MURDER BRIEF (25 page)

"Yes you did. In fact, I even
know that Beverley found out about the affair and confronted you -
and you confessed."

His face flushed. "Beverley told
you that?"

"Yes. That’s why you’re getting
divorced, isn’t it?"

"None of your business."

"Maybe. But it’s true isn’t it?
You had an affair with Alice?"

He breathed deeply and fingered
a beer coaster. Then his shoulders slumped and voice dropped.
"Yeah, we got close."

"You mean, you had
an
affair
?"

He dropped the coaster and
sighed. "Yes."

"For how long?"

He shrugged. "Several
years."

"Because you really loved her,
didn’t you?"

He looked mournful. "Yes, I
suppose so."

"And you certainly didn’t love
your wife, did you?"

"I’m afraid I stopped loving
Beverley a long time ago."

"And that’s why you showed
Waiting for Rain
to Alice and not your wife, isn’t it?"

He looked stunned. "Christ.
W-what do you mean?"

"I mean
you’re
Richard
Olsen, aren’t you?"

"No, I’m not."

"Yes you are."

He nervously sipped his beer and
scanned the room before trying, unsuccessfully, to look Robyn in
the eye. "I’m not. But why do you think I am?"

She pressed forward
remorselessly. "Because Alice didn’t tell Beverley - her closest
friend - the real identity of Richard Olsen. I think she with-held
that snippet of info because
you’re
Richard Olsen. If Alice
had told Beverley that you wrote the novel, Beverley would have
wondered why you show it to Alice and not her, and immediately
realized you two were having an affair."

Tim shook his head vehemently.
"That’s ridiculous. I didn’t write it."

"Yes you did. I also know you’re
Richard Olsen because the cops found, on Alice’s computer, several
e-mails you sent to her about the book."

Robyn was bluffing, but fairly
confident Tim sent Alice some e-mails about the novel.

Nolan gave Robyn a long nervous
stare, and opened and closed his mouth several times, before
looking annoyed. "This is none of your business."

"Maybe. But if you don’t talk to
me, you’ll be talking to the police."

He shuddered and splashed beer
on his jacket. "The police? What about?"

"Oh, about your affair with
Alice, about you being Richard Olsen
and
about where you
were on the night Alice was murdered."

His voice turned shrill. "I had
nothing to do with her death. Nothing."

"Good. Then you’ve got nothing
to hide, have you?"

"That’s right," he said
petulantly.

"Then tell me the truth: you’re
Richard Olsen, aren’t you?"

"I don’t have to tell you
anything."

"True. But like I said, if you
don’t talk to me, you’ll be talking to the cops."

He anxiously studied and
re-studied her face before shifting on his stool and licking his
lips. "OK. I’ll tell you the truth. But if I do, you’ll keep it to
yourself?"

"Of course," she lied. "I just
want to sort this stuff out in my own mind."

After resurveying the room and
fidgeting some more, he sighed and nodded reluctantly. "OK, if you
must know, I’m Richard Olsen. I wrote the fucking thing. In
hindsight, I wish I hadn’t. But I did."

Robyn was delighted she’d
finally cracked the mystery. "Good. And tell me this: why’d you
write about a country town, in a drought?"

"Why? I grew up in the country.
I’ve experienced droughts. I mean, I tried to write a couple of
novels before
Waiting for Rain
, but they were lousy. Felt
false.
Waiting
felt honest and real. It arrived like a
gift."

"And you concealed
Waiting
from your wife, didn’t you?"

"That’s right. I told her
nothing."

"Was it hard to conceal?"

"No, it was easy. At home I
often wrote articles for the paper or ghosted autobiographies. I
didn’t talk to her about them, because she wasn’t interested, and I
didn’t tell her about
Waiting
."

"And you published under a
pseudonym to keep her in the dark, didn’t you? You wanted to create
a secret bond with Alice? That’s why you showed Alice the novel and
not your wife. In fact, concealing the novel from your wife was a
pretty aggressive act, wasn’t it?"

He frowned and avoided her gaze
before nodding glumly. "I suppose so. I know it sounds corny, but I
really thought Alice was my soul-mate. I also published under a
pseudonym because, if I used my name, nobody would have taken the
novel seriously. I mean, I’m just a sports writer. Then the book
was successful and I was stuck with the pseudonym."

