The Celibate Mouse (11 page)

‘Okay, Dale it is. I’ll have to confirm it with you, though. Anything could crop up.’

She looked resigned. ‘Yeah, like, same old same old. I’m used to it with mum. It was nearly always da–Harry or sometimes his secretary, grumpy old Mary who filled in when she had to stay at work and there was something on at school.’

His heart ached with guilt. He knew he could have changed the situation at any time over the years if he’d really tried. He put his arm around Marli’s shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t shake him off and walked her back to the main office where they paused, riveted by a tirade from Adam Winslow. His colleague was listening, open-mouthed.

‘ ... old bastard Jack. I just know he said or did something to Carissa at Caroline’s wedding a couple of years ago. She won’t say what or I’d have done him over by now. I hated the bastard.’ He pulled up short, flushing when he saw his audience. Maguire dropped his arm away from Marli and walked over to lean close to him. ‘I’d be very careful of what you say, son. I’ll see Marli to her car and then we’ll have a talk.’

He ushered his anxious daughter out to her mother’s car, saw that she was strapped into her seat belt and promised to confirm dinner. From her expression as she drove away, he knew she was hopeful, but bracing herself for a disappointment.

The angry expression hadn’t left Winslow’s face when he walked back into the office. Jerking his head in the direction of the Incident Room, Maguire stalked off followed by Winslow.

‘Now, what else do you know about Jack Harlow, Adam? And for fuck’s sake, this time tell me everything!’ snarled Maguire.

‘There’s nothing I can put my finger on, but ...’ Adam went on to describe a possible incident involving Harlow at a family wedding previously, emphasising that he hadn’t been able to get his sister to confirm Jack had actually made a pass at her.

‘And she didn’t tell anyone else that you know of?’

‘No, I didn’t see her talking to anyone after that. It was more of an impression I got because she was shying away from Jack. He was drunk, but not out of control I would have thought. It was more that Carissa was in tears at one stage and she didn’t go near Jack again that night.’ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes as he searched his recollection of events, past and present. ‘In fact I don’t think she ever went near him again. We didn’t see much of him, except at family events.’

‘How often do the Robinson’s have gatherings of the clan?’ Maguire asked quietly. Weddings could have been a fertile hunting ground for Jack; lots of tipsy women.

‘We had one recently for Lady Ferna and Arthur’s anniversary.’

‘And did anything out of the ordinary happen at the anniversary party?’

Adam frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Then his face lit up. ‘Hang on! There was something different. There was a private meeting between the oldies which might have ended in a row. Now I come to think of it, Aunt Edna and Jack left early.’

Maguire was all ears. ‘What? Jack and Edna? Together?’ The first possible connection between them. ‘Did anyone else see them?’

‘No. I don’t think so. It was all over and they were gone before most realised the meeting had even taken place. Aunty Edna didn’t actually leave
with
Jack, because they don’t like–didn’t like each other. I was nearby when they came out of Arthur’s office. There was Ferna, Arthur, Edna, Connie and Kathleen and of course, John. I think the meeting might have had something to do with Arthur’s autobiography and the Order of Australia.’

David could cheerfully have wrung Adam Winslow’s neck. The whole bloody coven was there, and this young idiot hadn’t thought to mention it? ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before? You knew we needed to know everything about Jack and Edna. Did your mother and sister know about this meeting?’

Winslow straightened, flushing. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I really did forget to mention it. They knew, but they weren’t included, only the older family members. And they didn’t say anything about hearing the row.’

‘Right. Go and write a report for me and for Christ’s sake, put
everything
in it. Who said what to whom, who was doing who under the rhododendrons. Got it?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ He scuttled back to the front office.

‘Now we’ll have to start questioning the Robinson tribe all over again.’

Maguire cursed, contemplating the bearding of Lady Ferna in her den for a second time. ‘Perhaps I can get her in to the station and scare the bejesus out of her,’ he muttered, with grim relish.

He’d been working on paperwork for over an hour, when his mobile rang.

‘Maguire.’

‘Dave, it’s George Harris. Listen, John Glenwood was attacked with what they think was an iron bar, possibly a tyre lever.’

‘What? I thought he had a car accident!’ His gut metamorphosed into a cold, hard ball.

‘Yes, he did, but the doctors think he was attacked after the crash. That someone tried to kill him.’

‘Tried?’

‘Yes. He’s in a coma, and not expected to live.’

CHAPTER 16

The Best Laid Plans of...

