Tears ran down Joan’s face. What could she possibly say?
Hugh looked directly at her now. His voice dropped to a gentler, more confessional tone. ‘When I was a young bloke in France—only bloody seventeen at the start, can you believe it?—I found my only consolation was in the arms of the French harlots. Pathetic, yes, I know. But somehow it staved off the horrors, the fear of death, for one more day. We all did it. It was part of what happened over there. I even fell in love, like a stupid fool. So naive! I blame myself of course.’ For a brief, unguarded moment, Hugh’s face changed into a hideous expression Joan had never seen before. ‘But I blame those women too. Those brazen, heartless women. It disgusts me what they do. How they take advantage of a young man’s weakness, his fear and loneliness.’
Joan felt dread spreading like a chill up her neck and across her chest. Please, God, no …
‘My body has been riddled with this pox for years. It has already begun to destroy my brain, eat away at my memories. I am not the same person I was even a year ago. Not completely in control of my moods or thoughts. Mercifully, it will kill me soon—if I do not kill myself first.’
There was a long silence then, broken only by the night sounds of the harbour: the ghostly wail of ferry horns, the bellowing of warships anchored at Garden Island, the ceaseless shushing of waves, wind-whipped, bow-cleaved, spitting, hissing, smacking the jetties and rocky foreshore.
Joan hesitated for a second with that trembling sense of horror that a door was about to be opened that could never be closed. She spoke. ‘Hugh, please tell me it wasn’t you who killed Eleanor.’
Hugh looked up at her then with panic in his eyes, mouth gaping. ‘Jesus, Joan, why on earth would you … ?’
‘When we met Ruby and Greta today, Greta told me that she saw you kissing her mother in a posh car outside her house in Tempe. Gordon’s car. She was hiding in the garden near the front gate.’
Hugh startled. He was at a loss for words. ‘No, that’s not … she must have made a mistake …’
Joan did not even begin to understand how to make sense of what Greta had told her. But she believed the little girl and she knew something was terribly wrong. ‘Just tell me it isn’t true, Hugh. I need to hear you tell me that.’
Hugh sat immobilised, shock turning the skin around his eyes into white, luminous circles. He was struck dumb. Joan was angry at this cowardly retreat into muteness and determined to provoke a response. She thought that the unthinkable was her best protection; the notion of Hugh as a murderer was so absurd, so utterly impossible, she had nothing to fear.
‘Is it because you hate whores that you did this? Because they poisoned your whole life? Is that why you killed her, Hugh? Out of revenge?’
‘No,’ Hugh barked at her. ‘No, that’s not it at all. She was just part of a plan. A pawn. But not so innocent as everyone thought. Oh no. Not Eleanor.’
Hugh realised then he had blurted out the beginning of the truth, the opening sentences of his confession to Joan. He rocked back and forth, clutching his skull, shaking his head from side to side now and then as if trying in vain to make the nightmare inside vanish.
‘You want to know the truth?’ he said at last. ‘Are you sure? I guess I owe you at least that, Joanie.’ His head was still buried in his hands. ‘It was all going to come out little by little anyway. The way these things usually do.’
‘What?’
Hugh looked up. ‘The real story, Joanie. It’s a beauty, I promise you. A real corker!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Feel free to use it for your novel, if you like. Though it’s so outrageous it’s doubtful anyone would believe it. Well, you’re the writer; I’ll let you be the judge of that.’
Hugh leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘So, where to begin? In one way I’m not so very different to you. I sat down one day and dreamed up a story. The story of a crime. The trick then was to make it real. It had one very simple purpose. To frame my commanding officer, Major Gordon Fielding-Jones, for murder.’
Joan gasped. ‘My uncle? For murder? I don’t—’
Hugh motioned for her to be quiet. If he did not unburden himself of this secret now, he never would. Joan nodded. She was bewildered but she did in fact have a dreadful inkling of where this ‘story’ might be headed. As he spoke, Hugh’s face became as still as a mask and his eyes were fixed on some point over Joan’s shoulder.
