Nefarious Doings (9 page)

I shrugged, and turned back to Berry. ‘What a dick.’

‘Yes. I’ve gotta go.’

‘Okay.’ I frowned. ‘Are you
sure
you’re all right?’

‘Yes, fine. Fine,’ replied Berry irritably. ‘Goodbye.’

I was still frowning as she left, setting a pace almost as fast as Young Scowly except in the opposite direction. Main Street seemed to be a hub of rudeness this morning.

‘What’s her hurry?’ asked Leon, coming up beside me.

‘No idea. One minute we’re chatting about guinea pigs, and the next she’s trying out for the Olympics.’

‘Well, she’s got the legs for it. But perhaps she’s left her run too late.’

‘Is that supposed to be a pun?’

‘I shall take credit for it regardless of intention.’ Leon grinned. ‘So, at the risk of sounding inquisitive, what brings you and Berry Pembroke to our local constabulary?’

‘Well, I’m here to get updates on the Dustin Craig matter. As for Berry, well she was coming in as I was coming out, but then changed her mind. And you know what? She never even asked how my mother was, or referred to the whole thing at all. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

‘Very odd,’ said Leon, staring after Berry’s rapidly retreating figure. She finally reached the end of the street and turned left, vanishing from sight. ‘But then she’s not exactly, well, what you’d call
non
-odd, is she?’

‘No. But still …’ I replayed the conversation in my head. Greetings, guinea pigs, dietary predilections and then flight. ‘It was as if she suddenly
remembered
something, or
saw
something …’

‘Who was that young bloke? The smelly one?’

I stared at Leon. ‘You’re right. She was fine, quite chatty even, until he came out of the police station.
That
was when she went all funny. Well, well, well.’

‘The plot thickens.’

‘It certainly does.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

‘And when … pardon?’

‘I asked what you’re doing tomorrow night.’ He smiled, as if well aware of the impact of the question. ‘I thought it’d be fun to have dinner. No strings, but I like you. You’re amusing. We can talk about the case.’

‘Why, ah, thank you. How nice, and how –’

‘Shall we say seven? We can try that new restaurant up near the roundabout. I’ll pick you up, save you having to drive. I’ve heard good things about that place. Everything’s organic, free-range.’

‘Ah, yes. Free-range. Of course.’

‘Excellent. It’s a date. Now I’d better run – I’m supposed to be helping Fiona set up for the Waters exhibition.
Gorgeous
sculpture, you should drop in and have a look.’

I was still formulating an appropriate farewell as he left, striding back towards his shop. Had I just been asked out on a date? Or was this a friendship thing, catching up for a chat, a bit of fun? Which would fit in with the whole gay thing – unless, he wasn’t.
No strings
, he said, and then
it’s a date
. And this coming on the heels of the buoyant exchange with the detective. In fact, if I ignored the awkward exchange with Edward Given, then today was unfolding quite remarkably.
Breaking news: middle-aged woman appears to attract two men within one hour. Confirmation to follow
. Perhaps I should wear make-up more often.

I knew your husband. In the biblical sense. Just thought you should know.

We received word the following morning that Dustin Craig’s funeral had been set for Friday. I wasn’t sure whether I would be welcome, but determined to attend regardless. In every decent murder mystery I had ever read, or watched, the perpetrator fronted up at the funeral. Usually standing on a grassy knoll to the rear of the graveside scene, beside a tree, looking suitably stealthy. If my loosely constructed theory was correct, this figure would be the scowly faced young man from the police station, hopefully having washed and put on some deodorant.

Another piece of the puzzle, however, clearly involved Berry Pembroke. She had seen something, or heard something, that she had been on the verge of imparting to the police when the culprit exited right before her. They had probably exchanged meaningful glances but I had been too busy backing up to notice. Perhaps they were even in cahoots, although this seemed unlikely. Whatever the case, it now seemed clear that a more in-depth discussion with Berry was called for, and soon.

However my day was rapidly usurped by others. First Quinn, who remembered – at six in the morning – that a poster on the Russian Revolution was due that morning and her life depended on satisfactory completion. Then it was Ruby, who needed a notarised copy of her birth certificate express-posted down to Melbourne, and Scarlett, who (‘I wouldn’t bother you normally, but if you’re sending something to Rubes anyway …’) wanted her sleeveless black top with the cowl neck that was somewhere in her room, perhaps in that pile of stuff near the wardrobe. Then Lucy, who needed to sew up the seam in her cargo pants so could I please show her how to thread the needle, then insert it in the material, then demonstrate some stitches, then perhaps a couple more, and then tie it off.

At this point I remembered that I still hadn’t rung Red in London, and indeed hadn’t heard from her for a few days. But as I was about to pick up the phone it rang, and it was my editor reminding me that next week’s column was required two days early because Shelley from some department or other that sounded like it had nothing to do with me was going on leave. Finally, after Quinn – together with a barely-dry poster featuring Rasputin and Lenin and the ill-fated Romanov children – had departed for Caitlin’s house, my mother struck. Apparently she had agreed, on my behalf, that I would be her representative for a meeting with the insurance assessor at the house. They had been unable to give a precise time (‘they
are
busy people, you know, Nell’), but it would be sometime between ten and one.

