by Cenarth Fox
‘Here is our court application, Inspector.’ Antony handed Pierre a sizeable document. He had mixed feelings. If he won, it would mean a sizeable windfall but he was already wealthy, still mourning the loss of his mother, and unhappy about his girl fleeing France. Pierre finished reading the document.
‘Do you understand, Monsieur?’ Richelieu nodded. He felt flat. ‘Do you have any questions?’ Richelieu shook his head and returned the document. Heron-Royhay bubbled with excitement.
He handed Pierre a second much shorter document.
‘I have a simple contract to confirm our terms,’ oozed the lawyer, wanting a signature as quickly as possible. One small part, buried on the penultimate page, gave Heron-Royhay control of any media product such as a book deal, film or TV documentary which might flow from the compensation claim. He was a devious bugger, the Hon Pom.
Pierre gave the contract a cursory study before signing. The lawyer subtly placed same under lock and key and offered coffee. Pierre declined the hospitality.
‘I ‘ope, Monsieur you can attend to these matters in my absence. I will remain in Paris for a short time until Monsieur Arbert has completed some legal matters for me.’
‘Oh?’ asked the lawyer, fishing, desperate for any news.
Richelieu paused before explaining. ‘I ‘ave made some changes to my will and to other personal matters. Once the paperwork ‘as been signed, I will fly ‘ome to Australia.’
Heron-Royhay pretended to have no interest but was in fact frantic for any information. Having made himself a literary agent to Richelieu’s claim for compensation, he wanted any gossip going.
But worse, far worse, the lawyer had recently met with Monsieur Florent Droit, Pierre’s brother-in-law. Droit wanted advice on the financial agreement which existed between his sister, Margaux, and her husband, Inspector Pierre Richelieu. Heron-Royhay ignored the obvious conflict of interest and was happy to advise both brothers-in-law. He willingly told Droit about Richelieu’s affairs yet told the Inspector nothing about his dealings with Droit.
Pierre departed oblivious of this skulduggery.
Chapter 4
JO CONTACTED family and friends. Her mother was pleased but seemed distracted as she entertained her new beau, now referred to as Antonio, his “proper” Italian name. Did I interrupt anything?
Jo’s sister sounded friendly, her improving health helping. Her boorish husband demanded the phone wanting to speak with his dear sister-in-law. Has Caitlin’s cancer turned them into human beings?
Her grandfather was thrilled to hear from his favourite detective but seemed reserved. When Jo asked about Nan, Pop’s voice dropped in pitch and volume. What’s he hiding? I’m afraid to push him.
Dr Gabrielle Strange took an age to answer. Jo was about to hang up when the pathologist spoke. Instead of the gothic sounding medico whispering, “I’m Strange,” there came a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘Good evening pathetic pathologist, this is …’
‘Oh it’s you. Decided to join us after all have you?’
Jo couldn’t speak. Where was the cheery, cheeky conversation from the woman she respected and loved? Before Jo could reply, Dr Strange jumped in.
‘I can’t talk now. Later.’
The line went dead and Jo thought about pinching herself. Was this a dream? I’m out of the French frying pan and into the Aussie fire.
She looked at her list. Two names remained—Dr Jack Carr and her boss, DI Elly Rose. What’s the worst that can happen with those two? Jack’s daughter’s health has gone backwards, and my place at Homicide is under threat?
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered thinking depressing thoughts. She rang her boss and this time, hallelujah, the response was much more to Jo’s liking. Rose saw the caller ID.
‘Good evening, Senior Constable and welcome home.’ Jo’s sigh was audible. ‘And I believe congratulations are in order.’
‘Thanks ma’am. It’s good to be back.’
‘DI Richelieu rescued by his brilliant colleague.’
‘Colleagues plural, ma’am; Dr Chan was his usual invaluable self.’
‘And I hope you’re keen to be back at Homicide in the morning?’
‘Definitely, ma’am; 0800 hours or sooner if you wish.’
There was a pause. ‘And I also hope I won’t have to ask if you and DI Richelieu have become an item during your overseas junket?’
Jo grimaced. ‘It certainly was no junket, ma’am, and I can swear on the Guidelines for Police and Legal Practitioners that DI Richelieu and I are most definitely not an item.’
