by Cenarth Fox
Margaux grinned and gave Jo a wiggly finger wave with the hand not holding her gun. ‘My ‘usband is stupid,’ she said. ‘Pierre gave my brother power of attorney over my affairs. We hired expert lawyers to appeal my manslaughter conviction, and expert psychiatrists to support my now normal mental ‘ealth. My appeal was successful and I ‘ave been out for almost a month and stupide Pierre ‘as no idea. The man keeps paying my brother for my specialist treatment which no longer ‘appens. Pierre is proof that money does grow on trees.’
Jo quizzed her. ‘I’m curious. How does a convicted murderer get access to Australia?’
‘What, you ‘ave never ‘eard of a false passport?’
Jo shook her head. ‘Pierre never told me you were so lovely.’
‘Knowing Pierre, I am surprised ‘e ever mentioned me.’
That hurt. Doubly so because it was true.
‘So now you see our ingenious scheme,’ said Nancy. ‘We’ve been tailing you for days. Step one, we kill Pierre using a stolen car. Step two, we frame you for his murder by damaging your vehicle and planting DNA we collected from his house in Paris. And step three, in a fit of depression and shame, we help you commit suicide, which of course, removes you from Pierre’s will. Heir today, gone tomorrow.’
Margaux laughed. ‘Oh très drôle, sister-in-law. And everything ‘appens ‘ere in ‘er apartment. It’s brilliant, n'est-ce pas?’
‘Oui, n'est-ce pas,’ said Jo, ‘and naturellement and s’il vous plaît me old sheila.’
‘Right, enough,’ snapped Nancy and moved towards Jo. ‘Sit still Joanna and we’ll make this as quick as possible.’
Jo’s sarcasm and stirring sank. Her body had a mind of its own. Nancy knelt on the sofa and held her gun with both hands. She edged towards Jo. Margaux moved towards the door, out of the line of fire. Jo would have been glad to be sacked from Victoria Police rather than murdered but sometimes you don’t always get what you want.
‘Why don’t you close your eyes, Joanna,’ said Nancy exhibiting a snippet of human kindness, totally out of character for so evil a person. Jo took her advice. She could hear and feel Nancy moving along the sofa. She dreaded the explosion and hoped it would be instantaneous.
The barrel of the gun touched her temple. It was gentle but cold. Even with her eyes closed, Jo could clearly see Nancy’s finger on the trigger. She sensed it being squeezed. What a way to die.
The calm before the storm was shattered as a loud banging sound scared the shit out of all three women as a fourth female let rip.
‘Come on, girly, open this bloody door.’ Gabrielle Strange couldn’t raise her favourite detective, which was unusual in itself. When you throw in the fact the Senior Constable was being investigated by IBAC on suspicion of attempted murder, it was easy for the pathologist to worry. She would never forgive herself if she stayed home and the talented young woman did herself a mischief. Hence the door belting and the demand for admission.
Nancy hopped up still pointing her gun at Jo. ‘Keep her covered,’ whispered Nancy. ‘If she tries anything, shoot her.’ Margaux moved closer to Jo but not too close. Nancy moved to the door and paused.
More savage door knocking from a new seriously worried pathologist. ‘Come on Detective. It’s me, Florence fucking Nightingale.’
Strange worried even more when the door was opened and a woman pointing a firearm confronted the medico.
‘Come in, slowly and quietly, or I will kill you,’ said Nancy.
‘Well,’ said Gabrielle, ‘since you put it like that; how do you do?’
She entered, the door was closed and Gabrielle took in the scene.
‘Good evening, Doctor,’ said Jo.
‘Don’t you ever answer y’phone?’ she replied. ‘And you might have told me you were entertaining a couple of fruit loops.’
‘Shut it,’ snapped Nancy waving her gun. ‘Over there.’
Gabrielle sat in the single armchair. ‘I take it black, no sugar.’
Nancy spoke to Margaux. ‘Watch the lard-ass. If she moves, shoot her. And once we fix the cop, we’ll finish her anyway.’
‘Fix her?’ said Strange. ‘Is that some form of criminal argot?’
Nancy snapped. ‘Another word and I’ll kill you first.’
