‘Catherine is having a grand piano delivered for the strata meeting next week,’ said Georgios, as two men in brown overalls attached heavy canvas slings under a black piano on the back of a flatbed truck.
‘She’s good to go, Bruce,’ shouted one of the men, and the slings went taut as the piano was hoisted by a crane and lifted towards the 11th floor. At that moment, Wayne appeared at the main entrance and La Contessa dashed over to accost him.
‘Oh no, what do you want?’ he said as she bustled over. ‘I think you joined my gym class under false pretences. Go away.’
‘Now, Wayne, that’s no way to speak to an old client,’ said La Contessa. ‘I just wanted to know when you split up with Rose Turner.’
‘We had split before she died, if that’s what you mean,’ said Wayne, stopping suddenly as one of the deliverymen yelled, ‘Look out!’
‘Goodness, what on earth is happening?’ said La Contessa as the piano deliveryman shouted his warning.
‘I don’t know but I’m not hanging around,’ said the gym instructor, hightailing it back into Turner Towers. High above La Contessa, the black grand piano was swaying perilously on its two canvas slings.
‘Mariabella! Get away from there!’ shouted Nick, emerging from the garden gate opposite and starting to run across the road. He was too late – one of the canvas slings snapped with a startling crack and the piano tipped to its side before slipping out of the harness and hurtling towards the ground. Baxter leaped into the air and landed both paws on La Contessa’s chest, propelling her back into the privet hedge and to safety. The keyboard end of the piano smashed into the ground where she had been standing while the rear half crashed into Georgios’s brand-new red BMW M3.
‘Are you all right, my precious Bardolino beauty?’ asked Nick, reaching her side and pulling her from the hedge. ‘That was too close for comfort.’
‘Oh no, my beautiful new car!’ exclaimed Georgios, emerging from his house and tearing at his grey hair. ‘It’s gone. It’s new and it’s gone.’
‘Poor old Georgios – that’s the fourth new car he has lost,’ said Nick. ‘If it had not been for Baxter, that would have been you under there.’
‘Baxter!’ cried La Contessa, looking at the beloved beagle’s lead trailing out from beneath the wreckage. ‘Oh no, poor Baxter. He saved me. He pushed me clear and now . . .’
A paw scratched at her leg and she absent-mindedly reached down to scratch at a familiar furry head.
‘Baxter! You survived! Oh you clever, wonderful, lucky dog,’ said La Contessa, bending down to hug the brave beagle. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Yowf,’ said Baxter.
‘And we are a family again.’ Nick smiled. ‘It looks like Baxter pushed you and rebounded over the hedge and out of harm’s way.’
‘Poor Georgios,’ said La Contessa, looking across at their neighbour, who was staring in shock at his flattened BMW, with half a grand piano sticking through its roof.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘That’s the fourth one gone. First a girl, then a Rolls Royce, then a tree and now a piano. I’m not buying any more new cars. From now on, I take the bus.’
‘He has a point,’ said La Contessa, taking the lead from Nick, who had retrieved it from the wreckage. ‘We do seem to be having an awful lot of accidents here at the moment.’
‘We know the first three were not accidents and were somehow linked to our investigation into Rose’s murder,’ said Nick, pulling the canvas strap from the wreckage and examining it closely. ‘We are getting closer. The killer took a big risk to try to silence you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This strap has been deliberately cut,’ said Nick.
CHAPTER 11
A Room of Suspects
‘Help!’ La Contessa’s cry roused Nick and Baxter from a crucial nap in the dying rays of the afternoon sun and sent them both hurtling towards the garden gate.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Nick anxiously as he threw open the gate to find La Contessa barely visible beneath a mountain of shopping bags.
‘Oh yes, darling, I just couldn’t open the gate with so much economic stimulus in my arms,’ she replied, as he helped her carry the designer bags into the garden. ‘I think it is so important to support our retailers during this beastly crisis.’
‘I don’t think the Prime Minister expected you to save the economy single-handedly,’ observed Nick. ‘Don’t you have enough clothes already?’
‘Oh, darling, I told you they have all shrunk during the lockdown. Besides, these are not all for me. Look what I got you.’
‘Oh, socks. Just what I wanted,’ said Nick on receipt of the smallest package, as La Contessa fitted Baxter into his new Burberry overcoat. ‘But I am glad it took your mind off the investigation for a while.’
‘Ah yes,’ said La Contessa, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a white A4 flyer. ‘Look what I found sticking out of the letterboxes of Turner Towers.’
‘It is a reminder to attend the Turner Towers strata meeting tomorrow,’ said Nick. ‘Attendance is mandatory.’
‘Exactly, darling. So all of our suspects will be together.’
‘And we need to be there to finally solve this case,’ said Nick. ‘How do you fancy gate-crashing a strata meeting?’
They discussed it further and were joined by Pansy.
‘No, darling, I don’t think she should come,’ said La Contessa. ‘It could be dangerous.’
