by Zane Lovitt
Whaley says, ‘Are you familiar with the black teeth?’
‘Yes. Broadly.’
‘It indicated to me that he wasn’t having a good time of it inside. So I expected him to behave a little strangely. Even so, he was…’
He fixes me with eyes designed to communicate the sobriety of a situation.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
And I’m like: ‘Okay.’
‘I drew the conclusion that Piers hadn’t changed his will under duress, but that rather he’d gone beyond the reach of common sense and had been subject to manipulation.’
‘So you thought he was…mentally deficient…before he killed Cheryl Alamein? And that’s why he did it?’
‘No, I only said that that was a possibility. What’s also possible is that prison life had done that to him.’
‘So why did they keep him there? If he was crazy…’
‘I’m sure they supplied him with a smorgasbord of anti-psychotics. But if every prisoner with severe mental health issues were transferred to a more appropriate facility, our jails would be next to empty.’
‘During this interview, did you take notes?’
‘No. I recorded it. But the tape would have been destroyed with the file.’ He looks back over the top of his glasses. ‘And I don’t imagine it would have been of much use to you.’
‘It’s a complicated situation,’ I flub. ‘I want to get my hands on as much primary documentation as possible.’
‘Well I’m sure all our documentation is gone.’
‘Did Piers mention his family at all?’
Whaley puts both elbows on the desk, clasps his hands together. His forefingers make a steeple to his nose.
‘I asked him if the new will would provide for his son. He replied that he’d left Rudy something very special. Something incredible. And I asked him what it was, and he said…’
He raises his eyebrows and holds them there, like he’s holding his breath, then:
‘The blessing of a short life.’
Whaley remembers this well, for all his coyness at the door. It’s a story he’s meditated on.
‘Do you know what he meant by that?’
‘I didn’t know at the time. But the cognitive evaluation showed that Piers suffered from a form of cardiomyopathy called AVRC, a disease affecting the heart. And it’s hereditary, from what I understand. If Rudy were a sufferer, then Piers might, in his demented way, have considered that a more generous legacy than money or property. I tried to ask about it, but our conversation drifted into the absurd.’
Rudy’s face when I told him he’d go to jail. His plan to wait the thirteen months. It’s not a terrible idea if he thinks he’s dying anyway. But why didn’t he mention it when we ran through his medical history? Does he really think there’ll be a pay-out if he’s kept a secret like that?
‘Do you know for sure that Rudy has it? AC…’
‘AVRC. No, no. That was beyond my focus.’
‘But Piers definitely did.’
‘According to his medical records. His was moderate to severe, which meant he could theoretically experience an attack at any time and die. But of course, that’s not what did for him in the end.’
‘So you know he’s dead?’
‘It was in the news,’ he waves dismissively. ‘Suffice it to say, the only actual information I gleaned from Alamein was that he lacked testamentary capacity.’
‘So then you called on Rudy?’
‘That’s correct. My plan was to give him the lay of the land regarding his father’s mental state, his position vis-à-vis a new will, and to refer him to the administration list at VCAT. But my assessment at the time—’
He cocks his head, unsure.
‘You have met with Rudyard Alamein, have you not?’
‘Yes, I have done so.’
‘My assessment at the time was that Rudy lacked the wherewithal to follow through on my advice. And if his application were denied, if he were required to attend a hearing at the tribunal, I simply didn’t believe he had the capability to put his case. So I filed the documents myself, arranged for the cognitive capacity assessment and petitioned for a statutory power of attorney.’
‘Sounds complicated.’
He shrugs.
‘Not really. The common law test for a lack of testamentary capacity literally includes the phrase “insane delusions”, so I didn’t have much difficulty there. Moreover, there wasn’t exactly a glut of assets. Aside from the house, most of them had been sold off to pay his legal fees, including his apartment in…Toorak, I think it was. There was no hard-nosed opposition to our psychiatric report or our application. That’s the totality of my involvement with the case.’
‘You don’t still have a copy of that report?’
‘I’m afraid not. As I said…’ He points to his filing cabinet. ‘I don’t even have my file notes.’
‘Nothing kept electronically?’
‘No,’ Whaley smiles. ‘I’m afraid I’m a philistine in that regard.’
Which would explain the want of a computer in here. I prepare for the golden question.
‘Did Piers tell you that he murdered his wife?’
Whaley’s neck straightens again. Another subtle recoil.
‘No. Absolutely not. We never broached that topic. You seem to be going well and truly beyond the call of duty, Mister Sherez.’
‘Why did you work for Rudy free of charge?’
I didn’t mean for it to be a sucker punch, but I can tell that it is. Something flashes in Whaley’s eyes and for the first time he doesn’t have an immediate answer. Into the silence, I say:
‘Rudy told me you did it pro bono. Which is strange, given that he had money. He wasn’t a charity. Why not send him a bill?’
‘You’re obviously a clever young lawyer, Mister Sherez. Why not find a job that pays more than a CLC? Sometimes it’s about more than money. Sometimes it’s a matter of principle.’
