“Marcia could have left it with someone before she went away and like, asked them to deliver it when the baby was born.”
“Good theory but it’s got holes in it. For one thing, if Marcia had done that, she would likely have asked a family member to take care of the card. No-one in the family knew anything about it. In fact, no-one in Byron who knew Marcia knew about the card.”
“Right.” She had a point there.
“And, as you say, it was a macabre thing to do. No right thinking person would have delivered the card the day Marcia’s body was found. As it was, the poor gardener freaked out when she received it. Just a few hours before, she’d been watching the news report about the discovery of Marcia’s body. She got an awful fright.”
“Right. It must have been quite a shock.”
“Like a voice from the dead.”
That was Dusty being melodramatic. I had the impression that a part of her wanted to believe in things like messages from the ‘other side’. Perhaps her longing to hear from her missing mother, who was quite probably dead, made her susceptible to whimsy. I decided to steer her toward a more down-to-earth plane.
“Did she take the card to the police?”
“Yep. The only fingerprints on the card, apart from hers, were Marcia’s.”
“What about the envelope?”
Dusty shook her head. “By the time Julie realised she should take the card to the police, she’d disposed of the envelope. She remembers that it had been addressed in Marcia’s hand and there was no postage stamp on it.”
“Right. A bit of a mystery then. Could the murderer be playing games? Perhaps Marcia had the card with her on her walk for some reason. The murderer took it and when her body was found he delivered the card as some sort of ghoulish message.”
“Yes. If we put aside the possibility that it might be Marcia’s ghost,” Dusty chuckled when I rolled my eyes, “it could definitely be a message from the killer. Sort of thumbing his nose up saying ‘you’ve got her body but you won’t get me’.” Dusty’s expression changed. The muscles in her jaw tightened. “But I will get you!” she hissed. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Marcia didn’t deserve what you did to her. You won’t get away with it!”
Chapter 5
“The family, that’s who you need to be looking at,” said the woman, standing with feet planted wide. Her short white dress had armholes that looped from shoulder to waist exposing a considerable amount of tanned flesh and the tie-dye bikini top underneath. Long blonde hair, casually braided into dreadlocks, fell forward as she leaned over the table toward Dusty. I judged her to be a relatively young woman but prematurely aged by her habits, evidenced by a drink in one hand and a squashed, half-smoked marijuana joint in the other.
“The cops have been after Norman Roach. Fixated on ’im they are – got their blinkers on and can’t see what’s right in front of ’em.”
Her voice was loud enough to attract curious glances from people sitting nearby. Someone called out to her. “Peace, Rose, peace.” Laughter rippled through the surrounding tables.
I was observing this scene from a short distance away after Dusty had made an unobtrusive gesture indicating for me to stay back. Our table was in the beer garden of the Beach Hotel under the protection of a sun umbrella, surrounded by crowded tables of young people, some dressed in clothes reminiscent of the 1960s hippie era. Those that hadn’t managed to secure a table were lounging on a grassy mound. The smoky herblike smell in the air probably emanated from this group. All of the hotel’s patrons were in exuberant spirits and exhibiting a state of happiness that might be expected from being in a place that is so relaxed the town welcome sign carries a subtitle punctuated by a love heart and a peace sign and reads: Cheer up: Slow Down: Chill out.
I had gone to the indoor bar area for a game of pool. Apart from the fact that I’m always ready for a game, Dusty thought it might be a good way of picking up some local knowledge. Inside the hotel, conversations at crowded tables competed with the shouts of an enthusiastic crowd watching the sports channel on the big screen while drinkers queued two to three deep at the bar. Near the pool table Louis Armstrong stared out at me from the wall suggesting the hotel might have had some association with jazz. During several games with some Byron lads I gathered a couple of pieces of information that I was sure Dusty would be interested in. I was on my way back to report to her when I saw she had company.
“That’s what the cops are like. Just because Norman’s been in trouble once or twice, they jump to conclusions and come down heavy on ’im,” the woman in dreadlocks was saying.
