "BJP" - her father’s initials - on the lid. She took off the lid and found a barrister’s wig with a note on top, in her mother’s handwriting:
"You might find this useful."
Damn. She told her mother not to send it. Why didn't her mother ever listen?
She tentatively picked up the wig, yellow and frayed, at least 50 years old, obviously needing a few repairs. At the Bar, tattered wigs with a pedigree were highly prized, but she preferred her shiny new one.
She twirled the wig around on her finger. Should she wear it to court? Why not? Surely she'd stepped out of her father's shadow and done enough to make him proud. Wearing it would be a nice way to remember him. In a few months, she'd be appearing in the High Court as junior counsel to Gary Frost SC. She'd get it repaired and wear it then.
The rest of the day, she struggled to get on top of her chamber-work. By 9pm she was too tired to think straight and decided to go home. She wearily put on her overcoat and strolled towards the lifts. To her surprise, someone was playing Earth on Fire, one of the Shy Boys’ biggest hits.
"You stab me in the chest with your cold hard lies
"Stab me one more time and I’m gonna, gonna die."
Light spilled out of Gary Monaghan’s doorway. She hesitated, stepped through it and found him at his desk, reading a tax textbook. From the sound system behind him came a raunchy bass guitar riff.
"Hi."
He looked up, surprised. "Hi."
"You're here late."
"Got a big advice to finish."
"You’re listening to the Shy Boys. I’m a big fan."
He leaned back and paused the music. "So am I. Got all their CDs, including the bootlegs."
"Really?"
He smiled. "Yeah. You sound surprised."
"No, I’m not."
"Yes you are. You think I’m just a boring tax lawyer, don’t you?"
"No, I don't," she lied.
"Yes you do. You know, a lot of people are deeply prejudiced against tax lawyers: they think we're all as dull as ditchwater. I've spent my whole career fighting against that sort of bigotry."
She laughed. "You must admit that some tax lawyers are a little bit dull."
A grin transformed his face. "That's not how we see ourselves."
She smiled. "You know, the Shy Boys are playing in Sydney next week."
"I heard."
"You going?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"No-one to go with."
"Really? I heard different." Shit, that was a big give-away.
He flushed. "Who told you that?"
"Oh, someone on the floor."
"I was seeing someone for a while; it didn’t work out."
"Well, I’ve got a spare ticket to the Shy Boys. You want to go with me?"
He stared hard. "You serious?"
"Yeah."
"But I heard you were seeing someone."
"I was, but it didn’t work out. So, you’ll come along? It'll be a great chance for you to fight bigotry."
A broad smile. "Yeah. And I promise I won’t talk about tax."
"You can talk about anything you like."
THE END