Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  “I was hoping you could tell me that.”

  Sybil suddenly became brisk. “No, I’m sorry. Now, if there’s nothing else. . .”

  “Do you do your own repairs around the home?”

  “What?”

  “Are you familiar with the use of common power tools, for example?”

  “Anyone can plug in a Black and Decker and use it—that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “Have you ever used any of the power tools in the Industrial Arts Department?”

  “Of course I haven’t. What are you getting at?”

  “You had a power drill on the bench in your garage. You gave permission for it to be taken for tests.”

  “Tests?”

  “The drill bit itself had small pieces of flesh and bone clinging to it.” At Sybil’s appalled expression she added, “It wasn’t human. The forensic department says it’s animal matter, lamb to be exact.”

  “You mean someone was . . . practicing?” She stared at Carol. “Here?”

  Oh, very good, thought Carol—either you’re bright, or guilty, or both. Aloud she said, “A trial run. I don’t suppose you have any other explanation?” Sybil shook her head. “Has anyone borrowed your power drill lately?”

  “I loaned it to Pete a week or so ago. His flat had been burgled and he wanted to install safety locks on the windows. He gave it back to me last Friday, I put it on the front seat of the car, and when I drove in I left it on the bench.”

  “Was there a drill bit in it?”

  “No, Pete gave me back the bits in their separate plastic case.”

  “Is the garage kept locked?”

  Sybil sounded defeated. “No.”

  “So anyone could come in?”

  “Anyone,” said Sybil wearily. “Are you finished?”

  “I’d like you to show me the garage, and also I’d like your permission for a closer scientific examination of the area. Will that be all right?”

  Sybil was white, but self-contained. “Why would I be so stupid as to leave evidence like that on a drill?” she said.

  Carol thought, Because of monstrous self-confidence, or nerves, or just an oversight. Aloud she said, “I can’t speculate on that.”

  “Inspector, do you think I need legal representation?”

  “That must be your decision.”

  “I wish I knew what you were really thinking,” said Sybil, turning to lead the way to the garage.

  No, you don’t, thought Carol, watching the graceful turn of her head.

  Chapter Five

  Carol was cleaning her teeth when the telephone rang. She glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock on a burnished summer morning. “Yes? Carol Ashton. What?”

  She listened intently. “Right. Put a clamp on this. No news, especially radio stations. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She rang Mark Bourke. “Mark? You heard? Extraor-dinary in light of the phone call to Edwina Carter, isn’t it? And I don’t want Sybil Quade to know anything before I speak to her. I’ll leave that side to you. I’m going down to the beach.”

  Even though Carol had changed into jeans and jogging shoes she found it difficult to clamber around the rocks at the base of the headland. It was just after eight, but the day was already singing with heat, the light shattering on the heaving water and splintering into her eyes. “Much further?” she asked the young constable.

  “No, Inspector. Just round this rock fall.” Carol looked up at the overhang. “Quite a recent one,” said the constable helpfully. “The rock’s rotten. Look, there’s where the next lot’s going to go. See the crack?”

  “You’re a comfort,” said Carol, laughing.

  The body was near Carter’s Cave, which was actually a huge cleft in the cliff face. Its floor was composed of earth, stones and debris that had fallen from above, the walls narrowing at the top to allow further debris to form the roof. Below the cave a rock platform covered with jumbled sandstone blocks stretched to the sea. The tidal pools glittered in the sunlight and the dull thump and suck of the water added a continuous accompaniment. Carol looked up to the top of the cliff where several uniformed figures stood, curious onlookers. “He fell from up there?”

  “Looks like it,” said the constable. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have landed where he did, just above the high water mark.” He pointed to where a group of men in white overalls stood patiently waiting for the photographer to finish, for Carol to view the body and for the basket stretcher to bump its way to the top with its dead burden.

  Tony Quade lay in a curious position, face down, one knee drawn up under him, his hands outstretched as if paying homage to some greater power. “There was a passport in his pocket,” said the constable. “This kid found him about six this morning. As soon as we realized who it was, you were contacted.”

  Carol walked over to the white-faced boy, who was staring with sick fascination at the activity around the body. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him away towards the sea. “Tell me how you found him,” she said.

  The boy swallowed. “I came down to fish,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “Climbed down from up there. I was almost at the bottom when I saw him. Just lying like that. I came up close. Told myself he was asleep, but knew he wasn’t, really. I could see the blood. I watched for ages to see if he was breathing.” He looked up at Carol. “You know, I was frightened he might be alive . . . that he might turn over and his face would be all smashed. . .”

  Carol asked a few more quiet questions, then sent the boy off with the constable to make a written statement. The tide was licking closer, but the water would only wash within a few feet of the outstretched broken hands. High water was at 8:48 AM and it was 8:30 now. “Turn him over,” she said.

  The photographer, chewing gum relentlessly, clicked away with bored competence, unaffected by the smashed face and congealed blood that once had been the handsome Tony Quade. He shifted the gum to his other cheek. “These jumpers,” he muttered.

  “This one had a lot to live for,” said Carol, thinking of Sybil’s red hair—and of her mouth. “And not much to die for. I don’t think it’s suicide. I want everything on this, fast.”

