Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller

by Richard Beasley

‘Any re-examination, Mr Aitken?’

  ‘Detective, was Mr Carrington present when you interviewed Mr Richter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he advise Mr Richter not to talk to you?’

  ‘He told us his client wanted to cooperate.’

  ‘And did he interrupt your questioning of Mr Richter at any time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you interviewed Miss Dabrowska, detective, did she have a lawyer present?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The nightclub Pantheon, and the hospitality complex Olympus – you discovered that Mr John Richter was a part owner, is that correct?’

  ‘He owns twenty-five per cent of the shares in the company that owns the venue.’

  ‘And the CCTV footage you told us was from cameras owned by the venue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any trouble obtaining film from those cameras?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mr Richter play any role in getting that film?’

  ‘When we asked for it, he rang the security people there, and told them to get it to us straight away.’

  ‘So he obviously wasn’t concerned about what was on the film?’

  ‘I object, your Honour,’ Tanner said. ‘The witness can’t know that.’

  ‘I reject the question.’

  ‘Thank you, your Honour. Nothing further.’

  It was three forty-five when Heffron left the box, and the judge decided to let the jury go early. He’d just begun giving them the same address he’d give every day about not watching the news or reading about the case in the papers, when Tanner felt his phone vibrate with an incoming text. He held it under the bar table to read it.

  Your friend is going shopping on Tuesday morning at ten. He’s buying in bulk. He likes to shop near work.

  A long day in court had finished, but Tanner felt his heart rate quicken. He didn’t recognise the number, but he knew who the message was from.

  46

  Friday began with the medical evidence. The first witness was the doctor who’d performed the post mortem at the request of the coroner.

  Dr Robert Hancock told the court that the cause of Elena Mancini’s death was traumatic brain injury. She had a penetrating head wound, and a skull fracture to the right side of her head, immediately above the right temple. Elena’s head had been hurled at the coffee table, probably by having her body flung around, while she was also swung downwards. This led to the side of her head striking the table during rapid acceleration. Although strictly part of another scientist’s expertise, Tanner had told Aitken that there would be no objection to this evidence coming through a medical examiner, as the defence wasn’t challenging it. The challenge was over who did it, not how it was done.

  Apart from the skull fracture and deep wound, which included a bone splinter penetrating the brain, the force involved when Elena’s head hit the table caused the immediate onset of intracerebral haemorrhage. There would almost certainly have been an instant loss of consciousness, and death quickly followed.

  There were some pathology tests conducted on the victim. She had a blood alcohol reading of 0.04, consistent with perhaps two glasses of champagne. There was evidence she had ingested a small amount of cocaine.

  There wasn’t much Tanner could do but to sit and listen to the horrors of Elena’s injury and the brutal nature of her death. During the course of Hancock’s evidence, Tanner noticed that three members of the jury were close to tears. And throughout his testimony the soft tears of Elena’s mother could often be heard.

  The mood in the courtroom didn’t improve when Dr Julia Grieg, the DNA analyst called by the Crown, gave her finding on the skin cells trapped under Elena’s nails. They were a match to Justin Matheson, to a probability beyond 99.99 per cent. Tanner had offered to stipulate to this, to avoid the attendance in court of the doctor, but Aitken had insisted on calling her. Tanner would have done the same thing had their roles been reversed; there was nothing like the gravity of having an expert witness in the courtroom. Aitken wanted someone to say ‘ninety-nine point nine-nine’ to the jury.

  For the same reason, Aitken also called a mechanics expert, who part educated and part horrified the jury about the kind of force that Elena’s head had struck the table with. There was evidence about the mass of her head, and of her upper body, and about momentum and time, and acceleration and force.

  ‘What’s your ultimate conclusion concerning Elena’s injury?’ Aitken asked.

  ‘Only someone using their full strength could have slung her body in such a way to produce the forces involved.’

  ‘A strong person?’

