by Menon, David
Meanwhile, have you tried David Menon’s series featuring Sydney-based private investigator Stephanie Marshall? The latest is called ‘Could Max Burley be a Killer?’ and on the next page you can take a sneak preview of the first chapter.
In the line of business Stephanie Marshall was in she was used to having uncomfortable experiences. It went with the job that some of the people she came across weren’t exactly the full quid. She’d recently had a case where a woman had asked her to follow her boyfriend because she suspected he was up to no good with another woman. A ‘run of the mill’-sort of case, at face value, and Stephanie spent several days keeping the boyfriend under surveillance and taking pictures of his activities. But she didn’t see him with any other woman in a situation that suggested he may be playing away from home and, when she broached her findings with her client, the client broke down and started sobbing in Stephanie’s arms. The ‘deliriously happy couple with no issues’ had been on one date five months ago after which the ‘boyfriend’ decided that he didn’t want to take things any further. The ‘girlfriend’, however, had been so desperate to be with someone that she’d deluded herself into believing that the date had been one of the happiest nights of her life and that a wonderful relationship had ensued, even to the extent of believing he was two-timing her and employing Stephanie’s services to find out. She’d built up a whole relationship with this man - but only in her head.
Stephanie did some more probing and found that her client, who was in her early forties, had never been married and hadn’t had a boyfriend for several years. She had a reputation where she worked for being a particularly bitter and twisted woman who delighted in reporting her colleagues to management for the slightest of misdemeanors. She was, apparently, always critical of other people’s relationships especially if the girl was young and pretty. Stephanie sympathised with the sad psycho bitch but arranged for her to see a therapist who could perhaps help her to sort out her real issues.
Then there was the farmer from the Northern Territories who had asked Stephanie if she could find out where his seventeen year-old daughter was because she’d run away from home. He believed she was in Sydney. Stephanie felt quite sorry for him at first. He’d looked completely lost and woebegone in the big city and he explained that there’d been a huge family argument after which his daughter had shot through. Stephanie did manage to find the man’s daughter but the situation she learned about wasn’t quite as the father had explained. She told Stephanie that her father had been steadily ‘losing it’ in his head and had been hitting out at her with his fists, especially when he came home drunk from the pub, and she hadn’t been able to stand it any longer. Stephanie had managed to get father and daughter talking again and the father had agreed to seek help. He said that the reason for him cracking up was because his farm was going bankrupt and he didn’t know what to do. Stephanie learned the extent of his cash problems when she presented him with her bill and he tried to pay her in live pythons, three of them to be precise, all in a large tank on the back of the truck that he’d driven all the way down from just outside Darwin. “Bloody valuable, these big bastards, sweetheart,” he’d pointed out. “You’ll be able to sell them to any zoo or, if you want to make serious money, then sell them to some scientific sort of place who’ll use them for experiments.” Stephanie said she’d prefer to keep his account open until he was able to pay her in straightforward cash and he could return the snakes to the outback where they belonged.
Lately, Stephanie had been presented with, potentially, one of her most challenging clients to date. She hadn’t spoken to him but as she looked out of her office window she saw him standing across the road and looking up at her office like he’d done every day for the past week. She recognised him. She knew exactly who he was. His face had been splashed across the newspapers and the TV news channels and, although the average man or woman hadn’t committed his physique to memory, professionals, like Stephanie, who took a deeper interest than others would, had noticed. He presumably wanted to employ her services but it was becoming exasperating because, every time she went downstairs and out onto the street to try and talk to him, he disappeared. It was as if he was reaching out for help but couldn’t quite go through with it. He must be in a worse way than the media would have everyone believe. After all, everybody thought he was a cold-blooded killer.
She turned from the window and tried to focus on her email inbox which currently totalled 152. She scrolled down the list and came to the one that really mattered. It was from her eldest son, James, back in the UK, who was coming to stay in a couple of weeks time to spend his gap year with her before starting university. The email contained details of his flight into Sydney and she noted it down with great excitement. She hadn’t seen either of her two sons, James and Matthew, since she went back to the UK last Christmas and was so looking forward to having at least one of her boys in her arms again. She still called them ‘her boys’ even though they were both very tall young men.
