A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  ‘He’s left Jo his apartment?’ gasped Rose. Hughes couldn’t believe it. Baldwin explained. ‘Jo was as shocked as anyone. She didn’t know.’

  ‘Who told her?’ asked Rose. ‘Did Pierre tell her last week?’

  ‘She’s only just found out. Michael Chan was there. We know he’s brilliant at cracking web sites so I guess he discovered it and told her.’

  ‘Or he simply asked someone, like Pierre’s solicitor,’ said Billy.

  ‘Keep the will detail under wraps. Tell no-one,’ ordered a worried Rose. What is happening to my squad? ‘What else?’ she asked.

  ‘Chan’s thinking sounded logical to me.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Rose, angry one of her officers was a serious suspect in a major crime, and its investigation was being led by a civilian.

  Baldwin explained Michael’s thinking about the likely culprit being someone with knowledge of Richelieu’s will. ‘It is logical,’ said Hughes.

  Rose decided. ‘You two follow it up. I’ll work with the others but no-one hears about the will yet. Yes?’ They nodded. This was now a crisis.

  ‘Dad?’ asked 6 year-old Harry Carr, son of the Mont Albert GP, and brother of older sister Grace, recovering from an acquired brain injury.

  ‘Yes mate?’ replied his widowed father, trying to read the paper.

  ‘When is Detective Jo coming to our house?’

  Jack sighed quietly. ‘Well Harry, you know she’s a busy lady and has to work in the day time and the night time.’

  ‘But I miss her, and so does Rags.’

  The dog looked up at the mention of his name. “I agree,” he barked.

  ‘Could you talk to her on your phone, Dad? Please?’

  Jack was torn. He didn’t like using his children as an excuse to contact the woman for whom he felt a real soft spot.

  And besides, it’s possible she doesn’t feel the same way about me.

  Harry persisted. ‘It’s my birthday and I’d like Detective Jo to come.’

  Jack wanted to smile at the trickery of his son. ‘You’re fibbing, Harry Carr. Your birthday is a long way away and you know what happens to boys who tell fibs?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘They get an ice-cream?’

  Jack smiled. His son inherited his mother’s cheeky nature and the little boy’s jokes reminded Jack of his late wife. He missed her. To lose his wife to cancer at any age was tragic but in her thirties—no. Then to have their daughter suffer a serious brain injury was a double whammy although Grace’s slow but steady recovery was encouraging.

  ‘Okay, well you can invite her to Rags’ birthday.’

  Harry bubbled. ‘Is it Rags’ birthday? Is it?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I think so. I asked him and he barked.’ Right on cue, Rags barked. Harry beamed.

  ‘Detective Jo loves Rags. She’ll want to come to his party.’

  ‘And I hope she does.’

  ‘I like Detective Jo and so does Rags. Do you like her, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He didn’t want to tell anyone how he felt about the policewoman other than her but feared how she felt about him.

  ‘Can you help me ask her to Rags’ party, Dad, please?’

  Dad nodded and smiled inside. Is my son a matchmaker?

  Jo and Michael worked on possible attackers of DI Richelieu and drew up a list. ‘This isn’t a big list,’ said Michael. ‘They need to know the will, want to damage you and kill Pierre. Come on, who is it?’

  ‘The French.’

  ‘Agreed, but which one? The bent cop in Paris who Pierre put away years ago is back inside. His criminal boss is dead, blown up by his baby brother, and the corrupt senior gendarme we exposed was jailed.’

  ‘But they have friends and fellow crims who could work for them.’

  ‘True but we’re missing the obvious,’ said Michael.

  ‘You mean Pierre’s wife’s family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They would have to hate Pierre to try and kill him. And they’re in Paris, not here,’ said Jo.

  ‘Are they? Do we know that? And do they have access to Pierre’s will? Is there someone in Pierre’s legal firm leaking information?’

  They spoke as one. ‘Hooray Henry.’

  Jo despaired. ‘But how do we know he’s working against Pierre?’

  ‘Tricky,’ said Michael.

