High Beam

by SJ Brown

  “Recently, they’ve surfaced. In London it was impossible to be bored of life. And, initially, I was glad to be back here. My parents were still alive and Tassie offered a lifestyle I couldn’t possibly afford in the UK. But of late, work, the job of detecting as it were, doesn’t fill the gaps. You see your old friends getting such a kick out of watching their kids play that I wish I was in a nuclear family. Probably too late now. I feel a bit detached from life. Want to be a fuller participant. I’d settle for a happy relationship.” He smiled at Cartwright. “How’s that, Dr. Freud?”

  His interlocutor also smiled. Held a hand to cup his ear. “Just catching a few of the echoes that are bouncing around this office. I hope I’m not being presumptuous but I think I know exactly how you feel. I feel it too. I don’t want to die alone.”

  Mahoney, if with a close friend, would have said more but now was the moment for the detective to stay silent. They were at a tipping point.

  “You see, Inspector, I can empathize with what you’ve described. It eats at me. I feel … stuck, for want of a better word. Believe me, that’s not how I felt when I was twenty-four. Do men always feel as if they’re twenty-four forever?”

  Some. Most. All of them. Mahoney could not be sure. That was the conundrum. Did some sort of emotional maturity require a male to leave irrepressible optimism behind or was it healthy to keep hold of that youthful vigor? At just that age the slamming shut of the door to his heart. Had England just been a sojourn into Never Never Land where he could start afresh because nobody knew who he was? Perhaps Cartwright should augment his furniture with a therapy couch.

  Mahoney’s pensiveness was interpreted as reticence by Cartwright. Unperturbed, he pressed on. He was on a roll. “God knows. Anyway, for me that was a crucial time. I’d done well here.” His lifted arms airily waved at the walls and ceiling. “False modesty aside, I blitzed my undergraduate course. Just really took to academic study. The adolescent awkwardness, the stupid constraints at school, the banality of the suburbs just faded away. I found that the things I had begun to cherish were appreciated and valued. You must know what I mean…books, knowledge, whatever?”

  Mahoney nodded. He could see it alright. Had felt it too.

  “Then it was onto my Masters. The politics of Federalism. Loved it. I realized this could easily be my work, indefinitely. People were interested in me because I was smart. It didn’t matter that I was hopeless at sport…or drinking beer. Was involved with a very attractive woman, studying law. I felt whole.

  “Then in ’86 I was offered a position at Columbus University in New York. Lecturer in Australian Politics and accommodation at a bargain rate in Manhattan. Had visions of being some sort of book-toting Crocodile Dundee. Alas, Anna didn’t. She’d been offered an internship at a solid local firm. Couldn’t see how going to America would be of any benefit. She stayed. I went. She’s now a Magistrate in the line for the Judges’ Bench and I’m maybe going to finish up in front of her. The wheel turns in interesting ways.” He adjusted his spectacles ever so slightly. “And for a long time I was fulfilled. My course was popular. Plenty of invitations to conferences on the back of academic publications. I even had some articles make it to The New Yorker.”

  This begged an obvious question so Mahoney asked it. “That is impressive. Genuinely so. Then why are you here?”

  “Family partly. Ego mainly. Larkin was wrong. My parents did not fuck me up. They were very supportive of me when I was younger. When I was little there would be different programs on TV about the Year 2000 and all the great gizmos we’d have. In the ’70s, in my teens, it seemed far away. But Mum would always say, ‘Your father and I will be old by then but you’ll be thirty-eight and able to enjoy all these wonderful things’. Subconsciously I stored thirty-eight away as an age by which I’d better have achieved something.

  “Well, guess what? In 2000 a fellowship opened up here and what with some Sydney Olympics-induced yearning for Oz, I returned. Spend more time with the folks. I’d learned to play golf in the States. Thought I’d play a regular round with my Dad. Mostly I wanted to be a big fish. So I accepted the offer and unfortunately found the pond was stagnant.” He shuffled in his chair. “No one round here gives a stuff about scholastic reputation. Unless you’re in business and making money, you may as well be emasculated in this town. Christ knows how teachers keep their heads up.”

