by Mark Bailey
‘No, not really, we live in a democracy, Milly. You have some time, though. There won’t be too much of a fuss initially, not on Monday at least when the trial starts. They need to be careful what they report, not to prejudice the trial, not to break any contempt laws. The media will be there, though, taking photos, saving it up for when the trial finishes, just reporting on the boring stuff … the legal stuff. The real dishy stuff will be at the end. That’s when everything will fly … when the story is told, when newspapers will sell.’
There was another short silence as Milly pondered Simone’s words.
‘You’ve got to remember,’ added Dannii, ‘the police and lawmakers want to send a message to the community. It doesn’t matter how much money you have; if you break the law, you will be caught, prosecuted and punished.’
‘So, what’s the upshot of this conversation then?‘
‘The upshot is, to get your evidence done, fulfill your court obligation and fly straight back to the U.K. You need to warn your mother and your aunt what to expect too,’ replied Simone.
They continued talking through Thursday night into Friday morning. Milly told them what she knew of her sister Sibby, her burgeoning career and her fiancé Joe and her murder and the discovery of her body at the South Croydon Inn. She related more details of Joe’s brother Sim. She showed them the photo Ella Russell had given her of Sibby and Joe taken at Dunnottar Castle in Stonehaven, Scotland, in 2015. Initially, Dannii and Simone thought they were looking at Milly in the photo.
She could tell that Dannii was tempted to make a ribald remark about Joe’s looks and ‘bedability’ but refrained. She really has matured, thought Milly.
Then she began to relate her discomfort with the way the MIT had dealt with the last ten months of Sibby’s life. There were too many unanswered questions. Questions on motive, the rationale behind the manner in which Sibby conducted herself, her descent into oblivion even though she had her whole life in front of her and a loving and supportive family behind her.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Dannii.
‘I don’t know. It’s just that the investigation virtually stopped at Sibby’s murder. The authorities put together a sketchy account of Sibby’s life from the day Joe was caught with the drugs in his car. There was only ever one financial transaction in one of her two bank accounts when she purchased a train ticket from Scotland to London. They don’t know where she went or with whom she met. She didn’t take any cash from her accounts in ten months, so where did she get her money? They made all these assumptions. That Sim Charles gave her money. That she was drug-addled for ten months. None of it makes sense.’
‘I’ve been hanging it on you a bit tonight, Milly, all in jest. I’d like to make a serious comment now, though, and I’m not being disrespectful.’
‘I know, and I agree with you, Dannii. I know exactly what you are going to say.’
‘What?’ asked Simone.
‘Birds of a feather …’
‘I’m not with you,’ interrupted Simone, taking another sip of her Merlot.
‘… flock together,’ ended Milly.
‘Sibby is the same as her sister … Milly.’
Simone still looked confused.
‘I’ll put it another way. Milly told you about her father being a drunk, an alcoholic, virtually drinking himself to death.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, in this case, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, only Sibby’s choice of poison was different … and to clarify, I make that comment in relation to Milly’s behavior too.’
‘I see,’ answered Simone, ‘I get it now.’
‘It was rather different with me, though,’ added Milly. ‘When I acted out, I did it in front of an audience, virtually in public, in full view. Everyone knew. The difference with Sibby was her withdrawal, her hermit-like life over her last ten months. Was she that distraught over losing Joe? Why couldn’t she wait for him to get out of jail if she loved him so much? Was it the drugs? … I guess we’ll never know.’
‘They talked on for a while longer, then went to bed. There were no drugs, no lines of coke, just a few bottles of wine. Dannii also had given up smoking. They slept separately — Milly had been wrong on that one too. Dannii certainly had matured. She had a meeting with D.I. Sean Poke at 9:30 the next morning, then it would be off to see her mother and Aunt Christy.