  ‘If there’s a conspiracy in France, there could be someone Down Under taking orders.’

  Michael nodded. ‘All possible but whoever is behind this is way ahead of us. They’ve damaged your car then attacked Pierre. They’re waiting for him to die and you to be arrested.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Jo sarcastically and feeling bilious.

  ‘But the plan fails if Pierre doesn’t die or if you aren’t charged. They need Pierre dead and you in jail.’

  ‘And if I’m not charged, killing me doesn’t help the killers because Pierre’s apartment will go to my heirs, not to the killers.’

  Michael wasn’t trying to be funny when he mimicked Oliver Hardy. ‘Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.’

  Chapter 32

  WHEN DI ROSE’S PHONE RANG, she expected the worst. It could be the news that DI Richelieu was dead. Worse, he could be dead having been killed by his colleague. Rose answered.

  ‘It’s Senior Sergeant McIntyre from Traffic, ma’am. We obtained permission to examine the victim’s apartment and gained entry using his keys. We found a handwritten note addressed to your Senior Constable Joanna Best.’ Rose said nothing dreading what was to come. ‘Are you still there, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘We found some legal documents and it appears DI Richelieu has made Senior Constable Best a beneficiary in his will.’

  ‘Yes Sergeant, we know he’s left her his East Melbourne flat.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d call it a flat. Have you been there, ma’am?’

  ‘No, and can we please get on?’

  ‘Did you know the apartment is not all DI Richelieu has bequeathed to Senior Constable Best?’

  Rose gulped. ‘What?’

  ‘He plans to add his share portfolio and Australian savings accounts as bequests to the young lady.’

  Rose was stunned. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘We found an unposted letter from DI Richelieu to Senior Constable Best explaining everything, and an email he sent to his solicitor in Paris confirming the new bequests.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ whispered the DI. Can this get any worse?

  ‘Now while in the DI’s apartment, ma’am, we took some hairs from a comb in the bathroom. A forensic officer found blood and hairs on Senior Constable Best’s car, and we are testing both for a possible DNA match.’

  Rose felt sick. ‘Say that again.’ He did. The prospect of it being true was terrifying. ‘Have you clearance for all this, Sergeant?’

  ‘Do you mean have we clearance for finding who was responsible for the cowardly and possibly murderous attack on one of your officers, with the possibility the person who owned and drove the vehicle with possibly the victim’s blood and hair thereon is a member of your squad?’

  There was a long pause. Rose went quiet before adding, ‘I hope there’s nothing more, Sergeant.’

  ‘No ma’am and I’ll contact you with any results.’

  Rose called Billy to her office and explained the latest news. Both despaired.

  Back at Jo’s, Michael was edgy. ‘I need to go home, Detective,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Jo feeling guilty. ‘Thanks heaps, Michael. Yet again you’ve cracked the case and saved my bacon.’

  He looked at her. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’ She did. ‘But we’ve made a start. I’ll work at home and give you a call.’

  She followed him to the door. ‘This has to end well, Michael. How else can Holmes and Watson keep on keeping on?’

  He half smiled. ‘I think you mean Laurel and Hardy.’

  She leant in and kissed his cheek with a kic
k to it. He left and she called. ‘I’ll let you know if the bad guys turn up.’

  She went inside feeling flat and worried. She couldn’t forget the link between dumping Pierre, his phenomenal bequest, and the horrific hit and run. Her phone pinged as a text arrived. She read it and smiled—the first time for ages.

  Hello Detective Jo. Rags wants you to come to his birthday on Saturday. He misses you and so do I. Love from Harry.

  She enjoyed a serious crush on Harry, and Rags was adorable. The whole Carr family welcomed her like one of their own. There were times she rather fancied Harry’s old man, and right now she was in need of friends.

  Going to work was not an option, and nor was talking to her boss or favourite DS. But sitting at home waiting for bad news was the pits. Not having a car didn’t help. The thought of it being forensically examined in an attempted murder investigation made her sick.

