by Claire McNab
“Well, yes. I do need your advice.”
Mrs. Farrell examined Lynne’s expression of earnest entreaty, her smooth dark hair, the expensive rings and beautiful clothing. The only advice Lynne Simpson had ever asked of her before had related to manipulating the Department’s leave formula to gain extra time of teaching duties during her divorce, so Mrs. Farrell waited with interest to see what special service she could render this time.
“It’s about a threatening phone call. Last night. I just froze when I heard the whispering voice.” Lynne’s face wore a suitably alarmed expression as she continued, “I’m all alone. I’ve sent the kids to Bruce, of course, because I need to know they’re safe, and away from all this. And as far as Bruce himself is concerned, I certainly don’t want him back, but it can be comforting at times to have a man around, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Farrell thought of her own quiet little accountant husband: a comfort? Not quite the word. A presence, or even a habit, would be a better description. “Have you told the police?” she asked.
“Well, I expected to find them here, in your office. Where are they?”
Frostily amused at Lynne’s aggrieved tone, Mrs. Farrell advised that the police had thought it more convenient to move to the local police station and continue their inquiries from that base. “However,” she said, “Inspector Ashton will be here to see me at ten. If you wish, I’ll advise her that you would like to see her.”
Still Lynne did not rise. Mrs. Farrell sighed. “There’s something more?”
“I wonder if you’ll be speaking to the media, Mrs. Farrell.”
“The Education Department has asked me to make a statement this afternoon. Why?”
Lynne leaned forward confidentially. “It’s just,” she said sincerely, “that sometimes it’s better to give an exclusive, rather than be hounded by every little reporter with a notebook.” Mrs. Farrell remained silent, so Lynne continued, “It happens that I have a contact with a television program, and I did say that I’d approach you to see if you’d be interested . . .”
“In what way would I be interested?”
“Why, in giving an exclusive interview. You’d be paid, of course.”
“By whom?”
Lynne radiated enthusiasm as she said, “Behind the News is the highest rated program in its time slot and Pierre Brand must be one of the most skilled interviewers—”
Mrs. Farrell rose. “Definitely not. And please don’t tout this offer round to other staff members. It could do nothing but harm for Bellwhether to be associated with the kind of sensationalism that Pierre Brand peddles every night of the week.”
Lynne left Mrs. Farrell a whiff of her expensive perfume and a feeling of outrage. That a member of her staff should stoop to soliciting for Pierre Brand was almost as disgraceful as any expectation that she, Mrs. Farrell, would deign to be interviewed for a program she had always regarded as unreliable, exaggerated and of very poor taste.
Chapter Six
“Carol,” said the Police Commissioner, “I want you to spend this weekend concentrating on the Quade woman. Yes, I know you’re going to say you’ve got a lot of other work to clear up, but I’ll deal with that. The point is, Sybil Quade could be the key to the whole thing. Obviously she’s being less than frank about her relationships, both with her husband and with Sir Richard’s son. I want you to win her trust, and fast, Carol—that bastard Pierre Brand is after the story and Sir Richard’s getting restless, okay.”
When Carol had rung with the offer of a day puttering around the harbor in a little cabin cruiser, Sybil’s immediate impulse had been to refuse, although she was tempted, not only by the chance to escape Terry’s suffocating presence and the telephone calls from curious acquaintances, but also by the thought of spending more time with Carol.
“I have to ask you some further questions,” said Carol, “and I rather selfishly hoped you’d agree to come out on the harbor, especially as I haven’t had the time to use my boat for months. It would be an opportunity to combine some work with an amount of pleasure.”
“It sounds great,” Sybil heard herself saying.
So far there had been no questions. Carol had picked her up at seven and had driven her to her home. “My father built this house—he was an architect,” said Carol as Sybil looked around. Clinging to the steep slope, the calm waters of Middle Harbour reflecting through the wide windows, the gum trees pressing in from every side, the house was private, beautiful and filled with light and an atmosphere of serenity. They hardly spoke.