  ‘That’s highly likely.’

  As the expert spoke, Tanner caught at least two jurors sneaking a look at Matheson.

  The expert evidence was completed by just after three on Friday afternoon. Tanner knew why this evidence had been called first: the strategy was to get the jury thinking that it had to be Matheson; by the time Richter and Dabrowska got their turn, the jury would be predisposed to believing them.

  When Aitken sat down after his DNA expert had finished, Tanner paused for a moment after the judge asked him if he had any questions. He had many, but not for this witness.

  ‘No, your Honour,’ he said.

  • • •

  The sense of gloom in the defence room after the judge had adjourned the trial until Monday could not have been greater. It was half-time in the changing sheds, but the team was already beaten.

  ‘I told you this part of the trial would be difficult,’ Tanner said.

  No one spoke for a few moments. Then Bill Matheson broke the silence. ‘That woman is always crying. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘I can’t object to the victim’s mother crying, Bill,’ Tanner said.

  ‘It’s affecting the jury. The woman in the blue shirt has been crying too.’ Bill Matheson’s voice was full of anger and frustration. He’d spent most of his life in charge. The trial was something he could not control, like bleeding that couldn’t be stopped.

  ‘A 22-year-old girl had her head slammed into a coffee table,’ Tanner said calmly. ‘That’s why her mother and some of the jurors are crying. We won’t help ourselves by complaining.’

  ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘I said all along this trial would start next week. I know it’s hard to sit through, but nothing that happened this week was a surprise.’

  ‘We don’t seem to be putting up a fight about anything,’ Judith Matheson said.

  Tanner looked at her. She was somewhere on the brink of both anger and tears.

  ‘You didn’t ask that last witness a single question.’

  ‘We have to save what we have for when it counts, Judith. You don’t argue with 99.99 per cent.’

  ‘Yes, but surely –’

  ‘Judith,’ Tanner said, ‘Justin got offered a deal because of what we’ve achieved this week. He’s decided not to take it. He’s put his trust in me. You’re going to have to as well.’

  He stood.

  ‘I know this is tough on you. Reflect on anything you think I should have done this week. If you think something has been missed, tell Charles, and he can call me at work on Sunday and I’ll discuss it with him. Okay?’

  He looked at the Mathesons, neither of whom seemed satisfied, but who said no more for the time being.

  47

  Twenty minutes after Tanner arrived back at his chambers after court, a call came from the front desk. He’d expected to be told it was either Jane Ross or Charles Porter. ‘There’s a man here called Trevor Horton,’ the receptionist said instead. ‘He’s wondering if he can have a few minutes of your time.’

  ‘Tell him he can’t,’ Tanner said. There was silence on the other end of the line. He thought better of his answer. ‘Find out what he wants, will you?’

  Five minutes later, there was a tap on his door, and Tanner’s clerk stepped into his room. ‘You’re going to want to see this guy.’

 
Trevor Horton declined any kind of drink, and sat on the edge of the seat, like he was about to get up. He was somewhere in his sixties, heavy bags under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in years.

  ‘You know who I am?’ he asked.

  Tanner nodded. ‘My clerk just told me.’

  Horton gazed at Tanner’s bookshelf full of law reports. ‘I’ve never been in a barrister’s chambers before.’

  ‘It’s rarely good news for people who have,’ Tanner said. ‘Especially in my line of work.’

  Horton almost smiled, but the effort was beyond him.

  ‘I recognise you,’ Tanner said.

  ‘I’ve been every day,’ Horton said.

  ‘How am I doing?’

  Horton shrugged. ‘The prosecution’s in front for now.’

  Tanner’s eyes drifted from Horton’s face to his hands, which were holding a large yellow envelope. ‘You have something that can help me?’

  ‘Is your client guilty?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Horton glanced at a photo of Dan, taken on the morning of his first day at school, on a shelf behind the desk. ‘Flick won a scholarship to St Mary’s,’ he said. ‘That’s what we called Felicity. We’d have never been able to afford the fees otherwise.’