  She rang her unusual buddy, Dr Gabrielle Strange, and asked if she might drop in. The pathetic pathologist ordered her to do so. Walking to the next suburb meant Jo was soon at Gabrielle’s front door.

  She knew about Richelieu’s situation but nothing more than the basic details. Jo told her everything and the tough, experienced medico was lost for words. Now there’s a first.

  ‘He’s left you that fabulous apartment?’ Jo nodded. ‘And you’ve given him the flick?’ More nodding. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do? Go home and wait. They’ve taken my car and told me not to go to work.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Strange, who fetched her car keys and tossed them on the table. Jo’s eyes grew large. ‘Take my car. I don’t need it.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Go on, take it.’

  ‘But it’s your pride and joy.’

  ‘Oh for crying out loud, woman, you’re in a jam. Some bastard’s out to get you and my money’s on those creeps you work with or used to. DI Steele would be first in line. Do what you’re good at. Investigate.’

  Jo couldn’t think straight. Is Gabrielle right? Can I take her car? It’s a hundred years old. Has a cop set me up? Is it DI Steele?

  Ten minutes later she carefully steered the 1960s Humber Super Snipe to the end of Gabrielle’s street. She felt like a tank driver at the Battle of El Alamein. She pulled over, rang her grandfather and gave an excuse about being in the area. He ordered her to drop in. ‘The kettle’s primed.’

  She set off for Glen Iris, delaying her reply to young Harry Carr but not knowing why. Her hesitation puzzled her.

  Despite being a brilliant detective, she failed to notice a car following her. Why would she? Her depression dominated and the challenge of driving this strange Strange car occupied her mind. The two occupants of the car behind her had been watching Jo’s flat for some time. They followed her to Fitzroy North and now tagged along behind the Humber.

  This was not the first time Jo was followed. Previous spies were criminal thugs who broke into her flat, and attacked the detective in a terrifying assault. Who saved her then? Why, the one and only Pierre Richelieu, who, tragically, was currently unavailable.

  The current spies were not interested in sexual assault and although they were just as evil, they were different; they were female.

  Jo made it across town to Glen Iris, approached Robbo’s front door and heard laughter. That’s not Pop. She knocked and heard rapid footsteps. No way is that Pop. The door was opened by retired Homicide Detective Senior Constable Colin Melk. Somewhere beneath his forest of facial hair was a grin. ‘G’day Detective,’ he beamed.

  ‘We’re in here,’ called Pop, and Jo entered the lounge to find the full complement of WATTI (We Are The Three Idiots) in attendance.

  Retired DS Raymond “Tucky” Tuck and “young” Melk dropped in on their old boss; the first time they’d done so since Robbo’s late wife’s funeral. Jo could see how much the visit meant to her grandfather. Tea and biscuits were under attack.

  After the greetings and small talk, the subject of DI Richelieu’s hit and run “accident” was raised. Being front page news, it cried out to be discussed, and Jo’s brief happiness in the presence of three friendly former coppers disappeared. She slipped back into sadness. The men could see she was upset and assumed it was caused by the suffering of a special colleague. They knew about Jo’s recent international heroics with DI Richelieu, but nothing of the romance between the two.

  Robbo innocently enquired about the hit and run. ‘Do you have any leads on the ratbag who did it?’

  Jo paused and her face scrunched into sadness. ‘They think it’s me.’

  The shock was instant and powerful. Three experienced ex-coppers could not comprehend Jo’s statement. Her emotions startled them and the questions flowed.

  ‘They what?’ gasped Robbo.

  ‘Who’s they?’ demanded Tuck.

  Melk handed Jo a crumpled handkerchief. His washing and ironing skills remained undeveloped but such was Jo’s broken spirit, she accepted it and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Brandy, Ray,’ said Robbo and the former DS fetched a drink.

  Jo told them the events about her damaged car and how she couldn’t explain it. She sipped the brandy. More gentle questions followed. She thought about explaining Richelieu’s new will but didn’t.

  ‘What can we do, lass?’ asked her grandfather.