  “I know just what you mean.” Mahoney loved the vibrant artistic side to this town but he had to acknowledge the presence of a masculine business community that was anti-intellectual, greedy and downright boorish.

  “Well, these people did take a bit of notice when my media work began to develop. I acquired something of a reputation. I was invited to lunch.” The sardonic emphasis imbued the word with sarcasm. “Then charity functions and dinner parties. I was an interesting chap. Not a real man, mind you. Not a good bloke who you’d have a decent drinking session with but not a bad fella nonetheless.” His eyebrows lifted in mock self-disgust. “Overall, although I began to seriously wish I lived somewhere else and had someone to live with, my life was pretty bearable.”

  “And somebody threatened it?”

  “Yes, but not that seriously, really. The exposé wasn’t going to be published in the paper. I could easily have ridden out the storm. But my sense of self-justification wouldn’t let me. That young woman had played me. Good and proper. I guess I wanted to crush somebody. A classic bullying scenario. Felt useless myself so I wanted to demean another. Damage someone. And that’s why I got involved in all this. To vent my spleen. Not exactly the stuff of great tragedy. Hardly seems worth it, does it?”

  No, it didn’t, thought Mahoney. Sometimes, maybe even oftentimes, grand passion was not the motivator for crime. It could be as petty as this. The tragedy was that an innocent life had been swept away. That the why was less than a grand crime passionnel did not truly matter. What counted was a crucial link in the chain had been connected.

  “Obviously I can’t condone your motivation but you have at least provided a clear understanding of it. I trust you can bring the same clarity to a recollection of the part you played in what transpired last week.”

  “Yes, I can. I no longer wish to hide.”

  That’s big of you, thought Mahoney. You’ve been sprung and you now want to be straight with the law. How admirable. He kept his growing contempt from his tone. “Then you can take me through it if you would.”

  “I was offered a way out of the embarrassing situation I’d helped to create. The price for keeping my name out of the paper was to exert some pressure myself.”

  “Upon your brother-in-law, Larry Owen?”

  “Correct. Coincidentally, someone else needed a favor done that dovetailed quite neatly with one of the targets for my revenge.”

  “As you couldn’t directly damage the young woman, Brad Finch was a sufficiently good target?”

  Cartwright shifted uneasily. “That’s right. Apparently he had put someone else’s nose out of joint. I wasn’t told who. Just what I could do to fulfil the obligation with which I was now saddled. The price was to persuade Larry to make part of his site available last Thursday evening. I was even provided with the silver bullet that would assure his acquiescence.”

  “His affair with Jane Watson?”

  “Again correct. To be honest I didn’t like doing it but my hand was forced.”

  Mahoney briefly wondered where the academic stored his spine. “And who forced it?”

  “Rory Fotheringham.”

  “And he is?”

  “A business consultant who finds solutions for people. He got the paper off my back in the blink of an eye. A force to be reckoned with.”

  Mahoney took a few moments to register this new material. Thorough checks of Cartwright’s movements and communications had underscored the fact that he would have been very hard pressed to have anything to do with the implementati
on of the plan beyond what he had now admitted. “Can you verify what you are claiming, with regard to this man?”

  “No, it’s just my word. By the look on your face that is not anywhere near enough.”

  “Collusion is difficult enough to prove with verifiable records. A testimony based on a conversation you now recall is not going to fly. If I had the evidence to charge you for the homicide I would. As it turns out, you are an accessory to the crime and a relatively minor one at that. You are really not much use to me at all.” He got up to leave. “I have important work to do this evening so you can leave it ’til tomorrow to present yourself at Police Headquarters to give the latest version of your statement. Don’t get up. You can wallow in your guilt for a while longer.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Thursday 18th March 9am

  Back in his office the next morning Mahoney called in Munro and Kendall. Having talked them through the preceding day’s discoveries, he brought up the sticking point. “Rory Fotheringham. Another link in our chain. From talking to contacts, I gather he’s certainly a mover and shaker. I called him last night and the single admission I got was that he’s heard of Finch’s death and what a great pity it was. Beyond that he denied any knowledge of anything else I put to him regarding the investigation. Says he knows lots of people; it’s the nature of his business. He didn’t think that could be a crime. Very cagey man. No matter what angle I came at it from, he professed no knowledge beyond being acquainted with people. He may be a blind alley but you never know.”