‘What’s the principle that says you should work for free for rich people?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘Well how do you look at it? Who paid for the psychiatrist’s report?’
A pause, then: ‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s difficult to explain. I felt sorry for him.’
And he hopes that will do the trick.
‘But you saved the day. Piers lacked capacity, Rudy got the house. Why feel sorry for him?’
‘You mean, aside from the fact that his mother was murdered?’
I don’t answer. Whaley brings a hand to his mouth, breathes in like it’s an oxygen mask, stares past me at nothing.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you.’
He gets up from his big leather chair but goes nowhere. Hovers, awkward, his hands fists, still thinking, staring into the floor.
‘I’m going to ask you to stay put in this room and not come out for a few minutes. Until I return. Can I trust you to do that?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s just…personal considerations. I need you to wait here.’
‘Okay.’
Whaley lingers on me to see if I mean it, doesn’t seem to be satisfied, nonetheless opens the red door and shuts it again.
His feet stomp down the stairs.
30
Gravity pulls me towards the filing cabinet, but Whaley wouldn’t have left me alone in here if there was anything to find. Still, I’m contemplating a quick look when my phone buzzes.
Hi Timothy. This is Beth Cannon. Sorry to bother you but I need to speak with you. Can I make an appointment?
An appointment? I hadn’t realised I’d seemed so professional as to seem professional.
My office is getting fumigated and I’m working out of my apartment. You can meet me there in an hour. 5/27 Rapproche Street, Kensington.
The first spats of rain strike the window, translucent exclamation points gathering like predators. I flick myself in the temp
le, hate myself for inviting her like that. How sleazy does it look, inviting her to the place where your bed is? When my phone rings I’m breathless at the chance to walk it back. But the caller ID says: Glen Tyan.
I turn off my phone.
Whaley returns with booming feet up the stairs, sheets of newspaper in hand. He moves to the photocopier above the cabinet. Almost invisible in the shine of his grey hair I can see cobweb entrails, sticky and fine and holding at least one tiny tiny spider-meal spun into a brown ball.
The photocopier whirrs and quacks and poops out two A4 pages. He holds them up, examining. Through one of the sheets I see the Daily Sun masthead.
‘I cut these pages out the day they went to print. As if I knew one day I’d be drawn into the Alamein affair.’
He offers them and I take them and he removes the originals from the photocopier, sits at his desk. We both read.
The publication date is Friday, January 23rd, 2001. The front page headline reads:
SON BREAKS SILENCE : ‘DAD SHOULD ADMIT WHAT HE DID’
Most of the page is a photograph of young Rudy, moonfaced as ever, posing for the camera, sulky. The photographer surely told him, ‘Look sad!’ and that’s exactly what he did, sitting on a couch I remember from the front room in Albert Park, the same place Rudy sat to sign my fake contract. Rudy holds up a framed photograph of Cheryl Alamein.
Whaley has reduced the full newspaper page to A4, meaning he knows how to operate a photocopier even if he hates computers. His generation, I suppose. The print is fine, difficult to read. I pull it close.
NINA CHIANCELLI
Staff reporter
THE son of a man accused of murdering his wife in their Albert Park home has told the Daily Sun he believes his father should confess to the brutal crime.
Speaking in the living room of the Albert Park terrace yesterday, Rudy Alamein said that the evidence against his father was overwhelming.
‘Just denying it is stopping us all from moving on,’ the fifteen-year-old said.
‘He’s not willing to admit what everyone knows. He should admit what he did.’
Rudy Alamein discovered the body of his mother, Cheryl Alamein, in her bedroom on the 7th of June, 1999.
‘There was a lot of blood on the floor. I was just thinking, “Oh no”’.
Cheryl Alamein had been struck with a blunt instrument that police allege was a vase later found in a workshop used by Rudy’s father, Piers Alamein.
‘He doesn’t want to admit the truth. They’ve got the proof. And he gets less jail time if he admits it.’
These blunt assertions—this certainty—doesn’t sound like Rudy, but then this is eleven years ago.
The story continues on page three, which Whaley has also provided. It features another picture of Rudy, still on the couch, but this time he’s seated beside a suited, moustachioed man full of sympathy and honest concern. They face the camera stoically like Batman and Robin.
I feel my eyes dilate, check the caption.
Strange Bedfellows: Young Rudy has formed an unlikely bond with the man who arrested his father, Detective Glen Tyan.
The stupidity of that sentence makes me ice over with fear.
Detective Glen Tyan is Rudy’s father?
But I read it again, recognise that I read it wrong, feel the adrenaline recede, leaving bafflement.
THE emotional appeal comes as prosecutors prepare for the trial of Piers Alamein, who has pleaded not guilty, due to commence next week.
Detective Glen Tyan, who led the investigation in 1999, yesterday looked in on Rudy to offer his support. He told The Daily Sun he was confident of a conviction.
‘We believe it is a domestic incident gone bad. Relations between the parties had been strained. There was an escalation following the breakdown of the marriage which included an intervention order.’
Detective Tyan said that Rudy’s best interests had been a priority throughout the investigation.
