It was past six o’clock.
‘Home, Fred,’ he said. The animal trotted obediently beside him along the well-manicured street that led to Emma’s house. A series of young men, all in Henry’s view quite inadequate for his daughter, had passed through her life in the previous few years, but at present she seemed perfectly happy with Fred’s sole company. She’d made it very clear some time ago to her obstetrician father that she had no interest in children, and that he should nurture no expectations in this direction.
He let Fred out into the garden and, in keeping with Emma’s instructions, measured out the scientifically-balanced dry food that suburban canines apparently required these days. He then returned to the kitchen, washed his hands thoroughly, donned an apron, and found a deep frying pan. He poured himself a good measure of Scotch to assist with the cooking of the risotto. He flicked the television on so he could watch the evening news when it began.
The rice turned golden in the bottom of the pan. He chopped asparagus and garlic, sliced lemons. It was important to do things slowly with this risotto. He added the bubbling stock one spoon at a time. Occasionally he looked up at the television.
Egypt was in ferment, but Obama was being reticent about support for the protesters. He took a sip of the Glenfiddich Emma had given him. She was a thoughtful girl. The frypan sizzled. There was more trouble in Pakistan.
But Henry was really thinking about his letter. ‘Not mar the prospects.’ That was a good phrase. ‘Compromised.’ Yes, he’d been compromised by that woman.
So it took him a moment, when he heard the name ‘Inspector Leslie Fernando’ on the news, to realise that it was familiar, and to look up and see the camera pan over the Inlet and across Cairns to the Sheridan Street police headquarters, where a poised young blonde woman was interviewing the inspector.
Who had just announced that Odile Janvier was dead.
Paris, 2 March 2011
Lyndall Symonds wheeled her cabin baggage along Terminal 2E at Charles de Gaulle towards Gate 91 and the flight for Singapore. She pulled her mobile from her handbag. She would turn it off while she thought of it. To her surprise it began to ring.
That morning, she and Bernard had got up late. He had no classes to teach until the afternoon. They’d ambled into the village for coffee and croissants then walked back to his cottage, through oak woods still crisp with frost. Later, he’d driven her the ten kilometres into Clermont-Ferrand, and he’d held her tenderly in his arms, making her promise all over again that she would come back soon, before she boarded a high-speed train for Paris. She was still inhaling that odour that was his alone, that she had remembered from so long ago. The smell of arousal, she thought now, remembering how, coming in from the frozen woods that day, he had warmed her hands in front of the stove, and then led her back into the bedroom. She hoped the sensation would stay with her as far as Australia.
He had called her already when she had reached the Gare du Nord and was changing trains for the airport. She hadn’t expected another call.
‘Hello?’ Her voice echoed through a satellite, hello, hello. So, not Bernard. This must be from home.
‘Oh hello! Dr Symonds? Lyndall Symonds?’ It was a woman’s voice, crisp, authoritative.
‘Speaking.’
‘Dr Symonds, this is Detective Cass Diamond from Cairns CIB.’
Lyndall’s first thought was that something terrible had happened to one of her children but the woman, no doubt understanding this, quickly went on: ‘I’m ringing about a professional matter, not a personal one. I’m sorry to trouble you, especially as it sounds as though you’re out of the country.’
‘Well, I’m on my way back. I’m at the airport in Paris.’
‘Paris!’ said Cass. This case was getting more French by the minute. ‘I see. Well, um, we were hoping to speak to you about a relative of a former patient of yours who appears to be missing. We don’t want to know anything confidential – we’re just hoping you might be able to help us locate the missing person.’
Lyndall tried to grasp what this was all about while observing that the line to board her flight was getting shorter with every passing second.
‘Can you tell me the name of this person?’ she asked.
‘Dominic Janvier,’ replied Cass. ‘We understand that you’ve treated him in the past.’
‘Dominic? I haven’t seen Dominic for quite some time. Umm … I really only saw him – as you may be aware – when he was in the Children’s Court. But Dominic must be in his mid-twenties by now. I have seen Michel more recently.’
‘Michel Janvier? You’ve seen him recently? How recently? In France?’ The detective’s voice bounced sharply off the satellite.
