by Vanda Symon
‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ I had to force myself to look her in the eye. ‘There’s been a major development in the case.’ I couldn’t think of a gentle way to put it, so spoke the words with care. ‘Gaby’s death is now being treated as murder.’
She stared at me for a moment, then said ‘Murder’, as though testing the word out for size. She then stepped back and leaned hard against the door jamb. Her face had paled and tears trickled down her cheeks. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a perfectly pressed handkerchief and dabbed at the tears. I waited to see if she would say something more, but no words came, so I fumbled for something comforting to say.
‘I’m sorry, I know it must be a huge shock, but yes, it now appears that Gaby was murdered.’ There was no good time for the next bit of news, so I pressed on. ‘It also means that the case is now a murder investigation so—’
‘But that means we were right all along,’ she said, still wiping her eyes. ‘I told you from the beginning that Gaby would never kill herself.’ Leonore stood upright; her pallor had begun to infuse with blotches of pink. The more she said, the higher her voice rose. ‘You’re sorry, you say you’re sorry. I said there was no way, no way she would kill herself, but you wouldn’t listen.’ Her index finger now waggled near my nose. Her anger blew in like a storm. I had to take a step back.
‘Mrs Watson, I know that is what you said, and I know you are very upset, but whoever killed Gaby went to a lot of effort to make it look like she killed herself. To all intents the evidence pointed to a classic suicide.’
‘Oh, you have classic suicides now, do you? Is that how you justify not doing your job properly. It looked like a classic suicide?’
This was not quite how I’d imagined this conversation would go and I certainly hadn’t expected to have the finger pointed at me. It was difficult to think under her accusing glare.
‘Mrs Watson, initially it looked like suicide, but new evidence leads me to believe Gaby was murdered. What that means—’ Leonore went to interrupt again, but I put up my hand to stop her. Her face looked like thunder and I knew I would pay for the gesture. ‘What that means is that this is a murder investigation now and that the house is a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you to quickly pack what you need for yourself, Lockie and Angel, and to leave the house.’
‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Somehow the expletive sounded shocking coming from her. ‘You’re going to throw them out of their home, after everything they’ve been through? How can you be so heartless? Is this your way at getting back at him? Your petty jealousy? I don’t believe this. Who is your superior?’
I concentrated hard to keep my voice measured and calm.
‘We need to secure the house, so the forensics team can search for any evidence that might lead us to the killer.’
‘In the time you’ve fiddle-faddled around, the murderer is probably at the other end of the country. What evidence could they find now? Tell me that? If you’d done this right at the beginning they might have found something, but for heaven’s sake, everyone’s been through the house, it’s been cleaned top to bottom. Whatever do you expect to find? If the murderer gets away, it will be entirely your fault. You didn’t believe us. You didn’t act straight away. It will be on your head.’
I had to push my hands into my pockets.
‘Mrs Watson, I had to make a judgement call based on the evidence to hand. I followed procedure, and it is in the follow-up investigations that evidence of foul play has become apparent. I know you are upset, but right now the most important thing to do is secure the house to give the forensics team the best chance of finding any remaining evidence. So I am going to have to ask you to get what you need immediately, to touch as little as possible and leave the house.’ My mouth crackled as I spoke, saliva nowhere to be found. God, I wished this conversation was over.
‘I don’t believe this. Where am I supposed to go? Tell me that. Where are we all supposed to go? What about Lockie and Angel when they get home?’
‘I’ve made arrangements for you all at the Angler’s Lodge Motel. The police will pay for the expenses. You can go straight there. I’ll wait here for Lockie and explain the situation to him. He won’t be able to enter the house, so I need you to get whatever he and Angel will need.’
‘What they need is to be left in peace, not to be thrown out of their own home. I can’t believe you’d do that to them. I’ll do what you ask, but you mark my words, I will be talking to your superiors about this.’ She pointedly turned her back on me, went into the house and slammed the door.