Which was why mid-morning found me sitting in my mother’s soot-scented lounge room, typing steadily on my laptop. I had decided that this week’s column would cover the ins and outs of May–September unions, where May was the male of the equation. The reverse combination was, and always had been, perfectly acceptable, and it seemed only fair that all were treated the same. Besides, not everyone wanted a relationship that lasted forever. Some women just needed an ego boost, or short-term assistance crossing a line in the sand.

I finished the first draft quite quickly and then spent an hour answering emails from last week’s offering. At noon I raided my mother’s cupboards, eventually discovering a chicken noodle cup-a-soup that, with boiling water, quietened the hunger pangs. I wandered up the passage to the boarded-off part, which had amputated the bedroom Petra and I had shared but left our mother’s intact, albeit with one blackened wall. I stood in the doorway, sipping my soup and trying to get my head around the fact that Jim Hurley –
Jim Hurley
– may have spent time here. So she didn’t do guests, did she?

I poured the remaining soup down the sink and then pressed the noodles into the plughole. It was past one o’clock now and still no sign of the insurance assessor. I used my mother’s phone to ring the shop.

‘Renaissance, Sharon speaking.’

‘Hi, Sharon, it’s Nell. Is my mother around?’

‘Just a tick, love.’ Sharon’s voice faded and was replaced by the more gravelly tones of Yen. ‘What is it, Nell? Is this important?’

‘Actually yes, given I’m doing
you
a favour. Just letting you know that the assessor hasn’t shown. And I’m only waiting another half-hour.’

‘But they postponed. They’re coming out tomorrow instead.’

I stared at the wall, at a gilt-framed photo of Petra and I as plump toddlers. ‘Excuse me?’

‘They postponed. I sent you a text about two hours ago.’

‘And you couldn’t
ring
, just to make sure I knew?’

‘It has been a little busy here, for your information. How was I to know you wouldn’t bother checking your messages?’

I opened my mouth, closed it, ground my teeth.

‘But listen, while you’re there, would you mind –’

I hung up, then picked up the phone and hung up again. The plump toddlers watched me knowingly; they understood.
New twist in Majic fire tragedy: woman has psychotic break, singlehandedly destroys remaining house
. I collected my laptop and left, locking the door behind me. Even though Berry Pembroke’s house was only one hundred metres away as the crow flies, that would necessitate clambering over fences so I drove down to the end of Small Dairy Lane, turned right onto the highway and then almost immediately right again into Lincoln Court. I parked by the kerb in front of Berry’s place, taking a moment to examine Leon’s frontage next door. Neat yet luxurious, with a pewter-toned cobblestone driveway. I nodded, pleased.

By contrast, Berry Pembroke’s house was rather shabby. Faded weatherboards, woody rhododendrons, patchy gravel driveway. I walked up the latter, past Berry’s car and onto a concrete porch with a wrought-iron balustrade and a thickly bristled mat that read
Beware of the dog.
I had barely finished reading this when the aforementioned began barking, husky deep-throated barks that reverberated through each other. There was no doorbell so I knocked on the screen door and waited, listening to the unseen canine continue to bark steadily from somewhere within. After a few moments, I opened the screen door so that I could knock on the front door itself. That was when I realised it was ajar, just enough for me to see a slither of hallway mirror.

‘Berry? Berry, are you home?’

The dog fell silent, as if to listen, and then emitted one more throaty bark.

‘Berry? It’s Nell Forrest. Are you there?’

Another bark. I held the door steady so that I could knock again, this time with a bit more force, but there was still no response. What to do, what to do. I reached out and pushed the door with one finger; it slowly swung open. Now I could see the whole mirror, along with a hallway table and a pebble-filled vase holding a surprisingly gorgeous artificial flower display. I took a step inside, and then another, letting the screen door swing closed with a bang that made me jump.

‘Berry? Is everything okay?’ I waited, tensed for an answer. ‘Okay then, I’m coming in!’

The dog barked again, and I fancied it was encouraging me. Perhaps trying to tell me that Berry had slipped and fallen, was lying unconscious somewhere, being guarded by her faithful Old English Sheepdog. This breed seemed more reassuring than a Rottweiler, or a Doberman, or an American Pit Bull. I could see that the entry was part of a longer passage which cornered further down, but immediately to my right was a set of amber-glass sliding doors that stood open, most likely leading to the lounge room. I called Berry’s name again, and then again as I continued through the doors and past a leather chesterfield sofa and a huge flat-screen TV that covered much of the wall. A Christmas tree sat cheerfully in the corner, several gifts piled beneath. I looked around and set off towards the meals area that opened off the far side of the lounge.

The first thing I noticed was that the corner window in the meals area gave an elevated, absolutely perfect, view of my mother’s backyard. The second was that the pine table was set neatly for one, with a plate of congealing pasta and a glass of white wine. And the third thing I noticed was that the adjoining kitchen contained a door, which most probably led back to the passage, and that it was propped open by – I glanced down – a foot.

