by C. A. Larmer
“Unless ...” Roxy chewed her lip. She hoped William’s daughter hadn’t done anything silly. Perhaps she was an advocate of euthanasia? “I’d better call Oliver again.”
She grabbed the phone and redialled his mobile number. This time, thankfully, it picked up.
“Olie, it’s Roxy. Are you okay? You haven’t been answering your phone.”
“Stupid me, I turned it off at the funeral and forgot to switch it back on,” he replied, his tone flat. “When I finally did, I had three calls from Erin. Distraught. Been at her place ever since.”
“I’m so sorry, I only just heard myself. ”
“Yeah, it’s terrible stuff.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Nope, nope, nothing any of us can do. Look, let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I’m still with her now, it’s gonna be a long day.”
“Of course, sorry, I’ll call you tomorrow. But, Olie?”
“Mmm?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
A pause. “I’m not the one with gardening shears through my head, Roxy.”
And with that the phone clicked dead.
Chapter 10
“Ay, it doesn’t sound verra good to me,” agreed Loghlen O’Hara in a lilting Scottish twang as Roxy sat across from him at his inner-city café, the sun slowly fading outside. It was Thursday afternoon and she was waiting for David to show up for their first official interview. He was already fifteen minutes late.
Lockie’s Café had always been one of Roxy’s favourite cafés and she was glad she’d decided to meet David here instead of his place or hers. She really needed an old friend this afternoon, and Lockie was certainly that. She’d known the gangly Scotsman for over a decade, he’d even helped her with one of her books, and she’d always admired his mellow temperament and quiet optimism, which was why his comment surprised her.
Sure, Roxy knew a set of gardening shears through the skull was suspicious, but she’d half expected languid Lockie to suggest otherwise.
“It’s not like you to be thinking the worst,” she replied, eyeing him slyly. “I thought you’d try to tell me it was some dreadful accident or something. I must be rubbing off on you.”
“Just tellin’ it like it is.”
“But why would someone murder a dying man?”
He scratched his orange, pork-chop sideburns while considering this. “I guess burglars and nootters don’t know ye’re dyin’ of cancer when they break in and kill ye for the silverware. Couldn’t give a toss. In fact, maybe they knew he was dyin’ and realised he’d be easy prey. Then, he tried to have it out with them—on the lawn did ye say?—and they gave him what for!” Roxy stared at him open mouthed and he laughed. “Sorry, been watchin’ too much CSI.”
“You? Television? I didn’t even know you owned one. What about your painting?”
“What paintin’? Nae, I’m as dried up as me old brushes. Can’t seem to find inspiration these days.”
Again, Roxy was surprised. She glanced around the café. It was decorated with the remnants of past inspiration: a grotesque yellow sunflower on one wall, a Mona Lisa look-alike on another, all for sale and few ever making it out of the café. But what he lacked in talent he made up for in enthusiasm. Or at least he used to.
“Are you okay? Something on your mind?”
He continued caressing his sideburns for a few seconds and then laughed, the old Lockie returning momentarily. “Ay, I’m fine. I do carry on like a big girl’s blouse, dinna I? So, what ye havin’ this time?”
“Just get us a weak latté, thanks. It’s late and I’m waiting for someone.”
“Not ye mum?” He couldn’t hide the alarm in his eyes.
“Christ no. It’s not Sadist Sunday yet, is it? No, I’m just waiting on ...” she hesitated, not quite sure how to describe David Lone, then said, “a client.”
“Ooooh, sounds mysterious!”
He nudged his bushy eyebrows up and down and then returned to the counter to make the coffee himself, while she settled back into her seat checking her watch again. Mr Lone was now officially twenty minutes late.
“Hey, there,” David said a good five minutes after that, striding up to her table and landing a quick kiss on one cheek as he deftly slipped into the chair opposite her, placing a satchel on the table as he did so. “Have you ordered?”
“Just a coffee. You’re late.”
He stared at her as though waiting for her to make her point, so she let it drop. Instead she said, “Have you heard?”
“That I’m late? I didn’t know it was breaking news.” He glanced up at her annoyed expression and smiled. “Sorry, that’s a bit lame at this time. Yes, of course I’ve heard about William Glad, that’s exactly why I’m late. I’m on it.”
He reached into his pocket and produced his iPhone which he checked before placing beside the satchel. He clearly couldn’t live without the gadget and she forgave him this. He was on the job, after all.
“In fact, I’ve just come from the paper now,” he said. “They need a statement from Oliver so I haven’t got a lot of time. Let’s just go through the basics and I’ll head over to his office after this. He’s at Erin’s now, but will meet me there soon.”
“Tell him to call me if he needs any help. He sounded dreadful earlier.”
“Why wouldn’t he? He’s now lost two of his old clients.”
“Yes, but surely that’s a coincidence?”
David blinked a few times and was about to say something when Lockie appeared with Roxy’s coffee and a menu in hand. After ordering an espresso, David rechecked his phone.
“Listen, if you need to run off now, I’ll understand—” Roxy began but he cut her off.
