Lessons in Murder (13 page)

His black eyes met hers. “Yes.”

She didn’t have the energy to fight him. “I don’t want to go out for dinner. I don’t want to see anyone, or run the risk of reporters . . .”

He smiled. “Ah, Syb, I’ll look after you. Pick you up and take you back to my place, eh? Cook you a wonderful dinner.”

She surrendered. “All right,” she said.

Carol looked formidably cool and efficient. “Would you sit down,” she said formally. Bourke gave Sybil a slight smile, reminding her of the first interview after Bill’s death. But it wasn’t the same. They both knew so much more about her now, about her private life, about her feelings. She lifted her chin and returned Carol’s look but it was Bourke who asked the first question.

“There seem to be some discrepancies in what you say and other reports we have received,” he said.

“Could you give me a specific example?”

How cool you are, thought Carol.

Bourke continued, “You said you didn’t see Bill Pagett on Sunday, the night before his death. We have a witness who says you did. What’s more, we have information to suggest you had a violent argument with him.”

Sybil sat silent. Pride is everything, she thought. The ancient Greeks looked at things the right way—it’s how you face disaster that’s important, not what happens afterwards.

“Would you like to comment?” asked Bourke.

“No.”

“You do have the right to legal representation if you feel it’s necessary,” said Carol.

“It’s not necessary.”

“Do you deny being at Bill Pagett’s house on Sunday night?” asked Bourke.

“No.”

“You also stated that you hadn’t seen your husband since he returned to Australia, but we are informed that he was present that evening. Is that true?”

“No.”

“Are you saying you didn’t see him?” asked Carol.

“I didn’t know Tony was there—if he was.” Sybil stood, and Bourke rose also. Sybil wondered fleetingly if he thought she was going to do something violent. She wished she could, just to release the spring of tension that was wound to breaking point. “I don’t have to answer any of these questions, do I?” she said in a voice of polite inquiry.

Bourke looked thoughtful. “If you choose not to, Mrs. Quade, then that’s your decision. However, your answers might be of considerable help to our investigations.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be of more help,” said Sybil. She hesitated for a moment, then walked quickly out of the room.

Bourke flicked the pages of his notebook. “We’ve got to get more out of her than that,” he said. He grinned at Carol. “Do you want me to make a house call? Use the famous Bourke charm?”

Carol was playing with a silver pen, turning it over and over in her fingers. “No, Mark. I’ll give it another go myself.”

Bourke shook his head. “It’s going to break my heart if she’s guilty,” he said.

Sybil expected her, but when she saw the car draw up in the drive her pulse still leaped in fear and excitement. She opened the door to Carol’s impatient knock and stood aside to let her in.

Carol flung down her briefcase on a couch and strode to the open windows. She took a deep breath and turned to Sybil. “Now’s the time to stop lying, Sybil. It’s too dangerous to worry about your feelings anymore.”

“I can’t help you. Nothing that happened has anything to do with Bill’s death. I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did.”

Carol’s voice was tight with rage. “Can’t you see. . .” She threw up her hands. “Sybil, you look more guilty every time another crack appears in your story. You can keep repeating you’re innocent all the way to Mulawa Women’s Prison, if you like. I happen to think it would be a lot easier if you just told me the truth.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Just tell me.”

Sybil’s eyes filled with furious tears. “And everything I tell you goes into a report, doesn’t it? For people to read and snicker over. How would you like it? I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt like I do. I hate the idea of people peering into my life.” She gave an angry laugh. “The well-known invasion of privacy, Carol. I can’t stand it.”

“Tell me. I’ll only put into my report what I have to.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

The anger faded from Carol’s direct gaze. “You’ve got to trust someone, sometime. It might as well be me.”

Sybil stared at her. Is it easier to trust beautiful people? she thought irrelevantly. I want to lean on you and ask you to help me. Aloud she said, “What do you want to know?”

“What was your real relationship with Bill Pagett?”

Sybil sat down so she could look out at the sea. “I hated him.”

Having said that, there was no point in holding back. She continued calmly, “Bill was Tony’s best friend. As I told you, the first time I met Tony was at Bill’s place. And Bill was everything he admired—member of a famous family, up with all the political gossip, popular with everyone, outstandingly successful with girls . . . Tony thought he was wonderful.”