  ‘How did she meet John Richter?’

  ‘A school dance in year twelve.’

  ‘And they became boyfriend and girlfriend?’

  ‘Eventually,’ Horton said. ‘Towards the end of uni.’

  Tanner paused and waited for Horton to continue, but he stopped, like he’d become lost in some memory.

  ‘That’s about the time when John hurt her?’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have taken the money?’ Horton said. ‘It’s just . . . we thought it would set her up for life, you know?’

  ‘Most people would have done the same thing,’

  ‘There was no brain injury, you see. A hairline fracture. She was lucky.’ He looked at Tanner for acknowledgement.

  Tanner looked at the envelope again.

  ‘My wife died when Flick was young,’ Horton then said. ‘Cervical cancer.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s what killed Flick. Hereditary. Spread through her body by the time –’ He stopped, and shook his head.

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Flick told me in the hospice she regretted not going to the police. She was . . . I don’t know how lucid she was at the time, you know?’

  Tanner nodded.

  ‘Your wife died of cancer too?’

  ‘She did.’

  Horton nodded. ‘Sally Cook told me yesterday.’

  ‘You spoke with Sally?’

  Horton nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to her about Nikki Richter.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I don’t – I don’t want this man to get away with it.’ He leant forwards, almost out of his seat, and put the envelope he was holding onto Tanner’s desk.

  ‘I think I know what’s in that,’ Tanner said. ‘There’s probably a clause binding Felicity’s survivors or heirs. Just giving it to me would be a breach of –’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Horton said calmly, finally sitting back in his seat.

  ‘Have you taken any legal advice?’

  ‘I’m not interested in that.’

  ‘The Richters won’t . . . they won’t take kindly to this. They will –’

  ‘It’s too late for me to go to the police, Mr Tanner,’ Horton said. ‘This is the next best thing. This is what Flick would have wanted.’

  Tanner nodded slowly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  A sad smile came over Horton’s face. ‘Tell me your client is innocent.’

  Tanner smiled back. ‘He’s not an entirely innocent man,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think he killed Elena Mancini.’

  Horton stood. ‘None of us are entirely innocent,’ he said. He put his hand on the envelope, and pushed it across the desk until it was right in front of Tanner. Then he stood and left the room.

  Tanner opened the envelope and took out the document. He read it quickly. Then he picked up his phone and rang Jane Ross, then Charles Porter.

  48

  The TV crews were already at the court complex when Tanner arrived on Monday morning, twenty minutes before the trial was due to recommence. The cameras and reporters moved away from Tanner though as he walked towards the entrance, so that they could capture the arrival of John Richter, who’d been driven to court by his lawyer.

  Richter and his counsel walked through the throng of press like they’d done it a million times, ignoring the questions that were shouted at them. They looked serious rather than worried. As Tanner watched them come towards him, in the background he saw the rest of the Richter family arrive in two black Mercedes. As a driver opened a door for Hendrik and then his wife, Tanner went inside.

  Five minutes later, a momentary lull in the voices that washed around the room made Tanner turn and look just as John Richter walked through the doors. Someone had spoken to him about how to dress: a navy suit, white shirt, a light-blue tie; nothing flashy or aggressive. No product in the hair, just a blowdry, again to soften him. He seemed younger than thirty-six when he smiled at his family, who were sitting in the row of seats reserved for them. Richter looked at Tanner briefly as he took his seat in the witness box. His face hardened, then he turned towards the bench, and the judge’s empty chair.

  We’re not all equal in the eyes of the law. Wealth counts. Justice may be blind, but she can smell money. Richter was the heir to a multibillion-dollar fortune. That came with obvious advantages and skewed things in his favour. In the witness box, though, the power of his riches slipped fractionally from his grasp. There, John Richter could be made more equal.

