by Claire McNab
Carol wanted to know if Florrie knew what Sybil Quade felt about the situation. Florrie shrugged. Sybil kept her feelings to herself. She was always nice and pleasant, but really, rather cold. You didn’t know what she was thinking and she didn’t share things the way Bill did. Florrie remembered Bill saying Sybil’s problem was she was a bit frigid, wouldn’t let herself go. That’s why Bill said Terry Clark was wasting his time. It was an open secret Terry’d been keen on Sybil for ages, and he’d thought his chance had come when her husband left her, but Bill said he didn’t have a hope.
“He didn’t have a hope because she was in love with Bill Pagett?”
Florrie nodded. “That, too, as well as her being, well, not keen on that sort of thing.”
Carol frowned. She asked if Sybil hadn’t been keen on “that sort of thing” how was it she had fallen in love with Bill Pagett? Florrie could explain that. Bill was hard to resist, and even Sybil had succumbed to his charm.
Bourke interposed: “Did she actually have an affair with Mr. Pagett?”
Florrie said Bill had been too much of a gentleman to actually give any details, but she got the impression that Sybil had thrown herself at him, and he’d had to gently tell her it wasn’t on.
“Did he mention any threats? Any emotional scenes?” asked Bourke.
Florrie shook her head. Bill wasn’t the kind of person to repeat things like that—she’d just got the impression Sybil was awfully upset about the whole thing. More than that she couldn’t say.
Carol wanted to know one other thing: had Florrie heard about anyone receiving anonymous telephone calls? Florrie was intrigued but unable to help. If there had been any such calls, she hadn’t heard about them. Why, what was happening? Carol fielded the question, dismissing her with thanks.
“Sybil Quade looks promising,” said Bourke after Florrie Dunstane had reluctantly departed.
“What’s her motive?” asked Carol, irritated that she felt tempted to defend her. Be logical, she thought, and admit you don’t want her guilty because she attracts you so much.
“The good old unrequited love, woman scorned etcetera,” said Bourke. “She breaks up her marriage for love of Bill Pagett, and then he tells her to get lost. Of course, I’d rather our Sybil wasn’t the one, so I favor Terry Clarke. Look at the situation from his point of view—Sybil’s husband leaves the scene and he thinks he has her, then he discovers she’s in love with Bill Pagett. That gives him a motive.”
“Could be. I just wonder how reliable Florrie Dunstane’s information is,” said Carol.
“I think we know one thing,” said Bourke, “Bill Pagett is shaping up to be a proper bastard.”
“But such a charming one,” said Carol.
The ceiling fans in the English staff room turned listlessly in the heat as Edwina, swathed in an extraordinary pink outfit, argued with Pete over the comparability of class grades. Sybil tried vainly to concentrate on essay marking. Usually lunchtime in the staff room was an oasis in a desert of lessons, but today the room was filled with irritable tension.
“Come on, Syb,” said Terry, seizing her arm to pull her up from her desk, “a walk will do you good.” She didn’t resist as he steered her out the door. “Car park,” he said shortly, “no kids there.”
Sitting in Terry’s red sports car, Sybil felt the first prick of real fear. Up to this point she had functioned automatically, viewing everything from a safe mental distance, but as she looked at Terry’s hands, their backs covered with black hair, the fingers short and powerful, she could see them readying a power drill, tilting Bill’s head forward, terminating his life.
“You didn’t do it, did you Terry?”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Ah, Syb! You know I’d have broken his back with my bare hands. Power tools are too refined for me.”
“Then who?”
He shrugged. “Who cares, as long as it doesn’t touch us? Christ, there goes the bloody bell. Come on, Syb. Only three lessons to go.”
As they walked together towards the English block he said, “Have any reporters bothered you at home?”
“A few have been camped out in the front of the house, but the Singletons behind me have let me park in their driveway and come in the back way. I can see from the front room who’s at the door, and I’ve steadfastly ignored them when they’ve rung the bell. Anyway, I can’t see why they’d bother to keep it up for long.”
