No More Secrets No More Lies

by Amos, Gina

  Suellyn picked up her coffee mug and realising it was almost empty, swirled the burnt coffee grinds around in the cup before putting it back down on the bench. She glared at Rimis. ‘Are you accusing me of something Detective? I think it’s Tommy Dwyer you should be speaking to, not me.’

  ‘Mrs Phillips, the questions I’m asking are all relevant to our investigations. We have to carry out the enquiry into your mother-in-law’s death and we have to do it as we see fit, we have to explore all the possibilities. Now, can you tell me about Tommy Dwyer and what your relationship with him was at the time of your mother-in-law’s death?’

  ‘That’s a personal question. For Christ’s sake, who doesn’t know about me and Tommy Dwyer?’ Suellyn corrected her posture and slapped her thighs hard with the palms of her hands. She stormed across to where Nick Rimis was standing on the other side of the kitchen and looked him square in the eye. ‘Can I ask you something now Detective Senior Sergeant?’ Suellyn emphasized the Senior Sergeant.

  ‘Certainly Mrs Phillips, please, go right ahead,’ he replied in a frosty voice.

  ‘Is this how you go about investigating a death? Asking uninvolved people unnecessary questions?’

  ‘Mrs Phillips, I don’t have to justify our investigation to you. We’ll be conducting interviews with numerous people who were associated with Rose Phillips.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to help you do your job. You go figure out who killed her if you think she was murdered. And I want those letters back,’ she screeched. ‘Tommy didn’t kill her, he wouldn’t do something like that. I know him too well. I made a mistake of accusing him of... well, I don’t really know what I was accusing him of. I probably shouldn’t have involved William in all of this. I’m so mixed up, I wish I...’

  ‘Suellyn! That’s quite enough. Stop raising your voice, it won’t get you anywhere.’ William was standing in the kitchen doorway. He reached out and grabbed his wife by the shoulders and shook her.

  ‘All right, Mr Phillips.’ Rimis thought it was time to diffuse the situation. He lowered his voice and put on his ‘good cop’ voice. ‘Mrs Phillips this probably isn’t a good time for you. You are obviously upset by your mother-in-law’s death but this is an ongoing investigation and we may need to talk with you at some later time.’

  ‘You should be investigating real suspects instead of wasting your time on us detective. We were Rose’s only family you know. Now, is that all?’ Suellyn demanded. ‘My husband will show you and your colleague to the door.’

  Nick Rimis realised he was wasting his time trying to get any sense from this strung out woman. He felt sorry for her husband and wondered how he put up with her. Rimis looked at William almost sympathetically when he saw the look on his face. ‘Thanks for your time Mr Phillips. We’ll be in touch soon.’

  William showed the two detectives to the door and closed it firmly behind them.

  ‘Well, that went well didn’t it, Sarge?’ Jill said sarcastically as she pressed the call button for the lift.

  ‘My gut feeling is that there is a lot more to Suellyn Phillips than what she wants us to think. If you ask me, I’d say what we just witnessed was a clever piece of stage acting.’

  ‘Do you really think she was acting, or is she just a neurotic bitch?’

  ‘Now, now Brennan, language. And to answer your question whether I think she was acting, only time will tell. But one thing I do know, we need to pay Mr Dwyer a visit and it might be a good idea to get hold of the post mortem records for Mrs Dwyer.’

  ‘I’m one step ahead of you, Sarge. I’ve already put in a requisition for the PM records. We should have them by tomorrow.’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  William Phillips was a creature of habit. On Sunday evenings, except when he was out of town on business, he took the lift down to the gym located on the first floor of the Panorama Apartment block and swam thirty laps of the twenty-five metre pool. The centre was equipped with a pool, spa and steam room. Down a corridor behind another set of doors was the gym, equipped with treadmills, rowing machines and exercise bikes.

