So just how much of the debacle of his first marriage had been his own fault? He’d always dismissed the notion of himself fleeing the situation, leaving Susan to cope on her own. She’d had her sister and mother, hadn’t she? But Melanie had been in New South Wales at the time and Susan’s parents overseas. He also recalled telling his own mother and sisters–who didn’t like Susan and were intimidated by her–that his wife didn’t need their help. He’d hoped Susan would have learned her lesson and come crawling to him for help, so he could return without losing face. So, what lesson? She had been a struggling mum with twins and he’d thrown it all up and opted out. She’d had to rely on her elderly Aunt Beryl, who’d tried so hard to get them back together.
He cringed, remembering his own arrogance at the time. A fat lot of help he’d been–and Susan hadn’t come begging. So he’d hidden his own heartbreak, retained his so-called dignity and lost his marriage and children. He didn’t want to think about his second attempt at matrimony which had ended as ignominiously as the first. Now, he needed to acknowledge that he could have been a lot more accessible, particularly in this instance. Senior Constable Glenwood was not part of his team; he was George Harris’s, but he, Maguire, was responsible for the man’s situation and Smenton’s cracked skull.
He clicked on Susan’s number, feeling thoroughly chastened. On being assured that she and Marli were safe, he dressed, gathered up his belongings, stuffed them into his bags and met Hansen around the back of the unmarked police car.
‘You going back to town, Dave?’ Pete asked.
‘No. I haven’t had time to tell you, but my ex-wife and one of my daughters are staying on a farm near here. Come and have some breakfast; I need to discuss something with you.’ Ten minutes later, having checked out of the motel, he met Hansen over breakfast at the roadhouse cafe outside of town, where he brought him up to date with the happenings of the previous night. ‘So you see, we decided not to let news of the attack get out to keep the bastard guessing,’ he ended.
Hansen looked at him in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you’d been married to DSS Prescott, Dave. You said you had daughters, but I wasn’t aware your ex-wife is a police officer. Moreover, just who she is. I’ve seen her photos in the paper. Sad business, that.’
‘She’s on stress leave. Blames herself for the debacle over that young fool, Danny Grey.’
Hansen nodded. ‘It’s not surprising. She has a good reputation as a top class investigator. There’s plenty who’d be happy to work with her. I know I would.’
‘Well, her second marriage broke down and she’s suffering from that too, but she’s going to try and help us out.’ Maguire went on to detail Susan’s role in Edna Robinson’s last days, explain her ‘in’ with the family, including cataloguing the photographs. ‘So you see, Pete, she’s in a good position to find out what we can’t. I wonder if this arsehole knows she’s with the force? He obviously thinks she saw him when she was with Edna Robinson. I’m going out to stay at the farm, so if this bastard tries again, I’ll be right there.’ Maguire’s eyes glinted. ‘The funerals are on Saturday afternoon, Edna’s at 2 and Harlow’s at 3. Apparently they’re having a joint wake at Sir Arthur Robinson’s home. I’m hoping Susan will attend Edna’s funeral and wake.’
Back at the police station, they met the rest of the team in the Incident Room, where they stood in front of the white board looking at the time lines and faces of the major players. On the left, the women, aged sixteen up, on the right the fit men of the family, including fiancés, and Constable Adam Winslow. Hansen raised his eyebrows, saying nothing, but Maguire picked up his thoughts.
‘I have to include Winslow because he’s a close relative of the Robinsons. Almost all of the buggers came up with alibis, including Winslow who was actually on duty. But he could have sneaked away. There’s time unaccounted for, because he wasn’t answering his mobile for at least half an hour,’ growled Maguire.
‘You a bit sorry Winslow’s not a serious suspect? Since he’s after your daughter?’ He’d overheard Adam and his sidekick at the front desk enthusing over Marli Maguire.
Maguire looked sheepish for a moment. ‘Yeah, but I can’t nail every bloke who looks at my daughter. The gaols would overflow.’
They chuckled. ‘Some of these bozos only have their wives, girlfriends, husbands or whatever, to vouch for them. We can’t prove they weren’t home watching Top Gear or the footy when Edna got done,’ Hansen reminded Maguire.