“Hell no! We’re definitely going ahead with my book. I can multitask if you can. Besides, you’re the one doing all the work, not me, which is just as well, because this story is going to keep me very busy. I can tell already, it’s going to be big.”
“So what is the story then, on poor old William? The TV report made it sound like there were some suspicious circumstances, and then Oliver mentioned something about gardening shears.”
“He told you that, did he? I’m still trying to work it all out and no one’s giving too much away at this point. Never do this early in the game.”
“It’s hardly a game, David.”
He frowned, looking disappointed with her. “Just a figure of speech, Roxanne, you mustn’t take offence. This is what I do, I don’t mean to sound voyeuristic.”
“No, no, no.” She shook her head, cranky with herself now. “And I don’t mean to sound judgmental, sorry. Besides, I’m one to talk. I take an interest in murder and I don’t usually write about it for a living. At least you’ve got that excuse. So, what do you think’s happened?”
He sat back and rubbed a hand across his jawbone. “I don’t know exactly but something’s up for sure. The old man obviously didn’t die of cancer, and what was he doing in his backyard anyway, especially at that time of night?”
“Yes, I thought that seemed strange, too, but he was a gardening nut. Perhaps he was taking one last stroll when he fell onto the shears? He was pretty shaky on his feet, after all.” She knew it sounded ridiculous and the look on David’s face confirmed this.
“They think he died around midnight. Bit late for a sick man to be out and about. Anyway, there’s too much police action over at his place for that. I just swung by there and there’s police tape, the works. They refused to comment, of course, but it’s pretty obvious that something is up.”
She thought about this. “But why would someone want to kill a dying man? Unless of course it was assisted suicide.”
“A pretty brutal way to help him die, I would suggest. No, Roxanne, I have a really strong hunch about this one.”
“You and your hunches,” she said, eyes rolling.
“Hey, my hunches usually make me a lot of money.”
She had to concede that point. “So what do you think?”
> “I think it’s linked to Seymour Silva’s murder.”
Roxy sat up straight. She hadn’t expected that. “The sci-fi writer? Really? What’s William’s death got to do with him? Don’t forget they still say Seymour killed himself.”
“They say a lot of things, doesn’t mean they’re right. No, I believe both deaths are connected.” He paused while Lockie returned with his coffee and disappeared again. “Seems to me that someone is killing the great writers of Sydney.”
Roxy almost laughed then checked herself. The expression on David’s face was totally sincere. “That’s very catchy,” she told him, “but aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? Even if Seymour Silva was murdered as you predict—and the police certainly dispute that—it still doesn’t connect to William. As far as I could tell, they didn’t exactly mix in the same circles. Apart from Oliver, I doubt they had anything in common. Surely it has to be a tragic coincidence?”
David picked up his coffee cup. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Roxanne, and you can put that in your book.” He took a sip and placed the cup back down. “Look at the facts: Two successful writers have been murdered in just five days—”
“You keep forgetting, Seymour’s death was ruled suicide.”
“Semantics,” he said, brushing her off. “What, you think the cops never get it wrong? I always knew his death was suspicious and now there’s been another one, in less than a week. It rings alarm bells. At least it does for me. I believe Norm did it, and I think he’s guilty of killing William, too.”
“Norman Hicks? Are you serious?!”
“Completely.”
“But why Norm? I mean, sure, he might have had motive to kill Seymour, I’ll grant you that. But what possible motive would he have to kill an old horticulturalist? Did he even know William?”
David shrugged. “I’m still working all that out. But I will link them, you’ll see.” Then he flashed her a confident smile. “Don’t look so worried, Roxanne. This is what I do best. You should be taking notes. You’re getting to watch me in action.”
His arrogance was astounding and would normally put her off, but he was absolutely right. There was a certain thrill in watching a top investigative reporter in action, and it would make great copy for their book. She studied him for a few minutes, crunching on the side of her coffee cup, then asked, “What other links do you see?”
“Well, as you said yourself, they both work or worked for Oliver Horowitz.”
She felt her stomach lurch. The thrill was starting to wane. “Hang on, you’re not saying Oliver is somehow involved?”
He took another sip of his coffee and then dabbed at his lips with a serviette. “I’m just talking about the commonalities. There are several as far as I can see. Both writers were once on Oliver’s books. Both were very successful in their chosen genres. Perhaps there’s a begrudging wannabe writer or publisher or agent out there?”
It wasn’t completely unreasonable, but she still couldn’t quite buy it. And she was usually a big fan of conspiracy theories. “So, you think there’s some psychopath out there bumping off genre writers? Sounds a tad sensational, even for you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?” He grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “Anyway, if there is a psychopath out there slaughtering writers, Roxanne, I can guarantee you, I’m onto it.”
“Oh that makes me feel so much better,” she said, offering him a wry smile. “Have you spoken to the police at all?”
“Tried to, but as I said, it’s always a pointless exercise, at this stage. ‘Early days in the investigation’, ‘Keeping an open mind’—all the usual clichés. They’re e-mailing us a statement this evening.” He glanced at the phone again. “I doubt they’ll have much to say.”
“And Oliver? What are you hoping he has to say? God, I hope he knows to keep his mouth shut.”