‘It is my twin sister we are talking about,’ said Pansy defiantly. ‘If you are going to finally confront her killer then I want to be there.’
Nick nodded sagely. ‘Much as it pains me to disagree with you, my Ferentino fireball, I agree that Pansy really should be there,’ he said. ‘We can take Baxter for protection.’
‘Yowf,’ said Baxter.
‘Very well, on your head be it, Nick Moore,’ said La Contessa, getting up and heading for the gate. ‘Come on, the meeting should have started by now, so we can go and make our grand entrance.’
Joined by Cleaver, they crossed the road and headed into Turner Towers, pressing the lift button for Catherine Turner’s apartment on the 11th floor, where the meeting was being held.
The lift binged its arrival and they stepped out into the main room of the apartment; 11 pairs of eyes swivelled to meet them. Elderly widow Catherine was sitting at the head of a long table, minutes in hand, and was the first to speak. ‘You have no right to be here,’ she said.
‘I disagree,’ said Nick firmly. ‘A serial killer, Rose Turner’s murderer, is in this room and I intend to unmask them.’
‘I’m not staying around for this,’ said Wayne Durain, getting to his feet as the lift bell binged again.
‘Sit down,’ said Detective Inspector Cleaver, stepping in from the lift. ‘The next person to leave here will be in handcuffs.’
‘Now that we have your attention,’ said Nick, stepping to the end of the table. ‘I would like to explain exactly how a killer gets away with cold-blooded murder.’
‘That’s right, darling,’ said La Contessa excitedly, unable to curb her enthusiasm. ‘The second I found those tubes of arsenic in this very apartment, I knew that Catherine had killed her husband.’
‘Yes, but —’ said Nick.
‘And then when Brice Jauffret was found battered to death with his hair dryer, it was obvious he was working on the drug deal with the now-missing Arthur Minns.’
‘Yes, but —’ said Nick.
‘Not to mention killing poor old Mr Hu for informing on the drug-smuggling racket in the first place.’
‘Yes, but —’ said Nick.
‘Then there was poor Rose Turner’s mother, Victoria Potter, who died from anaphylactic shock when someone put nuts in her spaghetti. I have no idea which one of you did that.’
‘Yes, but —’ said Nick.
‘And then, starting it all, was Rose Turner being tossed off the building after splitting up with you, Wayne Durain, just as you starte
d cavorting with you, Natalia Kowalski,’ said La Contessa with a flourish of her hand. ‘What a nest of vipers.’
‘Yes, but —’ said Nick.
‘And look at this poor girl,’ she said, gesturing to Pansy. ‘Having to stand here knowing one or more than one of you killed her twin sister and her mother.’
Cleaver discreetly cleared his throat and nodded to Nick.
‘Thank you, my Prosecco prosecutor,’ said Nick. ‘Perhaps I can expand a little on that.’
‘This is preposterous. I must protest in the strongest possible terms, Detective Inspector,’ said Catherine imperiously. ‘To be accused of killing my husband is intolerable.’
‘Perhaps we should start with you,’ said Nick calmly. ‘After all it is your husband Charles’s fortune and his decision to invite all of you to live in this apartment block for free that started all this.’
‘Poppycock,’ fired the late billionaire’s spinster sister, Alice. ‘The trouble started when that girl turned up claiming to be his illegitimate daughter and rightful heir.’
‘Yes, that certainly did create a stir,’ said Nick, ‘giving every single one of you in the apartment block a motive to get rid of her.’
‘Oh, darling, you are so marvellous when you are being a detective,’ swooned La Contessa. ‘Carry on.’
‘Yowf,’ said Baxter.
‘Ah, yes, where was I?’ said Nick, reddening slightly. ‘There were clear indications pointing to many of you being involved, such as Dr Emily Chen certifying that the cause of Charles’s death was a heart attack and ignoring the arsenic trioxide in his blood.’
‘This is outrageous,’ fumed Emily’s new partner, barrister Mark Hutchinson, as their cuckolded partners looked on uncomfortably.
‘And how is that new living arrangement going?’ asked Nick. ‘Happy families? Then, of course, there is Rose Turner’s old boyfriend, you Wayne Durain, who took up with Charles Turner’s mistress Natalia Kowalski remarkably quickly after their deaths,’ said Nick. ‘Every one of you wanted to see Rose Turner dead. But there is just one killer.’
He levelled his finger like a gun. ‘You.’
There was a gasp.
‘You killed Rose Turner,’ said Nick, pointing directly at Pansy Potter. ‘You also put the vials of arsenic in Catherine Turner’s apartment after killing her husband. It was you. Every death that followed from throwing your twin sister off the roof of Turner Towers was committed out of self-preservation to cover up your crime.’
‘It can’t be true,’ said a shocked La Contessa. ‘But you are . . .’
‘Identical in every way,’ said Nick grimly, looking directly at Pansy. ‘But that’s not the full story is it . . . Rose?’
La Contessa gasped. ‘You mean that Pansy is . . . is really Rose?’
