Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  Sybil couldn’t keep still. She shook off Carol’s hand, walking around the room, touching things, looking unseeingly out at the view, while Carol sat silently watching her. “How can I explain to you how I feel, Carol? I’ve always hidden any feelings of hurt, embarrassment or anger, even when I was a child. It’s important to me to keep face—to seem to be in control—not to be at a disadvantage. Do you understand?”

  “I do, but there are times when you have to run the risk of exposing how you feel.”

  Sybil nodded, resigned. “Do you know what Bill did to me, Carol, or rather, tried to do? Rape me. He wasn’t trying to kiss me, or persuade me. He wanted to humiliate me. Teach me a lesson by raping me. He didn’t bother to pretend to discuss Tony, just shoved me back against a table. And all the time he was telling me he knew I really wanted it. Let me ram it up you, he kept on saying. And when I resisted, he slapped me, hard. I couldn’t escape: he was stronger than I was.”

  “What happened?”

  “I hit him with a glass ashtray, on the side of the jaw. I got away from him and I screamed at him. I lost all my precious control, Carol. I picked up anything I could and threw it at him. And then I ran.” She looked down at her hands. “Not very edifying, is it?” She gave a twisted smile. “And maybe Tony was there, listening.”

  “What did you do when you left?”

  “I went home and cried. Cried over bastards like them. It makes me sick to think about it.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “Oh, you want to know if I went home and practiced with my Black and Decker? Sorry, Carol, I hate to disappoint you.”

  “Sybil, I have to ask these questions.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Carol put her hand out. “I understand. . .”

  “Do you?” Sybil was bitter. “Do you? You think you know what makes me tick?” She swung around in sudden fury. “Carol, I hate what you make me feel! I don’t want to care about you! I don’t want . . .”

  The electricity of passion flickered between them.

  “No, don’t,” said Carol as Sybil put her arms around her. Tongue to tongue, heart to heart, thought Carol, holding Sybil’s head with both hands and kissing her ardently, abandoning for a moment the restraint that she had promised herself. Then she pulled away. “No,” she said again.

  Sybil’s eyes were unfocused with desire. “It frightens me,” she said, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “In the circumstances, it sure scares the hell out of me, too,” said Carol with an attempt at humor. She watched with surprise as anger flared again on Sybil’s face.

  “Oh, I’m compromising your investigation am I? Are you afraid I’ll go to the Commissioner and announce we’re having an affair? Is that it? Or do you think I’ll embarrass you in public, appear on Pierre Brand’s show and say you seduced me?”

  “I’m sure you won’t do any of those things, but that isn’t the point. I shouldn’t be on this case, not the way I feel about you.”

  Sybil’s face was wet with tears. “And how do you feel? Aroused?” she asked, her voice shaking. She looked at Carol’s still face. “Get out, go away,” she said.

  “Sybil . . .”

  “Please. Just go away. Please.”

  And when Carol had gone, she cried in earnest, partly because of the resurrection of ugly memories, partly because she had told Carol to go, and Carol had obeyed her.

  Carol slammed down the phone and groaned. “I have to give Pierre Brand an interview,” she said to Bourke. “The Commissioner says it’s an excellent idea and so does Sir Richard. Good for the image, I understand. Blonde Inspector expects early arrest, that sort of approach—bland, soothing and good PR. Of course, it’s not good enough for Brand to send a reporter to an ordinary press conference—he must have an exclusive.”

  Bourke grunted sympathetically. “Going to the funeral?” he asked. “Looks like it’ll be quite a show.”

  Carol made a face. “Yes, that’s the other media duty. ‘You look so good in black,’ the Commissioner said to me, ‘and Sir Richard expects you to be there.’ So I’m practicing my pensive but resolute expression for the cameras.”

  “Tony Quade’s funeral’s tomorrow, too,” said Bourke, “but in the morning at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. Close friends only and no flowers. And I bet my favorite redhead, our Sybil, will also look stunning in black.”

  “Since you’re going, you’ll be able to see.”

  “Perhaps she’ll break down and confess all, over the coffin,” said Bourke. “After all, now we have her fingerprints on the baseball bat. Doesn’t look too good for her, does it?”

  “She gave you an explanation.”

  “Yes,” said Bourke. “Every Wednesday she sends a kid to collect the baseball stuff from the teacher in charge of the PE equipment store. The student puts everything in her car because Bellwhether Oval is a fair way from the school. At the oval, she deals everything out, reversing the whole process at the end of the afternoon. But isn’t it stretching things a bit to suppose that of the twelve baseball bats the school has, the very one used to kill Tony Quade happens to have his wife’s fingerprints on it?”

  “They weren’t on the handle.”

