Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  Alarm began to ring insistently in Sybil’s mind. Burning, she thrust Carol away, broke the circle of her arms, and fled up the wet steps to the front door. Carol didn’t follow. Sybil fumbled with the key and finally wrenched the door open. She turned on the outside light to dispel the dangerous darkness. Jeffrey darted up the steps, wound around Sybil’s legs and then walked delicately inside. From below Carol’s clear voice said, “Sybil? Are you all right?”

  She laughed without humor. “I’m great!” she said, and went into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  • • •

  Carol was very conscious that Mark Bourke was occupying the same chair where Sybil had laughingly contemplated her sunburned toes the evening before. In contrast, there was nothing light-hearted about Mark this Sunday morning. He was grimly plowing through the report that had kept him up half the night. He smothered a yawn and handed Carol neatly typed pages.

  “That’s all the people who could conceivably have some motive to kill either Bill Pagett or Tony Quade,” he said, “and you’ll see it’s wide open as far as opportunity is concerned. There’s hardly a decent alibi for anyone, which isn’t unusual.” As Carol frowned over the pages he added, “And I have got one interesting bit of information about Tony Quade from England. It seems his uncle was a forensic pathologist of some note, so he certainly had plenty of opportunity to find out how to kill someone with a power drill. Pity Tony’s dead himself, otherwise he’d be the perfect suspect.”

  “He could have been Pagett’s murderer, and then either suicided or been murdered himself, although I think it’s highly unlikely,” said Carol.

  “I think it comes back to Sybil Quade. No doubt during their marriage they had many little heart-to-hearts where he had the opportunity to drop this little lethal tidbit about power drill murder.”

  “I don’t suppose you thought to ask about similar cases in Britain?”

  Bourke looked suitably hurt. “Of course I did. And, fascinatingly enough, Tony Quade’s uncle gave evidence in a celebrated case where it was an iron spike driven into the base of the skull of the victim. All that’s happened here is progress—the murder’s been mechanized, so to speak.”

  Carol frowned. “I don’t see how we can find out if Quade knew about this iron spike murder from his uncle, let alone if he discussed it at a dinner party, or whatever.”

  “I’ll ask around,” said Bourke, “but you’re right, it’s going to be pretty impossible.”

  Carol went back to the report, reading through the pages with disciplined concentration. “Mark, this statement of Hilary Cosgrove’s—it doesn’t tell us anything.”

  Mark looked grim. “It wasn’t very pleasant trying to get it. Poor kid, she’d cried herself into exhaustion, and her parents hovered around to protect her. I’m sure she knows something, but I’m damned if I could get it out of her.”

  “Let’s give her a day or so, then try again,” said Carol. “How did the interview with Lynne Simpson go? More successful?”

  “It was kind of you to pass her on to me,” said Bourke with a grin. “She tells me she likes to have a man around at all times.”

  “You a candidate?” asked Carol, amused.

  Bourke feigned surprise. “You know we can’t get emotionally involved with anyone on a case,” he said with mock severity. “I’m surprised you even mentioned it. Besides, I’d much rather latch on to Sybil Quade. I’m a pushover for cool women with red hair. I just know there’s a fire burning down there, somewhere.”

  “Can we get back to Lynne Simpson?” Carol asked abruptly.

  Bourke flipped through his notebook. “Here we are: Lynne Simpson started off by saying how surprised she was that I was interviewing her, and not you. Didn’t the Inspector want to speak to her personally about such important evidence? I said you were very busy. That didn’t impress her at all, but my boyish charm finally wore her down and she launched into a full description of the threatening phone call . . . that’s when she said she always liked to have a man around the place.”

  Carol didn’t feel like light conversation. “The call?” she prompted.

  Mark’s grin faded. “As far as she can remember, this is it: a throaty, whispering voice said, ‘Lynne, darling, I’ve got a little hatchet just for you. One good whack will split open your head and spill out all your brains. Send you up to heaven, Lynne darling.’ Then the caller disconnected.”

  “Called back?”

  “Of course. A few minutes later. This one repeated the first sentence and then, just for variety, said, “‘Chop off all your fingers and toes. Be sure to wear nail polish that goes with blood.’”

  Carol wrinkled her nose. “Revolting little touch,” she said. “Did she seem frightened?”

  Mark spread his hands. “Peeved, more than anything—and maybe a bit uneasy. Certainly not terrified.”

  “Does she suspect anyone?”

  Mark grinned. “Funny you should say that. You remember Edwina Carter said she would be delighted if she could accuse Lynne Simpson of making the threatening call to her? Well, our Lynne blames Edwina. She says Edwina has a bitter, twisted soul, and it’s obvious that Edwina would get a charge out of frightening her. She did concede she had no evidence, but she does have what she described as ‘a deep, deep conviction.’” He looked up. “Oh, and one interesting thing—Lynne said she knew Edwina had claimed to get an anonymous phone call, but it was obvious to Lynne that she was just saying that to protect herself.”

  “I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that falling off a cliff is mentioned in Edwina Carter’s call, and then Tony Quade obligingly tumbles off the headland,” said Carol.