“They’ll bother, Syb. It isn’t every day the son of a famous ex-premier dies in such a satisfyingly bizarre way and of course they’ll drag in all those oblique references to Sir Richard’s questionable career and the current royal commission. The masses love it.”
“I wouldn’t be of any interest to anyone.”
Terry was darkly amused. “No? You think that blonde bitch inspector won’t dig up anything about the fascinating relationships between you, Tony and Bill? And she’d be an amateur compared to some of those bastards in the media.” He stopped walking and swung her round to face him. “And you’re so photogenic, Syb.” She shrugged off his hands, but he seized her shoulders again. “Don’t be such a fool, you need me to help you. Let me move in with you.”
“No.”
“When you change your mind, just ring me. I’ll come right over.”
“I won’t change my mind,” said Sybil.
Carol knocked on the front door of the substantial house, noting the BMW in the carport. Almost immediately the door was opened. “Mr. Berry?”
“Inspector, please come in.”
He led her through to a luxurious lounge room, saying, “I’ll get Evan for you. I want you to know I appreciate this, interviewing him here, at home. If possible, I’d like to keep it quiet. I know that might be asking a lot, but Evan hasn’t done anything, really. He told me last night what had happened, so I stayed home with him today, expecting your call.”
“You didn’t consider it might be best to contact us yourself?”
“No one’s withholding information,” he blustered, “Evan can’t really help you at all, I’m sure of that. He’s just a kid.”
Evan appeared, eyes downcast, awkward and embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t do the right thing, did I? Should have seen you first. Mrs. Quade said to.”
Carol opened her notebook. “You discussed it with Mrs. Quade?”
“Yesterday. She told me to tell first before you found out.”
In looks the father was an older version of his son, but Evan’s awkwardness had solidified in the father as uneasy belligerence. “Look, Inspector, I’ve been in touch with my solicitors. I wanted someone here to protect Evan’s rights, but I was persuaded it wasn’t necessary.”
“There’s no thought of Evan being charged with anything, Mr. Berry.”
“No. Of course there isn’t. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Argued with a teacher, that’s all.”
Turn the charm up a notch, thought Carol. “Mr. Berry, I know how concerned you must feel, but any information about Mr. Pagett could be important, not by itself, but as part of the overall investigation.”
Berry nodded a reluctant assent, watching narrowly as Carol smiled at Evan and said, “I’d just like you to tell me about Mr. Pagett. Did you know him well?”
“Not personally, no.”
“But you knew things about him?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone knows how he chats up the girls at school. Being a teacher, he’s not supposed to, but he’s gone out with lots of them.”
Carol asked a few gentle questions. Her dislike of Bill Pagett grew as she listened to Evan’s stumbling answers about a teacher who had quite plainly abused his position to gain sexual favors.
“This is disgusting!” Evan’s father was red-faced. “What’s being done about this sort of thing?” He glared at his son. “You should have told me.”
“And what would you have done, Dad? Rushed down to the school with a shotgun?”
Carol intervened. “Could we discuss the argument you had with Mr. Pagett last Friday after
noon?”
Evan licked his lips and took a deep breath. “It was about Hilary Cosgrove. She’s a girl in my year . . . we’ve been friends all through school. When she started to get keen on Mr. Pagett I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen—”
His father interrupted. “You should have told me. I’d have gone to her father and straightened the whole mess out.”
Carol nodded to him sympathetically, hiding her irritation and said to Evan, “So you approached Mr. Pagett directly?”
“Well, Hilary wouldn’t listen to me. She knew he’d been with lots of other girls at school, but she said he was different with her, that he really loved her . . .”
“Oh, yes!” said Mr. Berry bitterly.
Carol ignored the interruption. “You argued with him over Hilary?”
“It was after school. Everyone had gone, and I caught him leaving the staff room last. He wouldn’t listen to me, and I lost my temper and I hit him.”
“Evan’s only a boy, Inspector! He’s not violent, never has been. Just acts before he thinks. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Carol gave the father another placatory nod, then looked encouragingly at Evan. “What happened when you hit him?”
