The Alice Murders

by James Arklie

  Alain Caron looked, sat back and gave a curt nod. ‘Oui. Yes.’

  ‘Did you see this woman?’

  ‘Of course. His wife. Deborah. Imprisoned in a coma.’

  For a moment Angie thought he was being sympathetic, but his eyes were cold, his voice flat. She was about to mention it was medically induced, but something in his manner stopped her. Instead, she queried, ‘Imprisoned?’

  ‘From some tragic accident years ago.’ His expression told her he didn’t approve.

  ‘Was he a good surgeon?’ Everyone else is talking up his brilliance, she thought, but not this man.

  Caron gave her a little Gallic ‘so-so’ moue, before saying, ‘He was ‘okay’.’

  Angie smelt something in his manner and leaned forward. ‘Did you like him?’

  Dark eyes glanced at Gaspin. Angie read it as a huge ‘non’. Gaspin tilted his head towards Angie, encouraging Caron to speak. What am I not being told, she wondered.

  Caron took a delicate sip of his coffee, composing himself. ‘Richard Brownlee was a man who thought he was wonderful. He loved himself. He played everyone on his supposed devotion to his wife. If she’d been mine, I would have put her out of her misery years ago. Except…’

  ‘You ever examine her?’

  ‘No. But a nurse told me there were no signs of trauma to the head.’

  Alain Caron was clearly uncomfortable. There was some deep emotion in his voice and eyes she recognised but couldn’t read. Angie watched him glance at Gaspin again who gave him more encouragement to carry on. This is what the earlier conversation had been about. Pierre Gaspin encouraging Caron to tell all.

  ‘The month before Brownlee left for a new post, a nurse on the night-shift swore to me she saw Mrs Brownlee moving in her bed. Struggling almost. She went to the nurse’s station for help, but when she returned Richard Brownlee was there.’

  Angie leaned forward, focusing. ‘And Deborah? What happened?’

  ‘She was still. Brownlee said it must have been the nurse’s imagination.’

  Angie waited. She glanced at Gaspin whose eyes were focused on Caron. They both went on waiting into the power of silence. Caron cracked.

  ‘Brownlee had a warning transmitter linked to his wife’s life support. If she stirred, or anything changed, he would know. He sold it as the caring husband. Wanting to be there if she ever came out of her coma.’

  ‘But you saw it as…’

  ‘Looking at it now? I think he kept her sedated. That was to warn him if she woke.’

  ‘That’s quite an accusation.’

  Caron clearly didn’t care. There was something unsaid here. He carried on. ‘There’s more. The next morning the same nurse saw a mark on the bedsheet. She thought it was just a random stain. Then she thought it was an ‘h’. But one hour later, Richard Brownlee had bathed his wife, her sheets were changed and it was gone.’

  Angie queried, ‘Brownlee?’ She got the shrug, so asked, ‘Where did his wife get the pen?’

  Caron looked grim. Angie could sense an anger building in him as she touched old emotions. There was something more behind all of this.

  ‘It was written in her blood.’ He held up his right thumb. ‘She used a thumbnail to cut herself on another finger.’

  Angie knew she had to dig. ‘You think the letter ‘h’ for ‘help’?’

  Caron downed a large mouthful of coffee. ‘Like a prisoner in a sealed tomb leaving a message the only way she can.’

  The summer sun was breaking over the high walls of the old City, but Angie still felt herself shiver. ‘You didn’t question this?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘And I need to speak with the nurse.’

  Caron signalled for brandy. The veneer of success had been peeled away by the brutality of his memories. Gaspin lit another Gaulouise and took over.

  ‘You have to understand that none of this was linked to the murder of Imogen LeClerc because Brownlee was not on our radar. It is only now that…’

  Angie frowned. ‘None of what?’

  Gaspin glanced at Caron, waited for the waiter to deposit the small glass of brandy, then, ‘The nurse disappeared two days later.’ He spread his hands. ‘Gone and never seen or heard of again. And no body.’

  Beside her Caron downed his brandy, took the hit and coughed into his hand. He said quietly. ‘I believe in everything she saw and said.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because her name was Marie and she was my wife.’