The Killer

Tuesday: midday.

T
he murderer enjoyed porridge with honey and cream, two soft-boiled eggs and hot toast with English marmalade for a late breakfast. He’d slept well; with the exception of sex, nothing ever disturbed his repose. Jack Harlow deserved to die. His hatred of the man almost overcame him, but he managed to force it down. On the other hand, he hadn’t given Edna a thought from the moment she’d ceased kicking.

John Glenwood’s death had been so easy to carry out. He had stowed his mountain bike in the bush a good kilometre from the fatal bend, hiked in and set himself into position behind the boulder with the equipment. All he needed to do when the Landrover hove into view, was point and press the switch. He had blinded John Glenwood with the device as he drove into the bend and watched avidly as the senior constable’s vehicle swerved and then rolled down the hill. He’d scrambled down the embankment and shone a torch straight into Glenwood’s eyes, before whacking the man over the head with the tyre-lever.

Twice.

Bone had crunched under the impact.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping a large mug of cappuccino, as he listened to the news on the radio. The announcer’s voice washed over him. A disgraced politician was going to retire in order to spend more time with his family, the director of a well known bank had been booted out, taking millions of customers money in “bonuses” and a country policeman had been seriously injured when his 4WD ran off the road on the way to Ipswich.

Injured?

Pin-points of ice swarmed over his skin, penetrating folds and orifices like an army of ants. His handle trembled, as he leaned over to turn up the volume of the radio. The voice went on and on, the words ricocheting around him like bullets. ‘Senior Constable John Glenwood is in a coma ... deliberate attack with a blunt instrument ... ’

Glenwood was alive.

Fear rippled through him. What if the man awakened and remembered what he had seen? No, the torch had taken care of that. But what if he remembered who he was going to meet? But Glenwood hadn’t suspected him. Even if John did remember, there was nothing to connect
him
with the shooting. All he needed to do was to be as shocked as everyone else by the attack.

The murderer stood up, carried his plates and coffee cup to the sink and placed them carefully in the bottom, turned on the cold tap to rinse, then methodically wiped his fingers on a handtowel.

‘Keep calm,’ he told himself, ‘John Glenwood will die, no doubt about it. But first things first.’

Comforted, he moved to the window and stood for a long time, gazing out over the garden, an aura of calm wrapping around him like the arms of a lover.

‘Now for the Prescott woman. My alibi’s ready and everything’s set for tomorrow night.’

CHAPTER 17

A Moment of Inattention

Susan

Wednesday: evening.

F
at Albert watches me cynically from his look-out post on the top of a bookcase. I was concerned he would fret for Edna and that strange dogs might frighten him, but Albert is made of sterner stuff. Having established his superiority in the household with one swipe of his paw across the nose of the leader of the pack, he slept on my head last night. We came to an amicable arrangement the first night he arrived; ninety-five percent of the bed belongs to Albert.

Marli spent the day trying on all the combinations of clothes she possesses and sending images of herself to her girlfriends on her mobile so they can give her the thumbs up and or down on her appearance for dinner with her father. Facebook chatter, emailing, washing her hair, doing her nails, playing with her rats and pup has been interspersed with worry that David might not be able to make their date. Finally, he rang late this afternoon to confirm their outing, so she was beside herself with excitement.

I was exhausted, though I had been sitting down most of the day with Edna’s photos. I tried to phone Brittany but her mobile was switched off. She probably wouldn’t have spoken to me anyway, but I had to try. I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes as Marli appears, looking gorgeous.

‘Love the black skirt and funky top, darling. Where did you get that outfit?’

‘The shop at the far end of High Street,’ she replies.

‘Those boots look a little unstable to me.’

But she insists they are super-cool. Her hair falls to her waist in glossy black waves, her eyes sparkle with excitement and she has filched a pair of my garnet earrings. ‘I won’t see
those
again unless I hunt them down in her rat’s nest of a bedroom,’ I mutter to myself.

‘You look lovely, sweetheart.’

‘Thanks Mum. Do you really think Dad will make it?’

Dad? The dogs start barking and tear, en masse, down the hallway, their claws scrabbling for a hold on the tiles. David has arrived. A jolt of electricity shoots through me. I want to beat the dogs to the door, but I follow Marli sedately to the front verandah. Before her father can switch off the engine, she totters down the steps and throws herself into the car. With barely a wave, they are gone.