Standing at the railing of the huge wooden deck looking out to water, sky, and bushland, Sybil felt herself relax, smile, stretch. “What a beautiful position,” she said.
A kookaburra tried a preliminary chuckle, then launched into his full repertoire of raucous laughter. The air was still as wine; below them the water lay green in the early light, disturbed only by wind ripples and the oars of a rowing shell that looked rather like a beetle sculling on an elastic surface. Sybil turned back to the house, which rose in levels behind her up the hillside, its huge plate glass windows staring at the view. “You live alone?” she asked.
Alone? thought Carol. Do you want to fill my lonely bed? Aloud, she said: “I have a fat, lazy cat for company at night and the birds in the morning.” She gestured at a gum tree whose top overhung the deck on which they stood. In patient rows sat several kookaburras and magpies. “They’ve become monsters,” she said, putting chopped meat on the railing at one end and stepping back beside Sybil. “After nesting they bring their babies along for a free feed too, so I have a constantly rising population to supply. See the smaller magpies more grey-brown than black and white? They’re the young ones. They travel in little packs and behave like delinquent children.”
Watching the birds swoop to snatch the meat, Sybil said, “Do you ever get lonely?” She turned her head to find Carol’s cool green eyes considering her.
“Sometimes,” said Carol.
Sybil wanted to say: I feel lonely and I have no one to talk to, but she looked at Carol’s still face and was silent.
Carol put a piece of meat on her palm and held it out. A large cream and brown kookaburra edged along the railing, leaned over and seized the morsel, giving it a quick whack on the railing before swallowing it. “Just in case it’s still alive,” said Carol, her face suddenly lit with a smile.
Sybil was astonished to feel a tug of desire. Confused, she looked away from Carol’s mouth. “Can I try feeding one?” she heard herself say quite normally.
“The magpies are more daring—and greedy,” said Carol, giving her several pieces of chopped meat.
Sybil concentrated on coaxing the big black and white birds to feed, stingingly aware of Carol standing behind her.
“All gone,” said Carol to the birds, showing them the empty container. Sybil followed her inside, her eyes on the tanned legs beneath the white shorts. This is ridiculous, she told herself it’s just that I’ve been alone too long.
The small half-cabin launch glided over the smooth green water accompanied by the buzz of its outboard motor. They sat in silence, Sybil captivated by the little private bays, the small collections of seagulls apparently in deep contemplation, the gum trees with bulbous roots where the bushland came right down to the harbor, the warm tones of the weathered rocks. She glanced at Carol and was rewarded with a quick smile. Sybil smiled in return, swinging her gaze back to the moored boats through which the launch was threading its way. She found herself wanting to stare at Carol, to examine her, item by item, to locate the cause for the growing fascination she was feeling. She shook her head slightly. Perhaps it was the attraction of danger, the knowledge that the keen intelligence behind those startling eyes was assessing the possibility that she had killed two people.
“Do you mind where we go?” said Carol.
Sybil shook her head. For the first time in months she felt content. She knew she should keep up her guard, be careful, even suspicious, but an unexpected sur
ge of delight filled her. “This is wonderful!” she exclaimed, laughing with pleasure. At once she felt a sense of guilt. Two days ago, on Thursday, she had identified Tony’s broken body. How could she lounge in this little boat relaxed and, for a moment, even happy?
Carol watched her expression change from laughter to cool control. “Have a go at steering,” she said, wanting to see the delight on Sybil’s face again.
“I don’t think I’ll be very good.”
“There’s plenty of room to weave all over the place, if you want to,” said Carol, changing places. “I’ll act like lightning if you head straight for the shore,” she added with a grin.
They went deeper and deeper into the upper harbor, passing under Roseville Bridge and entering Davidson National Park. The waterway was now only a narrow stream, bush crowding both sides, and all signs of civilization had disappeared. Other launches glided by, their occupants in various stages of undress to catch the sun which was gaining strength as the morning advanced.