‘Going on what Edna told Susan, which is all we have so far, I’m tipping it’s a family thing. Of course, I haven’t discounted Jack’s penchant for women, young ones, middle-aged. From what I can gather, even a sprightly granny probably wouldn’t have fazed him.’
He went on to bring Hansen up to scratch with Adam Winslow’s account of the family birthday party and meeting. ‘Winslow thinks someone else left just after, too.’ He screwed his face up for a moment as a fragment flashed into his mind again and fled. Something he’d heard or someone had said recently ... damn, lost it again.
After Hansen left to check alibis for the latest attack, Maguire made himself a cup of coffee and then sat down at the computer to send the Significant Event Message– Sig Event–to the Ipswich CIB. A stack of reports lurked on the table beside him. The answer had to be in there.
Somewhere.
CHAPTER 21
The Luncheon
Susan
Thursday: late morning.
Mother’s phone call is the eleventh this morning. My neighbour in Brisbane rings to tell me all is well at the house, but old Mrs Phillips’ geriatric dog has been digging the hydrangea bushes up again. Two close friends and four colleagues, including my work partner Evan, phone to ask how I am. Eloise calls from the UK to let me know they need to stay for at least another three months, and David checks that we are still alive and fills us in on the attack on Senior Constable Glenwood. The constable guarding him is lucky to have survived. We are sworn to secrecy once more, a stricture which is aimed at Marli.
Mother has never missed an opportunity to take jabs at my work or to mention Harry, whom she adores. I resist the impulse to retort that he couldn’t care less about any of us, including her. ‘Susan, you know what I’ve always thought about your job and now these murders in Emsberg. I think you should go home, because it’s not good for Marli and Harry won’t like you putting her in danger!’ Like Harry would care? He can get stuffed. Off-hand I can’t remember the sentence for matricide, but if the jurors had ever met my mother, I’d get off, scot free.
‘Mum, Marli’s okay and I’m fine. The house is empty and up for sale, so we’ve nowhere to go.’
‘Everything’s not fine, Susan. And you’re coming down with a cold. I can hear it in your voice. It’s not surprising since you never wear good woollen underwear.’ A flash of memory reveals myself, at four years of age, being spectacularly sick into a pair of huge, pink ‘passion-killers’ which belong to my grandmother
‘Mum, I’m resting, not ill and the trouble here has nothing to do with me. I’m an ordinary citizen as far as that’s concerned.’ Oh yeah, right.
God help me if she discovers my ex-husband is leading the investigation. The only time I heard my mother swear was during one of her and David’s vicious clashes following the twin’s birth. The score was 100% in his favour and she’s never forgiven him for it.
‘I’ve a good mind to come and take over. Has Brittany rung you?’
‘No, mum. You know she’s not speaking to me.’
‘Hurrrrrrph’ No one can snort as triumphantly as mother. ‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it? After the way you treated Harry.’ Give me strength.
‘Yes, Mum. I know. It’s my own fault he left.’ Pain arcs through me. My two failures as a wife have bitten deeply into my self confidence.
‘What does Melanie say about it? I don’t know what’s wrong with that girl. She never returns my calls.’
Mother rambles on, running down my sister, the Reverend Melanie
Burgess, whose religious calling she couldn’t understand but boasted about at every opportunity. My throat is too sore to argue and I am exhausted from lack of sleep.
When we went to bed last night, Marli moved in with me, as of course did Fat Albert, who stretched himself until he had both of us at the edge of the mattress. Her gentle breathing and occasional snores were comforting and even Albert’s purring was a blessing. Titch slept in Marli’s left armpit. It was a cosy, but crowded arrangement. I dozed intermittently throughout the night, waking at every call from a night bird. David settled on the lounge, taking his self-imposed guardianship to the point where he patrolled the house at the slightest sound, causing my heart to thud and perspiration to break out every time the floorboards creaked. His opening the door each time he prowled and asking, ‘Are you all right?’ didn’t help either.
At 4.15am, Albert tipped Marli out of bed to land with a thud which shook the floor. Her pup let out a high-pitched squeal. David bounded into the room and tripped over the old spaniel sleeping on the mat on my side of the bed. He put a hand out to save himself and squashed Albert who, justifiably annoyed, swiped his claws across the back of David’s knuckles. The younger dogs, alerted to the excitement, yelped in their enclosure outside.