‘I think you’re supposed to say, “We’re just good friends”.’
‘More like “just friends”, ma’am,’ said Jo with feeling.
Silence. Rose was trying to interpret that last bit and Jo was shocked at her bitter retort.
‘Right,’ said Rose. ‘Well we’ve got a tricky homicide where we reckon we know whodunit but are struggling to prove same. We need a bright young thing to crack it. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Thanks ma’am, goodnight.’
Jo enjoyed mixed feelings being thrilled to hear something positive from her boss but worried she said too much in denying any intimacy with Pierre. And what was worse, he still didn’t know she knew about his incarcerated wife. When will I confront him?
Right now it seemed, as her phone rang and she saw the caller ID. It was the French detective with the heroic eyes and silken tongue.
‘Pierre,’ she said trying to sound neutral.
‘Bonjour ma chérie. ‘Ow are you? ‘ave you arrived safely in your flat?’
‘I’m fine, Pierre. I’ve just spoken with DI Rose and she is expecting me in the office first thing in the morning.’
‘So soon? But surely you must ‘ave a break. Take an ‘oliday.’
‘Thanks but I’d rather crack on.’
‘I wish I could take you away for a few days. We could finish what we ‘ad to abandon in Paris.’ Jo didn’t speak. Pierre worried. ‘Ma chérie, are you there?’
‘Oui but I’m tired, Pierre. The jet lag is kicking in.’
‘Of course, forgive me. I will call again, tomorrow. Sleep well, my darling. Au revoir.’
‘Bye,’ she said in a soft voice, and tossed the phone on the sofa. ‘Bugger,’ she whispered. ‘This is getting messy.’
There was one more name on her list. Dr Jack Carr was someone she liked, no, more than liked. His parents and kids were fabulous people and she wondered if her feelings for the GP were formed or helped because of his family.
She needed a lift and knew a brief chat with Jack would do the trick. She rang and he answered. His voice hit the spot.
‘Is it true? I’m speaking with the lovely Detective Jo Best?’
Jo struggled as a lump formed in her throat. ‘Good evening, Doctor.’
‘Welcome, and as the poet said, “Home is where the heart is”.’
Jo remembered her first meeting with the GP. Then he quoted one of his favourite poets, Tennyson. Jo assumed this latest quote was again by Lord Alfred. ‘Ah, I’m guessing it’s by Tennyson.’
Jack laughed. ‘Possibly, but I think it was Elvis.’
Jo laughed. She felt better and wanted to keep chatting. ‘So how are you, Jack and your folks and your kids?’
‘Fine, we’re all good.’
‘And Grace? How’s she going?’
‘I’d like to say fantastic but it’s more like pretty good. Her speech is improving all the time but getting back to Little Aths will take time.’
‘She’ll make it. I know a winner when I see one.’
Jack was touched. They paused. Then the sound of children’s laughter bounced down the line.
Jo smiled. ‘That sounds like your lively lad.’
‘He’s playing with a friend he hasn’t seen for ages.’
‘Great, please give him and all your family my love.’
‘Will do and I hope we get to see you soon, Jo.’
‘Me too. I’m ba
ck at work in the morning but I’ll ring once I’ve found m’feet.’
‘Look forward to it. Thanks for calling, Jo.’
‘Bye Jack.’
She ended the call, scratched her head and made a mental list. ‘Family okay, job okay, Strange friend not okay, lovely GP okay, and the lover situation definitely not okay.’ She undid her rucksack. ‘Washing, Joanna, time to soak those smalls.’
She suffered from the type of jet lag where she was tired but couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced until finally it pulled over and quit.
She slept like a log on Mogadon, woke, looked at her clock radio and swore. The alarm didn’t work and Jo promised her boss she’d be at work at 0800 hours. It was now 0710.
It is possible to shower, dress, swig fruit juice, apply makeup and get dressed in nine minutes. Jo ran to the Clifton Hill station, raced onto the platform and squeezed into a carriage as the doors closed.
She remembered her day at this station heading towards her first Homicide interview. What a disaster. Forced to make an arrest, her hair was wrecked, her uniform ripped and her face bloodied.