  *

  Angie didn’t know what to say. She picked a piece off her croissant, dunked it in her coffee and ate it. Another woman gone missing. She threw thoughts of her daughter to the back of her mind. She didn’t need them now.

  Gaspin was right, it was only since they’d found a potential link between the ‘I’ in ALICE and Brownlee, that other, apparently unrelated and unsolved crimes, were getting drawn in. Had Brownlee killed again, casually removing another potential witness?

  One thing was certain, the link was getting stronger and stronger. She dunked more croissant then asked, ‘Did it happen again?’

  Caron shook his head. ‘I watched, but no.’

  ‘You still worked with him?’

  ‘Why should I suspect him at the time. It is only now… Look, he was a very respected man with a big reputation. I was a young intern learning. I didn’t like him, but I did like what he could do for me. He gave me more work. Helped me through Marie’s disappearance. But slowly, my thinking changed…’

  Angie changed tack and asked Pierre Gaspin, ‘What happened to Imogen LeClerc’s body?’

  He shrugged, ‘Sent back to England…?’

  Caron intervened. ‘Non. Non. First some of the organs were used for donation. I remember because Richard Brownlee and I were asked to assist.’

  Angie asked. ‘Where did they go?’

  She got the shrug. ‘Here. There. The donations remain anonymous. We may be able to track them, but…’

  Angie made a mental note. That was a job for Artie. Track Imogen LeClerc’s body to its final resting place. Then she wondered just how vindictive Caron may be.

  ‘You said your suspicions grew. Did you ever try to find Brownlee? Go in search of an explanation.’

  Caron reached for the elegant briefcase and snapped open the clasps. He removed a single sheet of paper. Angie noted there was still a wedding ring on his finger.

  ‘Did you remarry?’

  Caron gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Non, I am still married to Marie. Until….’

  Bloody-hell, thought Angie. Aren’t we a sad, traumatised emotional bunch.

  He handed her the paper. ‘Here. I tried to find him. To get some resolution. This is where he went next. New Zealand. Private clinic. Stayed one year and then… fssst.’ The doctor made a sweeping motion with his hand.

  ‘Suddenly, there was no more Richard Brownlee. No more Debbie Brownlee. Just like Marie, they disappeared into…’

  Angie finished for him. ‘Thin air.’

  She looked at the sheet. They all knew Brownlee had gone to New Zealand, because he had killed again, Chesney Arthur, the ‘C’ in ALICE. But his final kill had been in Southampton, England. Artie was tracking Brownlee, but this told her that he’d returned to England under another name.

  She looked at Caron. ‘And he took his wife?’

  Caron gave her look of distaste. ‘Of course. He would never have left her behind.’

  Angie sat back and stared up at people walking along the ramparts of the high, grey granite walls. She was still struggling to force some understanding onto truths and facts which sounded ridiculous.

  Richard Brownlee had travelled to Europe, then across the globe to Australia, then back to Europe, then back to the other side of the globe. All the time, he carried the burden of Debbie Wilcox. The effort and the expense must have been huge. All the while, he went to great pains to pretend she was his wife. Day and night, he kept her carefully in a drug induced coma.

  On top of that, at every stop he
found time to murder a specific woman. A woman he had targeted years before.

  Angie looked into the sad, brown eyes of Alain Caron, and wondered if she should tell him the love of his life was almost certainly dead. She decided not to, because that would be like admitting to herself that her own daughter was dead. It was always best to live inside a bubble of hope. Wasn’t it?

  *

  Artie waited until the following morning to call Millie Maughn, Lisa’s mother. She was chatty, enjoying an unexpected call in her day. In a very formal voice, she informed Artie that she was having breakfast in bed this morning, then rambled on about how wonderful the care home was and how it was like living in a hotel really.

  Artie let her carry on. It was like listening to his own Gran. He was worried about bringing up the reason of the call because the response from Samuel and Amanda Chesney had shocked him.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to ask this, Mrs Maughn, but did you bring Millie home after her death. To be buried here?’

  ‘Of course. England and Dorset were her home. You should always go back into the earth that created you.’