‘Oh, no, about six months ago, in Cairns,’ replied Lyndall, and heard the woman at the other end of the line give a small sigh. Hmm, thought Lyndall, what has Michel been up to now?
‘Yes, six months I think,’ she said again. ‘He is also my patient. Fairly intermittently, but I have been seeing him for some time. Years. Can you give me some idea what this is about?’
‘Obviously in France you won’t have heard the news,’ said Cass. ‘Michel’s wife Odile has been found dead.’
Lyndall felt her throat contract. ‘Odile Janvier is dead? How? She was killed? Murdered?’
‘We’re still looking for the answers to those questions,’ replied Cass, noting how quickly the doctor had moved to the possibility of murder. ‘Which is why I’m calling you. Did you know Odile Janvier? Was she also a patient of yours?’
‘Odile? No, never,’ said Lyndall, thinking to herself and thank God for that. ‘No, I’ve never even met Odile, but I’ve seen her around Cairns a few times. I know what she looks like. Well, looked like … I certainly know a great deal about her but most of the information I have would be quite old, and also confidential, from her son and her husband. Can I ask what happened to her? Is Michel involved? Where is he?’ Has he been arrested? she wanted to ask. Obviously something major had happened, though it seemed somehow nosy to ask that outright.
‘That’s just what we don’t know,’ said the voice from Australia. ‘He’s the missing person. He seems to have been missing since the time she died, about three or four weeks ago now. Her body was found in the rainforest outside Kuranda. All the information we have is being broadcast on Australian news sites, if you’re able to access the internet.’
‘So … she was murdered?’ Lyndall asked again. It would not surprise her.
‘The body was not … well preserved. We’re waiting for the results of further tests. But she had been tied up.’
Lyndall thought for a moment then said: ‘Tied up? Not I suppose with a Hermès scarf?’
‘What?’ Cass was startled. ‘You’ve heard that?’
‘No, no. I’ve been in France for the past six weeks. I’ve been in a small village in the south, not in Paris, and I’ve only been in touch with my kids from time to time. So I didn’t know any of this. I only asked about the scarf because she wore them, and Michel liked them. So she was strangled? And Michel’s disappeared?’
‘No, Odile Janvier was not strangled, that I can say, although she was tied up. And yes, he has disappeared, along with his Mitsubishi four-wheel drive. It seems he hasn’t left the country, and he hasn’t withdrawn any money from his bank accounts.’
‘It sounds as though he might be dead too,’ said Lyndall, and she was immediately aware that this might sound a little heartless.
‘Yes,’ said Cass, ‘we have come to that conclusion ourselves.’
‘And Dominic,’ asked Lyndall, ‘isn’t he in jail somewhere? Or is he out now? And his brother?’ She tried to remember what Michel had told her at his last consultation.
‘Yes,’ said Cass, ‘Dominic is in Wellington in New South Wales. He has a rock-solid alibi. His brother is also accounted for – he lives and works in Tasmania. Neither of them seem to have much time for their parents, particularly their mother.’
‘No,’ said Lynd
all, ‘that doesn’t surprise me. Odile Janvier was a very destructive mother to those boys. If Dominic’s turned out badly it’s entirely her fault.’
‘Madame! Madame!’ Lyndall heard a call. She looked up – the final boarding call was flashing, the last passengers were disappearing through the gate, and an irate Air France attendant was indicating that she should join them. Toot sweet.
‘Listen, Detective,’ said Lyndall, ‘I’d better get on this plane or they’re going to start offloading my baggage. I’ll be back in Cairns on Friday morning, flying in from Singapore. I’ll call you then.
‘I don’t know what I can tell you that might help you,’ she continued hurriedly. ‘I have no idea where Michel is now or what has happened to Odile. But I do know certain things about the Janviers which would not be confidential and that I can tell you when I’m back in Cairns. And one thing I can say: I think it’s very unlikely that Michel murdered his wife.’
With that she said goodbye and hurried towards the boarding gate. God, she needed a drink after that. Toot sweet.
Cairns, 3 March 2011
On Thursday morning, Drew called another meeting to discuss the Janvier case. Cass explained she’d found Lyndall Symonds in Paris on her way back home.