  “No, that was wiped clean. But how about this: Sybil whacks her husband across the head, pushes him over the cliff, wipes the handle of the bat and throws it down onto the ledge, completely forgetting in her haste that she may have touched other parts of it.”

  Carol looked dubious. “Why wasn’t the bat found straight away?” she said.

  “You think it was planted? Could be, but why?”

  “Perhaps someone’s going to a lot of trouble to make sure she’s suspected—the phone calls, the note sent to us, the drill—it could be a setup.”

  “Yeah, or Sybil mightn’t be as smart as she could be,” said Bourke, rolling his eyes. “I mean, it doesn’t seem fair if she’s got looks and brains too, does it?”

  “How are you going on ‘randy little bitch’ and ‘ram it up her?’ “ said Carol abruptly.

  “From what I can find out, randy was one of Pagett’s favorite words, and he usually used it in a joking way. Even Florrie Dunstane remembers it fondly as one of Bill’s amusing little references. As for the charming expression, ram it up her, I can’t find anyone to admit that Pagett, or for that matter, anyone else, used it regularly. I suppose the wording could be a coincidence, though that’s stretching it a bit.”

  “Any more on Witcombe?”

  “Not much. Last June he was arrested for disturbing the peace outside a cinema showing an R-rated film with the usual bondage, rape and violence in it. The magistrate put him on a good behavior bond. He’s a card-carrying member of the Family First movement and does his stint in front of abortion clinics etcetera. Besides being to the far right of Goebbels, he seems okay.”

  “I’d like you to have a little chat with him, man to man. You know the approach—how the rot’s set in, society’s not the same, marriage under attack—that sort of thing. See if you can encourage him to talk. He might see himself as a one-man vigilante group, ridding the world of corruption.”

  “Somehow, Alan Witcombe doesn’t strike me as an Australian Rambo,” said Bourke, “but I must admit the idea has great entertainment potential, and wouldn’t the media love it.”

  “I know Pierre Brand would,” said Carol caustically.

  Chapter Nine

  Carol kicked off her shoes and sighed. It had been a long, hard day. Being serenely charming takes a lot out of you, she thought. And she hated funerals because they always reminded her of her parents’ deaths. First her father, unexpectedly of a heart attack, and then her mother, gray and grieving, had surrendered to the cancer she had battled successfully for years. Her parents had had such a close marriage that neither could bear to be without the other. Would she ever have that comfort, that support, that happiness? She padded around, feeding the demands of her fat cat, pouring a drink and munching a handful of peanuts, postpo
ning the telephone call she must make, not because she was reluctant to ring, but because she wanted to so much. It’s part of your investigations, she said mockingly to herself—although it’s not too obvious, Carol, why you just have to see her, alone, here. I won’t ring her, she thought. I can interview her tomorrow.

  She gulped down her drink, curled up on the couch, and dialed. The phone rang and rang. Finally the receiver was snatched up at the other end. “Yes?”

  “It’s Carol. Sybil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to come over here?” A pause. Carol chewed at a thumbnail. “Don’t if you don’t want to,” she said. “You must be terribly tired. . .”

  “I want to come.”

  Carol was determinedly casual. “Okay. See you when I see you.” She put down the phone and stared into space, absently stroking the cat who, ignoring the heat, had clambered onto her lap and was purring enthusiastically. “Pussy cat,” she said to him, “why am I doing this? It can’t work. She wouldn’t be willing to pay the price.”

  When Sybil arrived her hair was wet and her face scrubbed and shining. “After the funeral I went for a swim, way out, past the breakers. I looked back at the beach and the headlands, and they seemed so far away . . . I was sorry when I had to swim back in.” Suddenly she felt shy and awkward. Did that sound like she was asking for sympathy?

  Carol smiled at her. “Would you like to sit on the deck? I’ve got a coil burning to discourage the mosquitos, and the sunset is still spectacular.”

  I haven’t felt like this since I was a kid, thought Sybil. Aloud she said, “Sorry I took so long to answer the phone. I was under the shower, and anyway, I thought it was Terry, and so I didn’t hurry.”

  “Have you eaten yet?” said Carol. “No? Neither have I. I’ll get some wine and something light to eat.” Pausing in the doorway, she watched Sybil sit in the deep wooden chair and throw her head back to watch the treetops dancing against the rockmelon orange sky. “You mentioned Terry Clarke . . .”

  “We had dinner last night. And of course he was at Tony’s funeral.” There was irony in her tone as she added, “Supporting the grieving widow.”

  “Were you upset?”

  “I was sad, because someone was dead. I hadn’t seen Tony for months . . .” Her mind leaped to the scene in the morgue: “When I identified him, it was just his body—it wasn’t Tony. Besides, when we separated, in a way I said goodbye for good. Today, at the funeral, there didn’t seem to be any connection to the person I married.”