  Before either officer could speak, the phone rang. “DI Mahoney here.”

  “Inspector, it’s Amanda Pattison.”

  “Hello, I’m sorry. I meant to get back to you but it’s been a bit frantic.”

  She was not fazed. “That’s no problem. I don’t need updates. I just found something that may help.”

  “Right, great. I’ll just put you on speakerphone so my two colleagues can listen in.”

  “Sure. Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, go ahead?”

  “OK. I’ve chanced upon the identity of the Felicity woman I saw at Brad’s flat last Saturday.”

  “I remember. Go on.”

  “I was cleaning out some newspapers and started browsing, as you do. I came upon a double page spread of photos of the Devils’ season launch on the social page. She was in the largest pic with the President of the club. Mr. Roger and Mrs. Felicity Sproule. I’d bet my first year’s salary she and Brad were much more than nodding acquaintances from what I witnessed in her manner last week.”

  Mahoney was hooked. “OK, good. Thank you. We’ve made progress but this will nudge things along nicely. Can I ask you to keep this to yourself?”

  “Of course. I understand, Inspector. Good luck.”

  “Thank you again. I’ll be in touch.” The call disconnected and Mahoney looked to his two subordinates. “Good old-fashioned jealousy. What do you think?”

  “Just because it’s textbook doesn’t make it a cliché.”

  “Kate’s right, Sir. Word is he doesn’t take prisoners. Bit of a tough nut.”

  Mahoney nodded. “Righto. It’s come out of left field but we can’t ignore it. Our best course of action is to give him a wide berth and talk to the wife. You’ll go together. That pairing should work for this one. Get your jackets while I work out how to play this. Then head off to see her. We could do with some luck.”

  * * *

  Along Churchill Avenue to Sonning Crescent the strategy was rehearsed. Munro concentrated on the winding road while Kate enjoyed the scenic view of the established properties that rose up the hill from Nutgrove Beach. They discussed questions and body language. They knew, without being told, that the next hour was to be a telling one for this case and their careers. Number 2 was on the corner with an unimpeded view of the river by the virtue of the parkland opposite. Munro eased the car into a vacant spot in the set of spaces provided at the Alexander Battery installation. Originally created as defensive gun artillery to repel potential nineteenth century invaders, it now served as a municipal vantage point for locals and tourists alike.

  The detectives got out and walked back across Churchill Avenue to the Sproule house. It was a house in the literal sense that people resided there but the property had been remodeled along the lines of the ‘Look at me, I’m cashed up’ school of architecture. It more resembled a boutique hotel on the Queensland Riviera than a home in Hobart. Kate thought it barely resembled a home in any sense of the definition. Two stories high with enormous picture windows to catch the view, and with columns. A temple to lucre, she decided.

  As planned, Munro approached the double front doors but before he could reach the buzzer a voice to his left beckoned. “Hello there, you’re early.” Facing him was Felicity Sproule who was standing on a wooden deck just outside sliding glass doors. She was in a white bikini that clung to her dripping wet body. As Munro approached, she leant away to pick up a blue towel. “I was just having a quick dip.”

  She casually toweled her hair as he stood there. He looked levelly at her eyes. “My apologies, Mrs. Sproule. Must have mistimed the trip.” They had not. She must have intended to meet him this way.

  “Felicity, please. Would you like a drink or a swim?”

  Both would be good. “No, thank you. Tempting though. We’d just like a quick chat and then we’ll be off.”

  “We?” She wrapped the towel round her. On cue, Kate came through the wrought iron front gate and up the steps.

  “Yes, DC Kendall wishes to speak with you. I’m just the driver today.”