“Was there any suggestion of any sexual attraction between them?”

“No, there wasn’t anything like that. It was the good old Aussie mateship in operation, at the expense of everything else.”

“At the expense of your marriage?”

“As long as I behaved as a wife should, there was no reason to expect any trouble. You know how it is, Carol, indulging them—letting boys be boys.”

“I know,” said Carol.

Caught by her tone, Sybil said, “Have you been married?”

“Yes.”

“Divorced?”

“Yes. Go on about Pagett.”

“Bill didn’t approve of the way I behaved. For one thing, I fought against changing my name. It wasn’t Bill’s ridicule that made me give in, but Tony, who said it was very important to him. Afterwards, I was sorry I agreed, but I decided it wasn’t worth making a fuss.” She smiled without humor. “It seems the easy way, doesn’t it, to give in? Now I know it’s weak and stupid. Even if you lose, at least you can say you tried.”

“Did you and Bill Pagett openly argue?”

“Of course not. On the surface it was all in good fun. He used to call me a randy little bitch, just joking, of course, but I knew he was serious.”

“Would many people know he used that term?”

“You’re thinking of the phone calls, of course. He often said it when others were around, but always with a kind of affectionate charm. I think Bill and I were the only ones who knew what he really meant.”

“Which was?”

“That he wanted me to know he thought I was like all the rest—just to be used. Women were fair game. If they cooperated and played along with him, he was happy. If they didn’t, there was something wrong with them.” Sybil began to pace up and down. “Carol, I don’t think many people would agree with me over Bill. Almost everyone liked him.”

“He told Florrie Dunstane that you had fallen in love with him.”

“What else did he say?” said Sybil bitterly.

“In essence, that you threw yourself at him and he had to gently refuse you because of his friendship with your husband.”

“How typically Bill,” said Sybil contemptuously.

“Why did you write that note to him?”

“I was a fool, wasn’t I? It was when I still thought I could, or should, save my marriage—that I still owed something to Tony. Bill got me alone, called to see me when Tony was out. I was a challenge to him, a woman who didn’t melt when he felt her up—all in fun, of course.” She swung around. “Bill was so much fun!” she said bitingly.

“What happened?”

“He put the hard word on me. I don’t think he could believe I wouldn’t give in to him if he really tried. And I think he wanted Tony to come home and find us together. It was horrible. He tried to physically force me . . . and then we both heard Tony driving in. Suddenly he was back to the usual charming Bill. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want him to think that afterwards I’d say anything to Tony, because if he did, he’d concoct some story to say I’d made the first move. I suppose I knew Tony would believe him rather than me. Now, I can’t understand why I bothered, but it was important then, important to make sure Tony didn’t suspect anything.”

“Why write a note? Why not ring him?”

“I don’t know if you’ll understand. I hated him so much I couldn’t bear to speak to him. But I had to stop him from saying anything, so I wrote that note and then drove over to slip it under his door. It was such a stupid thing to do. It just gave him ammunition to use against me.”

“The night before Bill Pagett died—why did you go to see him if you couldn’t stand him?”

Sybil sighed. “Bill rang me and said he’d heard from Tony, and that he was returning to Australia. I didn’t want him back, I didn’t want to have to face him. Bill said Tony was tossing up whether to return or not, that it depended on me. He said we’d have to discuss it face to face. I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t just leave it. Finally I said I’d call over. He was alone. I didn’t see Tony, but you said he was there. Was that true?”

“Hilary Cosgrove was outside. She’s one of your students, isn’t she? It seems she and Pagett were lovers. She saw you leave, couldn’t decide what to do, so started to walk home, then she changed her mind and went back. She said your husband was there with Pagett.”

“So Tony could have arrived while she was starting to walk home? He might not have actually been there when Bill . . .”

“When Bill what?” Carol looked at her expression. “Sybil, it’s all right. Please tell me.”

Sybil couldn’t keep still. She shook off Carol’s hand, walking around the room, touching things, looking unseeingly out at the view, while Carol sat silently watching her. “How can I explain to you how I feel, Carol? I’ve always hidden any feelings of hurt, embarrassment or anger, even when I was a child. It’s important to me to keep face—to seem to be in control—not to be at a disadvantage. Do you understand?”

