A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  Chapter 2

  BERYL WAS A YOUNG GRANDMOTHER with an old name. Her daughter, Christine, had two pre-school kids and a marriage not so much broken as shattered. Gran minded the kids to give her daughter a break. It was past 9 pm when she drove into Christine’s drive.

  Christopher, 4, was awake and busting to be unbuckled from his child seat. ‘Wait, Christopher,’ said Gran. ‘I need to help Kirrily.’

  The little girl, 2, slept a deep sleep. Beryl carried her granddaughter to the front door with Christopher there first. He reached up and pushed the doorbell. They heard it sound inside. Kirrily stirred.

  Christine didn’t answer the door. Christopher gave the bell another push. Again it sounded. Still Mummy didn’t respond.

  Beryl worried. The police had served not one but two restraining orders on Christine’s estranged husband, Kevin Grande. The man was a brute. So the non-appearance of her daughter pushed Beryl’s fears into the red zone.

  ‘Mummy,’ called Christopher and went to push the bell a third time.

  ‘No, Christopher. Come back to the car and I’ll ring Mummy.’

  Unhappy, the boy obeyed. Beryl put the sleeping granddaughter back in her seat, and her protesting grandson in his.

  She grabbed her phone and rang her daughter. It went to Voicemail. Beryl stepped out of her car and rang the local Frankston police, their number on speed dial.

  ‘Have you been inside?’ asked the officer.

  ‘No and I don’t want to. If she’s been bashed again, I do not want the children to see her.’

  ‘We’ll have someone there as soon as possible.’

  The police were true to their word. Thankfully Christopher took a shine to his Tablet and watched a cartoon for the umpteenth time. Beryl saw the cop car arrive and stepped out to meet the male and female uniformed officers.

  ‘Here’s the front door key. She would normally have the porch light and other lights on. I’m scared. She might be unconscious. He’s ignored restraining orders before.’

  ‘Okay Mrs Lemon, we’ll have a look. Hopefully she’s nodded off. You stay here and mind the kids.’

  The police opened the front door and called. ‘Christine, hello, it’s the police.’

  No reply. They flicked light switches. The house was eerily quiet. They called again then split, moving through the house turning on lights as they went.

  In the kitchen, the female constable made the discovery and called. ‘Brett, here, in the kitchen.’

  It wasn’t pretty.

  This was one of those moments police hate; telling family members their loved one is deceased. The cops notified their station, checked the house was empty then walked out to inform Beryl.

  ‘I’ll tell her, if you like,’ said the female.

  ‘Thanks,’ replied her colleague, ‘but don’t let the kids hear.’

  They approached the car, and Beryl was out and knew before a word was spoken.

  ‘She’s dead isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lemon.’

  ‘Was she bashed?’ The police hesitated. ‘I want to see her.’

  She started to head inside but was stopped.

  ‘No, Mrs Lemon. It’s a crime scene,’ said the female.

  ‘You don’t want to remember your daughter like this,’ said the male.

  Then Kirrily cried and Grandma helped the living. Her daughter was beyond help.

  Not all killings are murders, and not all murders are the same. Some have no planning, no premeditation. An argument starts, someone loses their rag, grabs a kitchen knife and thrusts, or they swing a fist and the person who is struck, falls and hits their head. Done. Other murders involve meticulous planning, and a long, cruel and torturous execution. Christine’s was one of those.

  Her enraged husband, Kevin, seethed for months at having his wife leave him, and the police serve him with restraining orders. He’d been locked up after one threatening outburst.

  During the marriage, he became more violent. His drinking didn’t help but it was his masculine pride (if that’s what it’s called) which tipped him over the edge. Being denied access to his children, unless supervised, drove him nuts.

  ‘I’m their father for fuck’s sake,’ he roared at Family Services and the police. His best mate—his only mate—supported him throughout and boosted Kevin’s belief he’d been wronged by the authorities and that woman. Kevin couldn’t beat the authorities so, being a coward and a bully, he beat the woman.

  He watched and waited. He knew his mother-in-law would often babysit the kids. When his mate, on spy duty, rang to say the old bitch had taken the kids away, the brute did his thing.