Do I look any better today?
She knew all Homicide eyes would be on her. Off to Paris to rescue a fellow officer and the trip a raging success. Well yes … and no. DI Richelieu was set free but the Titanic romance hit an iceberg.
What should I say? Can I fool my colleagues?
The main issue was Richelieu’s return. Jo knew she must speak to him before he fronted Homicide. If he rocked up full of romantic dreams and got the cold shoulder in front of the squad, there would be one massive embarrassment spill.
She alighted at Southern Cross and hurried to work. The incident room was full and DI Rose began to speak as Jo appeared. A raucous cheer went up, clapping followed and the boss could hardly reprimand the brightest detective on her team.
Jo took a seat with back-slapping officers giving her heaps. Rose called for order.
‘Okay, let’s leave the welcome for later; business before pleasure.’
The room groaned. Billy Hughes chimed in. ‘Come on, ma’am. We want the inside story on how the DI was rescued by Wonder Woman.’
Others added their support and Rose didn’t want to kill the enthusiasm. She gave Jo the come-here finger movement. Jo stood and moved to the front as the room cheered and applauded. Rose spoke.
‘Let’s have the truth, Senior, the whole truth and …’
Everyone finished the sentence. ‘… nothing but the truth.’ More laughter which quickly settled. Talk about a rapt audience.
Jo forced a grin. She captivated her audience. ‘Once upon a time,’ she smiled and the room filled with laughter. So much so, office staff wandered in to listen.
Without trying, Jo became a brilliant storyteller. She explained the backstory of how, years ago, DI Richelieu arrested a corrupt cop who swore revenge. She ran through the planted drugs, the fake step-sister, the second corrupt cop and evil crime boss. She omitted the attempted seductions by the English landed gentry but related the business of writing a blog accusing the police of arresting the wrong man which turned Paris upside down. Most were impressed, some seriously so.
‘You used the media to set the DI free?’ asked Billy Hughes. Jo shrugged. ‘But you hate the media.’ That prompted a huge laugh.
Then Charlie Baldwin called. ‘And is it true Frenchmen make fantastic lovers?’
Another laugh which quickly died as the hope of gossip appealed. Pause. Jo milked it. ‘No comment, and I want to see my lawyer.’ That got the biggest laugh.
He gave her the thumbs up and Rose took control. ‘Okay, enough.’ Jo sat. ‘I’m sure we’re rapt Jo was able to help DI Richelieu and we hope he’ll be back with us next week.’
DI Rose was doing well in her new role with her ability to mix and join the troops while being able to steer them back to work when necessary. Now was one such time.
‘Right, back to the Frankston homicide. We arrested our sole suspect last night, the victim’s ex, and I want a ton of information before we interview him this morning. So, what’s the latest? Billy?’
DS Hughes stood and pointed to material on the display board. ‘There’s still only one suspect, the ex-husband, Kevin Grande with an e. He’s a tram driver working out of Preston with a list of priors involving violence towards the victim. He was arrested for breaching an AVO taken out by his wife. He did time for assault. His anger at being denied custody of the kids seems to be the obvious motive. If I can’t have them, neither can she.’
‘What about forensics?’ asked DS Justin Fletcher.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Send Jo Best, she’ll get them moving,’ said Charlie Baldwin.
Jo ground her teeth at this old joke which fizzled.
‘What about someone other than the ex?’ asked DI Blunt, Mr Unpopular, now trying to crawl back into everyone’s good books. ‘Could it have been a burglary gone wrong or a druggie who lost it?’
‘All possible but unlikely,’ replied Hughes. ‘Mr Grande had motive and opportunity, and the awful injuries to the victim means it must have been someone with an anger problem. This was personal.’
That killed the conversation.
Rose continued. ‘We may get something from the PM and Forensics but his alibi is crucial. Whatever he says, if he says anything, we need to test and quickly.’
DS Fletcher responded. ‘He’s living with a mate, Cooper Yale, in North Melbourne. After we arrested Grande, we interviewed Yale who swore blind his mate was at Yale’s place from about 1800 hours until tram driver Kevin left for work next morning on the first shift.’
