by JD Nixon
I hung up with a dreamy smile on my face, humming happily for the rest of the drive. Jake always had that effect on me, but obviously not on the Sarge though, because his face was grim and humourless.
“Can you stop that bloody humming? It’s driving me insane,” he said, voice as cold and sharp as a snowstorm. “I was hoping we could talk about strategy for our meeting with Murchison during this drive instead of you spending the time gossiping on your phone.”
“I’m not supposed to be working today,” I reminded him snippily. “I had plans. I needed to sort them out.” I paused, looking out the window. “I’m sorry I have a life.”
“I don’t appreciate the attitude, Fuller. We all make sacrifices for the job,” he snapped in an exceedingly snooty voice.
Screw you! I thought angrily, arms crossed, staring stonily ahead out the windscreen. We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.
He was lost as soon as he hit Big Town and I refused to guide him until he was forced to ask for my help, swallowing his annoyance and his pride. I then barked out directions until we pulled up in front of a stunning architecturally-designed house, perched on the headland overlooking the bay.
I flung myself out of the car, slamming the door and headed determinedly to the front door, pressing on the doorbell with unnecessary violence. A disembodied voice speaking through a hidden intercom made me jump in fright. “Yes?” I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“Mr Murchison, it’s Senior Constable Fuller and Sergeant Maguire to talk to you about Miss Greville,” I spoke up into the air, waving around my badge, not knowing which direction to speak to.
“You’re right on time. Come in. I’m in the study,” he said, and there was a buzz. The front door clicked open and I turned the knob, stepping inside, the Sarge close behind. We found ourselves in a grand entry room, double-storied in height, light streaming in through large windows that reached up to the ceiling. The furniture appeared to be antique and valuable, the rugs opulent and original oil paintings and watercolours filled the walls. I gazed around, impressed at the restrained ostentatiousness that positively screamed that we were dealing with a very wealthy individual.
We walked down the hall looking into every room until we found the study and Mr Murchison. I noticed two things about him immediately. The first was that he was formally dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit at home on a Sunday; the second was that he was in a wheelchair.
“Oh,” I said, without thinking. “Nice chair! I bet it’s got everything on it. Just look at it!”
The Sarge glared at me sharply, silently berating me for my unprofessionalism, but Mr Murchison grinned proudly and did a little dance with his chair to show off.
“It’s top of the range,” he boasted.
“I can see that. Wow! That must have cost a bundle,” I exclaimed. “I would love to get something like that for my father.”
After that little confession, we discussed chairs for a while and I told him about Dad and he told me about his MS, which had become steadily worse as he had aged, finally rendering him unable to walk. The Sarge stood to one side, fuming about the waste of time. I glanced over at him and noticed his thunderous features.
“I’m sorry, Mr Murchison, here I am rabbiting on and taking up your valuable weekend time when Sergeant Maguire wanted to ask you about the Greville family,” I said conciliatorily.
Mr Murchison flapped away my concerns with his hand, said something nice about his pleasure in chatting to a pretty young girl and settled himself behind his desk again, his serious face returned. And in a voice that was one hundred percent lawyer, he invited us to sit down. We sat next to each other on a dark green leather lounge that was as hard as a rock. I pulled out my notebook and a pen and flicked to a blank page.
“How can I help you, Sergeant Maguire?” he asked in that supercilious tone I found common in Big Town folk. And lawyers. I hated it, but seeing it wasn’t directed at me for once, I didn’t bother to bristle. But I could tell that Mr Murchison got up the Sarge’s nose straight away, though he presented an even-tempered professional face.
“We’re after any information you might be able to give us about why somebody would be peeping on Miss Greville and taking advantage of her absence to search her lounge room and library,” the Sarge explained to the elderly lawyer.
Mr Murchison didn’t speak for a while, just made a temple with his fingers and pursed his lips, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “There are long-standing rumours of a hidden stash of treasure in the house –” he started cautiously.
“A rumour that Miss Greville assures us is false,” the Sarge broke in. “And that the Senior Constable assures me everyone in Mount Big Town knows is false, having known Miss Greville’s father and his spendthrift ways.”
“Hmm, that’s probably correct,” he conceded, giving me a patronising smile. I think if I’d been anywhere near him, he’d have bestowed a pat on my head as well. “It’s possible that someone from Wattling Bay is responsible, but I assume you’ve investigated all the local men known to have a proclivity for voyeurism?”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to psych us out by using big words, but personally I was capable of handling words of more than one syllable and, from his posh voice, I believed the Sarge had been well-educated as well. We both blinked at him blandly.
“It’s unlikely that Miss Greville would be a target for a peeper with the nudist community just down the road,” asserted the Sarge, cutting me a quick glance to let me know that he hadn’t forgotten that had been my argument.
“True,” the lawyer conceded again. I realised then that he wasn’t being very helpful to us at all. The Sarge and I hadn’t had any time to define our working style, but I hoped he wasn’t one of those cops who expected their junior officer to keep quiet.