My heart stopped, and sank like a stone. The dog barked again, from the other side of the door, but I felt frozen in place, made stupid by shock. The foot was shoeless, clad only in a white sport sock that was a little grubby on the underside. My heart must have started beating again because I could hear it now, a loud, rhythmic thumping that hurt my ears. I took a step forward, just one, and then it occurred to me that Berry might be injured and thus time was of the essence. I launched immediately into overdrive and rushed through the kitchen, pushing the passage door all the way open.

She was lying almost the length of the short L of the passage, on her back, with one leg folded beneath her and a hand stretched almost into the bathroom. The fingers of the other hand were hooked on the scarf that was drawn tightly around her neck, the knot embedded into swollen skin. Above the scarf her face was the mottled blue of a blooming bruise, her eyes bulging, staring towards the ceiling. Some dried blood fissured from her nose, the crusty red dull against her stippled skin. My stomach heaved, sending a foul taste surging up my throat. I swallowed painfully, grimacing. It seemed that time was not of the essence here, and hadn’t been for some time.

I closed my eyes, opened them again, and saw a glint of gold amid her fanned hair. This was such an un-Berry thing that even framed by a scene as dreadful as that which lay before me, it still stood out as being odd. Almost inappropriate. I leant a little to my left and then stilled as I recognised it as a little fleur-de-lis lapel pin, one of which had been given to every member of the Richard III Society earlier that year, including my mother. Without thinking, or even
allowing
myself to think, I bobbed down and freed the pin from Berry’s hair. I straightened slowly, staring at it.

The dog barked again and I thrust the pin into my pocket. Instead of the large hound that I expected, the dog was a small, short-legged white fluffy thing, sitting by the wall as if standing sentry. It wagged its plumy tail when we made eye contact, perhaps eager to hand over responsibility, but still didn’t move. I took a deep breath and pulled my phone from my bag, not surprised to see my hand shaking. This was my first dead body, my first murder, my first first-on-the-scene, none of which were the type of firsts I had ever hankered after. And I already knew it was going to be a long time before I would come to terms with any of it, not least her eyes.

*

The police swung into action immediately upon arrival, like a well-oiled machine. I was ushered into the lounge room and left to sit on the chesterfield, listening to them bustle purposefully up and down the passage behind. The minutes ticked by, but in a strange way it was like time suspended. I thought about poor Berry, and what she must have gone through. And I thought about the little gold pin in my pocket, but then pushed it away.

On the wall beside the flat-screen TV was a studio portrait of a much younger Berry alongside a short but very good-looking man who must have been her husband. It seemed to make everything worse, how happy they were, how blissfully ignorant of the hand that fate had in store. Him dead within years and her to live on as the guinea-pig lady, before finally being strangled in her own home. I dragged my eyes to the adjoining picture, a framed tapestry of autumn-toned guinea pigs, a veritable jumble of them. What would happen to the real-life versions now? What about the dog?  

The latter chose that moment to skulk into the lounge room, tail tucked and ears so flat that its head had a fluffy bullet look. It looked around, perhaps for its mistress, and then trotted over to the couch to stare at me unblinkingly. Its feet stuck out sideways, giving it a rather effeminate look.

‘Hello there,’ I said softly. ‘So sorry.’

It continued to stare for a moment and then, as if having come to a decision, suddenly metamorphosed into a totally different dog. Tail sweeping into motion, eyes sparkling with gusto, one ear popping to attention. It was the type of dog whose happiness energised its entire body, turning it into a quivering mass of fluffy white fur. Clearly mistaking my surprise for reciprocal enthusiasm, it catapulted itself directly onto my lap, where it proceeded to wriggle joyfully, occasionally twisting around to flick a candy-pink tongue in my general direction.

‘Looks like you’ve made a conquest.’

I clamped both hands around the dog to keep it still. ‘Yes, and I’m not sure why. I’ve
never
been a dog person.’

‘I don’t think he sees things that way.’

‘He?’ I looked back at the dog, which chose that moment to make another enthusiastic leap for my face, thus dragging his nether regions into my cupped hand. I grimaced as I rearranged the two of us. ‘Ah, yes. Definitely a boy.’

The detective sergeant grinned fleetingly before becoming serious. ‘Bad business here. Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ There didn’t seem much to add to that; you were either all right or you weren’t. I was, and Berry wasn’t.

‘We’ll be taking an official statement a little later, but in the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.’

‘Sure.’ I steadied the dog once more and he settled, curling into a furry, watchful mound.

Ashley Armistead pulled out a notebook and sat down. ‘Okay, from the beginning. What brought you out here today?’

‘Spur of the moment. I was supposed to meet the insurance assessor at my mother’s but it got postponed so I thought I’d pop in and see Berry. Yesterday she seemed a little … off.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘I met her outside the police station. I think she was about to go in but changed her mind when she …’ I paused, looked at him. ‘Who was that young bloke?’

‘What young bloke?’

‘The one who was in there with me. Bad-tempered, unshaven, questionable hygiene.’

He was frowning. ‘I don’t recall – hang on, yes. But what’s he got to do with anything?’