Blood Ties (17 page)

We had just over ninety minutes to get to Mr Murchison’s place and it took ninety minutes to drive to Big Town. We didn’t waste any time but secured Miss G’s house and scooted back to my house where we scrabbled into our uniforms. The Sarge’s had been scrunched up in his luggage, so I quickly ironed it for him while he sorted out his utility belt and hunted through his clothes for his socks, cap and boots.

“I hate rushing like this,” he complained grumpily, slipping on his still-hot shirt, cursing under his breath as it hit his skin and fastening the buttons quickly. I was momentarily transfixed by the sight of his bare torso when he threw off his t-shirt. He had great muscles. He had to prompt me twice to wake me up and get me moving again. I finished getting ready at warp speed to hide my embarrassment, tying my laces speedily, twisting up my hair and fixing on my utility belt.

With a minute to spare we jumped down the stairs to the patrol car where both of us headed for the driver’s door. Awkward moment. I was used to driving everywhere.

“I’ll drive today, Senior Constable,” he said officiously, pulling rank.

“Of course, Sarge. Your prerogative as the senior officer,” I replied coolly, climbing into the passenger seat, but not happy about it. I liked driving the patrol car and knew the roads better than him. His eyes slid in my direction as he turned the car on and we drove off in silence.

I decided to spend the trip on my phone. First I rang Fiona and then Eliza to cancel our lunch date and harangue them about their training for the fun run. That took up forty-five minutes by the time they told me all of their news. Then I rang Jake and told him that the Sarge was taking Dad and me to dinner, inviting him to meet us at the bistro later this evening.

He was naughty and flirty on the phone. I suspected he’d had a few drinks with his repulsive brothers, but he was so charming and amusing that I giggled for a good fifteen minutes talking to him. I was desperately aware that the Sarge could overhear every word I said and was pretty sure that he was getting the general idea that Jake and I were indulging in some phone foreplay.

“Jakey,” I complained reluctantly. “Stop it! I have to go now. I’m working . . . Stop it! I’m going. You’re being so cheeky . . . No! I’m not saying that. Not right now! I’m not alone. I have to go, I’m working . . . Jakey! No! God, I’m going to have to sort you out tonight, my honey-boy, aren’t I?” I listened and laughed. “In your dreams . . . Okay . . . Yes . . . I know. Me too . . . Love you. See you tonight.”

I hung up with a dreamy smile on my face, humming happily for the rest of the drive. Jake always had that effect on me, but obviously not on the Sarge though because his face was grim and humourless.

“Can you stop that bloody humming? It’s driving me insane,” he said, voice as cold and sharp as a snowstorm. “I was hoping we could talk about strategy for our meeting with Murchison during this drive instead of you spending the time gossiping on your phone.”

“I’m not supposed to be working today,” I reminded him snippily. “I had plans. I needed to sort them out.” I paused, looking out the window. “I’m sorry I have a life.”

“I don’t appreciate the attitude, Fuller. We all make sacrifices for the job,” he snapped in an exceedingly snooty voice.

Screw you!
I thought angrily, arms crossed, staring stonily ahead out the windscreen. We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

He was lost as soon as he hit Big Town and I refused to guide him until he was forced to ask for my help, swallowing his annoyance and his pride. I then barked out directions until we pulled up in front of a stunning architecturally-designed house, perched on the headland overlooking the bay.

I flung myself out of the car, slamming the door and headed determinedly to the front door, pressing on the doorbell with unnecessary violence. A disembodied voice speaking through a hidden intercom made me jump in fright. “Yes?” I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

“Mr Murchison, it’s Senior Constable Fuller and Sergeant Maguire to talk to you about Miss Greville,” I spoke up into the air, waving around my badge, not knowing which direction to speak to.