  “No, which means it was made by the murderer, or someone who knew what was going to happen, and, working to Lynn’s theory, that person is Edwina herself.”

  “Could be anyone,” said Carol, rubbing her eyes.

  “You look as tired as I feel,” said Bourke.

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” said Carol, with the wry thought that she had made the understatement of the year. “Come on, Mark, let’s go through the rest of this. I’ve got an appointment with Sir Richard at two o’clock, and he’s expecting a full report.”

  “With the murderer signed, sealed and delivered?”

  “Hardly, but somewhere he or she’s slipped up.”

  “I don’t know,” said Bourke, “this one’s awfully sharp, and laughing at us, I think.”

  Sir Richard’s home was rather more ostentatious than the palatial residences around it. Carol negotiated the gently curving drive to stop in front of a house that was a monument to money and bad taste. It wanted nothing: wide stone steps led to a massive entrance door flanked by two huge stone lions, the building squatting like a fat white cake behind them. She glanced at the sweeping lawns and ornate fountain as she rang the doorbell, imagining how she would landscape the grounds with native trees to attract the birds.

  Sir Richard opened the door himself. He looked tired, but as impressive as ever. They exchanged pleasantries as he led her to his sumptuous study. One wall was lined with books, and the predictable large leather-topped desk dominated the room. Incongruously, it seemed to Carol, a huge stuffed blue marlin hung over the open fireplace. Sir Richard followed her eyes and smiled complacently. “Caught it myself off the Queensland coast a year or so ago,” he said. “Near record. Hope to do better next time.”

  Sir Richard rang for coffee, and then turned his formidable attention on Carol. She had met him often, but not usually alone. He had about him an aura of power which had not been even slightly diminished by his retirement from politics, so she was not surprised that he knew every development in the case. He had only to ask, and he would receive whatever he wanted.

  “That girl, the one Bill was supposed to be involved with, have you interviewed her?”

  “Hilary Cosgrove. Detective Sergeant Bourke saw her on Friday. She was too upset before then.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s pregnan
t,” said Sir Richard.

  Carol’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know that. Your son?”

  “So she claimed. He told me about it last Saturday night. I advised him to persuade her to get rid of it. It would hardly do Bill any good to be associated with a scandal over a schoolgirl, would it?”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but he agreed to talk to her about it the next day.”

  “Do you know if he did?”

  “I rang him on Sunday afternoon. He said he was seeing her that evening, and that he’d be in touch later. That was the last time I spoke to him.” He carefully unwrapped a cigar. “You smoke? No? You don’t mind if I do?” He leaned back in his leather chair. “This kid, Hilary Cosgrove, could she have killed him?”

  “It’s not impossible. She wasn’t at school on Monday. She stayed home, alone, saying she had a stomach upset. She could have walked down to the school, but if she did, no one saw her.”

  Sir Richard grunted, and changed the subject. “How are your investigations going with Peter McIvor?”

  “We know he owed your son five thousand dollars, and he was having trouble paying it back.”

  “Ah, yes, the gambling club.” Sir Richard smiled saintly. “You know, of course, that my son was keen on gambling, and the Pink Dolphin Club, the one he introduced McIvor to, is illegal.”

  Carol nodded. It was strongly rumored that Sir Richard’s money had set up the Pink Dolphin Club and other successful illegal gambling casinos. “A teacher’s salary doesn’t seem to be enough to meet your son’s expenses,” she said mildly.

  “Oh, it wasn’t. I paid him an allowance. But he loved teaching, Inspector, he really did. Frankly, I wanted him in business, but he had neither the brains nor the inclination. He liked swimming, sailing, doing things with his hands . . . so he became an industrial arts teacher on the Peninsula. For him, it was an ideal life.”

  With access to an endless supply of young girls who were too young to threaten his masculinity, thought Carol. Aloud she said, “Do you have any information that could help the investigation?”

  “I have confidence in your abilities, Inspector. You know, of course, about Alan Witcombe’s activities?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Richard blew smoke reflectively towards the ceiling. “And then there’s Sybil Quade,” he said.

  Carol’s pulse leaped at her name. “The Commissioner feels Mrs. Quade is a central figure,” she said neutrally.

  “So do I,” said Sir Richard. “Bill often mentioned her, especially after her marriage to Quade broke up.”

  “In what way?”

  Sir Richard smiled. “She’s a very attractive woman, isn’t she? Bill found her so, anyway. I don’t think they were just friends, if you see what I mean.”

  “Mrs. Quade denies any intimacy.”

  “I’m sure she does. Wouldn’t you, in her place? Besides, I believe she has someone else interested in her—Terry Clarke. He strikes me as the jealous sort. Are you following that up?”

  “We’re following everything up,” said Carol.

  “Good,” said Sir Richard, standing. The meeting was obviously at an end. “I do appreciate you coming here personally, Inspector, and I expect that you will be making considerable progress in this coming week.”

  “I trust so,” said Carol, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  This seemed to amuse Sir Richard, who left her with a smile and the words, “I have absolute confidence in you, Inspector, otherwise you wouldn’t be on the case.”

  Bastard, thought Carol as she drove away.