“He fell down. It was a lucky punch—he just lost his balance and ended up on the ground.” He looked at his dangling hands. “See? I bruised my knuckles.”
“You hit him with your right hand?”
“Yes. I didn’t want a fight, really I didn’t. Tried to say I was sorry, but he yelled at me. Said he’d make sure Hilary never spoke to me again. Said he’d make sure I’d fail my exams.”
“All this while lying on the ground?”
Evan smiled faintly. “All this while getting up. And then he took a swing at me, but I dodged him. It was no good trying to speak to him, so I left.”
“He didn’t try to chase you?”
“No. Just kept shouting.”
Carol asked him a few more questions, noted the names of school girls Evan thought had been out with Pagett, soothed Mr. Berry’s ruffled feathers, and went thoughtfully back to Bellwhether High.
Bourke wasn’t in the office, but he had left two messages on the desk. She sighed when she saw she was to ring Sir Richard urgently, and frowned over the second one: Edwina Carter says she got a mystery call last night. Won’t speak to anyone but you. Said you’d be back about two.
There was also a preliminary lab report on Bill Pagett’s woodwork room. Nothing helpful with the fingerprints, but that was to be expected; a confirmation that nothing in the room had hair or skin fragments to indicate it had been used as a weapon to knock Pagett unconscious; an analysis of matter vacuumed up from the murder scene—sawdust, of course; fragments of wood and metal; dried flakes of shellac and colored lacquer; the expected dust, dirt and vegetable matter tramped in by students’ feet.
Bourke had also placed a neat table on the desk. As she studied it, Carol sipped an orange juice he had thoughtfully left for her. She looked first at the entries of particular interest:
PAGETT DIES BETWEEN 8:40–9:10
ASSEMBLY ROLL CALL START PERIOD 1
8:40–8:50 8:50–9:00 9:00– 9:10
CLARKE, Terry present(confirmed) class 10.3 (marked roll) free—was taking car to garage for servicing
CARTER, Edwina absent—booking video class 7.4 (marked roll) 11 EC watching video Room A5
McIVOR, Pete present (?) no roll class 11 EM Room AS
QUADE, Sybil spoke at start—then? no roll class free period
QUADE, Tony whereabouts not known but Commonwealth Bank confirms his bankcard used to withdraw cash from automatic teller, Collins Street, Melbourne, last Sunday at 10:32 AM
SIMPSON, Lynne present (confirmed) class 7.7(marked roll) 11 ES in library (NB she’s usually late to class)
WITCOMBE, Alan present (confirmed) no roll free period
At the bottom he had added in pencil: Evan Berry late to school on Monday—had to put name in late book in front office—time noted as 9:15 AM.
Carol was absently rolling a pen between her fingers when Bourke came back to the office. “Hi, how’d you go with the kid?”
Carol gave him a brief outline of the interview. He made a face over the father’s reaction to Bill Pagett’s activities. “Hell, Carol, you seen the girls round here? They look a million dollars and they’re not kids, you know. I can understand how Pagett felt.” He caught her look and grinned. “Not that I think he should have done anything about it, of course.”
“Is there anything new?” said Carol to change the subject.
“You saw the messages? Edwina Carter is agog with some information, but she wouldn’t trust me at all. I used my boyish charm, too.”
“No wonder she clammed up.”
“And there’s a letter for you marked urgent and personal.” He placed it carefully on the desk. “I’ve got a feeling about it. Don’t think it’s the usual crank mail.”
Carol examined the envelope. “When did it arrive?”
“The mail this morning, sent care of the school. Posted yesterday at the local post office, so there was no delay in getting it. Sat in the office until now when Florrie Dunstane stirred herself to give it to me. Probably been busy steaming it open.”
Carol slit the envelope carefully. Her name, title and the school address were printed neatly in sloping block capitals. The sheet of paper inside was creased in several places, and had been refolded to fit the envelope exactly. “Interesting,” she said as she saw the signature, “not a common name.”