  ‘Yes, come on, Jo,’ added Melk. ‘You’ve got three brilliant detectives here. Say the word and we’ll nail the bastards who set you up.’

  She looked at their expectant faces. They wanted to help. They knew the police got this horribly wrong and were sure they could prove it. She breathed deeply and shook her head.

  ‘Thank you, all of you, but I know my Homicide colleagues are doing everything to help, and eventually Traffic will find who did it.’

  ‘How is DI Richelieu?’ asked Tuck and immediately regretted it.

  Jo’s face crumpled again and Melk’s less-than-pristine hanky got another workout. Jo explained about the DI’s life-saving surgery and induced coma, fought back tears, and Robbo looked at Tuck and Melk. They got the message. Handshakes and kisses followed then exits, and Jo was alone with her grandfather.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pop. I should be helping you not scaring your pals.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me the whole story?’ She looked at him. ‘There’s no cop like an old cop.’ His eyebrows bounced.

  With lips closed, she smiled then told him everything. He then told her a few sensible things. He was never surprised at his granddaughter and her achievements until, at his front door, he waved as she drove away in a Humber Super Snipe. Pop’s eyes popped.

  The next day, things stood still. DI Richelieu remained critical and nothing new turned up to help solve the crime. That was until DI Rose took a call from Senior Sergeant McIntyre from Traffic.

  ‘Yes Sergeant?’

  ‘It’s not good news ma’am. We explained to Forensics about a possible renegade cop and they’ve rushed through a DNA comparison.’

  ‘Rushed. Since when has DNA testing ever been rushed?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want a cop killer out there, ma’am.’

  ‘Nobody’s dead yet, Sergeant.’

  ‘I was there, ma’am, and believe me, it wasn’t for want of trying.’

  Rose went quiet. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The blood samples were damaged.’

  ‘Damaged? How is blood damaged?’

  ‘They say it appears to have been handled rather than the result of the accident.’

  ‘You mean it was placed on the vehicle before the accident?’

  ‘That’s one interpretation, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s the only explanation.’

  ‘But the hairs found were good for analysis.’

  ‘And had they been handled as well?’

  ‘They didn’t say, ma’am, and we’re awaiting results. The possibility is the hair on Senior Constable Best’s damaged vehicle is a match for the hair found in DI Richelieu’s apartment.’ Rose fr
oze. ‘Did you hear that, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

  ‘DNA doesn’t lie.’

  ‘Who will investigate this?’

  ‘HQ Command will decide but it sure won’t be me or you.’

  ‘What can I tell my team?’

  ‘Are you asking me how to do your job, ma’am?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s your call, and rather you than me. All I can do is present the evidence.’

  The call ended and Rose desperately wanted a way to prove the forensics wrong. She called Billy Hughes to her office.

  ‘Shut the door,’ said Rose, and Billy worried even more.

  ‘Is it DI Richelieu, ma’am?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘He’s hanging on. No, Traffic say Forensics reckon small samples of hair on Jo’s damaged car are possibly a match for Pierre.’

  ‘Possibly? What does that mean? If we’re talking DNA, you can’t be a little bit pregnant.’

  ‘These things take time.’

  ‘Are you making this up?’

  ‘I wish,’ said the DI.

  ‘Could the hairs have got there by some unnatural means?’

  ‘I thought so too, particularly because the blood they found was ruled out because it’s been damaged.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Not sure; handled many times perhaps.’

  ‘Or planted.’

  ‘Or planted.’

  Billy couldn’t believe the news. ‘It’s unbelievable. It can’t be true.’

  ‘The boffins at Forensics might beg to differ,’ said Rose.

  Billy was stunned. ‘She’s been framed. It has to be a stitch up.’

  ‘If it is, it’s a bloody good one.’

  ‘A bloody bad one if the blood is obviously a plant. Hughes exhaled. This was a nightmare. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Rose. ‘Pierre naming Jo in his will doesn’t help. It’s bizarre. No-one who knows Jo will believe she drove that car.’