Evil Under the Stars

by C. A. Larmer

  She knew the palaeontologist’s mind was preoccupied with Wednesday’s big event at the museum where he worked, and he didn’t need to hear her woes. He was organising a charity cocktail party, and it had him in quite a lather.

  “How’s it all coming along?”

  “Ohhh, getting there. I’ve gone right out on a limb with this one, insisted the old fossils who run this place put the event on, and I’m just terrified it’ll be a flop.”

  Perry was trying to get the community more engaged in the museum’s work and was hoping that sipping cocktails and eating canapés among dinosaur bones and stone-age relics would not just entice thirsty journalists, it would result in some much-needed media coverage.

  “I’ll be there!” Alicia said, more firmly this time. “And I’ll make sure all the other editors in the building know about it.”

  “Thank you. What about Lynny and Jackson?”

  “I’ll drag them by the hair if I have to. You can count on us. Now get back to it and stop worrying!”

  He promised to do that and hung up.

  Alicia waited a beat then dialled Jackson’s number. Despite her assurances, she was not at all sure Jackson would be free to attend tomorrow night’s event, and she was determined to lock him in.

  Across town, Jackson was locked in an interrogation room, his phone on silent. He was currently leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, observing while DI Singh slapped a series of questions at a frustratingly unflustered Brandon Johnson.

  Brandon had just been spotted, strolling casually into his lunchtime shift at the Top Shop Café, and was promptly escorted back out and across to police headquarters, much to the café manager’s exasperation and the detectives’ relief.

  They had abandoned the AA angle for now and were staring at the young barman wondering what he had to hide.

  Brandon was a handsome lad, just turned twenty-one, with thick black hair—probably dyed—and an earring dangling from one ear—probably pilfered from an unsuspecting girlfriend.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mr Johnson,” Indira was saying. “Where have you been for the past few days? You’re not avoiding us, are you?”

  “Not at all,” he said calmly, a little too calmly, before glancing at his lawyer, an elderly gentleman who looked better suited to a game of bowls than a police interrogation. The lawyer shrugged as if to say, Whatever.

  Brandon looked almost as bored as his lawyer and leaned back in his seat. “Look, I’ve just been bunking at a mate’s place, that’s all. No biggie.”

  “And Saturday’s film night?”

  “What of it?”

  “Why did you do a runner?”

  Brandon glanced at his lawyer again, then back at Indira. “I didn’t do a runner. Was just tired, that’s all. Didn’t want to get stuck there. Didn’t realise that was a crime.”

  “You didn’t realise that was a crime,” Indira repeated, turning deliberately to share a very visible eye roll with Jackson before turning back. “You left the scene of a crime, Mr Johnson. The officers on the ground specifically asked that all parties remain on the premises to provide contact details and witness statements before they departed.”

  “I didn’t hear that bit. I just grabbed my shit and left. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal,” boomed Jackson suddenly, causing both the lawyer and his client to jump, “is that a young woman was murdered last Saturday night right in front of your face.”

  It was a smug-looking face too, Jackson decided, a little too smug for his liking. He stepped forward, his eyes boring into the younger man’s.

  “This is the same woman who was lying not six metres from where you were serving drinks all night.” He held up a hand. “The same woman you did serve a drink to just minutes before she was murdered.”

  He lifted a shoulder, trying to look nonchalant. “So that’s sad and all, but sorry, I’m still a bit, like, confused.” He made a show of glancing at his lawyer again. “What’s it got to do with me again?”

  Indira smiled. “Good question, Brandon. Do you mind if I call you Brandon?” He shrugged again. “Great. Let me ask you this, Brandon. Do you recall serving the victim her last glass of champagne?”

  “I remember serving her a glass of sparkling wine, sure. She was hot. What of it?”

  “Did you pour the sparkling wine from an open bottle?” Indira asked.

  “No, I keep the cork in when I pour.”

  He chuckled at his joke, glancing at his lawyer, who did not chuckle along.

  “You think this is funny, Brandon?” Jackson said.

  Brandon held a hand to his mouth as if stifling a laugh. “Nah sorry, what were you saying about the bottle?”

  Indira stared at him coldly. “Did anyone other than you have access to that open bottle?”

  The toxicology report had still not come through, and the detective was hedging her bets, but while Brandon looked at her, his smile now slipping, the lawyer appeared to have woken up.

  He cleared his throat and said, “You don’t need to answer that, son.” Then he turned his watery eyes upon Indira. “I was under the impression you had not received a toxicology report yet, DI Singh.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “So why this line of questioning?”

  “Just filling in the blanks, Mr Morrie.”

  “Not on my watch you’re not.” He cleared his throat again, making an ugly guttural sound. “Is my client under arrest?”

  “Not at this stage.”

  “Are you suggesting my client had something to do with the deceased’s murder, Detective?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Well, thank goodness for that.” He gave her a silky smile. “As you well know, Mr Johnson is here under his own volition. He is being cooperative. But if you are going to start throwing accusations around, we might just take our leave.”

  He tapped Brandon on the hand and made as if to get up.