  ‘It was a burial then?’

  ‘Her father wanted a cremation, but I insisted. I needed somewhere to take my grief. Somewhere I could go and talk to her on her birthday and at Christmas. Take flowers.’

  Artie was breathing deeply into emotions he knew nothing about. ‘One other thing, Mrs Maughn, did you give up any of Lisa’s organs for donation? I know some people don’t like to but others…’

  ‘Yes dear, and we were proud to. Her heart still beats inside someone else to this day and someone can see the world through whatever part of her eyes they used. Why would we deny that to anyone?’

  Artie sighed with relief and backed out quickly. ‘I agree, no reason to, Mrs Maughn. I’ll leave you to your breakfast.’

  He replaced the phone. One stripped, one given willingly, but all the same…. Add in Anastasia Pappas and Kline’s wife Jenny…. Except, setting Jenny to one side, there was no direct evidence or link to say it was anything to do with Richard Brownlee. That would be a completely new line of investigation.

  He sat back. Kline hadn’t authorised that, so best to report what he’d discovered and then focus on his other main task. Finding the whereabouts of Richard Brownlee. If he did that, everything else fell away anyway.

  *

  Kline landed at Auckland airport, took the ten-minute walk following the green line to the domestic terminal, waited for two hours, then took the thirty-minute internal flight in a ten-seater plane up to Keri-Keri. The mountain scenery was spectacular for the first ten minutes, then he fell asleep again.

  When they landed, he waited with the other five passengers beside the plane while the bags were unloaded to the tarmac. The sun was hot on his face and the long white cloud of New Zealand stretched across the sky to the horizon. He slung his rucksack over one shoulder and went into the terminal building. It was small, rural and consisted of a coffee shop, and a check-in desk. There was a small departures lounge which spread outside to a decking area with tables and chairs.

  Andy Samuels and Ben Torode were waiting for him, together with a Dr Sally Bright. Kline bought them all coffee and chocolate muffins. Ben used his badge, and the fact the man on security was his mate, to get them a table outside the departure lounge in the sunshine.

  They did the small talk. Andy was now retired and spent his days fishing. Ben was semi-retired and worked as a police liaison with the local Maori community. They were great mates who’d been to the same school together, joined the force together, retired together. Kline felt a pang of envy at having such a close friend. His life, close friends, having fun, had all disappeared with Evie.

  Sally Bright, also retired, had driven up from Auckland. She was the only doctor living in North Island that John could find who’d worked with Richard Brownlee.

  Kline had read through Angie’s latest report. He started by getting confirmation that Brownlee and Deborah Wilcox had arrived in New Zealand.

  Sally nodded. ‘That’s him and that’s Debbie.’

  Ben eased the iPad round so he could view it. ‘That our man?’ He frowned as he looked at a face that exuded respectability and honesty.

  Kline thought for a second, then gave the honest answer. ‘Not sure. But he’s the best we’ve got.’ Then gave a little laugh. ‘All we’ve got.’

  Kline paused then went straight at it, asking Sally, ‘Anything suspicious about Deborah Wilcox?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Hardly. She was in a coma the whole time she was here.’

  ‘Ever examine her?’ Shake of the head. ‘Operate on her?’

  ‘Not me. Richard did a couple of minor ops. I remember he removed her appendix. Not sure why. Maybe as a precaution?’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  Sally gave him a single shrug. ‘Nothing to dislike. He was arrogant and thought he was wonderful, but that’s not unusual with surgeons.’

  Kline turned to the investigation conducted by Ben. Neither Ben nor Andy had anything to add to the report that Kline had read. They were more interested in what he could tell them.

  Kline briefed them, eventually smiling at their open-mouthed expressions. Sally Bright’s face showed horror. Kline could see her remembering time spent with Brownlee.

  Andy was incredulous. ‘Shit, mate. You’re saying he planned to kill Chesney Arthur four years before he did it?’ Kline nodded.

  ‘What if she’d moved? To Oz or Fiji or somewhere?’

  ‘He would have followed.’ But that, thought Kline, was a fair question; how was he tracking these women?

