Lessons in Murder (17 page)

“No.” Then she said abruptly, “Is it true you have a son?”

Carol’s expression didn’t change. “Yes. David. He’s nine.”

“Do you see him often?”

“Oh, yes. My ex-husband’s very correct. He’s married again, of course. A nice woman, actually—I like her. I try to see David once a week and sometimes he spends part of his school holidays with me. He’s a great kid.”

Carol looked at her, coolly waiting for the next question. Damn you! thought Sybil, I won’t ask you anything else, not until you want to tell me.

Pierre Brand reappeared, rich with measured enthusiasm. “And now, an exclusive interview with Inspector Carol Ashton, the beautiful blonde police officer with the enviable record of arrests. But even she seems baffled by this intriguing case.” Sybil watched, fascinated, as Carol fielded the questions with calm professionalism. The planes of her face were made for television. “You look absolutely stunning,” she said to Carol.

Carol gave her a quick smile. “Nothing to do with me,” she said, “it’s just what I inherited.”

With a shock, Sybil saw the screen had switched to her. Pierre Brand’s voice continued a commentary as she was shown walking in the car park, turning her face from the cameras at the funeral as Terry took her arm to lead her into the chapel, full face in the funeral director’s car when she hadn’t realized she was in a viewfinder, with Terry leaning over her speaking confidentially. Pierre Brand was saying, “An intimate friend, Terry Clarke, has been at Sybil Quade’s side since Bill Pagett’s tragic murder and since the mysterious death of her husband. She knew them both. Has Terry Clarke a reason to be alarmed?”

“God!” exclaimed Sybil, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Carol said drily, “Could be anything from indirectly accusing you of murder to implying you’re the Angel of Death bringing destruction to all you know.”

Pierre Brand was still talking: “Sybil Quade—an attractive woman who could hold the key to the mystery. What is she really like?” With apprehension Sybil saw the footage that must have been shot that afternoon. The voice continued inexorably. “I went to see her this afternoon . . . here’s what I found. . .”

She saw herself open the door and stand, unwelcoming. Brand had apparently used a hidden microphone, as their voices were quite clear. Her comment about the intrusion of the media at the funeral had been edited out. She watched herself look over his shoulder and say, “You’re filming this.” To his next comment the screen Sybil exclaimed, “I’d like to push you down the steps!”

The door slammed, and Pierre Brand turned regretfully to the camera and said, “This story is about passion—passion and murder. Sybil Quade is a passionate woman. You have seen that for yourself.”

Carol seemed quite unsurprised when Sybil said, “It’s been edited!” As she snapped off the set she added, “I don’t know why I was stupid enough to threaten to push him down the steps.”

“It could be worse,” said Carol. “You could have actually picked him up and thrown him.”

Sybil was grinning at the picture that made as the phone rang. It was Terry. How could Sybil have been so stupid as to threaten a man like Pierre Brand? She obviously needed comfort and guidance. Terry would be around in a few minutes. “Terry, I won’t see you. Don’t bother coming round here—I won’t open the door. Please leave me alone. I’m not going to argue with you. I mean it, Terry, no.” She slammed down the phone.

“Hell!” Her eyes met Carol’s. “Don’t say it, Carol. I know it’s my fault. Terry has that endearing male belief that once you sleep with him you’ve signed over a good part of your life, and that gives him the authority to make demands and expect them to be met.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Sybil didn’t bother to play dumb. “No,” she said.

Carol’s eyes dropped. “This is an impossible situation,” she said.

Sybil felt an unexpected rush of tenderness. “No, it isn’t,” she said involuntarily, “it can’t be. It feels too good. It’s got to be possible.”

“I should go. You’ve got to get an early start.”

As Carol stood, Sybil thought, what’s the use of talking? The words just drive us further and further apart. She went to stand behind Carol, putting her arms around her waist and nuzzling the side of her neck. “Don’t leave. I want to cuddle you.”

As they slid into an embrace, Carol said, “It’s so easy to give in to you.”

They made love wordlessly, with an aching tenderness that was almost frightening to Sybil. Afterwards, with her mouth against Carol’s bare shoulder, tasting the salt, she said, “Are you happy?”

“Just at this moment, I’m content.”

“That’s not enough.”

Carol moved restlessly. “It’s the best I can offer.”