I knew from the notes Dusty had given me that Roach had been, and remained, the number one police suspect for the murder of Marcia Hamilton. As a teenager he had developed a reputation as a peeping-tom, committing various offences such as trespassing on school property and loitering by the oval during a girls’ soccer match and using his phone to ogle girls in the shower cubicles at the local swimming pool. As a young adult his behaviour elevated to attempted rape and then, allegedly, to murder. He served time for the attempted rape but the murder charge was eventually dropped due to insufficient evidence.
“Is Norman Roach a friend of yours?” said Dusty.
“Nah. But I know his mum. She’s a good sort. Lives on a pension but she’ll always scrape a few dollars together to help someone else. Do anything for anybody, she would.”
The woman plonked her drink down on the table, swung a tanned leg over the bench seat and, uninvited, straddled the seat, twisting to face Dusty.
“So, Rose, when you say ‘the family’ you mean the Nixons; Marcia’s family?” said Dusty.
Rose turned her head slightly and inhaled, holding the smoke briefly before exhaling. She fixed her glazed eyes on Dusty and jabbed the joint at her.
“That’s exactly who I mean,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, perhaps in response to Dusty’s friendly attitude. “Don’t go wasting your time on the likes of Norman Roach.”
“Roach was there that morning,” said Dusty, “the morning Marcia Hamilton was murdered.”
Rose shook her braids. “So what? If you’d been there that morning, would that make you the murderer?” Dusty opened her mouth to speak but Rose was too quick. “So what if he’s a pervert? There’s a lot of perverts out there just like him, only they’re too smart to get caught. Your fine upstanding bank manager could be a pervert for all you know. And that’s the point; Roach is a weirdo, not a murderer.”
“He was charged with murder when he was nineteen. The victim was on a walking trail when she was struck over the head with a heavy object. Does that sound familiar?”
Rose let out a gusty expression of contempt. “The police got it all wrong back then. They let the real murderer get away scot free cos they couldn’t see past Norman Roach. Roach wouldn’t have the balls to kill someone.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, everyone around here knows him. He’s a deviant, slimy fruitcake but he’s not a killer. And if it wasn’t him, who’s left, eh? There weren’t any murderers hanging around that morning. That leaves the family. It’s a no-brainer. I mean, that woman had millions and it all goes to her family. There’s your motive right there.”
“Yes,” said Dusty, “but money might have been Roach’s motive, too. Marcia’s expensive rings and bracelet were stolen from her body. He could get quite a bit of money for them.”
“Forget it,” said Rose. “If Norman Roach had tried to get rid of stolen jewellery, he would’ve got caught. He’s a deadhead; nothing between the ears. You know what I mean?”
Dusty took a sip of her gin and tonic. Outside on the footpath I heard the rumble of a skateboard. The young woman riding it deftly navigated her way around groups of pedestrians on their way to the surf beach across the road.
“I get the picture,” Dusty said to Rose. “So… which one of the family members do you think it was?”
“Well, that’s your job, love, isn’t it, to find out who
actually did it? I’m just trying to give you a nudge in the right direction. They’re a right stuck-up lot the Nixons; too much money for their own good. I reckon you just have to find out which one of them was in need of quick money and you’ve got your killer.”
“Fair enough,” said Dusty. “But you must have your own thoughts about which one of them is most likely to be capable of murder.”
Dusty had astutely picked her companion as a woman only too keen to offer her opinion.
“One of ’em or all of ’em,” said Rose, taking another draw on her joint and offering it across the table to Dusty, who declined with a shake of her head.
“But I can tell you one thing for nothing. That Fergus, he was a strange one when we were kids. Not that I went to school with him; he went to Sydney, but he used to come home for the holidays. Almost drowned another kid one year, he did.”
“What happened?”