Friday morning saw a pensive Milly arrive at police headquarters on Hay Street off Adelaide Terrace. The meeting with D.I. Poke was brief. He basically confirmed Simone’s tale of woe on where she believed media reporting of the case was headed. Then the conversation turned to the pending court case. Milly would be questioned by Counsel for the State and interrogated by Counsel for the Accused. Therefore, her attendance would depend on the order of questioning — or interrogation — by both sides. D.I. Poke believed Milly would need to attend most, if not all, hearing days when the State presented its case but would know more on Monday. Counsel for the State would comprise lawyers headed by the D.P.P. Paul Long, with Counsel for the Accused led by Ian Mason Q.C.
Simone had seen Mason in action in her first job as a court reporter. He was a small man, very decisive, very precise, but often rude and uncompromising. He was also held in high esteem within the legal fraternity. That, according to Dannii, meant he was a pompous little ponce with a little dick and a penchant for expensive cars and Cuban cigars.
‘What about my charges?’ asked Milly.
‘Your lawyer, Jane Dobson, will need to deal with that. It will be dealt with in the Magistrates Court before you fly back to the U.K. after you have testified.’
‘Actually, through Jane, I have made a written application to the Magistrates Court, pleading not guilty,’ replied Milly.
‘Good luck with that then. I believe this court case should be over and done within two — at the outside — two and a half weeks, Milly.’ That was D.I. Pokes’ last comment and the only really good bit of news for the morning so far.
So now for the bad news, thought Milly. I better go and front Mom and Aunt Christy.
Chapter 8.
Milly drove Yves King’s S 65 AMG Mercedes-Benz convertible to her mother’s place in Mount Hawthorn, around five kilometers north of Perth central. Unlike Dannii, her parents weren’t shy when it came to flaunting their wealth. Andrew King had purchased two of the identical luxury cars, each with personalized number plates — HIS and HERS — designating the nominated driver. Dannii had warned Milly of the car’s potential. ‘It can be dangerous in the wrong hands with its V12 motor, and its Formula 1 racing genes, so ease into it,’ Dannii warned.
‘Why don’t you drive your mom’s car, Dannii, and I’ll take yours?’
‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that car with those fucking number plates,’ was Dannii’s blunt reply.
Milly drove the fifteen-minute drive from the police station in Adelaide Terrace to Mount Hawthorn not daring to test the car’s pedigree. She parked outside her mother’s house. It confirmed to nosy neighbors the wealthy stock of their unassuming middle-aged neighbor who lived alone in that equally unassuming orange brick house with its red-tiled roof in Ellesmere Street, off Scarborough Beach Road.
‘Isn’t she the sister of that woman married to the wealthy banker who died recently?’ one neighbor asked another, peeking through her kitchen blinds as Milly drove up, enhancing the conversation at their morning coffee ritual.
‘Yes, the woman married to the banker is the older one, the one you often see hanging around. She stays there a lot. She’s staying there now … she arrived yesterday.’ Milly stepped from the car. ‘They must all be related, though, even this one in the HERS car. She’s got that red hair like the other two.’
Milly knocked on the front door; the neighbors looked on. Mia answered the door, and they watched as the two figures hugged each other. Then the middle-aged neighbor of wealthy stock shut the front door, locking the nosy neighbors out.
They walked into the kitchen
where Aunt Christy stood, leaning against the sink.
‘My God, Milly, you’ve … grown,’ commented Christy. Milly was getting sick of all the comments on her appearance. She resolved then to do something about it.
She stared at her two closest known blood kin, now both middle-aged widows. As they aged, they grew more alike. They had always acted similarly with the same quirks and eccentricities, some obvious, like the way they walked and carried themselves. There were other things — the way her aunt stood, leaning back on the sink, with her hands resting on the back of her hips, each hand folded into a fist. They sounded the same, with their pale skin, similarly wrinkled, similarly dimpled with their frowns and furrows in the same places, all thrown together and accentuated by their red hair.
‘I’ve really missed both of you,’ said Milly as she started crying.
‘We’ve missed you, too,’ answered Aunt Christy as the three of them met in a huddle in the middle of the kitchen, in a group hug. ‘I didn’t mean anything with that comment; you are more beautiful now than I can ever remember, Milly. Dannii called this morning laughing and joking, telling us how lovely it was to have you home … telling us what to expect … well, her opinion anyway.’
