Lessons in Murder (8 page)

Finally Bourke said, “You don’t seem very interested in the details, Mrs. Quade.”

“You mean that under the circumstances I don’t seem to be acting appropriately?” said Sybil bitterly.

“There are many different reactions,” said Bourke soothingly.

“Oh? Perhaps I’d better start playing my role more effectively, or else you’ll be sure I’m guilty, won’t you?”

“Of what?” said Bourke carefully.

Sybil was openly scornful. “Why, of murdering my estranged husband.”

“We didn’t mention murder. It might simply be an accident, or perhaps he took his own life. . .” Bourke let the sentence trail away suggestively.

“Suicide? Tony suicide? You’ve got to be joking.”

Bourke’s voice was pitched to show regretful sincerity. “Mrs. Quade, we have to consider every possibility. For example, one scenario could be that your husband murdered Bill Pagett, and then, after brooding for a couple of days, killed himself.”

“Did Tony leave a note?”

Did she hate him? thought Carol. How can she be so cold?

“We haven’t found one,” said Bourke, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a note.”

“Can I go?” asked Sybil. “I have classes to cover.”

“Mrs. Quade,” said Carol as she reached the door.

Sybil looked back at her. “I’m sorry to make this request, but you will need to make an identification of the body.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. I’ll make the arrangements and inform you.”

Sybil nodded, then said, “Will you take me?”

“Of course,” said Carol.

• • •

Mrs. Farrell felt besieged. The discovery of Tony Quade’s body had revitalized the corps of reporters who had clustered around the school entrances since Bill Pagett’s death. She had run the gauntlet as she entered the school car park, resisting the unaccustomed temptation to mow down a shrill television personality. As it was, she had accidentally nudged the woman with the front of her car, a move that met with a howl of protest from the victim and the clicking of cameras from the rest. Now the Minister had instructed her to make a statement, and was sending a trusted representative to help her frame it.

As she juggled with the preliminary outline, conscious that she had to project the correct image, say the correct things and basically give little, if any, information, one of the office staff brought in her mail. She sorted through it rapidly. Her hands suddenly stilled as she came upon a plain square envelope addressed in sloping printed capitals and marked ‘personal and private.’ It was identical to the ones she had been receiving, and destroying, over the past few months.

She turned it in her hands. Destroy it unread? Give it to, the Inspector? To Sir Richard? Slowly she slit it open.

They drove in silence, Sybil imagining an invisible string pulling the car towards the hideous thing waiting in a refrigerated cocoon for her to say, yes, I think that’s Tony. What would he look like? She took a deep breath.

Carol glanced at her. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Sybil turned resolutely to the beaches that unwound beneath the coast road. If only she was one of those distant figures lounging on the sand, lazily watching the Pacific lick the shore, concerned merely with the darkness of a tan. She took another deep breath, looking at Carol’s calm profile. “How do people usually behave when they . . . when they see someone’s body?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I’m asking . . . how long do I have to stay. . .”

The green eyes considered her for a moment before returning to the road. “Only a short time. It will help you to just keep one thing in mind—to identify the person. Don’t think what happened, or about the past or future—just give yourself one task to accomplish, and ignore everything else.”

“Will you be there?”

“Of course. And don’t worry about fainting, or anything like that. It’ll all be over in a few moments.” Hearing her own soothing words, Carol felt like a hypocrite. She knew what Sybil was about to see: a person she remembered as vital and alive was now dead meat on a slab. She tried to see the smashed flesh, broken bones, dried blood through Sybil’s eyes. “Try to think about something else,” she said, knowing it was futile advice.

After they left the beaches, the traffic became heavier. They approached the huge grey meccano arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Carol’s smooth, decisive driving and the hum of the car’s air conditioner floating Sybil into a suspension of time. She would be content to sit silently by this beautiful woman and watch her hands on the wheel, the way she glanced up at the rear vision mirror, the angle of her chin, the firm lines of her mouth.

Carol turned her blonde head to meet Sybil’s intent gaze. “We’re almost there,” she said to Sybil almost roughly, as if to break the moment.