“Mr Murchison,” I said bluntly. “It’s clearly not a peeper, so let’s not waste any more time on that line of thought. Miss G’s house was broken into and tossed. Somebody was searching for something. Do you have any idea what that could be, because Miss G doesn’t.”
I wasn’t prepared to waste my Sunday on someone who wasn’t going to prove useful to us. The Sarge glanced at me coolly, his features neutral. It was hard to tell what he was thinking from his expression.
Murchison turned his eyes on me and his former friendliness evaporated instantly. “I have no idea, Senior Constable,” he said coldly.
I persisted. “Miss G wasn’t able to tell us about the Greville family’s current land holdings around Little Town. She knew that some land had been sold off over the years, but wasn’t sure what has happened to the money. Can you fill us in on the details of that, please?”
He wheeled himself out from behind his desk and over to a huge picture window which overlooked the bay. It was a beautiful view – very calming and tranquil. He didn’t appear to be taking it in at all. “The money received from selling the remainder of the Greville family’s holdings has been placed into a trust that pays Miss Greville a small annuity.” He spun around to face us again. “It’s what she lives on.”
“Does the family still have any holdings left to sell?”
“No. The last one was sold in the late 1990s to the government for the development of the prison. With careful investment, that money should be enough to pay Miss Greville an income until her, er, passing.”
“So you’re saying there’s no hidden treasure, no land holdings and Miss G survives on a small pension from a trust that your firm administers.” He nodded in agreement. “Then why would someone have broken into her house? They were definitely looking for something. And judging by where they looked, it was a document of some type.”
He stared at me blankly. “As I said before, Senior Constable, I have no idea.”
“Is it possible that there could be further land holdings or other valuables that you don’t know about? With another law firm maybe?”
“Absolutely not!” he spoke up angrily. “Murchison and Murchison has ser
ved the Greville family since they arrived to settle at the foot of Mount Big. There has never been another law firm for them.”
“Sorry Mr Murchison, no offence meant. I was only throwing around thoughts,” I retreated.
“We won’t take up much more of your time, Mr Murchison,” the Sarge stepped in. “A few more questions. Who in your firm is responsible for managing the trust that provides Miss Greville with her income?”
He paused for a moment as if thinking about how to answer. “That is me personally, Sergeant,” he said, not without a small touch of pride. “I’ve been managing that trust for over forty years now.”
“And it’s all properly audited as required, I presume?” the Sarge asked.
Mr Murchison took great affront to that question. “Yes, it is! How dare you insinuate otherwise?”
I was glad it was the Sarge who asked that question, not me, because he copped a vitriolic five minute spray on the inefficiencies of modern policing, the uselessness and stupidity of police officers in general and several personal attacks on the Sarge’s own intelligence and moral fibre. He listened politely then stood up when Murchison, his face red from anger, stopped for a much needed breath.
“We’ll show ourselves out, Mr Murchison. Thanks for your time today,” he said icily and we took our leave.
Chapter 8
“Boy, was he mad at you!” I laughed as we made our way back to the patrol car.
“He certainly was. Interesting, isn’t it? So much heat over what is surely a very simple question,” he mused in reply.
“You think he’s fiddling the books? Dudding Miss G out of her fortune?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Can we search the Titles Office from the station here?”
“Probably. They have all the databases on tap here. Big Town cops are spoiled rotten,” I said with undisguised resentment. I didn’t even have a computer that worked.
I gave him directions to the large and modern Wattling Bay police station, located just outside of its CBD. It was a four-story brick building, all glass and landscaping, with a flash reception area and stylishly furbished offices. We parked the car in one of the visitor spaces and headed inside. Being mid-Sunday, it was reasonably quiet, so we were noticed by the counter staff straight away.
“Well, looky here! Visitors from the country,” drawled the duty sergeant, a chubby idiot with an ugly straggly moustache, in a loud voice that drew everyone’s attention to us. “How’s it going, bumpkins? Found somewhere to park your donkeys?”
“Blow me, Phil,” I suggested, moving to the counter.
“Tessie, my beauty, anywhere, anytime, and that’s a promise. Who’s your new man? Is he your cousin? You gonna marry him?”
I rolled my eyes and turned to the Sarge. “See what I have to put up with from these morons?” I introduced the two men and they nodded at each other.
“Has Tess been showing you all the renowned local sights in that hillbilly heaven where she lives? The chickens in the lockup, the Bycrafts, umm . . .” He pretended to think. “Nope, can’t think of anything else.”
“Shove it, Phil, or I’ll tell your wife what you got up to with Foxy Dubois at Des’ retirement party.” I was just bluffing with that threat, but when he paled and glared at me, looking around nervously to see if anyone had heard what I’d said, I smiled evilly to myself.
“No need to do that, Tessie love. I was just helping her with a little problem she was having. It was all very innocent.” He stared at me. “Did she say differently?”
I raised my eyebrows and smiled at him, leaning closer to him and lowering my voice to a confidential whisper, “Your secret’s safe with me but only if you let us use a computer for an hour or so. We need some info and can’t be bothered going back to Little Town for it.”