  Indira held her own hand up. “I’m not accusing your client of anything, Mr Morrie. I’m just trying to get the facts.”

  “Then let’s stick to those, shall we?” He relaxed back into his seat. “This young man lost his beloved mother less than twelve months ago, his grandmother just a few years before that. He’s had a rough ride, and I think we all need to be a little bit more cognisant of that.”

  “Of course,” Indira said, attempting a smile of her own. She sat back in her own chair. “Mr Johnson, is there anything you can remember about that evening? Anything else you’d like to tell us?” Then she added, “If you don’t mind?” flashing the lawyer a stiff smile.

  Brandon eyed her suspiciously. “Like what?”

  “Like did you happen to see where the victim, Kat Mumford, was sitting during the film?”

  “Sure, like you guys said, she wasn’t that far from the bar.”

  “And did you happen to notice anybody approach the victim at any point in the evening but especially during the second half of the film?”

  “Nope, but then I wouldn’t have, would I? I was cleaning up at that stage. Wanted to get away quickly, like I said.”

  “So you never saw anyone of any description approach the victim at any stage?”

  “Detective Inspector Singh—” Morrie warned, but Brandon was shaking his head.

  “Seriously, guys, I was too busy at the bar. I didn’t have time to watch every drunken chick in the place.”

  Indira sighed and pushed herself away from the table. She’d had enough. “Okay, we’ll leave it there for now.” She looked at Mr Morrie. “Please be aware that we will be getting the tox results in very soon and we may require your client for questioning again.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll make sure he doesn’t do a Houdini on you, Detective.”

  “That’d make a nice change, thank you, Mr Morrie,” she all but spat back.

  “He’s a smug little bugger isn’t he?” said Jackson the minute Brandon and Morrie had left the room.

  “You talk
ing about the suspect or his crusty lawyer?” Indira replied, shaking her head. “It’s the old ones you have to watch for. They look like they have one foot in the grave, but they can run rings around you.”

  She loosened her ponytail and crinked her neck. “So, the barman’s a smart-ass and he’s got good representation, but does that make him guilty?”

  “I reckon he’s hiding something.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Don’t know. I just get a bad vibe from the guy.”

  “Vibes don’t hold up in court, Jacko.”

  “Pity that.”

  ********

  “He’s definitely hiding something,” Jackson repeated to Alicia as they clinked oversized wine glasses then settled in on the chocolate leather sofa at his place.

  “Like what?” she said before taking a sip.

  The wine was delicious. A silky Margaret River Cabernet Sauvignon, and she let it slide around in her mouth before swallowing.

  He had good taste, Jackson, but in a subtle way. His apartment, located close to his office, was a classy mix of creams and browns, a few pieces of modern art on the exposed brick walls and an old turntable with dozens of records nearby. It was a bachelor pad, sure, but it had style.

  “Dunno,” he replied. “Just found him so slippery. Bit too smug. Like he knew what he was doing. I mean, why bring a lawyer?”

  “Because it’s his legal right.”

  “Yeah, but who knows that at his age? We just asked him in for a casual chat, yet he shows up with his solicitor who, by the way, I’ll bet any money is married to one of the old biddies at the Women’s Auxiliary. They seem to have assumed the job of his guardian.” He drank from his glass and mulled that over. “At least we finally got the tox results.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “No opiates or other drugs that might have knocked her out. Nothing in her stomach except orange juice and alcohol.”

  “No roofies then?” she said, referring to Rohypnol, which they had encountered on a previous case.

  “Nope, but she had consumed enough booze to keep a rugby team happy, so that explains why she didn’t call out. She’d probably passed out by that stage.”

  “How much?”

  “Let’s put it this way, if she’d been breath tested afterwards, she would have been more than five times the legal limit.”

  Alicia whistled. “No wonder she was at AA.”

  “Except it clearly wasn’t working.”

  “That’s true. Kat sure did fall off the wagon that night. Did you contact her AA branch? Or whatever it’s called.”

  Jackson nodded. “No-go zone. According to the husband, she was a member of a local group, had some sponsor called Tim or Tom or something. The only group near them is in neighbouring Rozelle, but when I called, they were having none of it. Told me they never disclose the full identity of members both to other members and to outsiders. Refused to even concede that a ‘Kat’ of any kind was a member of any branch. Said it was called Alcoholics Anonymous for a reason.”

  He scowled, showing her what he thought of that.

  Alicia figured it was fair enough but asked, “Doesn’t a murder enquiry trump that? Can’t you get a warrant or something?”

  “What for? They don’t keep membership files or attendance records, they don’t film the meetings, so what would be the point?”

  “You could interview some of the other members, see if they remember her?”

  “They’re unlikely to tell us anything, and frankly, I’m not sure there’s any substantive reason to keep going down that track. Kat Mumford wasn’t killed on AA premises. There’s no evidence linking AA to the crime. Indira thinks it’s a red herring, and I’m inclined to agree with her. It was a great guess on your part, but I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with anything…”

  “…but?” She could tell he didn’t quite believe that argument and waited.