‘He’s a great kid. He’s lost his mum, which is so hard on a boy, but he keeps his chin up. He’s as tough as they come.’
Rudy told the Daily Sun he was grateful for the support provided by Victoria Police. He said he was considering a career in the police force.
‘I asked Detective Tyan about the police and he gave me a form to do. But he said I had to finish school first.’
Rudy is set to begin Year 10 at a private school in Brighton. He fears the trial will be a distraction from his studies.
‘There’s a lot of people asking me questions about my dad. He should think about the effect he’s having on me.’
A jury for the trial will be empanelled Monday.
By the time I’ve finished it’s raining a brass band against the window and the roof. Whaley has finished. His plaid shirt reflects his plaid face that’s watching me.
‘You said you had nothing. No documents.’
‘Some items I keep for sentimental reasons.’
‘Why be sentimental about this?’ I flash the pages in the air. Whaley draws in a long breath through his nose.
‘In particular, I was moved by the callousness of the publication. These are the uninformed comments of a child, and yet they ran it like it was fresh new evidence in the crime of the century.’
I shrug. ‘So what?’
The old man performs the shrug back at me.
‘You asked why I felt sorry for the boy. This is why.’
‘This is the reason you helped him?’
Whaley’s chin jabs out as affirmation.
‘We’re not all bastards, are we? Lawyers, I mean.’
And he smirks. Then he says:
‘I’ve got a very full day, so I think we’ll have to adjourn this little chat.’
My eyes return to the photograph. Rudy and Tyan. Both of them somehow brighter, better illuminated than they are today. Tyan has the same face but for that brown moustache. Rudy is calm but intense. They could be father and son.
‘May I keep this?’
‘Of course.’
I’m ushered out the red door, move slowly down the stairs, understanding more than I did on the ascent. Whaley never told Rudy that Piers was innocent. That’s just what Rudy tells himself out of self-loathing: he might have failed to protect his mother, but so publicly betraying his father is some next-level shit. His revenge fantasy is the music he plays in his mind to drown out the guilt.
The wine boxes below have been moved and one is set on the floor by itself. When we reach the front entrance I spot a door under the stairs: the cellar, I assume, going by the placement of the boxes. And Whaley’s special hiding place, his real cave, going by the cobwebs in his hair.
It reminds me of Tyan, when he scurried off to get my money. These old men and their hiding spots.
‘Can I give you my email address? In case you manage to find anything else.’
‘I suppose so. So long as I’ve not given you false hope.’
A pad from the side table is handed to me, along with a biro. The address I write is: [email protected]. I pulled the name Brett Sherez out of the clear blue sky and it’s a gamble that this domain doesn’t exist yet. But on the off-chance Whaley can unearth something to disarm Rudy, I’ll register it when I get home.
We shake hands.
‘Give Rudy my regards. Though he may not remember much about me.’
‘He remembers how much you did for him. He holds you in very high esteem.’
‘Say hello from me.’
‘I will.’
And I leave. Run back to the car, protecting the photocopies from the rain. Tristan Whaley waves from his front verandah. Lingers there as if to make sure I’m leaving.
31
It’s heavy rain when I pull into the driveway so I’m not sure it’s the green Volvo parked directly outside my flat. Then I am sure because Beth is struggling to keep her circular frame dry beneath the stairs. She waves a few meek fingers, already seeming to apologise for intruding.
�
�Hello. I’m sorry,’ she says as I reach her.
‘That’s all right. Come inside.’
But as I say this I hear a door close at the top of the stairs—a familiar sound.
‘Wait on.’ And I usher her back under cover.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
I stare up at the concrete landing. No footsteps. Someone has their washing on the clothesline down here and it’s getting soaked and for a moment I think it’s Marnie’s and she’s on her way to rescue it. But these are shirts and boxer shorts—man-clothes. Then I hear the knocking.
Marnie knocking on the door of my flat.
‘I’m sorry.’ Beth seems to think this is her fault.
She’s wrapped in a long grey coat like women in the French Resistance and a cravat pokes up through the neck. It’s drenched but it’s still the only colour to be seen in the dreariness of all this concrete. Her glasses are comically fogged over and her hair is flat and moulded like she just stepped out of the shower. Like when we first met.
‘It’s fine,’ I say softly into her ear. The rain is too loud for Marnie to hear us. ‘We’re just being super careful.’
Beth whispers, ‘Should we run to my car?’
I consider it for a moment, but fleeing with Beth would be about the most incriminating thing in the world that Marnie could catch me doing, so I shake my head, left with only admiration for this girl who doesn’t know who we’re hiding from, can barely see through those lenses, but she’s down for whatever.
‘I want to know about Rudy?’ More of those harsh Australian inflections. ‘He’s been calling me and calling and he won’t stop. He leaves messages? I know you told me not to speak with him again, but I had to. It was weird not calling him back.’
The stairs provide only inches of shelter and we’re standing closer than I would usually be comfortable with. It doesn’t seem to faze her.
‘But listen,’ she says. ‘I found out about the life insurance.’
Another hard rap against my door above, powerful like a headache.
‘You did?’