Chapter Eleven

“I’ve got a report on the anonymous letter,” said Bourke.

Carol was preoccupied. She dumped her briefcase on the desk. “Yes? In summary, what does it say?”

“The person who wrote it is obviously well-educated. The printing is, of course, disguised. The pen is a common ballpoint, identical to the government issue pens given to teachers. The paper and envelope are mass produced and can be bought from any one of a thousand news agents or shops. Of the smudged fingerprints on the envelope, the only identifiable ones belong to Mrs. Farrell and Florrie Dunstane and on the letter itself, only Mrs. Farrell’s.”

“How did it check out with samples of handwriting?”

Bourke made a face. “Inconclusive. The expert wasn’t willing to pick anyone out as a definite possibility. He did say it was unlikely to be Evan Berry or Hilary Cosgrove.”

“Did you manage to contact Pete McIvor and Terry Clarke?”

“McIvor’s waiting outside. Clarke’s on his way.”

Pete McIvor was like a puppy, anxious to please, but unwilling to admit he had done anything wrong. Carol’s patience began to erode. “So this argument between Bill Pagett and Terry Clarke just slipped your mind?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Carol leaned forward. “Mr. McIvor,” she said, “this is a murder case. Two people have been killed. When you were first interviewed you played dumb, didn’t you?”

Pete was flushed and confused. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Not important that Bill Pagett was threatened by Terry Clarke just the day before he was murdered? Come now, Mr. McIvor, what
would
you regard as important?”

“Terry wouldn’t have done that to Bill. He might have beaten him up, but a drill. . .”

“You’re an expert on criminal psychology, Mr. McIvor?”

Pete grew even redder at her sarcasm. “No, of course not. But Terry often said things to Bill . . . I mean, they didn’t get on. . .”

“Let me see if I understand you: not only did Clarke threaten Bill Pagett on the beach the Sunday before he died, but this was just one of a series of disagreements the two had had over some time.”

Pete shifted uncomfortably. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It does, Mr. McIvor. Perhaps now you’ll be willing to be frank.”

Skewered by Carol’s cold green eyes, Pete McIvor capitulated. “All right, this is what happened that Sunday morning. I’d been surfing, and when I came out of the water I ran into Bill. He wanted to talk to me about something.”

“The five thousand you owed him?” Bourke said.

Pete looked, if possible, even more miserable. “Yes. I said I was getting the money on Monday, and he said all right. Then Terry Clarke came up. He ignored me and started shoving Bill in the chest, telling him to leave Syb alone. Bill said Syb didn’t want to be left alone, and Terry started swearing. I was sure he was going to hit Bill, but Bill didn’t seem worried. In fact, he laughed at Terry, and told him he had a date with Syb that evening and she was going to stay the whole night with him.”

“And then what?”

“Terry looked as if he was going to punch Bill, but then he thought better of it. He told Bill he was sure Syb wouldn’t waste her time on him, and started to walk off. Bill called out after him, and I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t.”

“What did he call out?”

Pete looked unhappy. “The exact words?”

“The exact words.”

“He said something like, ‘Syb’s a randy little bitch, but you wouldn’t know that, would you—you’ve never rammed it up her like I have.’”

Carol played with a pen. “What did you take that to mean?” she said after a pause.

“Why, that Syb had made love with Bill, but not with Terry.”

“Do you know if there was any truth in that?”

Pete shook his head. “Syb’s my friend, but I don’t have anything to do with her private life.”

Bourke said, “And what was the reason you had for keeping quiet about this?”

Pete groaned. “Ah, jeez, it was Terry. He got me on Monday, after we’d heard about Bill, and he said he’d shut up about the five thousand I owed Bill if I shut up about his argument on the beach.”

“But you said you had the five thousand to pay back.”

“Well, yes, I thought I had, but it fell through. It was going to be from my mum, actually, but when my dad found out it was for gambling debts, he wouldn’t let her give me the money.”

“And you realized that gave you some sort of motive for the murder.”

“I wouldn’t have killed anyone for five thousand.”

Carol smiled sarcastically. “But you have your price, do you?”

“No, of course not. I just thought it would be easier all round if the whole thing was forgotten.”