  If I can’t have my kids, neither can she.

  His brutality was stomach-churning. This was no quick kill, and the quality of mercy was definitely strained. Christine begged in vain.

  Towards the end, she wanted to die. Her sorrow at the impact her death would have on her children now and forever was horrendous but the physical and mental torture Kevin applied meant death became a welcome friend.

  He planned to kill her, wanted to kill her but delayed his version of a coup de grâce knowing once she died, he could no longer hurt her.

  He kept saying, ‘And this is for stopping me seeing my kids.’ Not their kids or our kids, his kids.

  His maniacal mood didn’t prevent him thinking about escape and detection. He’d watched TV cop shows where forensic officers dressed for the occasion. He did the same although bike clips and galoshes over crocs, and a shower cap on his nut were not usually worn by crime scene professionals. His unusual clothing only made Christine’s pain more intense. She was the tiny mouse to his feral and ferocious cat. He toyed with her, taunted and teased her then, having bashed her senseless, watched her choke on her own blood. Sadly, there are many men like Kevin Grande.

  The Frankston uniformed officers who discovered the body called local detectives. They were told the violent family history and, in turn, informed Homicide.

  DI Rose, DS Billy Hughes and Detective Senior Constables Stephen Payne and Charlie Baldwin arrived. The long-serving pathologist, Dr Gabrielle Strange, was absent. A new pathologist, the quietly spoken and humourless Dr Petr Laudi (rhymes with Audi) who, because of his silent behaviour, would become known as Rowdy Laudi, and later just Rowdy, arrived and donned the required clothing. Some would later speculate he wore same to bed.

  ‘It has to be the ex, ma’am,’ said Baldwin. ‘This was no break and enter gone wrong.’

  ‘Thanks for the bleeding obvious, Senior,’ said Rose. ‘Have DS Fletcher take some uniforms and arrest the gentleman in question.’

  ‘Not DI Blunt, ma’am?’ asked Billy.

  Rose simply looked at Hughes and all three detectives got the message. Callum Blunt was the black sheep of the family, the relative not invited to Christmas.

  Laudi was joined by several officers from Forensics. They got busy and the Homicide detectives moved outside.

  ‘What’s happened to Dr Strange?’ asked Baldwin.

  ‘She’s retiring or at least working less hours,’ said Billy.

  ‘Fewer,’ replied the DI. The others looked at her. ‘Sorry, when I first joined Homicide, DCI Robertson moonlighted for the Grammar Police.’ More stares. ‘Right, we need to talk to neighbours, the local police and the mother. Who else?’

  ‘Neighbours and colleagues of the main suspect,’ added Charlie.

  ‘The only suspect,’ said Payne.

  Rose didn’t like that. ‘Open mind, gentlemen, if you please. You two get knocking on doors in the street. Billy you get what you can from the test tube team. I’ll go and see the grandmother.’

  ‘And the kids,’ added Billy.

  Rose shook her head. ‘And the poor little kids.’

  Chapter 3

  MICHAEL CHAN WAS A GOOD FRIEND. He survived the trip to France and England with his pal, Jo Best. He helped rescue her colleague and lover, DI Pierre Richelieu. Fighting crooks and crooked cops in Paris gave Michael a re
al buzz but seeing firsthand how Jo and Pierre were serious in their love for one another gave his heart another type of buzz. It hurt. Unrequited love usually does.

  Jo loved Michael as a brother, which was not his preferred relationship. Still, she helped him recover funds stolen from his parents, and took him on mind-boggling adventures, so the computer guru would forever be grateful. He flew home without Jo; two’s company and all that jazz. Then, from Paris, Jo sent him a strange text.

  Hello Michael. About to board Qantas at CDG Paris. Can you please

  collect me at Tulla? Love and thanks.

  Jane Eyre

  Flying home, Michael wondered when, or even if, Jo would return to Melbourne. Richelieu was wealthy, presumably inherited his mother’s enchanting Parisian home, and he and Jo could set up their love nest in Rue Cremieux. Why come back to Hicksville? Why return to what former PM Paul Keating called, “the arse end of the world”?