  Ben still sounded exasperated by the whole experience. There was a note of defensive apology in his voice. ‘There was nothing for us to find. Forensics came up with zilch. We had no suspects. In the end, we had to conclude it was a person from out of town. Maybe even a tourist. Wham, bam and gone.’

  Kline asked Andy about the music again. ‘Lifted the arm off. It was annoying. Like I said on the phone, local punk band called Lice.’

  Christ. It was all there, all the time, thought Kline. Yet one by one the ALICE cases got shelved and Brownlee’s laughter got louder. He’d taken on the police forces of the world and none were a match for his cleverness.

  Kline flipped through all the other pictures on the iPad. For Ben and Andy there was a curiosity, for Sally growing horror. As a doctor she dealt with the dying and the dead, but never had to look into the face of a creator of death.

  She made Kline pause on the image of Brownlee and took the iPad from him. ‘He doesn’t look like a killer and never came across as one.’ She looked at Kline as if she still didn’t believe it. ‘He was a colleague for a year and, yes, the whole thing with Debbie was strange, but to have murdered all these women…’ She shook her head. ‘He saved lives. I watched him.’

  She looked back at the screen and flipped on, frowned, held it at arms-length, squinting. ‘Now her, I do recognise. Who was she? Walters? Waters?’

  That surprised Kline. ‘Go on.’

  He watched Sally drag the memory from the back of her mind. ‘Job application. She was travelling and wanted to stay for six months. She was a highly qualified nurse and wanted work. Specialist in intensive care.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That’s the reason I remember her. I was showing her round the clinic. We walked into the wing with the operating theatres and straight into Brownlee. They both looked stunned. Shocked is a better word. Then she looked angry. Said, ‘You.’ But in the way that implies hate and I never thought I would see your face again.’

  ‘To Brownlee?’

  ‘Yes. And she was abrupt. Turned round and left without another word. I chased after her, but it was coat, bag and out the door.’

  ‘Did Brownlee offer an explanation?’

  ‘Tried to laugh it off. Muttering something about a hospital in England and a disagreement when he was training. More like a relationship gone sour from what I saw.’ Sally
handed back the iPad. ‘Was she another victim?’

  Kline nodded. ‘Yes, but recent.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to tell you your job, but she hated Richard Brownlee and it was intense.’

  A small plane landed and taxied towards them. They fell silent as the sound of the engines and the props prevented conversation. Kline sat back in his chair. Had he stumbled on the reason Audrey Waters had been targeted? Had she recognised Brownlee again in Southampton? Did she know or suspect from twenty years earlier that he was a killer?

  Intensive Care is where you live or die. Was Brownlee there, circling like a vulture? Wanting to try radical techniques on the near dead? Had he done things, medical procedures, that she knew about but couldn’t prove? Experimenting and killing and hoping no one noticed?

  Then, as soon as the investigation into Evie was reopened, Brownlee killed her, savagely and immediately, suggesting he had to silence her. But it was so quick he had to know she was in Southampton. Audrey Waters and Alan Bleakley, both silenced in a heartbeat.

  Or had Brownlee done it as another of his ‘smarter than thou’ messages. I’m starting again, so here’s a starter for you as well, a clue that can lead you to who I am, but you’re so thick you’ll never work it out. Except, thought Kline, I just have, because I’ve stepped off the pathway you laid for me.

  The engine noise faded as the propellers came to a standstill. Kline watched the ground staff drag chocks for the wheels and steps to the plane. Now was a good time to tell them all about the technique of extraction through the body’s portholes.

  Sally Bright looked interested, Andy and Ben had faces on that Kline had to assume, were a mirror of his shock when first told.

  Ben couldn’t believe it. ‘You think he carried out an operation in that apartment? But there was no sign. Nothing. Her breast, yes, but…inside her…’ He made a face.

  ‘The breast was the distraction. Took everyone’s focus away from what he was really doing.’

  Andy Samuels was more of a hardened All Black. He said to John, ‘But you remember Billy Jones, the builder? Prostate cancer. Whipped the bastard out of his arse. Could have watched it all on TV if he wanted.’ He grinned. ‘But he declined.’