I flinched, then let out a breath that came from my boots, right about where my heart lay.
She had every right to be upset and angry, and I knew I’d just copped a lot of her pent-up frustrations. But it still didn’t stop me from feeling foolish as I wiped away the tears that rolled down my face.
I turned and crunched down the driveway, feeling the imaginary daggers Leonore Watson was likely firing into my back. I would wait in my truck until Lockie and Angel got home, then I would have to gather up the strength to endure a replay of the whole conversation.
12
Thank God for coffee and the relative sanctuary of the station. Lockie’s reaction hadn’t been vehement like Leonore’s. I would have preferred it though if he’d yelled or argued or sworn. The sullen silence and hurt-laden eyes were far harder to stomach.
‘Fine,’ he’d said.
I’d told him his wife had been murdered, and I had kicked him and Angel out of their home, and all he said was ‘Fine’.
The only good news was that I’d managed to track down the rubbish truck before it offloaded at the tip. It would be an unpleasant job for some poor sucker, and chances were they wouldn’t find anything of interest, but it was a job that needed to be done. You never knew what got put out in the trash.
I’d also made another phone call, hoping I wouldn’t be stepping on any toes, but the person I wanted to speak to was out, so while I waited for him to return my call I’d been entertained by the trainee fire-truck driver having to make a second attempt at backing the fire engine into the station next door. He’d get heaps about that at smoko. The last call-out the volunteer brigade had attended was a fire caused by a poled possum. The dumb bugger had fried itself on some over-head power lines and set fire to the grass when its blazing carcass hit the ground. That happened a bit around here.
I snatched up the phone on just the second ring.
‘Shephard.’
‘Sam,’ the voice drawled, ‘that’s a very officious greeting.’
‘Alistair, nice to hear your dulcet tones. Is the old boy away on one of his trips again?’
Alistair Gibb was the junior pathologist at Invercargill’s Southland Hospital. He was also a close family friend. Way back in my youth, he would come and spend school holidays with our family on the farm, before being shipped back to boarding school. His parents were both professional folk without the time or inclination to spend the vacations with their son. He was in the same class as my older brother, Mike, so came home with us every holiday – kind of like looking after the class goldfish.
‘The boss went to Rarotonga and left me in charge of the kingdom. Silly him, eh?’ he said, with just a hint of a gloat in his voice.
‘Tut, tut, some people never learn.’
‘Tut, tut, yourself, sunshine. By the way, interesting little case you sent me. Lucky for you we were quiet. I was able to get on to it straight away.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that. I have strong reason to believe this was not a suicide.’ OK, my reasons were not that strong, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.
‘Well, I’d have to agree with you there.’
It probably sounds crass to say, but I was delighted to hear my instincts had been proven correct, especially now the CIB juggernaut had rolled into action on my call.
‘You got my attention. What’s your verdict?’
‘Offi
cial cause of death is drowning, which you would expect considering you found her body in the river. She was alive when she went in. We’ve sent a blood sample away to ESR for an urgent Midazolam level – that’s Hypnovel – but it will be another twelve hours before it’s back. I would be prepared to put money on its being ridiculously high.’
‘Define ridiculous?’
‘Higher than what you’d expect from the number of tablets she swallowed.’
I didn’t say anything, so he continued.
‘Well, her stomach contents show she had swallowed perhaps five or six tablets.’
‘But there were thirty tablets missing from that new box. Why would there be so few in her stomach?’
‘That’s where it gets interesting. Granted, she could have vomited. Then she wouldn’t have been as sedated, and anyway, that’s not what I think happened.’
‘Get on with it, Sherlock.’
‘Seeing as she didn’t have many tablets in her stomach, and they weren’t that well dissolved, I paid really close attention to her skin. Sure enough, there was a puncture mark on her right buttock.’
‘Puncture mark? A needle?’