‘You see, Gordon is a murderer, after all. A mass murderer. He and all those bastards who, out of blind loyalty and naked self-interest, took us into an imperialist war. A horrific bloodbath more like!’ Hugh’s eyes flicked to Joan as if to force home his point. ‘But Gordon was also personally responsible for murder. Ordering his men to their deaths when he knew the operational plans were little more than authorised suicide and his soldiers were exhausted and demoralised beyond endurance. And then leaving so many others of us, like myself and your brother Richard, crippled for life. Who will ever hold him to account for these crimes? No one.’
Hugh dropped his eyes then and studied the palms of his hands. ‘I could even have forgiven him, perhaps, if he had shown a shred of remorse after the war was over. But not Gordon, no. He was actually proud of his command. He believed his men went willingly to the slaughter, loyal to him to the bitter end. And then he came home and prospered without a thought for all those who had suffered and died. I could not let him get away with that.
‘At first I poured all my anger into the struggle for a revolution and my faith in a society that would hold men like Gordon to account. I believed in that possibility with such fierce hope! But over the last ten years I have watched the Australian Communist Party tear itself to pieces and fail to inspire support from working people. My faith faltered. It seemed the revolution would never come. Men like Gordon would always escape justice, always make the rules.
‘And then last year Gordon recruited me into the New Guard. My chance to punish him was within my grasp! It was destiny. I felt as if God Himself had called me to be an instrument of His justice. Within a month or so of acting as Gordon’s bodyguard and chauffeur, I got wind of his involvement with the crime boss Jeffs, though it was only later I learned the details. That was when I began to think that maybe I could destroy him. Not a quick, merciful death, but a long, painful public disgrace.
‘Not long after that you and I met at Trades Hall.’ Hugh looked at Joan with a look of such tenderness that she had to remind herself she was listening to a confession. ‘You probably won’t believe me now when I tell you that I fell in love with you. But I admit that was not my original plan. I thought you might be useful to me as Gordon’s niece, that you’d be able to tell me more about your aunt and uncle. It turned out that you hated them almost as much as I did!
‘And then a few months ago I heard that your friend Bernice had introduced a prostitute, Eleanor Dawson, to your crazy aunt’s sex club. Here was my big chance! A direct link between the Fielding-Joneses and one of Jeffs’s prostitutes. It was even plausible for Gordon to have met her at his flat. And her presence would be witnessed by all the members of the club. Bingo! I could stitch up Gordon for the murder of Eleanor Dawson. How hard could that be?’
Joan let out a cry of pain. ‘You mean you chose Ellie … ?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Hugh was impatient to continue his story. ‘I commenced my plan soon after that Goddess Club meeting with Eleanor. Gordon had given me responsibility for his personal security. I had smart clothes, access to money, keys to nearly every room in the flat, use of Gordon’s car.
‘That was when my plan began to take shape. I went to the brothel one night and introduced myself to Ellie. Told her my name was Major Gordon Fielding-Jones. Given Olympia’s youthful beauty for a woman of her age as well as her taste for younger men, her marriage to a fellow like me did not seem an impossible stretch. I told Eleanor I didn’t like the way my wife had exploited her. That I wanted to make amends. I never expected or demanded sex. It was to be our very own secret. Well, she was charmed. Nobo
dy had ever treated her with such kindness.’
Joan could imagine how alluring this must all have seemed to poor Eleanor, if not a bit too good to be true. Was she not suspicious of such unsolicited benevolence in a world that was at best indifferent and at worst unremittingly hostile?
‘I took her out for a few quiet suppers in the city and began to give her gifts and money. And then I made promises. I would set her free, help her find a new life, rent her a nice flat where I could visit. I loved her, I said, but I would not touch her until we could be together properly. She wrote me love letters like the one you found in Gordon’s desk. Very touching.’
By now, it was impossible for Joan to look Hugh in the eye. It was as if her boyfriend of the last six months had become possessed by a demon. This cold-hearted monster had Hugh’s face, spoke with Hugh’s voice, but could not possibly be Hugh. She wondered now, to her utter humiliation, how many, if not all, of his debilitating episodes of gas neurosis—when he had failed to turn up for dates with Joan—were in fact a cover for when he was busy ensnaring Ellie.