Feeling decidedly sulky and hard-done-by, I slosh whisky into one of Eloise’s most expensive crystal glasses, wrench the refrigerator door open and savagely hurl ice-cubes into my drink. Am I jealous of my own daughter? ‘Oh yes. You’ve joined the ranks of the truly desperate, girl. Get over it.’

Half of me wants to know David again, the other half wants to smack him out. He neglects his daughters all these years, then swans back into their lives and effortlessly bewitches Marli. Typical. But there is a conflict in our recollection of past events and I can’t rest easy until I get to the bottom of it. Something doesn’t add up.

I head back to the lounge room and sit down at the table in front of the piles of Robinson photos. Poring over Edna’s vast collection, sorting them into years, I asked myself why I am putting myself through this. Is it because my police training won’t let it go? Or do I want to redeem myself, at least in my own eyes, for Danny Grey’s death? Instinct says the answer to Jack and Edna’s deaths lies within the family. Sir Arthur and his siblings were born, grew up and raised their own children here and in the process became inter-related to other families nearby. Just that fact might have set up inter-family angst. ‘Just what sort of motive would you have for murdering two seemingly innocuous people?’ I ask myself, ‘unless old Edna turns out to be practicing witchcraft. Or blackmail.’
Hm.

Jack was less than the gentleman he pretended to be. It’s more what Daniella
didn’t
say about him which caused me to suspect he’d sexually harassed her at some time, if not more. And if indeed he did it to one, then it was unlikely he would have stopped there. What about Daniella’s daughter? Did he have his eye and heaven only knows what else, trained on Carissa? Did Daniella own a rifle? Or access to one? And the skill to use it? And what about Libby? If he’d interfered with her, her fiancé, the young doctor might have taken matters into his own hands, no, I remember that his whereabouts are vouched for by colleagues during both murders.

Whose brain can I peck into? Adam Winslow. He might be a tougher nut to crack being a cop, but he is young and if I really wanted to pull rank, a constable. But do I want to break my cover of an ordinary mum on holiday with her teenage daughter? ‘No, definitely not. I hope Marli hasn’t blurted out it out already,’ I say to Fat Albert, who is washing his furry bum, with fine disregard for modesty.

I promised myself I wouldn’t allow David’s presence to affect me. Fat chance. I try to think about Harry and what
he’s
doing, but if I’m honest, I don’t really care, except that Brittany has chosen to stay with him. But Harry was dad to my girls, and when all’s said and done, David is an absentee biological father.

Finally, I throw open my quivering memories and allow my thoughts to free-range over the shambles which my life has become. The last two months have been appalling. I’m trying to follow the advice of my psychiatrist and not allow my mind to dwell on what I can’t change, to allow the memories to come as and when they may, examine them, then put them aside.

I focus on my girls, but of course this brings me back to wondering why David didn’t bother with them after they were four years old. I remember him standing on the pathway at the bottom of the steps of the house I shared with Harry, a toddler on each hip, covered in sticky lolly and tomato sauce, surrounded by the paraphernalia necessary for the comfort of tiny children. Reluctantly, it seems now, he returns the babies to Harry, who almost snatches them away. David passes the bags containing nappies and soiled clothes to me and hesitates. ‘When can I see them again?’

‘In a fortnight, as we agreed.’ After all these years I can still hear the bite in my voice. Without a word, he turns away and stalks back to his car. Before I closed the door, he pulled away from the curb, wheels spinning as he vented his anger. We never saw him again and I didn’t pursue it.

Neither of us wanted to go to court. I think as police officers we had our pride. David faithfully paid his child support payments, but I only remember cards and parcels arriving for a short time–and I thought he really loved them. Something flickers at the back of my mind and wisps away before I can catch it. A vaguely remembered look ... or word said long ago. I take a few deep breaths and damp the flame down to a simmer. I will get to the bottom of it one day, but not now.

I take a sip of my drink, carefully place it on a coaster and look at the photos on the desk. Countless relatives stare back at me with the stern, “take no prisoners” look which appears traditional with pre-1900s photos. Someone once told me that the reason they didn’t smile was because their teeth were so bad. Babies, no matter their gender, were garbed in dainty dresses with turn of the century curls. Why didn’t they put names on the back of photos in those days, for God’s sake? Edna’s cataloguing only started after about 1927.

How far back do I go looking for evidence of murder? Edna was seventy-six when she died, so post 1934. How old would Edna be when, presumably, she was mature enough to know about a
‘dirty bugger’?

