by Keith Dixon
*
‘When I find out who murdered Rory,’ I said, ‘you know I can’t kill him.’
‘Some friend you are,’ Laura Marshall said.
‘I’m a hired hand. I’m not Fred MacMurray and you’re not Barbara Stanwyck.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind. A movie reference.’
‘Good day to make jokes. Tasteful.’
‘I’m sorry. You’ve had a rough day.’
She looked at me guardedly. I knew that look. It was the look clients gave you when they began to wonder what you were getting from the situation you were both involved in. They knew it wasn’t money, though you might try to convince yourself that it was. As yet Laura couldn’t tell what I was thinking, which was just as well. It wasn’t good for clients to know that you were working on their case because you felt guilty—guilty that you hadn’t acted more quickly or decisively.
She’d met me looking red-eyed and weary. She’d said she didn’t want to sit inside a noisy café, so we sat on a bench in Waverley’s paved pedestrian centre. I guessed it was her way of punishing herself. I could understand that because I felt the same way. She’d pushed her hair into a blue beret and wore a full-length coat made from what appeared to be Labrador hide. Now she probably regretted the jaunty look she’d taken on for today – how were you supposed to know it was going to be a terrible day? How were you supposed to know what to wear when something like this could happen?
‘Tell me what you remember,’ I said.
She looked down as if organising her thoughts. ‘I was driving in to work when I got a call from the office,’ she said. ‘It was Betty. You met her yesterday.’
I nodded.
‘She and Carol and one of the consultants, Mal O’Donovan, got in about eight o’clock. Those three are usually the first in. Carol and Betty because they have to be, Mal because he likes to brown-nose and show the boss how hard he’s working. Apparently the lights were on but there was no one about. Carol said Betty had a fit because the lights seemed to have been left on overnight.’
‘Carol’s the dragon you use to frighten away unwanted visitors.’
‘Carol’s the receptionist.’
‘That’s what I said.’
She gave me a look in which I saw the whole horror of what she was remembering. Her eyes were bottomless. I felt myself flinch. She went on: ‘Mal and Betty went to the kitchen to make tea and coffee and heard a shout—well, more of a scream, according to Mal. They ran out and found Carol backing away from one of the small offices. When they looked inside they saw Rory face down on the desk.’
‘Did they touch him?’
‘Carol got up the courage and tested his neck for a pulse. She used to work on reception in a doctor’s surgery, so I suppose she’s picked up one or two things. She couldn’t find a pulse so they called the police and ambulance.’
‘And they called you.’
‘I got there before the police arrived, but I didn’t have much time alone with Betty and the others before we were ushered out of the way and all the questioning began. One of the policeman said Rory’s neck appeared to be broken.’
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘were you surprised that Rory was in the office so early?’
‘Not at all. He’s a bad sleeper. He often arranges meetings at six in the morning. Or he comes in and gets his paperwork done while the office is quiet. But I asked Carol if he had an early meeting and she said not as far as she was aware. If he was meeting someone, it was a private thing.’
‘So nobody knew he had an early meeting except the person who killed him. I’m guessing that’s not typical.’
‘Not really,’ she said, sighing. Then, strangely, she brightened. ‘Oh, and I’ve just remembered something else.’
‘What?’
She lowered her voice and brought her face closer to mine. Her skin was smooth, her eyes suddenly clear. ‘Rory was face down on the desk, and his laptop was open next to him. Before the police arrived, Mal told me what he saw on Rory’s screen.’
‘What did it say?’
She told me what the consultant had read and I duly wrote it down without having the slightest idea what it meant.