Taking back the controls, Carol selected a spot and brought the launch into the bank with smooth efficiency. “I don’t suppose we can decently eat lunch until half past eleven at the earliest,” she said, “but if you’d like a cup of coffee we can loll around for an hour or so and admire nature.”
They spread out a rug in a little clearing near the water. Carol stripped to her bikini to bake her already brown body, and Sybil sat with her back against a tree, gazing out at the water and letting calmness seep into her mind. “Could you put some suntan cream on my back?” said Carol, sleepy in the sun.
Sybil took the plastic bottle almost reluctantly. Her fingers tingled as she spread the cream over Carol’s smooth brown skin and she found herself wanting to fill the companionable silence with awkward conversation.
“Carol. . .” she began as Carol turned her head to look up at her, speaking at the same time. They both laughed.
“Sorry,” said Carol, “what were you saying?”
“Nothing important. I interrupted you,” said Sybil, tensing with the realization that Carol must be about to spoil everything by asking the questions she had promised.
“It’s just that I’m starving,” said Carol, stretching and yawning. “I don’t care what time it is, I insist we have lunch.”
Carol had brought a hamper containing roast chicken, crusty bread and white wine. She’s trying to soften me up, said Sybil to herself, aware that she welcomed the attempt, whatever the motive. Sprawled on the rug, surrounded by the hum of insects, the distant voices of people on the water, the shifting patterns of shade and sunlight, Sybil found herself letting go of much of her usual reserve. And as she relaxed more and more, the fact that Carol Ashton was a detective inspector of police faded to insignificance, and the events of the week receded like old headlines.
They spent the afternoon in lazy indolence, chatting, dozing, watching the bush birds in the branches overhead and the forays of countless insects drawn by the magnet or their picnic food. Then the air stirred with a stronger breeze and the sun became fainter.
“Southerly buster coming up,” said Carol, “so we’d better make for home now, or risk a rough trip and a drenching.”
Sybil looked back with affection as they cleared the bank and started to make headway back towards the main harbor. She couldn’t remember a day she had enjoyed with such uncomplicated pleasure. She clambered to the front of the cabin and sat with her face turned to the wind and spray, laughing aloud as the waves, whipped by the rising wind, sent sheets of water over her.
Carol watched her from the tiller, amazed at the warmth and spontaneity one day had released. She smiled as Sybil turned and called above the buzz of the engine and the rising storm, gesturing at the lightning forking from the towering clouds that raced towards them from the south. Her red hair was wet with spray, her voice faint against the din. “Isn’t this great!” she shouted.
The rain came down in torrents as they rounded a headland and started to beat down the harbor to Carol’s mooring, so that they were soaked to the skin by the time they had scrambled, breathless, onto the jetty below the house. “Oh, Carol, thank you,” said Sybil, “that was such fun.”
Isn’t it a pity, thought Carol, that I can’t just enjoy your company. I have to start dissecting your relationships, asking you questions you don’t want to answer. Now, when you’re tired and relaxed and your guard is down, what will you tell me?
Carol didn’t respond to Sybil’s banter as they climbed the steps up to the house. She had deliberately picked Sybil up from her place, rather than let her drive herself, so she would have no ready escape route at the end of the day. Not that Sybil seemed to want escape. At Carol’s suggestion she showered and changed into a pair of Carol’s jeans and a T-shirt.
Now she sat sipping a brandy and contemplating her bare feet. “I think I’ve sunburned the very tops of my toes,” she said with a laugh.
“Sybil, I do have to ask you some questions.”
Carol watched the shutter come down over her face. “Yes?”
“I want you to discuss your relationship with your husband.”
There was a long pause, then, squaring her shoulders, Sybil said, “Okay. What do you want to know?”
Sybil began to talk. Question and answer, slow consideration of a difficult or dangerous idea: but no laughter, no animation, no expression on her face or in her voice. Probing, encouraging, challenging, Carol led her to expand her answers until a three-dimensional picture began to build in Carol’s mind.