‘That’s alright, we all know what Dannii’s like.’ Just you wait, Dannii, thought Milly.
They sat at the kitchen table for hours, well into the afternoon sharing coffee and stories with a short break for lunch. Mia made some sandwiches, but Milly declined, ‘I’m not hungry, Mom.’ She told them of Sibby — what they didn’t know at least, and her relationship with Sibby’s adoptive parents, John and Ella Russell, of Donald Kerford and the D.N.A. phenotyping and other things. They discussed Uncle James, his fight to hang on, the acceptance of his fate as his body gave in to cancer and his huge funeral. She showed them the photo of Sibby and Joe at Dunnottar Castle in Stonehaven and both Mia and Christy started to cry.
When she thought it appropriate — when is it appropriate, wondered Milly — she broached the subject of media coverage of the pending trial. She remembered the heated conversation nearly two years earlier at her rented duplex in Ferndale when Mia disowned her as a daughter. She recalled her mother referring to her as a slut and Simone, in the photo with Dannii on the front page of Saturday’s paper, as that tart.
‘I have a friend, Mom and Aunt Christy, who works at the West Australian newspaper, and she thinks that reporting of the coming trial will be heated and there will be a lot of accusations flying about — a lot of personal stuff. There will be lies, and half-truths all drummed up by innuendo and big words just to sell newspapers and feed the 24-hour news cycle. Most of it won’t happen until the end of the trial, but there will be some nasty accusations in there about me.’
‘Yes, Milly?’ prompted Mia.
Well, I’m just asking if you can do me a favor. Please don’t read the papers or watch the news for a few days towards the end of the trial, and immediately after it finishes. If you do, you won’t be happy. Whatever happens, though, I take full responsibility, and I have changed my ways.’
‘I think we can accommodate you there, Milly,’ answered Mia. ‘Your aunt and I are heading away in a fortnight before the trial is due to finish, so we’ll miss it anyway.’
‘We’re not interested in the trial,’ insisted Christy.
‘We hope you don’t mind, Milly,’ continued Mia, ‘we’re going to fly down to Tasmania. Christy owns a cottage down there on the beautiful northwest coast, so we thought we might visit. You can come if you like.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m working on a rather tight schedule,’ replied Milly relieved. ‘My absence has caused some problems with the business principal of Watford Therapy, Theo Maddix. He’s still banging on about the time I took off for Sibby’s funeral.’
The conversation continued for another half hour, when Milly, suffering jet lag, declared she would retire for an afternoon nap.
Simone’s words rang eerily in her ears, her insistence that she get enough sleep, that she appear in court smart, crisp, in control — not looking stranded and out of her depth. Her mind must be sharp, and she would need a steely, indeed, a bellicose resolve to fight the fire-breathing ponce, Ian Mason Q.C. Now, the issue with the media seemingly resolved, Milly felt emboldened, ready to slay — to pounce on the ponce — and stick it to him with some Milly McTaggart wit. She sat deep in thought, even smiling to herself as her thoughts were consumed with a satisfactory outcome, as the saga of the Boyds and that night in Cottesloe finally drew to its inevitable close.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your thought processes, Milly. You look very tired. James asked me to give you this.’ Christy handed Milly a letter marked FOR MILLY. Milly retired to her room to get some sleep.
She slept well — a thirty-minute nap. When she woke, she opened the letter.
My dearest Milly,
I’m sorry I’ve missed you. I’ve hung on for as long as possible, but the benefit in going has outweighed my need to stay. Cancer has spread from my prostate gland to my lymph nodes and bones and the pain at times is unbearable. I have something I need to tell you, but first things first.
I have always loved your way, your wildness, your contempt for society’s norms. Sometimes I have thought you too wild, too irreverent, but never boring. I knew all those years ago of your sister Siobhan and hoped beyond hope there would be some family reconciliation — some redemption. I believe that circumstances including the adoptive parents’ attitude have prevented that, with your sister only contacting Mia in recent years. I pushed Mia to tell you of her past circumstance before Siobhan died, but she and Christine stared me down. Apparently, some things are not meant to be.