“You’re right on time. Come in. I’m in the study,” he said, and there was a buzz. The front door clicked open and I turned the knob, stepping inside, the Sarge close behind. We found ourselves in a grand entry room, double-storied in height, light streaming in through large windows that reached up to the ceiling. The furniture appeared to be antique and valuable, the rugs opulent and original oil paintings and watercolours filled the walls. I gazed around, impressed at the restrained ostentatiousness that positively screamed that we were dealing with a very wealthy individual.

We walked down the hall looking into every room until we found the study and Mr Murchison. I noticed two things about him immediately. The first was that he was formally dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit at home on a Sunday; the second was that he was in a wheelchair.

“Oh,” I said, without thinking. “Nice chair! I bet it’s got everything on it. Just look at it!”

The Sarge glared at me sharply, silently berating me for my unprofessionalism, but Mr Murchison grinned proudly and did a little dance with his chair to show off.

“It’s top of the range,” he boasted.

“I can see that. Wow! That must have cost a bundle,” I exclaimed. “I would love to get something like that for my father.”

After that little confession, we discussed chairs for a while and I told him about Dad and he told me about his MS, which had become steadily worse as he had aged, finally rendering him unable to walk. The Sarge stood to one side, fuming about the waste of time. I glanced over at him and noticed his thunderous features.

“I’m sorry, Mr Murchison, here I am rabbiting on and taking up your valuable weekend time when Sergeant Maguire wanted to ask you about the Greville family,” I said conciliatorily.

Mr Murchison flapped away my concerns with his hand, said something nice about his pleasure in chatting to a pretty young girl and settled himself behind his desk again, his serious face returned. And in a voice that was one hundred percent lawyer, he invited us to sit down. We sat next to each other on a dark green leather lounge that was as hard as a rock. I pulled out my notebook and a pen and flicked to a blank page.

“How can I help you, Sergeant Maguire?” he asked in that supercilious tone I found common in Big Town folk. And lawyers. I hated it, but seeing it wasn’t directed at me for once, I didn’t bother to bristle. But I could tell that Mr Murchison got up the Sarge’s nose straight away, though he presented an even-tempered professional face.

“We’re after any information you might be able to give us about why somebody would be peeping on Miss Greville and taking advantage of her absence to search her lounge room and library,” the Sarge explained to the elderly lawyer.

Mr Murchison didn’t speak for a while, just made a temple with his fingers and pursed his lips, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “There are long-standing rumours of a hidden stash of treasure in the house –” he started cautiously.

“A rumour that Miss Greville assures us is false,” the Sarge broke in. “And that the Senior Constable assures me everyone in Mount Big Town knows is false, having known Miss Greville’s father and his spendthrift ways.”

“Hmm, that’s probably correct,” he conceded, giving me a patronising smile. I think if I’d been anywhere near him, he’d have bestowed a pat on my head as well. “It’s possible that someone from Wattling Bay is responsible, but I assume you’ve investigated all the local men known to have a proclivity for voyeurism?”

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to psych us out by using big words, but personally I was capable of handling words of more than one syllable and, from his posh voice, I believed the Sarge had been well-educated as well. We both blinked at him blandly.

“It’s unlikely that Miss Greville would be a target for a peeper with the nudist community just down the road,” asserted the Sarge, cutting me a quick glance to let me know that he hadn’t forgotten that had been my argument.

“True,” the lawyer conceded again. I realised then that he wasn’t being very helpful to us at all. The Sarge and I hadn’t had any time to define our working style, but I hoped he wasn’t one of those cops who expected their junior officer to keep quiet.

“Mr Murchison,” I said bluntly. “It’s clearly not a peeper, so let’s not waste any more time on that line of thought. Miss G’s house was broken into and tossed. Somebody was searching for something. Do you have any idea what that could be, because Miss G doesn’t.”

I wasn’t prepared to waste my Sunday on someone who wasn’t going to prove useful to us. The Sarge glanced at me coolly, his features neutral. It was hard to tell what he was thinking from his expression.

Murchison turned his eyes on me and his former friendliness evaporated instantly. “I have no idea, Senior Constable,” he said coldly.