My mind finally clicks into gear. Teenage to young woman would be a start. I sweep the current box of photos aside and start fossicking through the others until I come across a carton labelled 1948. Edna would have been around fourteen then. It was as good a year as any to make a purposeful start.

‘God, look at the time!’ I push my stiff body out of the chair and walk around the house, stretching my aching limbs. Tired of their enthusiasm, I had shut the dogs in the back sun-room because of their tendency to lick my knees under the table. Titch is asleep in Marli’s bed.

I peruse through the titles of my brother-in-law’s classical music collection until I see one which looks familiar, Schubert’s Impromptus. I remember his concert pianist daughter, Ally, playing it for us one night at her home. It is the work of a moment to turn on the stereo. I wander out onto the small side verandah to sit in the squatter’s chair and gaze out onto the dimly moonlit countryside, allowing the glorious music to soothe my tortured mind.

There’s been no discernable progress in my investigation of the photos. All the men look shifty and there doesn’t seem to be anyone who disappears suddenly from the chronicles. ‘Some detective you are,’ I tell myself. This leads me again to thoughts of the past. Unable to stop myself, I relive that terrible night when tragedy struck.

Danny Grey’s young, eager voice storms into my head. ‘What do ‘ya reckon, ma’am? Shall I take a look?’ He wants to follow a lead to a Brisbane south side warehouse.

‘No,’ I hear my voice saying sternly, ‘it’s north side. That’s where Delaney said. We’re still waiting for Crimmons to show up. You’re supposed to be checking phone records, Danny. So get on with it.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

It was the last time we spoke.

While the rest of my team and I fruitlessly chased a tip-off kilometres away, Danny disobeyed my order and went to a warehouse on the south side of the city on his own. By the time we realised we had been out manoeuvred, our youngest team member had walked into an ambush.

Danny radioed that he’d been shot and called for backup. We stormed south side, the SWAT team and Dog Squad joined us at the warehouse. The killer was somewhere inside and cut the electricity supply to the building. Rage and fear almost swamped me as we got into position. The scene runs through my mind like a movie reel, over and over without let up:

We position ourselves around the building, frantic to get to Danny. Efforts to negotiate with the criminal are fruitless. After a final warning, I nod to the dog handler and the hairy cop becomes a silent missile in the blackness, followed in by his master. Minutes later, the night is rent with a shotgun blast, followed by falling timber. During the commotion the dog makes his capture. The SWAT team thunders past me to secure the area and take the criminal into custody.

But it’s too late for Danny, sprawled inside the warehouse on the concrete floor in the dark, bleeding to death.

Tears pour down my cheeks. I dash them away with the heel of my hand. My heart feels as though it is breaking in two. Why, why, why didn’t he wait for assistance before following a dangerous criminal on his own? Damn the impetuous, ambitious young idiot. I’m angry with Danny for dying, I’m furious with him for making me angry and I want to kill him myself because his death has turned me into a card-carrying, snivelling, frightened mouse and right now, I can’t see any way to climb out of the hole he has–no,
I
have–dug for myself.

Telling Danny’s wife, Helen, that her husband wouldn’t be coming home was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Her screams still ring in my memory. She hadn’t wanted my colleague, Evan, or I to stay with her; I expect she couldn’t bear to look at us. All we could do was wait until her family arrived, then leave.

The ensuing investigation and funeral were appalling. Amidst our personal and collective grief, my team continued to operate efficiently, though our minds and hearts were shattered. The media gathered around the tragedy like wolves circling a carcase, mine being the most visible, but I didn’t care about that. Castigation has become my second name. ‘Oh dear God, why didn’t I listen properly, when Danny insisted we go to the
south side warehouse?
Why didn’t I twig the other was a decoy?’ If we, the team, had listened to Danny, the Dog Squad and Tactical Response would have been there to go in first. Being exonerated from blame makes it even harder to bear. Will I ever be able to get on with my life and function as a whole person–a police officer again? I have to forgive myself and that is the hardest of all.

I look at my watch; nine-thirty. Marli and David have got a lot to talk about and I should be in bed before he brings her home. I can’t let them think I’ve been waiting up like a needy crone, longing for company.

I wipe my eyes, blow my nose and pick up my empty wine glass, but as I turn to walk back inside the house, over the music I hear the dogs growling in the laundry.

My skin crawls.

The air moves behind me.

Before I can turn, a hard body slams into the back of me.

Hands lock around my throat and squeeze.

The glass flies out of my hand.

My head is smacked onto the floor.

I am fighting for my life.