My ex-husband’s reaction was predictably male and involved curses. By the time Marli picked herself up and we recovered from our fright, the house was in an uproar. We trooped out to the kitchen, calmed the dogs, put the kettle on and plastered David’s bleeding hand. Another spirited debate ensued over whether I should be examined by a doctor. I protested vigorously. ‘No one will talk to me if they know what I do.’
‘You weren’t going to involve yourself,’ my saner side reminded. ‘Oh shut up,’ my professional self snapped.
After much protestation and checking my throat, David backed down. He and Marli were making toast and drinking hot chocolate when his mobile phone rang with news of more trouble at the hospital–
‘Susan? Are you listening to me?’ Mother’s shriek snapped my attention back to our conversation.
‘What? Sorry mum, I was distracted for a moment. Look, I’ve got to go; someone’s coming up the driveway.’
‘All right, then. But make sure you ring me back and let me know what’s happening. Perhaps Brittany should come and stay with us, you know she’s impressionable and since Marli’s with you and you’re not there to protect Brittany–’
Brit could take on a rabid Rottweiler and win with one hand tied behind her back. ‘Mum, I’ll ring you tomorrow. Sorry, bye.’
‘Marli, stall whoever it is. Tell them I’m getting dressed and won’t be long.’ It’s eleven o’clock, for God’s sake. Whoever it is will think I’m a lazy cow. I bolt for the bedroom, drag on clean jeans and a reasonably respectable shirt, and then examine myself in the mirror. If I pull the collar up, fold a scarf inside the neck of my shirt and keep my hair down, with any luck no one will notice the bruises. Panic shoots through my veins like a hoon through a backstreet after midnight. If David and Marli hadn’t come home when they did ... I force myself to calm down. Will I ever get my mojo back?
‘Mum! Mrs Winslow and Carissa are here!’ shouts Marli. Oh, my God, what’s happened now? I smooth my hair down around my neck and twitch the scarf higher inside my collar, just in time to greet Daniella and Carissa at the front door.
Daniella is apologetic over not ringing before she came, but she would like me to do her a favour and: ‘How am I? You’re so pale, Susan! Marli, you look tired too. Late night?’
We usher them into the kitchen where it transpires that Daniella is taking me to lunch at Sir Arthur Robinson’s lair and Carissa wants Marli to help “re-do” her website. Carissa has a website? What am I thinking, of course she does and a Facebook page and she’s on Twitter, as are my daughters. And I’ll bet Brit’s unfriended me by now.
Daniella’s voice penetrates the fog in which I am swirling. ‘Some of the family are dropping in, and I’m sure the girls will be fine here.’ She doesn’t realise how dangerous it is to leave them on their own.
‘How about if you two go to Ann’s place and work on your stuff there? I hear she’s an expert on websites,’ I add, slyly. Carissa’s friend, Ann, lives in town.
Carissa looks rebellious. Marli “twigs” what my problem is, but doesn’t want to co-operate. ‘Look, mum, we’ll be okay here. Its broad daylight and we’ve both got mobiles, okay? I’ll even lock the doors when you go.’
I try to find a good reason not to agree, but for once can’t think of anything without blowing my cover. Daniella is jiggling her car keys impatiently, so I let the dogs into the house and race around locking the outside doors, because I don’t trust my daughter to remember. ‘I’ll be ringing you,’ I announce, with a telling glance at Marli, who rolls her eyes with wounded patience.
‘We’ll see you later, mum.’ They head off to her bedroom, where she is about to discover that her pup has torn her best shoes to pieces, because she’s too lazy to put them where he can’t get them. Tough.
‘Thank you, Daniella. Can I contribute anything? A bottle of wine, perhaps?’ James has told me to make free with his collection.
Daniella lifts her nose like a hunting dog. ‘Have you a nice ‘red’?’ she enquires enthusiastically.
Before I can gather my wits, two bottles of River-sands Doctor Seidel Soft Red and I, are managed into the BMW and on our way. I’ve seen Lady Ferna in action, when she’d sailed into the local bakery like a modern-day Boadicea, sans chariot, so I am not looking forward to meeting her formally, much less being her guest.