• • •

Carol watched Sybil closely. She had identified the body as her husband and now was the time when shock could make her vulnerable, when she might say something unguarded, something incriminating. Sybil’s face was so white the faint dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose stood out clearly. Her eyes met Carol’s. “Can we leave?” she said.

Carol drove efficiently through the busy inner city streets, seized a parking space with swift competence, and guided Sybil out of the car and into a little coffee shop. They sat in silence over their coffee cups, their knees almost touching at the small table.

Sybil could not raise her eyes. She watched Carol fiddle with a spoon and thought irrelevantly what long, sensitive fingers she had, staring fixedly at the black opal ring she wore—anything to avoid considering the thing she had just identified as her husband. A shudder of alarm shook her composure. She’d said it was Tony, but with the face so destroyed . . . what if she glanced over to the door and saw him walking into the coffee shop, his features still intact?

“It was Tony, wasn’t it?” she asked, looking up into Carol’s eyes for reassurance. “I mean, it looked . . . I thought it was Tony, but now. . .”

Carol thought of the murderers who cried when they saw their victims: who turned as white as Sybil when they viewed their handiwork. “You said you were sure,” she said coldly.

Someone at another table laughed. Sybil stared blankly at Carol, who suddenly put a hand over hers and said, her voice warming as she spoke, “It’s all right. Everything fits: his age, height, eye color. He was carrying a passport, driver’s license, credit cards. Some English money as well as Australian.” There was a pause. Carol removed her hand. “Have your coffee.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t drink it.”

“Mrs. Quade? Shall we go?”

“Please. Call me Sybil.” She glanced up with a bitter smile. “Looking at a dead body together rather dissolves formality, doesn’t it?”

“You know my name is Carol. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“I should go back to school.”

“Oh, I think you’re excused for today.”

Arriving punctually at eight on Friday morning, Mrs. Farrell was relieved to find the police had decided to vacate her office and move to the local police station. She was less pleased to find on her desk a note from Inspector Ashton requesting an appointment.

Mrs. Farrell had been chided by the Department for not keeping Sir Richard fully informed and she now found her desire to cooperate considerably weakened. She was heartily tired of Bill Pagett, his illustrious father, and now, to cap it all, the uproar the death of Sybil Quade’s husband had caused. Last night the television news bulletins had blown the story of Tony Quade’s death into a swelling gothic drama with alarming innuendos about the relationships between Mrs. Quade, her husband and Bill Pagett. Even worse, heavy hints had been dropped about Pagett’s romantic activities with, as one breathless reporter exclaimed, “nubile young beach goddesses from Bellwhether High.” Later that night her telephone had run hot: Sir Richard had called, the Director-General had called, the Minister for Education had called.

This afternoon she was to make the official statement she and the Departmental representative had labored over the day before. “After all, Phyllis, public education needs positive press,” the Minister had said, “and it is not helped by the present situation. We’ve heard that muckraker, Pierre Brand, is going to do one of his in-depth exposés and I want you to get in first to scotch the rumor that anything untoward ever happened between Sir Richard’s son and any senior girl.”

Mrs. Farrell’s suggestion that this statement might not be completely accurate was disregarded and she was now faced with the unhappy prospect of trying to please everyone at once—the Department, the Minister, Sir Richard, and the voracious media.

Her train of thought was interrupted by Lynne Simpson, who entered, uninvited, with a jangle of gold bracelets and an expression of deep concern. “Mrs. Farrell! I have been accosted, positively accosted, by a television crew in the car park. Surely you have the authority to warn them off. I can’t see how any teacher can be expected to cope with this type of harassment as well as the demands of a day’s lessons. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m rather surprised to see you here so early,” said Mrs. Farrell, making a barbed reference to the number of mornings she had stood by the signing-in book as Lynne, late as usual, had swept in on a wave of breathless apology.

“First Bill and now Tony!” exclaimed Lynne, sitting uninvited on the nearest chair. “I feel it’s a nightmare from which I’ll never wake!”

Mrs. Farrell repressed a sarcastic reference to the fact that the two victims would certainly not awake this side of eternity, and dialed her deputy principal. Having dispatched him to clear the school grounds of cameras and reporters she turned her attention back to Lynne, who was checking her scarlet nail polish. “There is something else, Ms. Simpson?”