"Didn’t you want some public
acclaim?"

"Of course, but I could live
without it."

"So what were you and Alice
planning to do after she got divorced? Live together?"

He sighed. "Maybe. We talked
about that. Certainly, I wanted to."

"You were prepared to leave
Beverley for her?"

"Yes, of course. Like I said, I
stopped loving Beverley long ago."

Robyn had wondered if he killed
Alice because his great passion for her soured when she didn’t like
his second novel. It sounded far-fetched, but Robyn had to
know.

She said: "You wrote a second
novel, didn’t you, and showed that to Alice?"

He looked surprised. "Yes,
that’s right."

"And she didn’t like it, did
she?"

His eyes widened. "I wouldn’t
say that. She thought it needed some changes and I agreed with her.
In fact, I recently put it back on the workbench and started
tinkering with it. I think it’ll end up being quite good."

"You didn’t argue with her about
it?"

He looked perplexed. "Oh, no,
definitely not."

She was afraid to ask where he
was on the night of the murder, but couldn’t hold back. She gulped
some air. "So, just out of curiosity, where were you when Alice got
killed?"

He looked stunned, then angry.
"What?"

Her mouth turned sub-Saharan.
"Umm, where were you when she died?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Her stomach churned. "Oh, I’m
just curious. I’m not implying anything."

"Bullshit. But if you must know,
I was at my parents’ house, in Bowral, with my kids. I drove up
there for the weekend."

"With Beverley?"

"No. She doesn’t like my
parents. She stayed in Sydney."

Robyn was shocked. She’d
expected him to corroborate his wife’s claim they spent the night
together in Sydney. Instead, he’d hung her out to dry. Why? It
sounded like the Nolans, who were getting divorced, hadn't bothered
to co-ordinate their stories.

Certainly, if Tim was telling
the truth,
Beverley
might be the murderer. In fact, all of a
sudden, the finger of suspicion was pointing right at her. "You
know, I’m surprised about that."

"Why?"

"Beverley told me you were both
at home together."

He looked genuinely surprised.
"You’ve spoken to her about this?"

"Yes. And she said you were both
at home."

"Did she? Well, she’s wrong -
very wrong. That’s not true."

"But if you’re telling the
truth,
she
could have murdered Alice."

Tim looked flustered. "You’re
joking, right?"

"No."

"Why would she kill Alice?"

"Why? Because she found out you
had an affair with Alice and wrote
Waiting for Rain
under
her nose but didn’t show it to her. Keeping your novel secret
showed your total contempt for her and your marriage. Her rage must
have been terrible - terrible enough to make her kill. And, of
course, like most wives, she blamed the mistress more than her
husband."

Tim hunched over as if he might
be sick. It was a long time before faint words emerged. "I don’t
know what you’re talking about."

Robyn leaned forward, close to
his left ear. "Yes you do. You know exactly what I’m saying. In
fact, you’ve suspected Beverley for a long time, haven’t you?"

"No I haven’t?"

Robyn raised her voice. "Come
off it. You’re not that stupid."

He looked at her angrily. "Look,
I don’t know what happened, OK? I was in Bowral when Alice got
killed. I don’t know what happened in Sydney. I just don’t."

"OK. But it’s true, isn’t it,
that Beverley found out about the affair, and that you wrote
Waiting for Rain
, well
before
Alice was
murdered?"

Tim sighed deeply and croaked,
"Yes, yes, she found out before. For some reason, she looked in my
computer and found a draft of
Waiting for Rain
. Then she
pieced everything together and confronted me."

"And you confessed?"

"Yes, yes, I did."

"And she was angry?"

"Incandescent."

"And all that happened shortly
before Alice was murdered?"

"Yes."

"OK. And have you asked Beverley
about the night Alice was murdered?"

He shook his head savagely. "No,
no, I’ve never asked her about that. Never."

"Why not?"

Tim glared. "Because I don’t
want to fucking know."

"You mean, you were afraid she
might say she killed Alice?"

He frowned. "Yes, I suppose so.
So, you see, I don’t know who’s responsible. All I know is that I
didn’t do it.
I’m
innocent."