Small villages nestle in the curves of a winding river; numerous dams reflect the sky, littering the landscape like blue puddles. The Robinson mansion, a huge two-storied Queenslander, perches on the side of an escarpment overlooking a wide, shallow valley. Daniella parks in a space beside several luxurious cars in the circular driveway.
Can I cope with this? Too late. I’m being herded up the stone steps to meet Lady Ferna, who is standing sentinel on the verandah. A group of people behind her fall silent as we arrive at the top. Daniella, having relieved me of the wine, kisses Lady Ferna’s cheek, introduces me and swans toward the assembled company, waving the bottles in the air. She puts them on a broad windowsill which is doing duty as the bar. Caterers are setting a long, white-clothed trestle at the far end of the verandah.
‘So good of you to come,’ announces my hostess, sweeping me with a penetrating glance, as she holds out a svelte paw for my garden-stained clasp. She has a grip like a boa constrictor. Within moments, I am seated in a comfortable chair beside Sir Arthur, wriggling my hand to make my circulation return. A huge cat, who looks at me as though I am a morsel it’s dragged into the house and then rejected, is sitting in his lap.
Sir Arthur focuses his owl-like gaze on me. ‘You’re a relative of the Kirkbridge’s?’ and, ‘You work for the government, I believe?’ are swiftly dealt with. I wonder why I am here, because Daniella doesn’t appear to need any support, but it transpires that they wish to thank me for reviving Edna during her ill-fated visit to the loo on Saturday.
‘I am so glad you were there when Edna fell ill, Mrs Prescott,’ gushes Lady Ferna.
‘I was glad to do what I could,’
There is no merit in doing what one must, but they will not let it alone. Intrusive questions fly thick and fast, but I parry them with practised ease, itching to ring Marli. When they finally back off, I tune into the snatches of conversation flowing around me. One or two cause my eyebrows to hit my hairline.
‘Of course, Ferna has that dreadful Quincy to do the garden ... yes, I know Ferna does do a lot and Arthur takes the credit ...’
‘ ... I gave it to the cat, but he said he didn’t like it ...’ Huh?
‘... those cuttings you took ...’
‘Of course, it’s going to be a good show, Ferna’s arrangements always go to plan ...’ Edna’s funeral?
‘Libby’s behaviour is disgraceful, considering ... and
she gets half of all Edna’s money ...’ What money? My ears are quivering like a Fennec Fox. More luncheon guests arrive and the assembled company greets them enthusiastically. Each one emerges from Ferna’s voluminous bosom and races to the windowsill to fill a glass. I sneak into the loo and phone Marli, who snaps that she’s, ‘Still alive thank you, mother,’ and hangs up.
Surreptitiously I examine the clan, which ranges in age from twenties, early forties or thereabouts, to the eighties. The older members, apart from the hosts, are a couple of geriatric identical twins with a distinct resemblance to Arthur, sitting apart from the crowd, whose names are Connie and Grace. They are holding hands and whispering to each other, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. I am about to turn my attention to the younger members of the gathering when I realise their body language shrieks tension. Interesting.
I focus on the men, saving Libby, Edna’s granddaughter and co-inheritor of her estate, for future reference.
Euon Jellicott, Lady Ferna pronounces his name, “yew -on” is fifty-ish and a solicitor. He is not wearing a wedding ring, so I assume is maritally unencumbered. An expensive-looking briefcase is on the floor by his seat. It’s open and bulging with official-looking papers. My fingers itch to fossick through them. He arises and trots down the steps to stand on the driveway, smoking something revolting. He is about 190cm, narrow-shouldered, but wiry with muscular legs. One could easily imagine him legging it up the mountain behind the farm.
The thirtyish, good-looking man sitting opposite is Jason Hardgreaves, the doctor who attended Edna the night she was murdered. His ear is wet from Libby’s whisperings. She sees me looking at him and slips her hand into his, making sure I see a flash from her diamond ring. I’m amused at being warned off; if I’d started breeding at thirteen, I’d be old enough to be his mum.
The Celibate Mouse Page 15