  Carol went straight into the office without changing from her jeans. She caught Bourke’s slight confirming nod that he thought Sybil had been isolated from the news of her husband’s death.

  Sybil was sitting tautly, an untouched cup of coffee on the table beside her. “What’s happened? Why am I being kept here?”

  Carol didn’t answer immediately, but walked deliberately around Mrs. Farrell’s polished desk to sit with the light behind her. Did Sybil already know what was about to be said because she had pushed her husband to his death? A vivid picture, clear as a movie, danced in her imagination: Tony Quade meeting his estranged wife, arguing with her, turning his back in contempt, and then, the impulsive shove, the body turning, the scream blending with the shrieks of wheeling seagulls.

  “Did you see or speak to anyone last night?” asked Bourke mildly.

  “Why?” She sighed. “You won’t answer, will you? All right. Inspector Ashton saw me late yesterday afternoon. After she’d gone I drank about half a bottle of whiskey, all alone. I rang a friend who’s moved up the coast and told her what had happened. Then I cried myself to sleep. Okay? Is that what you want? Now, why?”

  Carol said with brutal directness, “I’ve just come from examining a body. We believe it is your husband. He fell, or was pushed, to his death.”

  Sybil said nothing, merely covering her eyes with one hand. Carol wondered if it was to hide grief, fear, or exultation. Bourke raised his eyebrows to Carol in an unspoken question. At her silent assent he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Sybil.

  “I know what a shock this must have been,” he said sympathetically. “Would you like a glass of water or a fresh cup of coffee?”

  She takes shock so well, thought Carol, or is it arrogance that gives her that iron control? Carol didn’t interrupt Bourke as he was
by turns solicitous, concerned, and cajoling in an effort to get Sybil to react, to talk, even to cry. She seemed remote, answering his questions politely, but asking none of her own.

  Finally Bourke said, “You don’t seem very interested in the details, Mrs. Quade.”

  “You mean that under the circumstances I don’t seem to be acting appropriately?” said Sybil bitterly.

  “There are many different reactions,” said Bourke soothingly.

  “Oh? Perhaps I’d better start playing my role more effectively, or else you’ll be sure I’m guilty, won’t you?”

  “Of what?” said Bourke carefully.

  Sybil was openly scornful. “Why, of murdering my estranged husband.”

  “We didn’t mention murder. It might simply be an accident, or perhaps he took his own life. . .” Bourke let the sentence trail away suggestively.

  “Suicide? Tony suicide? You’ve got to be joking.”

  Bourke’s voice was pitched to show regretful sincerity. “Mrs. Quade, we have to consider every possibility. For example, one scenario could be that your husband murdered Bill Pagett, and then, after brooding for a couple of days, killed himself.”

  “Did Tony leave a note?”

  Did she hate him? thought Carol. How can she be so cold?

  “We haven’t found one,” said Bourke, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a note.”

  “Can I go?” asked Sybil. “I have classes to cover.”

  “Mrs. Quade,” said Carol as she reached the door.

  Sybil looked back at her. “I’m sorry to make this request, but you will need to make an identification of the body.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ll make the arrangements and inform you.”

  Sybil nodded, then said, “Will you take me?”

  “Of course,” said Carol.

  • • •

  Mrs. Farrell felt besieged. The discovery of Tony Quade’s body had revitalized the corps of reporters who had clustered around the school entrances since Bill Pagett’s death. She had run the gauntlet as she entered the school car park, resisting the unaccustomed temptation to mow down a shrill television personality. As it was, she had accidentally nudged the woman with the front of her car, a move that met with a howl of protest from the victim and the clicking of cameras from the rest. Now the Minister had instructed her to make a statement, and was sending a trusted representative to help her frame it.

  As she juggled with the preliminary outline, conscious that she had to project the correct image, say the correct things and basically give little, if any, information, one of the office staff brought in her mail. She sorted through it rapidly. Her hands suddenly stilled as she came upon a plain square envelope addressed in sloping printed capitals and marked ‘personal and private.’ It was identical to the ones she had been receiving, and destroying, over the past few months.

  She turned it in her hands. Destroy it unread? Give it to, the Inspector? To Sir Richard? Slowly she slit it open.

  They drove in silence, Sybil imagining an invisible string pulling the car towards the hideous thing waiting in a refrigerated cocoon for her to say, yes, I think that’s Tony. What would he look like? She took a deep breath.

  Carol glanced at her. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” Sybil turned resolutely to the beaches that unwound beneath the coast road. If only she was one of those distant figures lounging on the sand, lazily watching the Pacific lick the shore, concerned merely with the darkness of a tan. She took another deep breath, looking at Carol’s calm profile. “How do people usually behave when they . . . when they see someone’s body?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I’m asking . . . how long do I have to stay. . .”