I persisted. “Miss G wasn’t able to tell us about the Greville family’s current land holdings around Little Town. She knew that some land had been sold off over the years, but wasn’t sure what has happened to the money. Can you fill us in on the details of that, please?”

He wheeled himself out from behind his desk and over to a huge picture window which overlooked the bay. It was a beautiful view – very calming and tranquil. He didn’t appear to be taking it in at all. “The money received from selling the remainder of the Greville family’s holdings has been placed into a trust that pays Miss Greville a small annuity.” He spun around to face us again. “It’s what she lives on.”

“Does the family still have any holdings left to sell?”

“No. The last one was sold in the late 1990s to the government for the development of the prison. With careful investment, that money should be enough to pay Miss Greville an income until her, er, passing.”

“So you’re saying there’s no hidden treasure, no land holdings and Miss G survives on a small pension from a trust that your firm administers.” He nodded in agreement. “Then why would someone have broken into her house? They were definitely looking for something. And judging by where they looked, it was a document of some type.”

He stared at me blankly. “As I said before, Senior Constable, I have no idea.”

“Is it possible that there could be further land holdings or other valuables that you don’t know about? With another law firm maybe?”

“Absolutely not!” he spoke up angrily. “Murchison and Murchison has served the Greville family since they arrived to settle at the foot of Mount Big. There has
never
been another law firm for them.”

“Sorry Mr Murchison, no offence meant. I was only throwing around thoughts,” I retreated.

“We won’t take up much more of your time, Mr Murchison,” the Sarge stepped in. “A few more questions. Who in your firm is responsible for managing the trust that provides Miss Greville with her income?”

He paused for a moment as if thinking about how to answer. “That is me personally, Sergeant,” he said, not without a small touch of pride. “I’ve been managing that trust for over forty years now.”

“And it’s all properly audited as required, I presume?” the Sarge asked.

Mr Murchison took great affront to that question. “Yes, it is! How dare you insinuate otherwise?”

I was glad it was the Sarge who asked that question, not me, because he copped a vitriolic five minute spray on the inefficiencies of modern policing, the uselessness and stupidity of police officers in general and several personal attacks on the Sarge’s own intelligence and moral fibre. He listened politely then stood up when Murchison, his face red from anger, stopped for a much needed breath.

“We’ll show ourselves out, Mr Murchison. Thanks for your time today,” he said icily and we took our leave.

Chapter 8

“Boy, was he mad at you!” I laughed as we made our way back to the patrol car.

“He certainly was. Interesting, isn’t it? So much heat over what is surely a very simple question,” he mused in reply.

“You think he’s fiddling the books? Dudding Miss G out of her fortune?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Can we search the Titles Office from the station here?”

“Probably. They have all the databases on tap here. Big Town cops are spoiled rotten,” I said with undisguised resentment. I didn’t even have a computer that worked.

I gave him directions to the large and modern Wattling Bay police station, located just outside of its CBD. It was a four-story brick building, all glass and landscaping, with a flash reception area and stylishly furbished offices. We parked the car in one of the visitor spaces and headed inside. Being mid-Sunday, it was reasonably quiet, so we were noticed by the counter staff straight away.

“Well, looky here! Visitors from the country,” drawled the duty sergeant, a chubby idiot with an ugly straggly moustache, in a loud voice that drew everyone’s attention to us. “How’s it going, bumpkins? Found somewhere to park your donkeys?”

“Blow me, Phil,” I suggested, moving to the counter.

“Tessie my beauty, anywhere, anytime, and that’s a promise. Who’s your new man? Is he your cousin? You gonna marry him?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the Sarge. “See what I have to put up with from these morons?” I introduced the two men and they nodded at each other.

“Has Tess been showing you all the renowned local sights in that hillbilly heaven where she lives? The chickens in the lockup, the Bycrafts, umm . . .” He pretended to think. “Nope, can’t think of anything else.”