‘Leave it, Doctor,’ said Jo. ‘With me dead, they may let you go.’
‘Smart advice,’ said Nancy as she resumed her position on the sofa. ‘Eyes closed, Detective, and we’ll help you commit suicide.’
‘Suicide?’ interrupted Strange causing Nancy to spin round and Margaux to cop an attack of nervous trigger finger.
‘I’m warning you, bitch; shut it,’ spat Nancy.
‘But that’s not how you commit suicide.’ Strange’s claim intrigued Nancy. ‘If you want to be sure the pathologist reckons she topped herself, you’ll need the right angle of entry.’
‘What would you know?’ demanded Nancy.
‘She’s the police pathologist,’ said Jo still keen to keep them talking.
‘That’s me,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I’ve seen more suicides by shooting than you’ve had hot dinners, which, by the look of you, would be several and then some.’
Nancy ignored the insults believing Gabrielle knew what she was talking about. ‘So tell me how to shoot her to make it look like suicide.’
‘What, from over here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll get it wrong. Let me demonstrate. I’m a professional. I can guide your hand to the perfect position. You’ll waste the pig and whoever does the autopsy will swear it was suicide.’
Jo’s brain kept telling her it was a dream.
‘Okay,’ said Nancy, ‘but move very, very slowly.’
‘Slowly? I can’t even spell fast.’ She groaned as she rose and headed to the sofa. Jo cried silently unable to comprehend what might happen.
‘Stop,’ said Nancy and Gabrielle did.
‘You sure this’ll work?’ asked Margaux more worried than anyone.
‘It’ll work. Get the car. We need to be out of here before the neighbours ring the cops.’
‘We should use the silencer.’
Nancy snapped. ‘I told you. Suicides don’t use a silencer? Now go.’
Margaux moved to the door watching the others, and pointing her gun at Gabrielle.
‘Tell me how to make it a suicide,’ said Nancy, pointing her gun at Jo’s temple.
‘Too far away,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Powder burns are the key.’ Nancy moved the gun a couple of inches. ‘Now tip it upwards.’ Gabrielle made her hand a gun. ‘Like this. Suicides always point like this.’ Nancy tilted the gun. ‘Higher.’ Jo’s breathing sounded loud.
Margaux reached the door, and not wanting to watch the execution, started to open it.
‘You’re nearly correct,’ said Gabrielle ready to lunge at Nancy who prepared to pull the trigger. She didn’t because a huge roar erupted, and a man hurled himself at Margaux knocking her flat on her back. Everything happened in fast motion, almost simultaneously. Nancy panicked, swivelled and pointed the gun at Gabrielle who froze. The intruder grabbed Margaux’s gun and raised it to shoot Nancy who swivelled and shot the intruder. He fell and before Margaux could get up and grab her gun, Gabrielle dropped on her. Ouch.
Nancy spun round to kill Jo who gave the Bostonian bitch a backhanded throat chop. Her Eve’s orange came under heavy fire. She choked, clutched her throat and dropped her gun. Jo snatched it and Margaux’s, and the credits began to roll.
‘Well done, Detective,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Who’s your martyred knight in shining armour?’
Jo looked closer at Vlad, the drug runner with the now crimson shirt. ‘He’s a crim from the US who fled to Oz to get away from the Mob.’ She felt for his absent pulse. ‘He survived one American assassin but not another. He deserves a medal. He died to save our lives.’
‘Yours,’ said Gabrielle. ‘They would have missed me, I’m so slim.’
Jo wanted to laugh and cry and scream and cheer. She cuff
ed the gasping Nancy, and asked Gabrielle to remain in situ atop the French con woman and killer, Pierre’s secretive missus. Both intruders complained, their misery on fire. Jo reported the shooting.
Irony dominated the scene. DI Callum Blunt tried to ruin Jo Best by getting the American cocaine dealer further involved in her life. By doing so, he saved Jo’s life. With masses of roses, Vlad drove to Jo’s twice to find her not home. He gave it one more try and heard the threats inside. About to hammer on the door, it opened thanks to Margaux. Blunt’s action saved Jo’s life and uncovered the criminals responsible for Pierre’s horrific accident. The grinding of teeth from DIs Steele and Blunt could be heard in outer space. Alastair Dean went quiet and Elly Rose and Billy Hughes, et al. went loud.