She’d just finished her reply to James when the buzzer for her office went off and the security camera showed that it was the man who’d been looking up at her window. She pressed to let him into the building and, a few minutes later, she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs to the second floor and then she saw the shape of his shadow against the frosted glass of her office door. She’d been meaning to get the frosted glass replaced because, not only was it a bit of a cliche for a private investigator but it quite often spooked her out when an image appeared. She pressed the button to unlock the door and he came in.
“Hello,” he said, holding out his hand though more out of manners than confidence. “My name is Max Burley.”
“Yes,” said Stephanie who stood up and shook his hand. “I recognise you.”
“I thought you might.”
“Please sit down,” said Stephanie, who was immediately struck by Burley. The pictures of him in the papers and on TV did not do justice to this man in his late thirties who was one of the most handsome men she’d ever come across. Leaving her darling Peter out of it, who, in any case, was more rugged than handsome, Max Burley had the most perfect, dark brown eyes in a flawless face with a wide mouth and no visible lines. He also had the strong, outdoor look of one of those naturalists you see on TV chasing wildlife all over the place. He must spend a lot of his time outside. He had large upper arm and shoulder muscles and was dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, maroon T-shirt under a black leather bomber jacket with a zip fastener. His dark brown hair was short. However there was turmoil written right across his face. He looked brooding, like he just didn’t know what to do. “So why has it taken you all this time to actually come and talk to me?”
“I was nervous,” said Max after he’d sat down and crossed his legs over. He rested his folded hands in his lap. “Given my current circumstances, it’s hard to figure out how people will react to me. You’re familiar with my case, I take it?”
“Oh, yes,” Stephanie confirmed. Max Burley had been charged with the murder of his boss, Charles Maynard. “I’ve seen it all in the media.”
“Well, I didn’t kill Charles,” said Max, firmly, although the tone of his voice betrayed how he was feeling inside. “But, next month, I go on trial for his murder and the police believe they have a cast iron case that will see me go down for a long time. I only got bail because I’ve got some money in the bank that they took for security and I’ve never been in trouble with the police before. I have to prove my innocence before that trial starts, Miss Marshall. That’s why I’m here. I need you to help me.”
“What’s your lawyer doing about it?”
“Are you aware of the Sydney firm, Healey and Jenkins?”
Stephanie nodded. “Well, yes, I am,” she confirmed. “I’ve had dealings with them myself.”
“Well, I’m with someone there called Brett Sandcroft,” said Max. “He’s advising me to plead guilty in order to lessen my chances of a long sentence.”
“That old che
stnut.”
“I know,” said Max. “If it wasn’t my life we were talking about it, would be laughable.”
“Can’t you get some other lawyer?”
“It wouldn’t make any difference because I need someone who’s going to look for evidence of me being set up,” said Max. “That’s what I believe has happened here, Miss Marshall. I’ve been set up for the murder of Charles and someone in this city is laughing at me over their pre-dinner drink.”
“You have the kind of enemies who’d set you up for murder?”
“I didn’t think so but someone has done a bloody good job to make it look like I killed Charles.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t, I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened,” said Max, who felt his eyes fill up. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
“Alright, Max, don’t get distressed,” said Stephanie. “You’ve come to the right place.”
“You mean you will help me?” he asked hopefully, leaning forward whilst wiping his cheeks free of tears. “I’m desperate, Miss Marshall. I don’t know where else to turn and you’ve got a reputation for getting results,”
Stephanie smiled at the way he was flattering her. “Call me Stephanie.”
“Okay. Stephanie. But you can see how I’m fixed?”
“Of course I can,” Stephanie went on. She could see the immense strain in those eyes. This man was clearly going through it. “But the thing is, Max, I’ll need to be sure that you are innocent and that means hearing your side of the story without it having been filtered by journalists who are all working to their own agenda. Just don’t give me the same version that’s appeared in the media, that’s what I’m saying.”
Max sat back in his chair. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Go right back to the circumstances leading up to the death of Charles Maynard,” said Stephanie. “I know it’ll be painful, Max, but please tell me everything. If there’s one thing that will dissuade me from helping you, it’ll be if you deliberately leave something out.”
“This isn’t going to be easy.”
“No, I can imagine,” said Stephanie. “But neither is prison, and if I’m going to save you from that then you’re going have to convince me that I’m right in thinking that you’re not a killer.”