David frowned. “I’m not out to lynch him, Roxanne, but he was William’s agent. I’d be a hopeless reporter if I didn’t speak to him. He’ll just tell me what I already know, he last saw William at my film launch, spoke to him via phone the following day, yada yada. Look, I’m treating Oliver fairly, but I need to do my job, too.” Sensing her distress, he added quickly, “Don’t worry, I won’t write anything incriminating. I’m on his side, you know that. That’s the great thing about reporting on this—I can find out what’s really going on, help him out. I can be at the centre of all of this, and that works in everyone’s favour.”
“But aren’t you supposed to be impartial?”
“Jesus, you can’t have it both ways.” Now he looked exasperated with her.
“I just worry about poor old Olie, that’s all. Things were going so well for him, he just doesn’t need the grief. Look, do you think we can we drop it for now and just get on with your book?”
He glanced at his watch. “Yes, we’re going to have to, I’ve only got twenty more minutes to spare.”
“Then let’s make tracks.”
She reached down to her handbag under the table and pulled out a digital recorder and a small note pad and pen. As they polished off their coffees, the two writers tried to douse all thoughts of grisly deaths and gardening shears, and got down to the business of David Lone’s biography. There was only time for a few background questions and Roxy learned that David had been brought up an only child in a “fairly average” middle-class family from the Adelaide ’burbs. His parents, he told Roxy, had had him late in life and were not that interested in the whole parenting gig, preferring to lavish their attentions on each other, so he had largely brought himself up. His dad, an electrical engineer (with a gardening fetish), had tried to push David into law or medicine, “some snooty vocation”, but David had resisted, more interested in a glamorous and creative career. He’d first applied to NIDA, a world-famous acting school, and when that failed, had settled on a journalism course. “But it’s books that really excite me,” he said, suddenly checking his iPhone again.
Taking this as her cue, Roxy put her recorder away and pulled out her own smartphone, clicking on the diary application. “Okay, then,” she sad. “I’ll let you run away, but you owe me a decent interview, soon!”
He laughed and promised her that. They then knuckled out their schedules for the next month. They decided to meet at David’s home office every day for the first fortnight, starting from the following Monday. After getting David’s “side of the story”, Roxy would then branch out and start interviewing his friends and family. David reached into his satchel and produced a plastic folder bursting with newspaper and magazine articles that he had either written or were written about him.
“So the newsmaker becomes the news,” she said idly as she flipped through them.
His lips broke into a dazzling smile. “Well, just for a while, at least. I’ve put them in chronological order. Nothing too substantial, just some reviews—all good of course—and society gossip pages, including last Friday night’s preview.”
“Oh?” Roxy glanced up. “Did I rate a mention?”
“I’m afraid not. But Oliver’s in there. There’s a particularly embarrassing snapshot of him with Tina Passion, both looking legless. Must have been towards the end of the evening, that one.”
Roxy located the picture and laughed. Tina Passion was wedged into something tight and metallic, both arms slung around Oliver’s neck as she planted a sloppy kiss on one of his cheeks. It was clearly her favourite part of his anatomy and she seemed incapable of leaving it alone. For his part, Oliver looked semi-comatose, his eyes half closed as though he were about to pass out. Roxy guessed the photographer had caught him mid-blink. Or at least, she hoped he had.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Not his best look.”
“Those two are getting pretty cosy. Are they an item?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “He wishes, she’s a little less forthcoming. Plays him like a fiddle but he keeps going back for more.” She crinkled her nose at the thought. To her, Oliver was like a pudgy,
older brother, not someone she wanted to imagine in an intimate situation, especially with someone as trashy as Tina. “What else have you got for me?”
David produced a separate piece of paper with half a dozen names and numbers typed neatly in a row. “Here’s a secondary list of people you might want to contact, including some old girlfriends.”
Roxy’s eyebrows shot up. “Ex-girlfriends? Really? You want me to talk to them?”
“Of course. I’m good friends with all my exes, you’ll see. No one has a bad word to say about me.”
“That’s dull,” she said, scanning through the list.
One name looked vaguely familiar and she was about to comment on it when he said, “Just because they don’t have a bad word about me doesn’t mean they won’t have some juicy gossip.” His own eyebrows twitched several times mysteriously. “You’ll find a few of my old teachers in there, too. Make sure you talk to Mrs Porter, she was my senior English teacher at high school.” He pointed halfway down the page. “She always had such faith in me.”
“Excellent. That’ll make good copy—living up to your favourite teacher’s aspirations.” She glanced through the list. “No mention of university. You said you studied journalism. Which school did you go to and is there anyone there worth interviewing there?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry about that. I studied at Southern Cross Uni at Lismore, up on the far north coast. Complete waste of time.”
“Really? Why?”
He shrugged. “Really lame course. I dropped out early, found the whole thing extraordinarily dull. I was rearing and ready to go in the real world by then. Got a good job on a Wollongong paper soon after that, the number’s there. They might have some of my early articles they can scan and send you.”
She saw a contact for the Illawarra Mercury and nodded. “Cool. But maybe there’s a chapter there, about how disappointing university was for you? Or something?”