‘I am afraid so, my Livorno lovely,’ said Nick. ‘The dead girl was Pansy all along. You see, Pansy confronted her identical twin when she realised Rose intended to kill their father and inherit his fortune. Wanting to stop her meddling sister and secure all the money for herself, Rose threw Pansy off the balcony and then adopted her identity.’
‘That’s awful,’ said La Contessa, white with shock. ‘And as the sole surviving twin, no matter what her name is, she would still inherit the money.’
‘Exactly,’ said Nick. ‘She recruited Brice Jauffret to help, and then killed him when he realised she was really Rose. Then she swapped the supplements her mother, Victoria, took with every meal for ones laced with nuts after her mother realised which twin she was.’
‘Which explains why we could not find who laced her spaghetti,’ said La Contessa.
‘And then she shot poor Mr Hu,’ said Nick. ‘You may want to look for that gun, Detective Inspector.’
‘You mean this one?’ said the recently resurrected Rose Turner, pulling a .22 Beretta from her pocket. She grabbed La Contessa and put the pistol to her head. ‘Nobody move,’ she said.
‘Madonna, darling, I think you had better do as she says,’ said La Contessa, as Rose held her arm and pointed the pistol at her temple.
‘Don’t try anything silly, Mr Moore,’ said Rose. ‘Detective Inspector Cleaver, get over there with the others.’
Rose started to back towards the lift to make good her escape.
‘I cannot believe you killed your own twin sister,’ said La Contessa. ‘For money. That’s beastly.’
‘Shut up,’ snarled Rose, reaching for the lift button. At that moment, Baxter chose to strike. He let out a low growl and then sprang, taking Rose’s wrist in his jaws. The momentum of his lunge spun the killer away from La Contessa and the shot from her pistol fired harmlessly into the ceiling. Baxter pulled Rose to the ground as Nick and Cleaver leaped across the room to subdue her. Within moments, Cleaver had snapped the handcuffs on her wrists.
‘Oh, Baxter, you are so brave,’ cooed La Contessa to the grinning beagle. ‘And you are so clever, Nicky, working out that Rose Turner is still alive and was the killer all along. There was me thinking you were drinking too many martinis to get to the bottom of this.’
‘Speaking of martinis,’ said Nick. ‘I was thinking perhaps we might celebrate.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ said La Contessa, taking his arm as Cleaver led Rose towards the lift. ‘I don’t know what we are going to do with ourselves now we don’t have a mystery to solve.’
From outside there was suddenly the most shocking scream . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing a book is a solo sport that happily becomes a team effort towards the end. And what a great team. I need to thank all the wonderful people at HarperCollins for their help, support and enthusiasm. In particular, publisher Catherine Milne for picking up the ball and Anna Valdinger for running with it with such gusto. In a very tight time, editors Kate O’Donnell, Barbara McClenahan and Shannon Kelly turned my musings into the story you have before you today. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
The characters Nick and La Contessa were born in the height of the COVID-19 pandemic and appeared in a national daily column in News Corp papers. I want to thank editor Louise Roberts for seeing their potential and publishing it every day despite the plot’s wild turns.
It is you, the readers, I have to thank for reading, writing in and supporting the column and asking for a book. Thank you.
Once HarperCollins had commissioned the book and issued the press release on the premise of a murder at Kirribilli House I was struck by an unexpected obstacle. Despite having visited Kirribilli House to interview John Howard years before, my recollection of the location’s finer detail was hazy. What’s more, floor plans and specifications are not readily available (something to do with the Prime Minister living there). I would like to thank former Prime Minister Tony Abbott for giving so generously of his time and memories to help me build up a clear picture of Kirribilli House. Former Labor advisor Eamonn Fitzpatrick also offered great assistance from his time spent there with former Prime Ministers Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd.
I would also like to thank my wife, Therese Lamaro, whose increasingly eccentric coping mechanisms during the pandemic provided much of the inspiration for La Contessa’s wilder excesses. Truth is often stranger than fiction. She has provided unstinting support and fantastic detail on Italian heritage and fashion. Uncharacteristically, she even laughed at some of my jokes.
Finally, I need to thank Bingo who, as a beaglier, will only ever be half the dog Baxter is.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATTHEW BENNS is a journalist and author who has written a number of bestselling non-fiction books. He grew up in England and worked on national newspapers in London before migrating to Australia. His fictional daily detective column, featuring the incomparable Nick and La Contessa, was published nationally in News Corp newspapers during the pandemic and still appears weekly. It provided the inspiration for the book you are currently holding in your hand. Matthew is editor-at-large for The Daily Telegraph and lives in Sydney.
ALSO BY MATTH
EW BENNS
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
COPYRIGHT
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Australia in 2021
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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We’re All in This Together: A coronavirus novel was originally published in serialised form in News Corp newspapers from March to July 2020. The text has been lightly edited for this book.
Copyright © Matthew Benns 2021
The right of Matthew Benns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
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The Dying Diplomats Club Page 25