‘Needle. There was a tiny bruise. She must have moved when it went in. So, my theory is that someone made her swallow enough tablets to make it look the part, then injected her with a huge dose to knock her out. Given in higher doses, Midazolam is used as a general anaesthetic. She would have been out in five minutes, tops. There were no other signs of bruising, so she didn’t struggle. A few scrapes, which you’d expect from someone bumping along a river bottom, but that was it. She would have been completely unconscious. If, by chance, she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t have remembered a thing.’
Well, she wasn’t remembering anything now.
‘You, sir, have been watching far too much Discovery Channel,’ I said, grateful for the fact my friend was a first-class nerd.
‘I know, but do I get full points?’ The gloat was very evident now. Deservedly so.
‘Abso-bella-lutely. If you’re right, which given what you’ve described, I have no doubt about, someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble to make this look like a suicide.’ I thought through the implications. ‘Why would they only make her swallow a few tablets?’
‘Have you ever tried taking more than two? Firstly, it would take too much time, and secondly, you’d get pretty bloated and horrible on all that water needed to wash them down before you got enough into you. Quite clever of them really. I have no doubt the drug they injected would have been the same as the oral tablets. They appear to have been quite determined to make it look like a suicide, even to the extent of trying to fool a post-mortem.’
‘The swallowed tablets, for the stomach contents?’ I asked.
‘Exactly.’
‘Who would be able to get hold of Mizadolam?’
‘Midazolam.’
‘Midazolam.’ I corrected the word on the notes I’d been jotting down. ‘Who would be able to get hold of it in an injectable form? The tablets were from a forged prescription. Is the injection available on prescription too?’
There was a bit of a pause while he ruminated on that one.
‘Yes, but it’s not straightforward. They have to get special dispensation. I suppose it’s used in veterinary medicine. I wouldn’t know offhand, you’d have to check with a vet. It can’t be that easy to access. Then again, you can buy anything on the internet now – no prescription required, a credit card is all the authority you need.’
I made a mental note to do a search and see what websites came up.
‘What did you estimate as the time of death?’
‘Given the water temperature and conditions, my guess would be between ten a.m. and midday on the Tuesday. I’ll send you the full report as soon as it’s written up.’
‘Well, Alistair.’ He was quite particular about being called Alistair, not Al. ‘You’ve been a marvel. The boss better watch out; his job might be in jeopardy when he gets back from the sunshine.’
‘Of course you’ll put a good word in for me when I try to usurp him?’
‘Naturally,’ I laughed.
‘I’ll be in touch when that blood level comes through. I did mark it urgent, but you can’t expect miracles. You must keep me posted on any developments. I’m really curious. This kind of thing doesn’t happen around here.’
‘You’re right. It’s provided our bit of excitement for the month. Thanks.’
‘Oh, one last thing.’
Please, not another invitation for a date.
‘She was pregnant, three months.’
‘Jesus,’ was all I could manage.
13
Once again I had to pay a visit to Lockie, although this time it was at the less than homely Angler’s Lodge. There was no sign of Leonore’s vehicle, but it was only a small consolation. I thought my heart couldn’t feel any heavier after having to tell him of Gaby’s death. I had been wrong. It took several moments to work up the courage to knock. A brief reprieve – it was Cole who answered the door.
‘Sam.’
‘Cole. Is Lockie in?’
‘No. They’ve gone to the funeral director’s.’
Relief was immediate, and breathing a lot more comfortable.
‘You’re holding the fort?’
He nodded. ‘Angel’s asleep, so I’m babysitting – kind of.’ He didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the idea, and no doubt desperately hoped Angel stayed asleep. Still, he occupied the doorway and showed no sign of vacating it. I was unsure as to my next move.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
What wasn’t wrong? ‘No. Well, yes actually.’
How much did I tell him? I figured he was the family’s advocate, so to speak; he was certainly Lockie’s rock. Unlike a few others in the town, I didn’t really give a toss about privacy issues. As far as I was concerned, a bit of freedom of information, within reason, was to everyone’s benefit.