  Richelieu had wealth and real estate, and passion for Jo. She once enthusiastically returned serve. But reading between the lines of Jo’s text, Michael reckoned all was not well in Paradise; it seems the lovebirds were not exactly lovey-dovey.

  Why is she coming home so soon? Why have me collect her? Why no mention of the Inspector? And what does she mean by signing off as Jane Eyre?

  He checked Jo’s flight details and arrived at Melbourne Airport on time. In the arrivals area he hung back. He thought about pretending to be a driver waiting for a passenger, and holding up a sign with the word GODOT. But something told him jokes were not required now.

  He saw her before she saw him. Being a detective, she was looking without looking and spotted her quarry. Their eyes met across a crowded room and soon they stood face to face. She put down her rucksack and kissed him. Michael forgot to bring his anti-confusion pills, meaning his emotions started squabbling.

  ‘Welcome home, Detective,’ he said.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Michael,’ she said, giving him extra thoughts.

  He picked up her luggage. ‘Good trip?’ She nodded. He was about to say, “How’s Pierre?” when she got in first.

  ‘The bastard is married, Michael. Can you believe that?’

  Now if her comment had involved LAMP stacks, petascale data storage infrastructure or processing large datasets from drones, Michael would have waxed lyrical. But the marital status of his friend’s colleague or lover or both stumped the IT specialist.

  As they walked to the carpark, Jo continued. ‘I fly half-way round the world, risk my neck and get him out of a lifetime in jail and then, by chance, discover he’s got a wife. He said zip. No kids so far but nothing would surprise me. What is it with men, Michael? What’s with this romance and secrets crap?’

  He stopped. She kept walking then stopped and turned back to look at him. He was blunt. ‘You’re asking me; seriously?’

  She smiled and he instantly felt better. She went back to him and took his arm. They continued walking.

  ‘Sorry. So tell me, how are you? How’s Alan?’

  Michael was now on safer ground, and gave Jo a description of his cat, and its ongoing research into salmon fishing in the River Tay.

  The duo made it to Michael’s car, he took out a second mortgage to pay the parking fee, and they headed to Jo’s flat in Clifton Hill, the suburb next to Northcote where Michael and Alan lived.

  ‘So what’s on the Best agenda?’ he asked, fishing.

  ‘Did you understand my literary reference about Jane Eyre?’

  ‘Not at first,’ he said driving onto the freeway. ‘But doing a spot of research, I came up with the eponymous young woman falling in love with a married man who kept his deranged wife in an attic.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Pierre’s done.’

  Michael’s eyes widened. ‘He keeps his wife in his mother’s roof? Is that what those thudding sounds were?’

  Jo ignored his joke. ‘Apparently she has schizophrenia, stopped taking her meds, stabbed a neighbour, was convicted of manslaughter, and today lives in a secure institution at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  ‘I think Les Misérables did away with the French monarchy.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha,’ scoffed the angry detective.

  ‘And being a good Catholic, Pierre won’t divorce her,’ said Michael trying to unscramble the data.

  ‘But dearest, brave Pierre chose not to tell me. I found out from someone else.’

  ‘Hooray Henry.’

  She looked at him, impressed. ‘Now you’re showing off, Michael. How the hell did you know that or was it a wild guess?’

  Michael explained. ‘Easy. Eliminate the impossible. Antony would know or could easily discover the Inspector’s legal affairs. The lawyer was jealous of Monsieur Richelieu’s romantic attachment to your good self, and so, out of spite, told the lady who rejected his advances.’

  Jo exhaled. She never failed to be struck by Michael’s logic and deductive thinking. ‘I’ve said it before, Michael, Victoria Police would welcome you with open arms.’

  Ah, but would you? thought the driver.

  They drove in silence with the odd question and answer. When they reached her flat, he hopped out to help. She felt guilty and it sounded in her voice. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks but after your long flight, I recommend an early night.’

  She nodded her appreciation. He was a good friend. Again she kissed him and again his emotions squabbled. He waited till she opened her front door then tooted and drove home.