  He took another gulp of his drink and then wiped his lips. “But I still can’t understand why Eliot Mumford got so anxious when I brought it up. It’s the first time I’ve seen him break a sweat. I reckon he’s hiding something, maybe protecting someone.”

  “Probably just protecting his wife’s reputation.”

  “Bit late for that, don’t you think? He took her to a public park where scores of people saw her sloshed and making a fool of herself. Cat’s out of the bag on that one.” He stopped and smiled at his pun, and Alicia smirked back. “In fact,” he continued, “the AA angle almost redeems her in my eyes. At least she was seeking help for her problem, so why be so evasive about it?”

  Alicia finished her wine and thought about that while he reached for the bottle and refilled her glass. As he did so, she thought about her own wine consumption and how alcohol was such a regular part of everyday life. At least it was for them. It had not dawned on either of them to pop the kettle on or have a soft drink when they rendezvoused late after work.

  She wondered if everyone had the capacity to be an alcoholic if, indeed, she did. That gave her a sudden ingenious thought, and she was about to mention it when he spoke.

  “Anyway, as I say, it’s a moot point. Indira is off the whole AA bandwagon and says we have more important leads to chase.”

  “Such as?”

  “Where do I start?” He held up his forefinger. “Brandon Johnson, the barman. Why did he run off so fast?” He held up a second finger. “Ditto the two cap-wearing pervs. And who the hell are they?” Then a third finger. “There’s also that religious zealot who was sitting behind Kat. He was outraged by her behaviour, called her a ‘Jezebel.’ Did he act on his outrage? You gotta wonder. And fourth”—he held up a final finger—“what’s the deal with his pervy teenage son?”

  “The bored, embarrassed-looking one?”

  He nodded. “Eliot reckons he was checking them out too.”

  “Yeah, I did see him look over, but then it was all happening in front of his rug, bit hard not to look, especially if you’re a hormonal kid. Wow, you do have your work cut out for you. I’m shocked you even have time for a wine.”

  He smiled. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “What about the people in front of the Mumford’s rug? Any prospects there?”

  He shook his head firmly. “Don’t believe so. They were all quite elderly, all hung around and gave statements, no one has a record, all seem like upstanding citizens—your basic nightmare.” He smiled. “We’re still looking into their backgrounds, but we’re not holding out hope.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “Singho wants to focus on the two pervs and the barman first. Reckons they’re the best bet. Problem is we can’t find the pervs and Brandon’s lawyered up.”

  “What did the autopsy say?”

  “No obvious DNA, no skin under the nails, nothing like that.”

  “Did they check the champagne glass for prints?”

  “It was plastic actually and yep, three sets. One was Brandon Johnson’s—” and to her raised eyebrows he quickly added, “as there would be because he poured the champagne into it.”

  Her eyebrows dropped. “Fair enough. And the second must be Kat Mumford’s, right?”

  “They’re pretty smudged, but we assume so. It’s the third set, a much clearer set, that has got us curious. Whose might those be? Of course they could be from a civilian early on the scene who inadvertently touched it during the initial kerfuffle.”

  Alicia thought about that. “What about the husband? Or Anders maybe?”

  “We’ve ruled them both out already, and the other officers on the scene are all in the clear.”

  “Anders gave you his fingerprints?”

  “They were already on file.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. He consults the Drug Squad on a regular basis, didn’t he tell you that?”

  No he did not. She wondered what else he hadn’t told her in their brief relationship.

  Chapter 16


  Maz Olden looked a little shaken as she opened her front door to the detectives, one hand clutching onto the doorframe, the other patting her pregnant belly, which was subtly concealed today beneath a silk dress that had been cut on the bias. She had swept her red curls up off her face with a black headband, and she looked younger than Indira remembered and a lot more vulnerable.

  “Must be close now?” said Indira, herself a mother of two with only exhausted memories of her pregnancies. She had worked through until the birth for both her children—now thirteen and fifteen—and found stepping into a crime scene a lot less stressful than a delivery suite. She hoped the sheer horror of her own experience did not show on her face.

  Clearly not because Maz just shrugged and said, “Still got six weeks.”

  “Oh sorry. I thought you were about to pop.”

  “I wish. Bring it on.”

  She waved them in, then shut the door and shuffled through to the living area where she fell down onto a cream sofa, adjusting her dress around the bump. It was a tiny apartment in the poorer end of the inner west, but she had prettied it up with bright cushions and fresh furnishings, and it looked cleaned within an inch of its life.

  “This one’s a kicker, driving me freakin’ nuts!” Maz was saying, rubbing her ribs to indicate where most of the blows had landed.

  Indira nodded sympathetically. “You’ve got others?”

  There was something in the way Maz spoke that gave that impression, yet she couldn’t see any evidence of other children about, no strewn toys, kids shoes, that kind of thing. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t even see a fresh bassinet or an IKEA flat-pack to indicate that Maz had been padding the nest.

  The younger woman’s eyes suddenly glistened. “No,” she said quickly, “no others.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Maz swiped at her face angrily as a tear trickled down. “I’m fine. Just… well, I lost one. A while back. That’s all. Makes you wonder, don’t it?”