  Bryan and Julie Sykes were regular Sunday-nighters at the gym and ignored the Strata Body notice glued to the wall. The Strata Corporation by-laws placed a prohibition on alcohol, the use of glass containers within the pool area, unnecessary running, excessive splashing, nude bathing and the presence of children under the age of sixteen who were not under the direct supervision of an adult. There was only one by-law they didn’t take exception to, and that was the restriction of unsupervised children. But as William knew, some rules were meant to be broken and he turned a blind eye to the couple’s drinking, especially when they were considerate enough to bring along an extra champagne flute for him.

  William inserted his pass key into the electronic reader and the glass door clicked open. The centre was deserted. He had the place to himself and he was relieved. He didn’t feel like socialising with Bryan and Julie tonight. He stripped off his track suit top and pants and placed his towel and keys on the timber bench under the sign that said ‘no diving’. His swimming goggles slipped easily over his head, fitting snug against his face. With his swimming costume adjusted and the white cord tucked neatly into them, he dived into the deep end of the pool. As his face broke the surface, his body slid effortlessly through the water and he relaxed as his powerful arms and legs settled into a swimmer’s rhythm. Stroke after effortless stroke his breathing kept in time with his heartbeat. Up and down, lap after lap, he glided through the pool. When he rolled into his thirtieth lap, he caught sight of someone standing by the edge of the pool. When the tips of his fingers touched the northern end of the pool, he planted his feet on the bottom, turned and looked behind him. Whoever was watching him, wasn’t there now.

  He flicked his head to one side, a shower of water droplets sprayed into the air just like a wet dog shaking itself after a bath. His broad shoulders took his weight as he eased his body out of the water. He snatched up his towel from the bench, dried off and headed towards the steam room.

  He punched the green start button next to the door with his fist and closed the heavy door behind him. Cedar timber slats poked into his spine as he flattened his body against the bench. With his knees bent, he rolled up his towel to form a pillow and tucked it under his head. The room was already warm and it wasn’t long before the temperature gauge began to climb to sixty-five degrees Celsius. William felt the effects of the heat and knew it was doing his body good. Rivulets of condensation dribbled down the walls and across the small square boxed window on the steam room door. Beads of sweat trickled down his body as he set the alarm on his waterproof watch for ten minutes. William tilted his head back, closed his eyes and felt all the muscles in his body relax.

  Ten minutes later his alarm beeped, slowly, quietly at first, then it escalated in pitch, singing off-key to William, urging him to take notice, to open his eyes, to wake up. He was slow to move, he opened his eyes, his breathing was laboured. As he sat upright, he was immediately overcome by nausea, his chest tightened but he managed to get to his feet and reach for the timber handle on the back of the door. He pushed at it, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed again.

  The door remained firmly shut. He looked around for an emergency button. He’d never paid much attention to the workings of the steam room before, but now he wished he had. A timber bucket was tucked away in the corner of the room. He heaved. After he regurgitated the soupy contents of his stomach into the bucket, he wiped his mouth with his towel and wished he had some water to rinse away the foul taste of vomit and bile.

  Wasn’t there some safety mechanism that was supposed to come into play here? William banged on the glass window with his fists. He was sure there was an automatic timer switch that was supposed to cut in after ten minutes. Surely it wasn’t on the outside of the door. ‘Fucking door!’ he yelled, as he kicked it with the last of his remaining strength.

  He yelled at the top of his voice. Where was his mobile phone? He realised he�
��d left it with his clothes by the pool. William pressed his face up hard against the window. But he knew no one would hear him, after all it was Sunday night, the pool complex was deserted. He wished now that Bryan and Julie had come to the pool. They were always here on Sunday nights. Where were they?

  William sat down on the floor. His skin was on fire, his throat was dry. The humidity of the steam room was overwhelming and as he sat quietly with his towel wrapped around his head, he began to pray. Not that William Phillips was a religious man but he had run out of options. What else was there left to do? Praying for someone to enter the pool complex and rescue him was all that he could think of to get out of the mess he was now in. He didn’t want to die, not like this, but William knew that was exactly what was about to happen if someone didn’t rescue him soon. Suellyn had gone out for the evening and he didn’t even know if she was planning to come home.