  Aitken walked him through the family history. A childhood in London, his teenage years in Sydney, where he went to school, before studying commerce at university. He then had three years for Citadel in Houston and New York, two more in London, then to management in the Sydney office.

  ‘You’re the head of the new projects and acquisitions team for Asia, is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ Richter said.

  ‘That’s a Sydney-based position? Could you explain it?’

  ‘Sure. There’s been a lot of growth in this country for us over the past decade, although that’s slowed now. We’re looking more towards Asia and Africa. I take control of most new projects – applications for new mines of various sorts – and I’m generally involved at a high level if we’re thinking of purchasing an existing mine, or considering a takeover. We have another team leader for the Americas, and another for Europe and the Middle East.’

  Aitken took him back to school, and to the friendship he formed there with Justin Matheson.

  ‘I looked up to Justin,’ Richter said. ‘He was a great sportsman, but academically at the top too.’ They had business discussions after university, particularly since Richter had moved back to Australia. ‘He helped me with ideas I had away from mining. I have an interest in resorts, places where people could meet, relax, eat, be entertained, have fun. I love architecture too. Urban design is a passion of mine.’

  Only after he’d built up his witness as intelligent and urbane did Aitken come to the days before Elena’s death.

  ‘The worst week of my life,’ Richter said, referring to his wife’s death and funeral. He hadn’t wanted to be alone. He’d been cooped up at home all week, and needed to get out. ‘Pantheon’s not a nightclub. It’s more like a sophisticated retreat.’

  Matheson began flirting with both Elena Mancini and Klaudia Dabrowska. ‘I guess he’d had a lot to drink.’

  It was Matheson’s idea to go back to where he was living, Richter said. ‘I didn’t think it was a great idea, but I said yes in the end. Justin had been pretty supportive. I didn’t want to – well, I should’ve said no, but I didn’t.’

  Richter had met Klaudia Dabrowska a few times before, when he’d been at the c
lub on other nights.

  ‘Can you describe her to us,’ Aitken asked, ‘as a person?’

  ‘Very friendly,’ Richter said. ‘Quite flirtatious. She thought it was all good fun, I think. The problem was that not everyone saw it that way.’

  ‘The problem?’

  ‘She’d lodged two complaints about members – hands going in the wrong places, if you know what I mean. Because she complained, we followed it up.’

  ‘What does that involve?’

  ‘We have the manager talk to the member, and he makes a written report. If it’s bad, we cancel the membership. We’ve only had to do that three times, though.’

  ‘And with Miss Dabrowska?’

  Richter shook his head, like he was uncomfortable giving an answer. ‘Both guys we spoke to said they thought she was coming on to them,’ he said. ‘Some guys – they get the wrong idea just from friendliness. They’re not who we want as members. Klaudia actually wanted us to give them another chance, but we cancelled their memberships. We want people to have a good time at Pantheon, but we have a zero tolerance policy for inappropriate touching of our staff.’

  ‘Can I show you some documents? Are these the club manager’s notes about Miss Dabrowska’s complaints?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ Richter said after glancing at them quickly.

  ‘I tender those, your Honour.’

  ‘Mr Tanner?’

  ‘I have no idea about their relevance, your Honour.’

  ‘Mr Crown?’

  ‘They help explain what happened between the accused and Klaudia Dabrowska. I was about to get to that with the witness.’

  ‘Hold the tender for the moment.’

  Aitken then turned to what Richter observed between Justin Matheson and Klaudia Dabrowska.

  ‘Klaudia was her flirtatious self,’ John said. ‘Sitting on Justin’s lap in the club, whispering in his ear. She’s meant to draw the line at flirtation, but with Justin she – on one occasion she may have crossed the line that we as owners would draw. The girls are there to serve drinks, have a chat and a laugh, that kind of thing. They’re instructed to be as friendly to any women members, and we have a few. I think Justin got the wrong idea, though.’