  On the other side of the world in Paris, her colleague and would-be lover prepared for appointments with two solicitors from the same firm. One was Monsieur Arbert, the senior partner, an elderly man who had handled Pierre’s mother’s legal affairs for decades. The other was a criminal lawyer, an aristocratic Englishman, the Honourable (more like dishonourable) Antony Heron-Royhay known to some as Hooray Henry.

  ‘Bonjour Inspector,’ said Monsieur Arbert.

  ‘Bonjour Monsieur Arbert,’ replied Pierre.

  ‘Please take a seat and tell me how you are getting on since your dear mother’s passing.’

  The small talk continued until the business began. ‘Now Inspector, to business, s’il vous plaît. How can I help?’

  ‘I ‘ave three issues which require your legal expertise, Monsieur. The first is my will. Obviously my dear mother is no longer a beneficiary. I ‘ave a number of changes and all the information is listed in this document. Perhaps only a codicil is required but I will leave it to you.’ Pierre handed the solicitor an envelope.

  ‘Merci.’ M. Arbert opened the envelope and read the document. In all his years as a solicitor, he rarely argued against a client’s wishes although in this case, he was sorely tempted.

  ‘I will leave the wording to you,’ said Richelieu.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Inspector. Now you mentioned three issues.’

  ‘Oui. The second concerns the agreement I ‘ave to care for my wife. As you may recall, my wife’s brother, Monsieur Florent Droid, ‘as power of attorney over my wife’s affairs, and I make a monthly payment into an account over which ‘e ‘as control.’

  ‘I am aware of the arrangement, Monsieur. What change or changes do you wish to make?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘None, Monsieur? Then why raise the subject?’

  ‘Because of the third issue.’ Pierre paused. ‘I wish to divorce my wife.’

  Should M. Arbert ever decide to become a poker player, he would excel. His expression remained neutral. ‘I see.’

  ‘I wish to maintain the financial support for my wife even when we are no longer married. This support is to continue until ‘er death. If I predecease my wife, or my ex-wife, my new will must stipulate that the financial agreement continues until ‘er passing.’

  Again the solicitor showed no emotion. ‘I understand, Monsieur.’

  ‘And as a sign of good faith, I will give my wife the property in Rue Cremieux as part of the divorce settlement.’

  ‘Are y
ou sure, Monsieur? I mean, you are making a generous and ongoing financial settlement. Why include your mother’s home?’

  Richelieu took a deep breath. ‘Those are my wishes, Monsieur.’ Arbert nodded. ‘So ‘ow soon before the papers will be ready?’

  ‘Ah, the wheels of legalese, Monsieur, as you well know, turn at a snail-like pace, and that on a good day.’ Richelieu frowned. He understood. ‘May I enquire where you plan to reside, Monsieur?’

  ‘For the moment, ‘ere in Paris, so as to sign the various legal documents; after which I return to live and work in Australia.’

  M. Arbert nodded. ‘I shall give these matters my immediate attention, Monsieur.’

  They shook hands and Pierre departed. He walked along the corridor and stopped at a door with a sign, The Honourable Antony Heron-Royhay. Richelieu knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ called the English lawyer. Richelieu entered. ‘Ah, Inspector, bonjour. Please take a seat. How are you and the beautiful Mademoiselle Best?’

  If Pierre knew it was his lawyer who blabbed to Jo, and helped send the lovely female fleeing from France, Antony would no longer be Pierre’s lawyer, and might even have copped a well-deserved slap.

  ‘She ‘as gone ‘ome to Australia, Monsieur.’

  ‘Oh?’ queried Antony. ‘Nothing serious I hope?’ He did hope and rejoiced in the troubled romance but turned the conversation to their legal challenge.

  Antony represented Pierre when the detective was framed in a powerful revenge attack by criminals, corrupt Parisian police and former police. The lawyer did little to help free Richelieu; that was down to Jo Best and Michael Chan.

  But the aristocrat milked the release, and painted himself as some kind of gung-ho legal genius. Now, on behalf of his client, Heron-Royhay’s plan was to sue the authorities for wrongful arrest, wrongful imprisonment and slander aiming for massive damages with his hefty fee being a part of the settlement—naturellement.