  Felicity looked slightly flummoxed. She knew how to deal with young men but some women were a different matter altogether. The one approaching her now seemed to have dressed with the intention of camouflaging her figure entirely. Not butch exactly, but asexual.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sproule. Did DS Munro not mention I was coming?” Obviously not, by the expression on her face. “He doesn’t always follow protocol, I’m afraid.” Munro looked suitably chastised. Kate noticed he got the downcast look just right. Not too defeated but Mrs. Sproule was aware by now who was wearing the pants here.

  She missed a beat but was back to her perky self pretty quickly. “In that case could you wait a sec while I get my robe?”

  That was no problem at all and in the instant she was gone the two detectives occupied two of the trio of the deck chairs arranged on the patio. Their hostess returned and took the remaining seat. Clad in her toweling robe she sat demurely.

  “I don’t know how I can help but there must be a reason for your calling, I suppose.”

  Munro sat tight-lipped as Kate launched. “How long had you been shagging Brad Finch?”

  Her eyes widened and she turned to Munro who was casually studying the roofline. She turned back to her inquisitor. “What sort of a question is that?” Her face had turned crimson.

  “A simple one, actually. Please answer.”

  The death stare quickly subsided. “It wasn’t like that. Not like the others. He was different. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Kate softened her tone. “I might. Please tell us. How was he special?”

  “He genuinely wanted me to come.”

  Munro blinked quickly but kept his gaze averted. Kate leaned forward. “Well, that puts him pretty high in any woman’s estimation.”

  Felicity wiped an errant strand of hair from her cheek. Clasping her hands in her lap, she continued. “Sorry, that was blunt. He was able to make me feel good about myself. Like I wasn’t just Roger Sproule’s trophy wife. Like I was more than the ditzy piece to parade at social functions. He listened to me and let me know, in lots of ways, I was worth knowing. It didn’t matter that he probably had others but when he was with me it was just me. Only me. Can you see that?”

  Kate nodded. “Yes, I think so. Everybody does speak well of him.”


  “I’m not a rocket scientist but I do have a brain. Not that the pig I’m married to would care to admit it. He turns my stomach. And before you ask, it wasn’t easy to leave. Roger took great delight in explaining how a very cleverly constructed family trust holds all of our assets. If I walk, I get to take my wardrobe. That’s it.”

  Munro spoke. “Cunning bugger. Kind of leaves you with nowhere to go.”

  “Exactly. But I was going anyway. I told him about a fortnight ago. He could find another hostess with the mostest.”

  “How did he take that?” Kate realized they were verging on interesting terrain.

  “Badly, to say the least. He didn’t lay a finger on me but the next dinner guests will be served with new china. He was in such a rage. You’d have to be to call your wife a whore, among the other very choice terms. It ran its course and then he walked out. Came back later that evening but he has barely spoken to me since. Went stone cold.”

  She was more confident now. More assertive. Kate could discern the strength beneath. “And Brad fits into this how?”

  “I was going to be with him. Didn’t care what else happened.”

  “Was your husband aware of this involvement?”

  “Not really, no, I don’t think so. He was his jovial bold as brass self at the Season Launch the other Friday but when he didn’t know I was looking, he gave Brad a look that would stop a rhino. Not that Brad saw it. Nothing was said and nothing eventuated. Not then, at least.” Munro had long ceased feigning disinterest. He was acutely aware now of his role. Sit quietly and allow his partner to continue the running. He could see this woman, despite superficial appearances, held deep emotions. A well of disappointment in how her life was turning that would now be tapped.

  Again, Mahoney’s assessment of how the currents would run and how to ride them to their advantage was proving to be true. Kate, as an empathetic female, would tap into Felicity Sproule’s divided loyalties. As she proceeded to do now. “We’ve been able to establish that Brad’s homicide occurred sometime on Thursday evening or the early hours of Friday morning. We’re still unsure of exactly who was responsible.” Some truth but not the whole truth. Kate opened her notebook and flicked through the pages as if checking for details. “Can you corroborate your husband’s movements during that time?” Munro mentally applauded the choice of the verb.