“I do, but there are times when you have to run the risk of exposing how you feel.”

Sybil nodded, resigned. “Do you know what Bill did to me, Carol, or rather, tried to do? Rape me. He wasn’t trying to kiss me, or persuade me. He wanted to humiliate me. Teach me a lesson by raping me. He didn’t bother to pretend to discuss Tony, just shoved me back against a table. And all the time he was telling me he knew I really wanted it. Let me ram it up you, he kept on saying. And when I resisted, he slapped me, hard. I couldn’t escape: he was stronger than I was.”

“What happened?”

“I hit him with a glass ashtray, on the side of the jaw. I got away from him and I screamed at him. I lost all my precious control, Carol. I picked up anything I could and threw it at him. And then I ran.” She looked down at her hands. “Not very edifying, is it?” She gave a twisted smile. “And maybe Tony was there, listening.”

“What did you do when you left?”

“I went home and cried. Cried over bastards like them. It makes me sick to think about it.”

“And nothing else?”

“Oh, you want to know if I went home and practiced with my Black and Decker? Sorry, Carol, I hate to disappoint you.”

“Sybil, I have to ask these questions.”

“Sure you do.”

Carol put her hand out. “I understand. . .”

“Do you?” Sybil was bitter. “Do you? You think you know what makes me tick?” She swung around in sudden fury. “Carol, I hate what you make me feel! I don’t want to care about you! I don’t want . . .”

The electricity of passion flickered between them.

“No, don’t,” said Carol as Sybil put her arms around her. Tongue to tongue, heart to heart, thought Carol, holding Sybil’s head with both hands and kissing her ardently, abandoning for a moment the restraint that she had promised herself. Then she pulled away. “No,” she said again.

Sybil’s eyes were unfocused with desire. “It frightens me,” she said, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

“In the circumstances, it sure scares the hell out of me, too,” said Carol with an attempt at humor. She watched with surprise as anger flared again on Sybil’s face.

“Oh, I’m compromising your investigation am I? Are you afraid I’ll go to the Commissioner and announce we’re having an affair? Is that it? Or do you think I’ll embarrass you in public, appear on Pierre Brand’s show and say you seduced me?”

“I’m sure you won’t do any of those things, but that isn’t the point. I shouldn’t be on this case, not the way I feel about you.”

Sybil’s face was wet with tears. “And how do you feel? Aroused?” she asked, her voice shaking. She looked at Carol’s still face. “Get out, go away,” she said.

“Sybil . . .”

“Please. Just go away. Please.”

And when Carol had gone, she cried in earnest, partly because of the resurrection of ugly memories, partly because she had told Carol to go, and Carol had obeyed her.

Carol slammed down the phone and groaned. “I have to give Pierre Brand an interview,” she said to Bourke. “The Commissioner says it’s an excellent idea and so does Sir Richard. Good for the image, I understand. Blonde Inspector expects early arrest, that sort of approach—bland, soothing and good PR. Of course, it’s not good enough for Brand to send a reporter to an ordinary press conference—he must have an exclusive.”

Bourke grunted sympathetically. “Going to the funeral?” he asked. “Looks like it’ll be quite a show.”

Carol made a face. “Yes, that’s the other media duty. ‘You look so good in black,’ the Commissioner said to me, ‘and Sir Richard expects you to be there.’ So I’m practicing my pensive but resolute expression for the cameras.”

“Tony Quade’s funeral’s tomorrow, too,” said Bourke, “but in the morning at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. Close friends only and no flowers. And I bet my favorite redhead, our Sybil, will also look stunning in black.”

“Since you’re going, you’ll be able to see.”

“Perhaps she’ll break down and confess all, over the coffin,” said Bourke. “After all, now we have her fingerprints on the baseball bat. Doesn’t look too good for her, does it?”

“She gave you an explanation.”

“Yes,” said Bourke. “Every Wednesday she sends a kid to collect the baseball stuff from the teacher in charge of the PE equipment store. The student puts everything in her car because Bellwhether Oval is a fair way from the school. At the oval, she deals everything out, reversing the whole process at the end of the afternoon. But isn’t it stretching things a bit to suppose that of the twelve baseball bats the school has, the very one used to kill Tony Quade happens to have his wife’s fingerprints on it?”