Billy Hughes spoke. ‘The new pathologist, Dr Laudi, estimated death between 1900 and 2100 hours so if Grande was in North Melbourne as his mate claimed, he ain’t the killer.’
Jo observed. She was tickled pink to be back working on a case, especially a tricky homicide, and her first question was about Dr Laudi. Who is he or she and what has happened to Dr Strange?
The meeting ended and Charlie Baldwin apologised. ‘Sorry about the smartarse remarks, Jo.’ She gave a wave dismissing the matter. ‘And it’s great to have you back.’ He winked and she smiled.
Billy Hughes approached. ‘Right, Senior, you’re with me.’ Jo grabbed her bag and followed DS Hughes.
‘Why am I always the bridesmaid?’ called Baldwin which got a good response.
Chapter 5
VLAD SLEPT ON THE BEACH, close to the water, the safest place he reckoned to avoid sharks and crocodiles. He ate the food from the plane, the first time he ate a whole apple; peel, flesh, pips, stalk, the lot. Apple and beer for breakfast was a first but would it be his last supper? There was golden sand aplenty but no Golden Arches. In the night he heard many scary noises and kept moving.
He stopped worrying about Cam. Survive Venezuela first.
Back in Florida, Vlad lived with his wife and young son in Orlando. He loved them but lied about his job telling his wife he worked on the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. He made a fortune from cocaine but lived in a modest house. Neighbours thought he was a regular guy.
In Venezuela he watched dawn break with the rolling waves in front and the mysterious jungle behind. By plane, Caracas to Miami was a two and a half hour flight. Walking would take a bit longer. He started.
After an hour he rounded a headland and struck gold. A fishing boat rested on the sand, and on it sat three men repairing nets. Vlad fell back. His Spanish was basic and, as a former soldier, he could handle himself. He carried a few grand in cash. He put $300 in his back pocket and the remaining few thousand inside a sealed bag in his jocks. If he and the money survived, the cash to be laundered might need to be laundered. He worked out a story, walked around the rocks, waved and called.
‘Hola!’
The fishermen were surprised but one seemingly unarmed person caused them no concern. They watched him approach and stopped work when he arrived. He smiled and spoke slowly.
‘Do you speak, English? Inglés?’
The men shook their heads and observed the gringo.
Where did he come from, what’s he doing, and what does he want?
Vlad ramped up the sympathy routine. ‘I, me, lost. I go Cuba,’ he said pointing north, ‘Cuba.’
‘Cuba,’ they all said, laughing. Vlad tapped their boat and pointed to himself and the boat. ‘You take me to next town. Si?’
The oldest man waved a hand and spoke in Spanish. ‘We only fish here.’ He indicated the sea in front of them. ‘Here.’
Vlad was losing. ‘I have money.’ He looked at them. ‘Dinero?’ They knew what that meant. Did they ever? He produced the money from his back pocket. US dollars looked good to the fishermen. ‘Here,’ he said giving a $100 bill to each man. They took it quick smart. ‘Take me to next town, where you sell fish. Comprende?’
Heads nodded. ‘Si, next town.’
Vlad was rapt. Day 1 and I’m rescued.
Eventually the nets were back on board and Vlad helped shove the boat into the sea. The ancient motor chugged. The men knew their routines, and Vlad relaxed when they gave him bread and cheese and a flask with something homemade and alcoholic. He sat at the bow.
The men chatted with lowered voices. Vlad picked up the odd word. He pretended to be admiring the sea views but spotted them looking sneakily at him and tooling up with knives they used to gut fish. This looked bad. Day 1 and I’m murdered.
Vlad stood and looked at the mighty jungle. It was back there somewhere. He could fight and be killed. He could fight and kill but could he steer the vessel? Yes, but in which direction? He could go for a swim. Do I want to be stabbed and thrown overboard or jump overboard and become a shark sandwich? Some choice.
Two of the men approached slowly from different directions. Vlad couldn’t believe he survived the plane massacre, and the perils of the jungle only to be murdered and, wait for it, after he paid 300 bucks for a mini ocean cruise.
One man fiddled with a rope pretending to work. Another came at Vlad holding fruit. This was a ruse. ‘Hey, Gringo,’ he said.