“A boy called Luke, a friend of his, nearly drowned because of Fergus. They were playing around at Clarkes Beach, standing on the rocks, you know. Then there was this big argument and Fergus pushed the other dude into the water. Lucky the poor kid didn’t knock his head on the rocks. This Luke dude was bobbing up and down in the water. You know, his head would go under and then he’d come up gasping for air. That Fergus just laughed at him – even reached out his hand like he was going to help his friend and then pulled it back before the dude could grab it.”
In the background, the twitter of birds in the huge pine trees that surrounded the hotel blended with the pounding of the surf.
“But Luke didn’t drown?”
“No thanks to Fergus Nixon,” said Rose with a snort of disgust. “A couple of other boys jumped in and pulled Luke out just in time. Lucky they were there or the poor kid would’ve drowned. Fergus was already walking away up the beach when they rescued his friend. Cool as cucumber, he was. Didn’t even bother to go back and see how Luke was.”
“How old was Fergus when this happened?”
“Dunno. Maybe thirteen or fourteen; something like that. He’s an arrogant jerk, that one.”
“And Luke, where can I find him?”
“Dunno. Doesn’t live around ’ere anymore.”
Rose swung her leg over the seat bench in readiness to leave. As she stood up, she turned back to Dusty and pointed a finger at her. “You watch your back with that Fergus Nixon, love.” Then she was gone, leaving behind her empty beer glass.
“Who was that?” I asked as I took the place Rose had vacated.
“Rose. Apparently. She didn’t introduce herself. Just came up and said she knew who I was and why I was here and decided to give me the benefit of her wisdom.”
“Sounds like she has it in for Fergus Nixon.”
“Yep; she does. Probably just jealous because the Nixons are wealthy. She’s got a point, though.”
“About Fergus? Didn’t you dismiss the idea of his murdering his mother because he was the one who called you in?”
“I did. No, I meant she has a point about the family,” said Dusty. Giggles and soft humming from the people on the grassy mound reminded her to lower her voice lest anyone should overhear. Those on the grass would not have heard anything except their own inner voices but others at nearby tables might have developed an interest in what we were saying. “Remember, I said that there was another alternative to the random attack theory. That’s what I meant; a family member who wanted to make it look like a random attack. Rose is right; the family is the obvious place to start. Even though matricide is a rare crime, we have to remember that each of Marcia’s children receives millions of dollars from her estate.”
“Do you think there’s anything in the story about Fergus drowning his friend?”
“Who knows? Could be just one of those yarns that gets around. I have no choice but to follow it up. But even if it’s true, it doesn’t make the man a murderer. I mean, the things we’re capable of as teenagers aren’t necessarily the sort of things we would do as adults.”
“Don’t they say murderers often start as children who hurt other children or are cruel to animals?”
I’d done some research on the psychology of murderers since I had met Dusty and was quite chuffed to be able to contribute this pertinent piece of information.
“Yes, they do. But what you’re talking about is a pattern; a pattern of behaviour that escalates. If we find evidence of that in Fergus’s childhood then I’d be interested in him as a murderer.” The thought of Fergus killing his own mother unsettled me. “But I’m not sure that this one incident points to that possibility,” added Dusty. “Anyway, we’re going to get to know him, and his siblings, a little better later this evening.”
My assumption that Marcia’s children would join us at the hotel turned out to be incorrect. They joined us at our apartment – in a manner of speaking.
Chapter 6
“What do you think?” said Dusty, pausing the DVD. “Did he murder his mother as Rose would like us to believe?”
We were now back at Ardem, having what Dusty called a ‘movie night’. The DVD was a recording of the press conference appealing for help to find Marcia five days after she disappeared. The family had raised the alarm when Marcia didn’t return from the meditation retreat on Tuesday afternoon as expected. They then discovered that Marcia had never made it to the retreat.
We had just watched Fergus, Marcia’s eldest son who was forty-two at the time of his mother’s disappearance, appealing for witnesses.