As Jo and Gabrielle waited for the cavalry, a machine got excited in the ward at St Vincent’s Hospital where DI Richelieu clung to life. Medical staff hurried to the patient.
To be continued.
The DCI Robertson Mysteries
Somebody Murdered Maggie is a crime fiction novella. A young mother is murdered in her kitchen. Her toddler son is crying in the next room. Whodunit? There’s a laundry list of suspects. Then a motorcyclist crashes and dies. Some strange woman reckons it’s murder. Really? DCI John ‘Robbo’ Robertson heads the Victoria Police Homicide Squad and is about to retire. Can he crack the cases before he leaves? Can you solve the murders before the police? Can Robbo’s six-year-old granddaughter Joanna Best help her Pop crack the case? Surely not. Download Somebody Murdered Maggie now. It’s free.
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It’s the prequel to the Detective Joanna Best novels, and it’s free.
Tricky Conscience
Do you have a conscience? Does it work? Melbourne scientist, Bernie Slim, creates a drug designed to kick-start a conscience. Surely this Moral Compass Pill is science fiction. It’s secretly given to ordinary people with unexpected results. When a heavy criminal is tricked into taking the drug, serious trouble looms. When a public figure pops the pill, it’s no longer a secret. A leading politician, Mafia boss, and Big Pharma CEO fight for the formula. Bernie’s in strife. Can the drug and Bernie survive? What would happen if cops, crooks and politicians followed their conscience? Tricky.
Noodles for Shakespeare
It’s Pygmalion and Educating Rita Down Under. In 1975, the Communists captured Saigon. A family of six flee, with their youngest, Thanh, aged two. It’s terrifying. In Melbourne, Australia, English Lit teacher, David, introduces Shakespeare using the wit of Groucho Marx. David retires and hits a brick wall. Broke and alone, he rents a shoebox in Footscray surrounded by Vietnamese. His neighbour is the now adult Thanh who escaped decades ago. She only speaks Vietnamese. He offers to teach her English, or rather Elizabethan English. She rattles off verily, forsooth and skimble-skamble, my Lord. Their relationship develops. Has the young Vietnamese woman fallen for her senior Aussie teacher? With weird family members interfering, can Thanh succeed? Will her love for David bring happiness? And will The Bard ever get the same recognition as Groucho Marx?
A Plum Job
It’s 1940. Germany is smashing through the Low Countries and the British, Belgian and French forces are trapped at Dunkirk. The Nazis are off to Gay Paree. Louise Wellesley, a gorgeous, aristocratic young Englishwoman is desperate to act. But Society demands women of her class go to finishing school, the Buck House Deb Ball, and remain at home waiting for Mr Right. Such young ladies definitely do not cavort semi-naked on the wicked stage. But war brings change. People lie. Rules are broken. So when you’re in a foreign country and living by your wits while facing torture from the French police, Resistance, Gestapo and a double-agent, you’d better remember your lines, act out of your skin, and never ever bump into the furniture. And it helps if your new best friend is Edith Piaf.
Cassocked Savage
Patrick Brontë was a poor, Irish redhead—a brilliant Cambridge graduate and a priest for 50+ years. His daughters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne, were lauded; he was lambasted. Why? Why say he chopped chairs, cut clothes and made his kids vegetarians? Why say he banned newspapers and took pot shots at headstones? Why tell lies? Well actually the gun and the graveyard bit is true. But the other stuff? Was he really a cassocked savage? Patrick’s been given a raw deal. Was he not the reason his daughters were so darn creative? Did not their love of literature and writing come from their old man? It’s time for the truth, Patrick.
Meet the Author
I always enjoy hearing from readers with their questions and/or comments. I have a regular newsletter (Foxy’s Follies) with news about my latest books, plays and musicals. It’s free. If you’d like to receive a copy, please send an email. I never share the email address of my subscribers.
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Happy reading
Cenarth Fox
www.cenfoxbooks.com
Table of Contents
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
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