  William’s heart rate was rising, his core temperature was soaring. In desperation he searched under the bench looking for the pipe which injected steam into the room. He heard it hissing, spluttering. Would he reach it in time before he passed out? Sweat was dripping off him in bucket loads and was streaming down his chest. His body was cooking, he felt like a pig roasting on a spit. The pain was excruciating, his skin was turning lobster-red. He sensed that he was about to lose consciousness. His head fell forward, his body rolled into a tight ball. A large crack sounded as his head landed hard against the tiled floor.

  *****

  William had no idea that his prayers had been answered as he lay unconscious on the floor. The shut off switch sprang back and the switch turned off. A limp strip of grey electrical duct tape dangled from the switch.

  Jock Kelly came on duty five days a week, Monday to Friday, at six am sharp. It was now six-ten, Monday morning. It had taken him ten minutes to unlock his office in the basement, check his emails and take the flight of stairs to the first floor. As he walked briskly towards the Fitness Centre the first thing he noticed was the typed notice taped to the door - Closed for Maintenance. He grabbed the notice and screwed it up into a ball and wondered who the practical joker was.

  The affable Scot had been the building superintendent at the Panorama Apartments for almost five years. He was meticulous in the way he carried out his duties and he shook his head when he saw the pile of clothing on the bench at the northern end of the pool and he wondered what had gone on the night before. Jock picked up the set of keys and the mobile phone which was tucked under a pair of grey tracksuit pants and realised he would have to put the car park key through the DKS reader to see who the keys belonged to. The mobile phone was dead.

  Jock cast his eye around for anything else that looked amiss as he made his way towards the edge of the pool. It was all clear. Checking the pool was one of the items on his mental checklist. Last summer an elderly resident suffered a heart attack while doing laps and Jock had discovered his body spread-eagled at the bottom of the pool.

  But everything seemed in order today and for that, Jock Kelly was grateful. He turned to leave knowing he still had to inspect the rest of the building before returning to the basement to check the garage roller doors and put the key tag through the reader to find out who the clothes and mobile phone belonged to. The garage doors had been playing up recently and he was fed up with being called out late at night to let someone into or out of the building.

  He checked his watch. If he hurried he’d make it across the Bridge before the traffic got too heavy. He stopped as he turned to leave. Something had caught his attention. He looked at the wall next to the steam room and tried to make sense of the strip of grey electrical tape dangling from the automatic shut off switch. When he reached the steam room he tugged at its heavy timber door and wondered why it wouldn’t open. He looked down at his feet and saw the thin wedge of timber which had been placed under the door. He kicked it away with his foot and looked through the window.

  ‘What tha fawk?’

  William Phillips was lying on his side on the floor, unconscious or perhaps dead. The white floor tiles where he lay were smeared with a pool of sticky blood. He pushed against the door, it opened and he bent down and shook William violently. ‘Wake up marn for Christ’s sake!’ he yelled.

  William opened his eyes, groaned and looked up at Jock.

  ‘You took your bloody time.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Isabelle Dwyer was frightened. She and Tommy had never been close, but their relationship had deteriorated since Charles had died. Tommy had become morose, his mood had spiraled downwards sending him windmilling into a deep well of depression. He’d turned on Isabelle, blaming her for his father’s death, lashing out at her with vicious threats. Isabelle didn’t know how long it would be before he would lose control completely and strike out. At one point she had her suspicions that he may have discovered her dirty secret. But how could he have known? Charles didn’t know about Rose and William. Or did he? Isabelle was now beginning to wonder.

  Isabelle knew that Tommy was jealous of the love his father had for her and knew he couldn’t see anything in her character worth loving. Tommy didn’t particularly like women, especially older women, he thought they were vile and pathetic.