Carol leaned back and glanced at Bourke. He flipped over a page and said, “Mr. McIvor, you’ve had a lot of days absent from school, and the term is only a few weeks old.”

“I was sick.” He sighed. “Well, actually I took some time off to try and get the five thousand. It mightn’t sound like much money, but Bill was turning nasty about it.”

“This is just one of a series of gambling debts you’ve struggled to pay over the last year or so, isn’t it?”

He looked sulky. “I’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all.”

“Three weeks ago, on a Wednesday, you were absent from school.”

“Was I? I don’t remember.”

“Who took your sports duty that afternoon?”

“I don’t know. A relief teacher, maybe. I never asked.”

A constable put his head around the door. “Inspector? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. Clarke to see you.”

Carol nodded. “Give me two or three minutes, then bring him in.” To Pete she said, “Please go with Detective Bourke to make a formal statement.” She watched him anxiously groom his mustache as he left. Stupid fool, she thought, why the hell would Sybil offer to give you two thousand dollars?

Her eyes narrowed as Terry Clarke was ushered into the room. He sat down without a word and stared flatly at her. “Well?” he said at last.

“Pete McIvor has told us you had an argument with Bill Pagett on Bellwhether Beach the Sunday morning before he died.”

“Has he? Did he tell you Bill was leaning on him about money he owed?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And that Bill said unless he got the money on Monday, he’d arrange for someone to come and break Pete’s legs?”

“What I’m interested in,” said Carol, “is
your
argument with Bill Pagett.”

Terry looked impatient. “Look, I told the bastard to leave Syb alone. He was a nasty piece of work, you know. Said things about her that made me want to shove his teeth back down his throat. But I wouldn’t kill him. I’ve told you, he wasn’t worthwhile killing.”

“You agreed with Pete McIvor to keep the whole scene on the beach quiet, didn’t you?”

Terry gave her a black frown. “Of course I did. Why go looking for trouble?”

Carol stared at her fingers as she played with a pen. “Did you follow Sybil Quade when she went to Pagett’s place on Sunday night?”

“Did Syb tell you I did?”

“Does it matter?”

Terry leaned back, satisfied. “Syb wouldn’t. I can trust her. Suppose the kid, Hilary Cosgrove, told you about Syb being there.”

“How do you know about Hilary Cosgrove?”

Terry was darkly amused. “I was sitting in my car, watching to see that Syb was all right. I saw this kid sneaking up the drive. I taught her last year, so I knew who she was—anyway, it was common gossip that Bill had cracked on to her.”

Carol hid her distaste, saying mildly, “So you saw Sybil Quade leave?”

“Her car nearly flattened the kid, screaming down Pagett’s drive. I followed her home to make sure she made it okay.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “Do you often secretly follow her around?”

“I’m keeping an eye on her.”

“I’m sure she appreciates that.”

Terry stood up. “Don’t get smart with me,” he said.

Carol looked at him reflectively. “Were you watching her the night Tony Quade died? Perhaps she had an appointment with her husband on Bellwhether Headland and you saw them meet.”

“I don’t know anything about Quade’s death, and neither does Syb. Can I go now?”

At the door, he turned back to say, “You can’t pin anything on Syb, so don’t try. Why don’t you ask Pete if he wanted his legs broken, eh? Seems to me he had a perfect reason to want Pagett dead.”

“But why would Pete McIvor want to kill Tony Quade?”

Terry grinned wolfishly. “Maybe you’re not so smart, lady cop. What if Quade died accidentally? Or took a dive himself? You just want to make a bigger splash on television—I see you every night on the box. You love it, don’t you—all the attention?”

Carol smiled at him. “You’ll be asking for my autograph next,” she said.

Carol drove to a car park overlooking the beach. She sat in her car, gazing at the waves rolling to the beige sand, the surfers riding, falling, heads bobbing in the white breaking water, and thought of Sybil.

Thought of how many people she had seen involved in violence, and of the heightened emotions, the intensity, the sharp-edged brilliance of life contrasted to death.

You won’t feel this way, Sybil, when your world stabilizes, when normality returns, when I no longer have power over you.

Give it up now, she said to herself. Don’t drag it out. Don’t let yourself be seduced by passion, by promises, by love. She shut her eyes. Come on, don’t feel sorry for yourself. You’ve already gone too far. Get out now.