I’m unsure if you know of our considerable fortune. We’ve tried not to flash it about or to be too ostentatious in our tastes. With money, however, comes responsibility. I am now only too aware of my responsibilities as my life draws to a close. I have donated some money to causes I have a passion for like the R.S.L. and money to cancer research including prostate cancer. I have also donated money to research in finding a cure for the Tasmanian devil in its battle with facial tumor disease. Researchers are very close to producing a vaccine to stop the devil going extinct. I love that little marsupial with its tenacious attitude and its will to live; they remind me of you, Milly. I have also donated money to help find a treatment for sarcoptic mange in wombats, also in Tasmania; your aunt will enlighten you. I’d love you to become involved in these causes.
I have also decided to ‘donate’ some money to you, Milly. I have battled with my decision, not least the amount I would like to leave you because large sums of money, left to others, often has a detrimental effect on their lives. I have weighed up the pros and cons, your intelligence, your Tasmanian-devil-like qualities, your tenacity. Accordingly, in planning my estate on learning of my cancer, I set aside $10 million for you. I invested the money, originally purchasing U.S. dollars with it when the Aussie dollar was up. Inevitably, my view that the dollar would depreciate against the greenback as the mining boom subsided has come to fruition and the amount of your original investment has grown. I suggest you seek financial advice. Christine can help you there with my contacts.
Spend it well, Milly. Look after your mother and aunt. Christine still has a considerable fortune to her name, which she will bequeath to whomever she sees fit at the end of her life. Your mother has also been well taken care of. Remember, life is short, Milly. Live every day as if it were your last and, above all, know that when you get to the end of your life, good memories are more important than money.
Love always
James Anderson.
Milly lay in her bed stunned. She let it sink in and then started crying. This would change her whole life. The crying turned to sobbing; she couldn’t believe it and read the letter again. Her mind struggled with the sheer size of the inheritance. She walked out to the kitchen, to her mother and Aunt Christy.
‘What’s wrong, Milly?’ asked Aunt Christy, smi
ling. She could see the letter in Milly’s hand and that she’d been crying.
‘Oh nothing,’ replied Milly as she wrapped her arms around her aunt and started crying again.
‘So, you’ve read the letter then?’
‘You know I have,’ replied Milly, laughing and drying her eyes — for the third time today, she thought.
‘I don’t understand it, Aunt Christy. I never knew you were so wealthy.’
‘You know your uncle worked at the Macquarie Bank in the days it was known as the “millionaires’ factory.” He was on a huge salary for many years and made himself and the bank a lot of money. Among other things, he was an expert in foreign exchange trading; the letter explains some of that. He purchased the greenback when the AUD got to $1:10 U.S. guessing it would surely fall when the mining boom came off. He invested a lot of money there and in other areas. He started, financed and sold computer tech companies, a computer dating service, as well as a nickel mine in Tasmania, which they sold when nickel reached over $50,000 per ton. Then there was a gas company in Queensland and a lot of property too.’
‘Yes, I knew you both did very well; you helped Mom and me out no end. I told Rosie back in the U.K. how much you helped me and paid for things without ever putting a figure on it.’
‘Yes, I had a lovely conversation with Rosie, and she said you often mentioned your uncle’s benevolence.’
‘And yours too, Aunt Christy.’ Milly felt a pang of guilt remembering her thoughts about whom she considered donated the lion’s share of the money.
‘You know now we have a cottage in Tasmania on the northwest coast, and we also own and run cattle on a station … around two hundred thousand acres on the Roper River up in the Northern Territory. I want you to treat both as if you own them and visit or live at either if you wish. Your mother and I would love you to return home from the U.K., Milly, and live back here with us in Australia.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Milly, ‘I fully intend to return to Australia. Mom is only fifty-seven years old, and you’re just sixty-four. We all have plenty of time left, and I have some unfinished business back in the U.K.’