Tony Quade had been good-looking, with a soft English voice and a shy silky charm. He could be witty, warm and considerate. He was also a consummate liar, a fact that Sybil had only realized after they were married. And in private he didn’t bother to disguise the cruelty of his wit or the jealousy and possessiveness in his nature.
“Living with Tony was like being married to two different people. Often he was relaxed and pleasant, just as he appeared to people outside, but other times his mood changed, and he became the other Tony—the one I hated.”
The kitchen was designed to be part of the living room, so while she scrambled eggs Carol continued to ask her questions, reluctant to let Sybil sink into silence and destroy the tenuous link of communication they had established between them. Sybil ate mechanically, her face blank. To Carol the change was extraordinary. The laughing, relaxed woman of the day had become the controlled, cool person she had first met.
“Why did you marry him?” she asked.
“I wish I knew. It seemed right at the time.” She laughed ruefully. “I’d just about decided that no burning, passionate love affair was going to illuminate my life, so I was ready to settle for something more prosaic.” She played with her fork. “Tony seemed ideal, he filled a gap in my life, he said he loved me . . . all that sort of thing.”
“Why did you separate?”
“I tried for too long to make it work. Do you understand? If I’d been honest with myself I’d have admitted it was a mistake from the beginning, but it was easier to stay with him than to face breaking up and all that would involve. In a way, I played a game, persuading myself that things were better than they were. And you know how our society thinks in couples. I suppose I thought it was more reasonable to be unhappy in a socially acceptable unit than to be alone and independent.”
And what do you think now? thought Carol. What chances would you take for happiness? Aloud she said, “What changed your mind?”
Sybil shrugged. “It wasn’t any one thing. It just became unbearable, so we separated.”
“It was that easy?”
Sybil smiled bitterly. “Oh, it wasn’t easy. Tony didn’t want to accept it at all.”
“Would you have gone ahead and divorced him, or was a legal separation enough?”
“I didn’t want to marry anyone else.”
“Not Bill Pagett?”
Sybil moved convulsively. “No!”
That got a reaction, Carol thought. She hated him, but wh
y? “How about Terry Clarke? Have you thought of marrying him?”
The control was back. “No,” she said calmly.
“Did your husband expect you to divorce him after the required year’s separation?”
“No, he didn’t. He hated to fail at anything. He was one of the most determined people I’ve ever met. I’m sure he was absolutely convinced I wouldn’t go ahead and do it. He thought I’d come to my senses.”
“Was he still in love with you?”
“Love?” said Sybil with a twist to her mouth. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why did he come back to Australia if it wasn’t for a reconciliation with you?”
“I don’t know why Tony came back. He didn’t contact me.”
“What about Bill Pagett? Did he say anything to you about him?”
Sybil sighed. “Bill didn’t say anything,” she said flatly. “I’m tired, Carol.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
They didn’t speak on the journey, each watching the tunnel of rain lit by the headlights and listening to the swish of the tires on the wet road. The street outside Sybil’s house seemed to have been deserted by the media, who had taken to besieging her as she left or entered the school grounds. Carol caught her careful checking of parked cars and said, “I asked the local station to discourage them, but I’m afraid they’ll be back.” She turned up Sybil’s steep drive. “I’ll see you to the front door and then look around outside to make sure everything’s all right.”
Sybil was suddenly aware that she must have a gun with her, and the sense of danger, absent all day, rushed back to surround her.
The stone steps were slippery from the warm rain and it was so dark that Sybil had difficulty seeing her way. “Be careful,” she said over her shoulder. She was acutely aware of Carol directly behind her on the steps, so when she slipped it was not surprising to find Carol’s arm supporting her. What astonished Sybil was her own reaction. She found herself turning within the half embrace, until their lips met so naturally that Sybil had melted into the kiss before she realized exactly what was happening. Then it was too late to stop, too late to think, too late to be sensible. In the darkness they kissed urgently, passionately, Carol’s arms tight around her.