‘She’s had Michel Janvier as a patient,’ she said, ‘as well as his son. But she hasn’t seen him for about six months and doesn’t know where he might be now. One thing she was definite about. She thought Michel was unlikely to have killed his wife. Because of his mental state, I gathered. And she’s his psych.’
‘Well,’ said Drew, ‘we all know that most murderers are related to the victim, and most often a partner. I’ve known more than a few cases where someone who’d never been violent felt provoked to commit a homicide. And this Janvier seems to have a few unusual traits to his character. Never say never, is what I think.’
‘Well she’ll be back in Cairns tomorrow morning,’ Cass said. ‘We can hear more then.’
Detectives Barwen and Borgese plus a team of scenes-of-crime officers had spent Tuesday afternoon cataloguing the personal possessions of the Janviers at the Earlville house. This hadn’t made them any wiser, either as to the fate of Odile or the whereabouts of Michel.
Cass raised the subject of Wilfred Lam. ‘Alive and well yesterday morning,’ she said, ‘but died instantly when his car plunged into the sea in the afternoon. So whether he could have told us any more we shall never know. I want to go back and talk to his receptionist.’
‘OK,’ Drew said. ‘Before that, go down to the Traffic Branch and talk to the forensic guys in Crash Investigation, see what they think happened. Troy, you and I can keep going through the Earlville material.’
Cass took the two flights of stairs down to talk to the traffic officers dealing with the Lam case. On the way she checked her mobile, finding a text from her son: can i please borrow car tonite? party at Gordonvale J. She rapidly texted back, conscious of where she was going that very moment: only if ur sleeping over no driving back at nite mum.
‘We’d set up a speed trap just north of Ellis Beach,’ Constable Dawson told her. ‘I was behind a palm tree on a section of straight road, with the camera, and Dan was in the car about 600 metres away. I clocked this new white Audi doing over eighty in the sixty zone. So Dan flashed his lights for him to stop but he just sped up and went straight on. Dan gave chase but, you know that road, Detective, it winds along the coast, only two lanes, carries a lot of traffic. Too likely to kill some innocent driver coming the other way. Plus there’s only one way out, just south of Mossman, so Dan got on the radio to the Mossman station for them to pick him up at the other end.
‘But then Dan gets another call. White car gone over the cliff just past Wangetti. Y’know the spot where the hang-gliders jump off? Must have been doing more than 100 by then. Lost control, crossed to the other side, fortunately no oncoming traffic. Hit the barrier and rolled right over it. Cliff’s seventy, eighty metres high there. Lot of rocks at the bottom. By the time we arrived the car was submerged but I reckon he died as soon as the car hit the bottom if not on the way down.
‘Two divers got him out. Well, as much of him as they could.’ The constable grimaced; clearly it had been an unpleasant task.
‘His son identified him. Not easy for the lad. The son knew that you – well, not you personally, but that police – interviewed his dad yesterday morning. But he has no idea why. And I don’t know either so I couldn’t help him on that. But it did seem that the sight of a policeman shook Lam up.’
‘So what are you thinking, Constable?’ Cass asked.
‘Well, the Crash Unit will be looking at it closer, but I don’t know that it was an accident,’ said Dawson emphatically. ‘It’s possible he planned to write himself off. Maybe it was a sudden decision. He sped up when he saw Dan. Maybe because he didn’t want to be stopped and miss his chance. Maybe he really was trying to get away. There were tyre marks right across the other lane at the top of the hill. Maybe he saw there was nothing oncoming? Anyway he turned the wheel hard right and lost control. If he was planning it, he was probably aiming to go over the edge further on, where the crash barrier ends. But he was going so damn fast he did the job anyway.’
Cass finished the morning by typing up her findings so far. In the afternoon she took a car from the pool and made her way to Wilfred Lam’s surgery. A tearful Leanne was behind the reception desk.
‘I’m really sorry to be coming back under these circumstances,’ Cass said, ‘but I do have to ask you a few questions.’
Leanne nodded. ‘I know, it’s not your fault,’ she said between sobs. ‘It’s all something to do with that woman isn’t it? She was murdered. I saw it on telly last night. He killed himself because he’d killed her?’
‘Hang on,’ said Cass. ‘What makes you think he killed himself? He was involved in a traffic accident.’