  Chapter Seven

  The dawn sky was an unpleasant, curdled red. Gray clouds hung oppressively low and a stiff hot breeze blew against Sybil’s face as she sat on the beach, her arms around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. Suddenly she became conscious that someone had approached to stand behind her. Her heart caught as she realized it was Carol. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Carol had been running. Her T-shirt was wet and her breath short. “Don’t you remember? Mark Bourke took exhaustive details of everyone’s morning schedules. You said you usually went for an early swim. I run every morning, so I decided to drive down to the beach and jog along the sand, taking the chance you’d be here.” She sank down beside her. “We need to discuss what happened on Saturday night.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Okay. Good. That’s it.” Carol stood up. “Sorry to interrupt you.”

  “Carol, stop. Please, sit down again.” She watched Carol sit, unlace her running shoes and wriggle her toes in the sand.

  There was a long pause. Seagulls squabbled, the water ran up the beach in scallops towards their feet, a passing dog stopped to check them out before going busily on his way. Sybil, keeping her eyes resolutely turned towards the waves, was aware of how often Carol let silence drag on until someone had to break it. It’s a technique, she thought, knowing that she would be driven to speak first. For the first time for as long as she could remember, she gave herself the luxury of dropping her guard and saying exactly what she really felt. “I want you to know that Saturday, on the harbor—somehow I felt I was living more vividly than I have for years. It was as though everything, what I saw, what I felt, was more real and more significant than ever before.” She turned to meet Carol’s green eyes. “And that kiss was wrong, but it was so exciting.”

  Carol looked away.

  “Are you going to say anything?” asked Sybil.

  What can I say to you, thought Carol, when you think to kiss is wrong? She forced a casual tone as she said, “Sybil, it was no big deal. Let’s forget it—it won’t happen again.”

  Sybil’s voice was rough with resentful anger. “That’s the trouble Carol, I want it to happen again.”

  Of course you do, straight woman, Carol thought bitterly. Forbidden fruit is so exciting, isn’t it? And you’ll fuck up my life, say you’re sorry, and walk back to your safe world.

  She stood up abruptly, brushing the sand from her shorts. Sybil joined her and they began to pace along the wet sand above the water line. Carol’s silver voice was tight. “I’m a police officer. I’m investigating a murder, possibly two. You were involved with both of the victims. There is no way that we can have any relationship, and that includes being friends.”

  Sybil asked the question that had bounced in her head since Saturday night: “Have you ever made love to a woman?”

  “Yes,” said Carol flatly. They stopped to face each other. “Have you?”

  Sybil turned away and began to walk up through the soft, dry sand to her towel. She snatched it up and flicked it savagely to get rid of clinging particles. “No. It’s unnatural. It’s wrong.”

  Carol let out her breath in a long sigh. “Well, you have no problem, then. Just forget it.”

  Sybil stared at her, then turned and strode off towards the car park. Over her shoulder she said, “Why did you come here this morning?”

  They came to a halt beside Sybil’s car. Carol jangled her car keys. “I’ve no idea,” she said with a shrug.

  Sybil watched her as she walked away, but she didn’t look back.

  “Been trying to get you,” said Bourke as Carol walked into Bellwhether police station.

  “I was out running. What’s up?”

  Bourke gestured to the desk. “Possible weapon. Looks like blood and some hair on it. Thought you’d like to see it before it went to Science.”

  Carol considered the varnished wooden surface. “Baseball or softball bat.”

  “Yes, and government issue. Look at the lettering stamped on the shaft. I’ll bet it comes from Bellwhether High School’s sports supplies. Kid found it on the headland near where Quade fell. Don’t know how we missed it when we searched, but it was on a narrow ledge a couple of meters from the top.”

  “Thrown down there or deliberately hidden?”

  “Don’t know. The kid found it, picked it up, was
sharp enough to think it might be important, but he took it home with him before he rang us. He’s in the other room. Do you want to see him?”

  “No. Take him back to the headland after you fingerprint him, Mark. And take a photographer and a couple of officers with you. I want the place searched again in case we’ve missed something else.”

  She sat down at the desk Bourke had been using and checked through the papers until she found a full timetable for the school. Wednesday afternoon was reserved for sport. She leafed through the pages to the supervision schedule. There it was, blankly staring at her: Senior Baseball. Bellwhether Oval. Supervisors: S. Quade and P. McIvor. She had a vivid picture of Sybil clutching a baseball bat—swinging it in a looping arc—the dull whack as it connected with her husband’s skull.

  She pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on the other name. Pete McIvor? She visualized his open, immature face. He was the sort who would blush with guilt if he evaded a bus fare. She ran the interview with him through her mind. He had constantly smoothed his mustache, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat at every question, however innocuous. But that could be a very sound way to behave if you were hiding something. A high level of anxiety for harmless queries could be used to mask genuine alarm when dangerous questions were asked.

  During the time Pagett had been murdered Pete had no corroboration of his movements until he began teaching in the first period of the day. He claimed to have gone to assembly and then to the book room to collect textbooks for distribution to his first class. He was always very punctual, and that Monday morning had been no exception. Bourke had checked that he had distributed the textbooks at the beginning of the lesson, though of course he could have collected them from the book room at any time.