  When Tommy learned from his father what his mother had done, he went into a rage. His father pleaded with him to forgive her and insisted that he take care of her after he was gone. Tommy promised his father that he would, and he did, but in his own way. Two hours after their conversation he sent her a letter and demanded fifty-thousand dollars from her.

  Within a week of his father’s death he travelled interstate for two weeks. When he returned to the family home he sat with Isabelle at the kitchen table and plied her with gin and antidepressants and didn’t listen when she pleaded with him to call an ambulance.

  He left her dying, satisfied that a part of the debt Isabelle owed him and his father had been settled, and walked away from the house. He waited for an hour before hailing a taxi. Obscured by the dark shadows, seated in the back seat of the taxi, he arrived at Kingsford Smith International Airport. He didn’t say a word when he paid the taxi driver in cash.

  The next day, on the other side of the world, he waited half an hour before his bag finally appeared on the luggage carousel at Charles de Gaulle airport. The woman behind the Europcar rental counter didn’t pay much attention to the man with the strange accent. She accepted his euros in exchange for the keys to a black, two door Peugeot. He placed the keys in his pocket and caught a shuttle bus to the rental car pickup area and headed out onto the A1 towards Gonesse. He had a long, lazy trip ahead in which to plan and fine-tune the next stage of his revenge. He travelled from country to country, from small village to small village, never staying in one place long enough for the authorities to find him. Six months later he returned home to learn that his mother had committed suicide and her estate had been dealt with by the executor, a Mr Martin Bartholomew. He disguised his rage when he learned from Martin Bartholomew that his mother’s entire estate had been left to a long time friend, a Mrs Rose Phillips and disguised his relief when he learnt that the Coroner’s findings were that her death was a result of a combination of alcohol poisoning and an overdose of prescription medication; a case of suicide brought about by the loss of her beloved husband Charles and the sudden disappearance of her only son.

  *****

  My Dear Rose

  I hope this letter finds you well. I was so pleased to receive your letter. Thank you for your sympathetic and kind words but the doctors have told me that Charlie won’t last the week. He is very frail but still manages to understand what is going on around him. I will miss him, he has been a good husband to me and a good provider. I know that Tommy will miss him too, of course, because they did everything together before he fell ill. They were more like brothers than father and son.

  Rose dear, it is because of Tommy that I felt that I had to write to you. A week ago Tommy came to me and told me that he knew all about Father Pa
trick and our little arrangement regarding William. I don’t know how he found out, but he did, and he has been blackmailing me ever since. He asked me to give him fifty-thousand dollars to stop him from going to Charlie and telling him everything.

  I just couldn’t have Charlie knowing about William and going to his grave with such a terrible opinion of me. I was also worried that at the last moment he might decide to change his will in favour of Tommy and leave me without a cent.

  Speaking of wills, Tommy asked me to show him mine just the other day, which I thought very strange. He knows that Charlie has left everything to me of course and I am sure he is expecting to inherit everything once I die. Tommy promised that he wouldn’t tell anyone about William if I gave him the fifty-thousand dollars and he also promised that he would never raise the subject again. I hate to say it Rose, but I don’t trust my son.

  I hope you have fared better with Billy. I have never been very close to Tommy as you know, so I have decided to change my will. What a surprise is in store for him when I die and he is left nothing. I have made an appointment with your lovely solicitor friend, Mr Bartholomew, because I have decided to make you the sole beneficiary to my estate. You may die before me of course and in that case my assets will go to my two favourite charities.

  My private funds that I kept from Charlie all these years are almost depleted mainly because of the recent fifty-thousand dollar payment to Tommy and the years I supported Billy. But I’m not really worried about that; that was the arrangement we agreed to and I stuck to it, didn’t I?

  Rose, do with the money what you will, but I must warn you that Tommy will not be pleased when he finds out that you have inherited everything. Perhaps you can introduce him to his half-brother and with Billy being a barrister and everything, it might just be for the best that the truth finally comes out into the open after all these years. Don’t judge me too harshly, you know what I’m like, I always was one to stir the pot!