Leanne shook her head. ‘I don’t think it was an accident,’ she said. ‘He left me a note saying where his Will was kept. In his lawyer’s office in Brisbane.’
‘Ah,’ said Cass. ‘I’ll need to see that note. How long after I left here did he leave?’
‘He cancelled all his patients for yesterday straight away,’ replied Leanne. ‘Even the ones in the waiting room. Told me to tell them he wasn’t well. It was the truth: he was shaking all over. He sent Rhonda home, that’s the nurse. She was as confused as I was. I had to stay to deal with all the appointments. Then he shut himself in his office for about an hour. I was busy on the phone for most of that time. I had no idea what was going on. Then he got up and just left, without another word.
‘I closed up about three o’clock. Then last night I saw that they’d identified the woman who was murdered and it was Mrs Janvier. I was in shock at that. I couldn’t sleep. This morning really early his son called me to say that his dad had passed away. On the morning news they had pictures of the car. It was horrible. I only found the note this morning. That’s when I realised he meant to do it.’
She held out the note for Cass. It was not more than a few words, written by hand, and clearly that hand had been trembling. But it was simply the Brisbane address of his solicitor. It was not a suicide note.
‘Did he kill Mrs Janvier?’ asked Leanne. ‘I just can’t imagine he could do such a thing.’
‘We don’t know yet what happened,’ Cass said gently. ‘I’m going to take that note and I’m giving you a receipt for it. I must ask you not to touch anything here. In fact I’d advise you to go home and take it quietly for the rest of the day. If the media contacts you I’d recommend that you don’t speak to them, but that’s up to you. We’ll need to conduct a search here, probably later today, but first we’ll speak to the family.’
At five o’clock, Cass went back to her apartment on McLeod Street, and changed into her running gear. She badly needed a break from this case. In the kitchen it was clear that Jordon had come in and gone out again. Two-thirds of a chocolate cake and half a loaf of bread had been dispatched.
Also a litre of milk and most of the bananas. That was fine. She took a precooked lasagne and an apple pie out of the freezer and put them beside the sink to thaw for dinner. On second thoughts, she added another frozen chocolate cake in case Jordon brought friends back here before the party. Thank God for Sara Lee.
At the back of her mind was a plan to train up for the Sydney half marathon. Leslie was also a runner and he’d told her that ‘anyone could do it if they put their mind to it.’ It was a matter, he said, of dividing it into do-able bits. Like any job. This was the kind of approach Cass understood. This was how she’d got herself through TAFE when Jordon was just three and Richie was dead. It was how she’d got through university when Jordon was in primary school and she’d been living on a student allowance. (But stop kidding yourself, she thought, you loved uni. Auntie Nell had been right. You’ve got the brains for it; you’ll find you like it. I never had that chance, was what she’d said.) It was also how she’d got through the breakup with Rufus and then her police training, and balancing her work with being around for Jordon and keeping him out of teenage trouble. And it was how she’d worked her way to a black belt in tae kwon do. Divide everything into do-able bits, and then just do each bit in order.
She could run five kilometres easily, she did that several times a week, although so far this week she’d missed out, working overtime on the Janvier case. She’d push herself to eight kilometres today and see how it went. Then aim for ten, working up to fifteen and finally twenty-one. And then? Might she one day attempt a marathon? Start at the beginning, girl, she told herself.
This evening she would run to the Esplanade, then along it. She had often done that, and come back the same way. That was about five kilometres. But today she would go further, along the water, past the convention centre and out along the Portsmith road. Quite near where Michel Janvier’s unit must be. That entire area was light industrial. Probably not too many people about now but she felt quite safe going along there. It would not be fully dark for another hour or so. She’d noted that the Portsmith road had a wide verge up until a right turn led back towards the area of Janvier’s unit. She could run past the unit and have a look. Running all the way there from the end of the Esplanade, and all the way back, and then home by her usual route should be about eight kilometres. She clipped her mobile onto the waistband of her running shorts together with her water bottle. Jordon might call. She plugged in her iPod and selected Florence and the Machine. With ‘Rabbit Heart’ streaming into her ears, she set off.
Double Madness Page 13