Hugh leaned closer to Joan. His voice, which had hardened as he laid out the cold facts of the case, softened a little now. ‘I know what you’re thinking. How could I treat this poor woman so cruelly? But Ellie was no saint, Joan, believe me. When she was one of Jeffs’s most highly paid whores, she could easily have paid off the house at Tempe. Instead, she partied and boozed and gambled and did coke and enjoyed a string of lovers. Did she ever think about her mother and little girl then? Did she think about her poor husband out west with his swag? No, she did not.
‘I was pretty careful about going out in public with her for obvious reasons. But then I had another idea. One day when Gordon and Olympia were out on the town I made sure they were snapped by my good mate, the street photographer. I then got him to take another snap of me and Ellie on the same spot a few days later. I paid him a handsome amount of dosh to make a composite, mixing different photos in the darkroom to make them appear as if they were all part of the one photo. Fiddly stuff. My mate was able to cut Olympia out and replace her with Ellie standing next to the real Gordon! You found that photo in Gordon’s desk.
‘Can you spare us a fag, Joanie?’ asked Hugh suddenly, in such a casual manner it was as if they were simply enjoying a pleasant evening by the harbour. His hands were shaking. With his dodgy lungs, Hugh rarely smoked but it seemed tonight he needed something to steady his nerves. As the breeze freshened off the harbour, he also slipped on his ruined jacket. Joan handed over her Luckies pack and a box of matches. Hugh lit up and took several puffs before resuming his story.
‘My “romance” with Ellie continued into the New Year. One afternoon I made a point of dropping her off at Tempe so her mother Ruby could see my car—Gordon’s car—and hear my name. But I made sure she never saw my face. Though I made a mistake there: I didn’t think about Greta hiding by the gate.’ He smiled grimly.
‘I had sworn Ellie to secrecy but knew she would tell her flatmate Jessie all about me. I had no problem with that. It meant one more witness to Gordon’s relationship. But then I made another slip-up. I came to Ellie’s flat late one night to change our arrangements—very risky; stupid, in fact—and Jess was there when she shouldn’t have been. She must have overheard my voice and thought it sounded familiar. I never made that mistake again.’
Hugh took another deep inhalation and blew out a stream of blue smoke. He began to cough a little but managed to get it under control. ‘Now came the really tricky part: how to set up a murder. The police would need evidence. So I created some. One morning I asked Gordon to please give me his work number in case I ever had to ring him there in an emergency. I grabbed the nearest piece of paper—Olympia’s Bacchus Club letterhead, of course—and he scribbled it down with his fountain pen. On the morning of the murder I then stole his cut-throat razor. Both the razor and the letterhead had his fingerprints, not mine. I wore driving gloves, you see. Now I had two pieces of evidence to be left at the crime scene.
‘I also knew Gordon was having a meeting that night in Kings Cross with Phil the Jew. By then I had learned what he was up to. He had cooked up a scheme to sell snow to returned soldiers who could not get enough morphine for their pain. A whole new market was waiting to be tapped courtesy of Gordon’s contacts inside the Returned Sailors and Soldiers League. Frankie Goldman would run a team of dealers and Jeffs and Gordon would split the profits. This meant, of course, he had no alibi for the night of the murder. He could hardly ask Jeffs to vouch for him, could he? And with a bit of luck his car would be spotted, parked only two streets away from the murder scene in Kings Cross.
‘I had all my ducks in a row. I had told Ellie I would drop by later that night. It was time for her to start a new life, I said, time to kiss her old life goodbye. She even packed her bags, poor love. When I rang the brothel around ten, I was told she hadn’t turned up for work. I went straight to the flat and she let me in. The neighbours had their opera cranked up loud. I could see that someone had punched her in the eye and wondered what the hell was going on.’
Joan’s face was white. She shook her head angrily, her hands over her ears, refusing to hear the details of the murder itself. Hugh nodded as if to acknowledge her objection and was silent for a moment. Her hands came down. He began to speak again.