“Well, yes. I do need your advice.”

Mrs. Farrell examined Lynne’s expression of earnest entreaty, her smooth dark hair, the expensive rings and beautiful clothing. The only advice Lynne Simpson had ever asked of her before had related to manipulating the Department’s leave formula to gain extra time of teaching duties during her divorce, so Mrs. Farrell waited with interest to see what special service she could render this time.

“It’s about a threatening phone call. Last night. I just froze when I heard the whispering voice.” Lynne’s face wore a suitably alarmed expression as she continued, “I’m all alone. I’ve sent the kids to Bruce, of course, because I need to know they’re safe, and away from all this. And as far as Bruce himself is concerned, I certainly don’t want him back, but it can be comforting at times to have a man around, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Farrell thought of her own quiet little accountant husband: a comfort? Not quite the word. A presence, or even a habit, would be a better description. “Have you told the police?” she asked.

“Well, I expected to find them here, in your office. Where are they?”

Frostily amused at Lynne’s aggrieved tone, Mrs. Farrell advised that the police had thought it more convenient to move to the local police station and continue their inquiries from that base. “However,” she said, “Inspector Ashton will be here to see me at ten. If you wish, I’ll advise her that you would like to see her.”

Still Lynne did not rise. Mrs. Farrell sighed. “There’s something more?”

“I wonder if you’ll be speaking to the media, Mrs. Farrell.”

“The Education Department has asked me to make a statement this afternoon. Why?”

Lynne leaned forward confidentially. “It’s just,” she said sincerely, “that sometimes it’s better to give an exclusive, rather than be hounded by every little reporter with a notebook.” Mrs. Farrell remained silent, so Lynne continued, “It happens that I have a contact with a television program, and I did say that I’d approach you to see if you’d be interested . . .”

“In what way would I be interested?”

“Why, in giving an exclusive interview. You’d be paid, of course.”

“By whom?”

Lynne radiated enthusiasm as she said,
“Behind the News
is the highest rated program in its time slot and Pierre Brand must be one of the most skilled interviewers—”

Mrs. Farrell rose. “Definitely not. And please don’t tout this offer round to other staff members. It could do nothing but harm for Bellwhether to be associated with the kind of sensationalism that Pierre Brand peddles every night of the week.”

Lynne left Mrs. Farrell a whiff of her expensive perfume and a feeling of outrage. That a member of her staff should stoop to soliciting for Pierre Brand was almost as disgraceful as any expectation that she, Mrs. Farrell, would deign to be interviewed for a program she had always regarded as unreliable, exaggerated and of very poor taste.

Chapter Six

“Carol,” said the Police Commissioner, “I want you to spend this weekend concentrating on the Quade woman. Yes, I know you’re going to say you’ve got a lot of other work to clear up, but I’ll deal with that. The point is, Sybil Quade could be the key to the whole thing. Obviously she’s being less than frank about her relationships, both with her husband and with Sir Richard’s son. I want you to win her trust, and fast, Carol—that bastard Pierre Brand is after the story and Sir Richard’s getting restless, okay.”

When Carol had rung with the offer of a day puttering around the harbor in a little cabin cruiser, Sybil’s immediate impulse had been to refuse, although she was tempted, not only by the chance to escape Terry’s suffocating presence and the telephone calls from curious acquaintances, but also by the thought of spending more time with Carol.

“I have to ask you some further questions,” said Carol, “and I rather selfishly hoped you’d agree to come out on the harbor, especially as I haven’t had the time to use my boat for months. It would be an opportunity to combine some work with an amount of pleasure.”

“It sounds great,” Sybil heard herself saying.

So far there had been no questions. Carol had picked her up at seven and had driven her to her home. “My father built this house—he was an architect,” said Carol as Sybil looked around. Clinging to the steep slope, the calm waters of Middle Harbour reflecting through the wide windows, the gum trees pressing in from every side, the house was private, beautiful and filled with light and an atmosphere of serenity. They hardly spoke.