‘Well, you know how Lockie and Leonore have always maintained this was not of Gaby’s doing?’
A slow nod was as far as his response went.
‘And I’m sure they told you why they’ve been moved to a motel. Well, there’s more now I’ve had the interim post-mortem report.’
‘You’d better come in then,’ he said.
I’d chosen the Angler’s Lodge because it was a little more spacious than most. The luxury stopped there. Its eighties’ décor and mass-produced pastel artworks would have been welcoming once. Now, it just looked tired. There was an abundance of floral tributes occupying every available surface, a sure sign of a household in mourning. It always seemed a bit absurd to me – killing flowers to acknowledge a death – but to some it was a form of comfort. Leonore must have thought so: she’d rescued them from the house.
‘Cuppa?’
‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I pulled out a chair and plonked myself down at the Formica-topped table.
‘Tea, isn’t it. Milk, no sugar?’
‘That’s right, thanks.’ I was very impressed he too remembered.
I thought back to earlier conversations, particularly my unfortunate talk with Leonore. Somehow that one affected me more than the others. The thought that she viewed me as jealous and incompetent bothered me. But how could you explain to someone so aggrieved that you’d done everything right? I’d replayed the order of events over and over, and there wasn’t any other way I could have called it. The murderer had gone to great lengths to make Gaby’s death look like suicide. This investigation was far from over and I’d be seeing Leonore again, and often. So how could I repair the damage? I needed to.
‘Here you go.’ Cole pushed across a coaster and sat the tea down on it. ‘So, what’s happened?’
I was just about to launch into a summary of Alistair’s report when a hearty wail erupted from one of the bedrooms. A look of abject panic crossed Cole’s face. Who would have thought ten kilograms of baby could cause such terror in what must have been one hundred
kilograms of male?
‘Shit,’ he muttered, leaping up from his chair as if stung on the arse by a bee. I doubt the child had a chance to draw a second breath before Cole had dived into her room.
‘Shit,’ I heard him say again. I couldn’t help but let out a snort, and then realised that he did mean shit, and plenty of it, judging by the aroma that wafted in my direction. He came out with a very grumpy-looking Angel, dangling her by the armpits, held out at arm’s length. I didn’t even bother trying to disguise my mirth now, and erupted into laughter at the sight of his obvious discomfort.
‘You couldn’t, could you?’ he begged.
I love the way men assume women know how to deal with babies. And although I generally enjoy the sight of a grovelling male, compassion kicked in – for Angel. It must have been hard on her armpits.
‘Hand her over,’ I said, and stood up to take her. Cole thrust her into my arms as if she was an unexploded mortar. The fact she had already ‘gone off’ was lost on him.
‘Where do they keep the doings?’ I had attended to the business end of my nieces on occasion, so at least I knew what was required.
He inclined his head towards a nappy bag in the corner of the lounge area, next to the sofa. This wasn’t in my job description, though I did have a vague recollection of a clause concerning chemical and biological contamination in the health-and-safety section. I pulled out the changing mat and accoutrements and spread them out on the floor. Thankfully, Angel decided to cooperate and lay pretty much still for me. As I dealt with what could only be described as DEFCON 1, I outlined the day’s events and my conversations with Dr Arnold and Alistair. I left out Gaby’s pregnancy – that was a bit too sensitive to share with a third party and I still didn’t know exactly how I’d broach that one with Lockie.
Cole stood at a discreet distance, his face unreadable as I related what I knew. He didn’t offer any comment or question; only an occasional twitch and a severely glum expression gave any sense of the depth of his feelings.
I fastened the last dome on Angel’s pants and let her loose on the world. She immediately crawled over and pulled herself up against Cole’s legs. The sheepish expression that crossed his face was rather endearing. He picked her up by the armpits again and took her over to some toys in the corner.