Fergus had short dark hair and ears that protruded slightly. Sitting erect and tight-lipped in a smart suit behind a table and a row of microphones, he was flanked by his three siblings. Off screen, cameras clicked and insistent voices competed for attention. Looking like a business executive about to deliver an address to the board, Fergus spoke directly to the camera apparently unfazed by the media attention.
“Please come forward if you have any information that might help the police find our mother. Anything at all. We need to find her.”
I shook my head in response to Dusty’s question. “I don’t like to think of anyone murdering their own mother.”
“I know. It’s an abhorrent idea.” Dusty gazed thoughtfully at the frozen image of Fergus Nixon for a few seconds. “He comes across as a pompous stiff-neck. And doesn’t look grief stricken, does he? A suspicious person like me might think that’s because he’s trying to hide his emotions in case he lets his guilt show.”
“And a less suspicious person,” I said, ignoring her raised eyebrows, “might think he’s trying to stay strong for the sake of the family. After all, he is the eldest. Right?”
Dusty nodded.
“Besides,” I continued, “like you said before, he’d hardly call in Australia’s top cold case investigative journalist if he was the guilty one.”
Dusty grinned when I referred to her in glowing terms. She was not one for false modesty.
We returned to watching the DVD. The journalists in the room fired questions at the family. A police officer who was also sitting at the table silenced them with a raised hand.
Beside Fergus was an attractive blue-eyed woman with wavy blonde hair. Dusty identified her as Fergus’s sister Monique. I noticed that Dusty seemed distracted as she listened to Monique appealing to the public for help. I wondered if it was something Monique had said. Had Dusty picked up on some discrepancy or had she actually gleaned a clue using what I called the Dusty Kent lie detector? Dusty had what she claimed was an accurate method of gauging whether someone was lying. She listened for a particular change of tone in a person’s voice which she believed signalled that the person was lying.
Sitting next to Monique was her younger sister, Lucy, who had similar colouring to her older brother with brown eyes and straight dark hair. She wore her hair long with a heavy fringe that gave her a little girl look. The sisters were smartly dressed and well groomed making it hard to accurately judge their ages.
“Monique’s forty, I mean was forty when thi
s DVD was made, and Lucy was thirty-seven,” said Dusty, as if reading my thoughts. “They look pretty good for their age, don’t they?”
I nodded.
Dusty, who still appeared distracted, fumbled when she tried to pause the DVD again, accidentally turning it off instead.
“Damn,” she said. “I’m always pressing the wrong buttons on these things.”
When she got the DVD playing again, it resumed where it had been before being switched off.
“That’s the artist, Brad, sitting next to Lucy,” she said. “He’s the youngest; two years younger than Lucy.”
Brad struck me as being out of place next to his elegantly turned out sisters and brother. His blonde hair was a little too long and there was the suggestion of a beard. I noticed what appeared to be sadness and confusion in his hazel-green eyes when he glanced briefly at the camera.
“It’s just not like Mum to leave without saying anything. Something must have happened to her. We’re very worried about her,” said Lucy, with a tremor in her voice. When she broke down in tears, Brad put his arm around her.
While she was listening to Lucy, Dusty bit down on her lower lip and twirled her chunky turquoise bracelet round and round on her wrist. The DVD came to an end but she didn’t seem to notice.
Finally, it dawned on me why she had become distracted while watching the press conference. I know that as a male I have an excuse for not being adept at picking up on a woman’s sensitivity, but as the brother of seven sisters I should be less obtuse than most. Surely?
I should have realised immediately that Dusty was thinking of her own mother who had disappeared without trace. When I met her in Murloo, she had expressed a determination to find out what had happened to her mother. Anna Kent vanished in 1988 in the small Victorian town of Claigan where the family lived. Dusty was only five years old at the time. Her mother walked her to school, waved goodbye as Dusty ran through the gates, and was never seen again. The anxiety Marcia’s family experienced, the not knowing and not having any control over the process or the outcome, must have been akin to the sort of mental torture Dusty has endured for years. She would have identified deeply with the anguish the Nixon siblings were expressing at the press conference.
A Devious Mind Page 3