He was innocent of murder, but
not much else.

He gulped down half his beer and
gave her an anxious look. "So what are you going to do? Talk to the
police?"

Robyn now knew that Beverley had
an excellent motive and fantastic opportunity to kill Alice. The
only uncertainty in her mind was whether to contact the police
tonight or tomorrow morning. But why risk his anger by telling him
that?

She got to her feet: "No, of
course not. The last thing I want to do is get involved in their
investigation."

He looked relieved. "Good."

"Well, thanks for the beer.
Sorry I dredged this up."

He looked at her with bleary
eyes. "You know, this has been a nightmare - a total
nightmare."

She felt little sympathy,
because it had been a bigger nightmare for Alice Markham and
everyone wrongly accused of murdering her. "I bet it has."

She considered telling him how
much she enjoyed
Waiting for Rain,
but the words went sour
in her mouth.

Robyn left Tim Nolan and arrived
home just after dark to an empty terrace, Veronica obviously still
at work.

She made herself an omelette and
washed it down with a couple of glasses of red while pondering
whether to telephone Detective Inspector Holloway that evening.
He’d probably gone home; she’d call him in the morning.

She’d just tidied up the kitchen
when the doorbell rang. Veronica? No, she had a key. Then who?

She padded down the hallway and
looked through the eye-hole. Beverley Nolan stood on the porch in
jeans and a sequined T-shirt, clutching a handbag and rolling
nervously on the balls of her feet. Her slightly demented
expression reminded Robyn of Mavis Vandervelt. Christ. What the
hell did she want?

Robyn didn’t want to let her in.
After all, she was fairly sure that Beverley killed Alice Markham.
So it was nice to have a couple of inches of wood between them.

Beverley semi-shrieked, "Robyn,
I know you’re home, so open the door."

Robyn considered staying mute.
But that wasn’t her style. "Beverley, I’m here. What do you
want?"

"I want to talk," Beverley said
in a whitish tone.

"What about?"

"There are a few things I want
to explain."

"Like what?"

"Please let me in - please."

Robyn already felt guilty for
wrongly accusing Hugh Grimble of murder. What if Beverley was also
innocent? Maybe she should listen to her before calling the cops.
Beverley was small and alone. Surely she couldn't cause much
trouble.

With a trembling hand, Robyn
opened the door and stood back. "Hi."

Beverley shook with anxiety and
relief. "Thank you, thank you."

Robyn watched apprehensively as
Beverley brushed past her; she nervously pointed towards the lounge
room. "In there."

Beverley stepped into the lounge
room and perched on the edge of the couch, still clutching her
handbag, face bloodless.

Robyn eased into an armchair and
grabbed the armrests in case she had to move fast.

Beverley leaned further forward.
"Umm, you spoke to Tim this evening, didn’t you?"

"Yes. He called you, did
he?"

"Yes, and told me what you two
talked about." Beverley’s eyes shone. "Are you going to talk to the
police?"

Robyn already regretted opening
the door and putting herself in peril. She took a few deep breaths.
"That depends."

"On what?"

"On what you tell me."

"About what?"

"For a start, about Tim’s affair
with Alice. You found out about it a lot earlier than you
pretended, didn’t you?"

Beverley gave Robyn a long and
uncertain stare before dropping her head and speaking softly. "Yes,
I did."

"How’d you find out?"

"I was looking for something in
Tim’s study and found some scraps of paper with parts of
Waiting
for Rain
. So I looked on his computer."

"And found the whole novel?"

Beverley’s voice barely carried.
"Yes."

As Robyn extracted more
information from Beverley, her nerves subsided. This was just like
a cross-examination. Stay calm and try to sound sympathetic. "And
that was when you realized Tim was having an affair with Alice,
wasn’t it?"

Beverley’s face flushed and her
voice grated. "Yes. I mean, can you imagine how I felt? Tim wrote a
wonderful novel - just wonderful - and told me nothing about it.
Nothing. In fact, he hid it from me. But he showed it to that bitch
and told her everything." Beverley’s face crumpled and she emitted
a few dry sobs. "Tim and I were married for ten years. We had our
problems, but I thought we had a real connection. Then I realized
it was all just a sham - a joke - and he really hated me -
hated
me."