‘It was a mercy killing, really: Ellie’s life was so wretched, her coke addiction getting much worse, she was falling apart. No use to anyone, least of all her mother and daughter. I left Gordon’s razor covered with his fingerprints under the bed. I also left the letterhead with Gordon’s business number on the bedside table. Job done. Two lots of evidence at the scene with Gordon’s prints, and letters and a street photo to be found at the apartment. It was foolproof. Perfect. Now it was just up to the police to join the dots. And then came the totally unexpected!’
Hugh leaned back on the bench and laughed out loud. ‘You! The wild card, the bloody spanner in the works. You removed the letterhead from the crime scene. The vital piece of evidence with the only set of prints easily traceable to Gordon to match those on the razor. I was stunned! I couldn’t believe it. My whole plan was ruined. What could I do now? How would the police be able to follow my trail of clues to frame Gordon without that?’
Joan remembered Hugh’s look of shock and anger at the Arabian Café the morning she confessed to taking the letterhead. Now she understood why he was so upset and she marvelled at how he had managed to hide his true feelings.
Hugh clutched at his temples for a moment as if that catastrophic turn of events still caused him pain. ‘I had to think fast. There was now only one person who could follow my trail of clues. The same person who had derailed my plan would have to get it back on track. You! I took a gamble on your interest in crime and your resentment of Bill Jenkins—and, of course, your hatred for your aunt and uncle, which you could barely even admit to yourself. I had to dangle a story in front of you about Gordon as a possible killer but leave enough doubt for you to want to investigate.
‘With the Bacchus Club letterhead removed from the scene and covered in your fingerprints, it was now useless as evidence. But it just might work as leverage for blackmail. Which it did, further convincing you of Gordon’s guilt. Of course, it was more the suggestion we knew about Gordon’s involvement with Jeffs that really spooked him and persuaded him to cough up money. Playing your part at the Hotel Australia gave you the confidence to get your hands dirty as an undercover detective. And it felt good squeezing money out of that arsehole to help your parents and your brother, didn’t it?’
Hugh grimaced as if at a throb of pain in his forehead and massaged his temples with his fingers. ‘There were still some bloody unforeseen complications of course. Frankie Goldman acting like a paranoid dickhead, slashing Jess’s face. And then the danger that, triggered by morphine, Jessie suddenly remembered that Ellie’s secret lover was not in fact Gordon but your boyfriend Hugh! I had to fix that straightaway before she told anyone.’<
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‘Oh Jesus, no!’ Joan had led Hugh straight to her at the hospital. ‘You didn’t … ?’
‘She didn’t leave me a lot of choice. She was so groggy that I got her downstairs to the hospital car park easily enough, but then she suddenly recognised me. After a bit of panic and a struggle—she left a nasty bruise on my forehead—I knocked her out and put her in the boot of Gordon’s car. I didn’t want to hurt her, Joanie. I tried to bribe her, to buy her silence, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Nasty piece of work she was. Always bad-mouthing her so-called friend Ellie, stealing money off her, ratting on her to Frankie. I dumped her in the sand dunes out at Malabar and then picked her up again on Sunday night and drove her to The Gap. Left a shoe and some cigarette stubs to make it look like suicide.’
The more Hugh talked, the madder he sounded. And the more wretched Joan felt as she realised she had unwittingly sacrificed Jessie to Hugh’s madness. She wanted to shout at him: ‘How can you sit there so calmly talking about killing two innocent women?’ But she did not want to interrupt his confession. She needed to hear the whole story.
‘Well, there was no stopping you now, Detective Inspector Joan Linderman. I even told you that I was a member of Gordon’s bodyguard, in case you wanted my help. But, no, you were flying solo. All I had to do was make sure the clues were there for you to find: a letter and a photo. I even left the study door unlocked.’
Joan felt so ashamed. She knew it had all been too easy, but she had been so keen on her role as the clever amateur detective, she had ignored her own instincts.
Hugh sucked the last lungful from the cigarette and crushed the butt under his heel. ‘There was another hitch, of course. Bloody Geoffrey. He and I should have been gone by the time you went into the study, but he couldn’t find his glasses or some damn thing! I called him off when he recognised you and hoped that everything was back on track. You would take the evidence to the police and they would conduct a search of Gordon’s flat.
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 28