Bourke leaned over her shoulder. “Well, Sybil Quade strikes again,” he said. “I wonder who was thoughtful enough to send us this? There’s no helpful little return address on the envelope, is there?”
“You know there isn’t,” said Carol. “This looks like a note from Sybil Quade to Bill Pagett.”
“And so intense,” said Bourke, reading it. “Ah, redheads! Fiery little things they are! Even I might kill for Sybil Quade.”
“Sybil Quade might kill for herself,” said Carol. “Take a couple of photocopies, will you, and send the envelope and letter in for examination.”
Edwina’s bright pink clothing appeared in the doorway. She beamed at Carol. “Inspector, you’re back. I don’t suppose your off-sider here told you I wanted to see you urgently?”
“I was just about to contact you.”
“Well, I’ve saved you the trouble.”
As Edwina settled herself in a chair, Carol was struck by her tidy movements. Large though she was, she moved with an almost graceful economy. She had small, neat feet and hands, and her curly hair and pretty face could have belonged to a huge baby. An enthusiastic baby, thought Carol, as Edwina fixed her with a bright gaze, the pink of her clothes reflecting against her already flushed face.
“This could be nothing, but I thought you should know,” Edwina said with satisfaction. Bourke flipped open his notebook as she continued, “It was about two-thirty this morning. The phone rang and I got up to answer it. Thought it could have been a student making a nuisance call, although kids usually make them later in the year when they’ve managed to work up a few good healthy grudges against teachers. Anyhow, I picked up the phone to hear a whispering voice threatening me.”
“Did you recognize the person?”
Edwina looked at Bourke with scorn. “All whispers sound pretty much the same. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a kid.”
“Can you remember exactly what was said?” asked Carol, leaning forward, intrigued by Edwina’s calm attitude.
“It was fairly close to this: I say hello. The whisper says ‘Fat Eddy, darling’ so I ask who it is, and the voice says ‘Fat Eddy Carter bouncing down the cliff. What a splatter you’ll make at the bottom.’ Of course, this makes me angry, so I ask who the hell it is again, and the line goes dead.”
Bourke looked up from his notebook. “Is that all?”
“No. I’m halfway back to bed when the phone ring
s again. I pick it up and the same voice says ‘Fat Eddy Carter, falling down the cliff. Exploding like a bag of lard on the rocks. What a mess.’ Then whoever it is hangs up.”
“Did you get the impression the call was just meant to frighten you, or do you think you’re in some personal danger?” said Carol.
Edwina gestured with spread hands. “Who knows? Before Bill’s death I would have said it was just some tacky little pervert getting a sick thrill, but now. . .”
“Have you ever had a call like this before?” asked Bourke.
“No. I’ve had kids ringing up with obscenities, and even I have had the odd heavy-breather, but up till now no one’s ever suggested I bounce down a cliff face.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be? I’m not asking for evidence, but just your instincts.”
Edwina beamed at her. “I know who I’d like it to be—my dear colleague, Lynne Simpson. Unfortunately I can’t, in good conscience, blame Lynne because she has at least one good quality—she stabs you in the front, rather than the back. It would be quite out of character for her to make an anonymous phone call. She’s such an egoist she couldn’t bear not to be identified immediately.” She became reflective. “Inspector, I suppose you know about Lynne and Bill?”
“Could you explain?”
“Well, of course it’s just gossip, but Lynne was rather keen on Bill, but he lost interest in her fairly fast. I think he liked them younger, and more pliant.”
Edwina left in good humor, amused at the arrangements to have her telephone monitored and brushing aside any suggestions that she might be in serious danger. “I never go near cliffs,” she said as a parting line.
Carol and Bourke sat looking at each other. “Well,” said Bourke, “I can think of four possibilities: one, it’s the same person who rang Sybil Quade, and who may or may not be the murderer; two, it’s a straight-out pervert who’s got nothing to do with the other calls or the murder; three, it’s Sybil Quade, who pretends to get two threatening messages so she won’t be suspected when she rings Edwina; four, Edwina’s jealous that Sybil’s getting interesting telephone calls, so she makes one up for herself.”