  The green eyes considered her for a moment before returning to the road. “Only a short time. It will help you to just keep one thing in mind—to identify the person. Don’t think what happened, or about the past or future—just give yourself one task to accomplish, and ignore everything else.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Of course. And don’t worry about fainting, or anything like that. It’ll all be over in a few moments.” Hearing her own soothing words, Carol felt like a hypocrite. She knew what Sybil was about to see: a person she remembered as vital and alive was now dead meat on a slab. She tried to see the smashed flesh, broken bones, dried blood through Sybil’s eyes. “Try to think about something else,” she said, knowing it was futile advice.

  After they left the beaches, the traffic became heavier. They approached the huge grey meccano arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Carol’s smooth, decisive driving and the hum of the car’s air conditioner floating Sybil into a suspension of time. She would be content to sit silently by this beautiful woman and watch her hands on the wheel, the way she glanced up at the rear vision mirror, the angle of her chin, the firm lines of her mouth.

  Carol turned her blonde head to meet Sybil’s intent gaze. “We’re almost there,” she said to Sybil almost roughly, as if to break the moment.

  • • •

  Carol watched Sybil closely. She had identified the body as her husband and now was the time when shock could make her vulnerable, when she might say something unguarded, something incriminating. Sybil’s face was so white the faint dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose stood out clearly. Her eyes met Carol’s. “Can we leave?” she said.

  Carol drove efficiently through the busy inner city streets, seized a parking space with swift competence, and guided Sybil out of the car and into a little coffee shop. They sat in silence over their coffee cups, their knees almost touching at the small table.

  Sybil could not raise her eyes. She watched Carol fiddle with a spoon and thought irrelevantly what long, sensitive fingers she had, staring fixedly at the black opal ring she wore—anything to avoid considering the thing she had just identified as her husband. A shudder of alarm shook her composure. She’d said it was Tony, but with the face so destroyed . . . what if she glanced over to the door and saw him walking into the coffee shop, his features still intact?

  “It was Tony, wasn’t it?” she asked, looking up into Carol’s eyes for reassurance. “I mean, it looked . . . I thought it was Tony, but now. . .”

  Carol thought of the murderers who cried when they saw their victims: who turned as white as Sybil when they viewed their handiwork. “You said you were sure,” she said coldly.

  Someone at another table laughed. Sybil stared blankly at Carol, who suddenly put a hand over hers and said, her voice warming as she spoke, “It’s all right. Everything fits: his age, height, eye color. He was carrying a passport, driver’s license, credit cards. Some English money as well as Australian.” There was a pause. Carol removed her hand. “Have your coffee.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t drink it.”

  “Mrs. Quade? Shall we go?”

  “Please. Call me Sybil.” She glanced up with a bitter smile. “Looking at a dead body together rather dissolves formality, doesn’t it?”

  “You know my name is Carol. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I should go back to school.”

  “Oh, I think you’re excused for today.”

  Arriving punctually at eight on Friday morning, Mrs. Farrell was relieved to find the police had decided to vacate her office and move to the local police station. She was less pleased to find on her desk a note from Inspector Ashton requesting an appointment.

  Mrs. Farrell had been chided by the Department for not keeping Sir Richard fully informed and she now found her desire to cooperate considerably weakened. She was heartily tired of Bill Pagett, his illustrious father, and now, to cap it all, the uproar the death of Sybil Quade’s husband had caused. Last night the television news bulletins had blown the story of Tony Quade’s death into a swelling gothic drama with alarming innuendos about the relationships between Mrs. Quade, her husband and Bill Pagett. Even worse, heavy hints had been dropped about Pagett’s romantic activities with, as one breathless repo
rter exclaimed, “nubile young beach goddesses from Bellwhether High.” Later that night her telephone had run hot: Sir Richard had called, the Director-General had called, the Minister for Education had called.

  This afternoon she was to make the official statement she and the Departmental representative had labored over the day before. “After all, Phyllis, public education needs positive press,” the Minister had said, “and it is not helped by the present situation. We’ve heard that muckraker, Pierre Brand, is going to do one of his in-depth exposés and I want you to get in first to scotch the rumor that anything untoward ever happened between Sir Richard’s son and any senior girl.”

  Mrs. Farrell’s suggestion that this statement might not be completely accurate was disregarded and she was now faced with the unhappy prospect of trying to please everyone at once—the Department, the Minister, Sir Richard, and the voracious media.

  Her train of thought was interrupted by Lynne Simpson, who entered, uninvited, with a jangle of gold bracelets and an expression of deep concern. “Mrs. Farrell! I have been accosted, positively accosted, by a television crew in the car park. Surely you have the authority to warn them off. I can’t see how any teacher can be expected to cope with this type of harassment as well as the demands of a day’s lessons. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m rather surprised to see you here so early,” said Mrs. Farrell, making a barbed reference to the number of mornings she had stood by the signing-in book as Lynne, late as usual, had swept in on a wave of breathless apology.

  “First Bill and now Tony!” exclaimed Lynne, sitting uninvited on the nearest chair. “I feel it’s a nightmare from which I’ll never wake!”

  Mrs. Farrell repressed a sarcastic reference to the fact that the two victims would certainly not awake this side of eternity, and dialed her deputy principal. Having dispatched him to clear the school grounds of cameras and reporters she turned her attention back to Lynne, who was checking her scarlet nail polish. “There is something else, Ms. Simpson?”