“Computers broken again, huh?” he sneered, but opened the door to the counter and let us out the back. He directed us to a vacant desk where an almost new computer sat, unused and neglected. It even had a cobweb stretched between the monitor and hard drive. I immediately began plotting how I could steal it without anybody noticing.
I plonked down in the chair looking up at the Sarge who perched himself on the edge of the desk. “What are we looking up, Sarge?”
“I want a list of all Greville properties sold since records started. We’ll run it past Miss Greville and see if she notices any anomalies.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I called up the Titles Office database.
“You don’t mind threatening people to get your own way, do you?” he asked, looking down at me quizzically.
I shrugged one shoulder and kept tapping on the keyboard. “A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I get sick of being patronised all the time. A bit of revenge gets me through the day.”
I typed for a while.
“I’m surprised how comfortable you are using the computer,” he commented casually, watching. “You know, for a country cop.”
I stared up at him, my fingers frozen on the keyboard. “What did I just say about how sick I am of being patronised all the time?”
He reddened. “Sorry, Tess. I didn’t mean to.”
“How about a word of advice, Sarge? Every time you want to say something about me that’s going to end in the words “you know, for a country cop”, then don’t say it. It’s guaranteed to be patronising.” I smiled at him to take the sting out of the words, but I meant them.
“Point taken. I’ll endeavour to remember that in the future.”
I turned back to the screen, finished typing in my instructions and waited while it searched the database. The data it finally spat out ran for a couple of pages, and we had a quick squiz at it on the screen before I sent it to the printer, where four pages glided out silently and effortlessly. So different to the printer back at our station, which took a full five minutes to think about each and every page it printed, before screeching and groaning as it forced out the pages, every second one dog-eared and smudged and every dozen pages there would be a paper jam. I’d used every swear word I knew on that printer in the two years I’d lived with it and even made up a few new ones in its honour. Every time I’d complained about it though, Des just said that you couldn’t hurry things in the country. I’d never been entirely convinced he even knew what a printer was.
“Anything else you want me to look up while we’re here?” I asked. “What about a Google search of Greville properties or of Stanley Murchison himself?”
“Good thinking,” he said, and I called up the Google homepage. I tried ‘Greville Mount Big Town’ and had a few hits, mostly news items from the Wattling Bay Messenger, reporting on sales of properties to various bodies. I printed all of those out as well. Then I typed in ‘Murchison and Murchison’ and got a few hits, the first one directing me to the law firm’s own website. Finally I typed in ‘Stanley Murchison’ and received a few hits as well, more stories from the Wattling Bay Messenger about his charity work and some about a couple of his successful and newsworthy trials in his younger, more mobile days. Interestingly, there were a few articles about various developments he’d been involved in over the years. I printed off those stories as well.
Then, just for the hell of it, I searched the police database for Stanley Murchison and was surprised when it called up his name in relation to a major fraud case that had been investigated by the Big Town detectives about five years previously. He had been interviewed as the lawyer to a company accused of acting fraudulently, but hadn’t been accused of behaving unlawfully himself. I printed off what I could from that case, and gathered all our paperwork.
“Let’s get some lunch. I’m starving,” I said to the Sarge and we scrounged up a plastic wallet for our print-offs. We were on our way out when I was accosted.
“If it isn’t little Constable Tessie come visiting? What an honour,” called a voice from behind me. I pulled a face and groaned out loud when I heard it. “You come all the way to the big smoke just to mooch some stationery off us, have you? Why don�
�t you hold a cake stall to raise some money for your crappy little station? A pretty girl like you would be good in the kitchen. As well as some other rooms, I bet.” Said with a leer.
“You’re never likely to find out, are you, Bum?” I snapped.
There he was, larger than life. And he was pretty large – an enormous man, an obsessive bodybuilder with terrifying and unattractive muscularity, an overwhelming mistaken belief in his fatal magnetism to women, and an obnoxiously thick and swaggering personality. Detective Constable Burn Grunion, or Bum Bunion as we all called him to his never-ending chagrin. You’d think after being called something your whole working life, you’d eventually become resigned to the fact that people were going to call you that whether you liked it or not. Not Bum Bunion though. What he lost in intelligence, he more than made up for in stubbornness.
I didn’t call him on the constable crack – he knew perfectly well that I was a senior constable. He just liked to get a rise from me. He just liked to get any reaction from me, being a bit like Denny Bycraft in that respect. In fact, he was just as annoying as a bunion on your bum would be, so he was well-nicknamed. Unfortunately, we had known each other a while, since we studied together at the police academy where I had bested him in every subject. And I was promoted before him as well.
“I gave your little friend Jenny a ride she won’t forget the other night,” he boasted loudly.
I grimaced. Yuck! What the hell was Jenny thinking? She must have been drunk out of her brain. I would have to have a stern talk to her. No woman was ever that desperate, and I wanted her pouring her carnal urges into her running training. Besides, the gossip from the female cops in Big Town was that Bum Bunion was all talk and little action. And his equipment didn’t live up to his conceited promises either.