  Carol excused herself to go to the kitchen. Sybil sat in the fading light, gazing out at the still water and thinking about the evening before.

  As he had promised, Terry had picked her up after school and taken her back to his flat. He was a capable if not inspired cook, and he had served a reasonable Italian dish. Sybil remembered staring at him while they ate, trying to imagine making love to him. A thick mat of black hair showed at the collar of his shirt, and she knew from the beach that his back was similarly covered. She compared Carol’s smooth body, and was fired with a pulse of desire. I’m not like that, she said to herself, rejecting the image.

  “Syb? You’re not listening,” Terry said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Of course, it’s the funeral tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you.”

  Terry’s barely disguised passion for her was somehow reassuring. It meant she was still a paid-up member of the normal majority. With clinical detachment she watched her own actions and reactions. She deliberately drank several glasses of wine with dinner, which, combined with the two whiskeys she’d had earlier, began to impart a pleasant fuzzy glow. After dinner she accepted a glass of port with her coffee, and was distantly amused at the large amount Terry poured her. He’s trying to get me drunk, she thought, so the big seduction scene is coming up.

  She was viewing everything from a point some distance away. I’m smashed, she thought. She watched Terry sit beside her, slide an arm along the back of the sofa, put his other hand on her knee. I am feeling some stirrings of physical desire, aren’t I? she asked herself. She tried to concentrate. Terry was saying something about how he felt, about how much he wanted her. Then he was kissing her. In her alcoholic haze she thought of Carol’s tongue in her mouth, and immediately her body responded. Terry’s caresses grew more urgent, his arousal greater. Oh God, thought Sybil, why not? She despised the sexual tease. I might even enjoy it, she remembered saying to herself.

  “Do you want a light on?” said Carol, handing her a plate of salad and a fork.

  Sybil was startled by the return of the present. “Thanks,” she said automatically, then, as Carol seated herself she blurted out, “I slept with Terry Clarke last night.”

  It was now so dark she couldn’t see Carol’s face clearly, and her voice was noncommittal. “Oh?”

  Sybil exhaled a long breath. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she said.

  “Yes you do.”

  There was a pause. “Why?” said Sybil at last.

  “Because you want me to know you’re a normal, heterosexual woman, with all the correct feelings and reactions.”

  “Carol, it wasn’t . . . maybe it was for something like that, but it was to prove something to me, not to you.”

  Carol’s silver voice was cool. “Do you want some wine?”

  “No. That was the trouble last night. I was drunk.”

  “Oh? You have to be drunk to have sex with a man? Doesn’t that worry you a bit, Sybil?” said Carol sarcastically.

  “Yes, it does. And it also worries me that all the time he was making love to me I was thinking of you. And that every time I remembered what we did together my body responded.”

  Silence. A slight breeze blew from the water and Sybil could smell the scent of jasmine. Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, she thought, the music running in her mind. “Carol, I don’t understand why I feel this way.”

  “When your marriage was at its best . . . did you have a good sexual relationship?”

  The darkness made it easy to answer. “The sex was all right, nothing wonderful, but okay. I’ve never expected that much from physical love, anyway.” That needed more explanation: “I grew up the same as everyone else. Sex was automatic once you were going steady with some guy. I was a bit disappointed, I suppose—I expected too much, but it wasn’t unpleasant. And with Tony it was better than most.”

  “So the earth didn’t move for you on a regular basis?” said Carol.

  “It does when I’m with you.”

  The silence lengthened. “Well, that’s a conversation stopper,” Carol said at last.

  “I want to sleep with you,” said Sybil before caution could prevent her. “I want us to make love, and then sleep together.” Her words hung in the air between them. “Carol?”

  “It’s a comparison you want, is it Sybil? Last night Terry Clarke and tonight Carol Ashton? And what are you going to prove, to yourself or anyone else?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Carol was remorseless. “Or perhaps you have another motive altogether? Could it be that you think I’ll protect you, not arrest you, no matter how guilty you are, if you have an emotional and physical hold over me?”

  “Oh, come on, Carol!”

  “This is your cue to say you really love me, that you can’t live without me. Are you going to say that, Sybil?”

  “No, I’m not going to say that.”

  Carol put out an arm to restrain her, but Sybil flung it away, snatched up her things and ran out of the house. She didn’t remember driving home: all the way the evening ran like a continuous loop in her imagination—Carol’s voice, the nuances of words, and most of all the disturbing excitement of the emotions that had vibrated between them.

  “Carol?” said Bourke. “Sorry to ring you so late, but I’ve just got home from a cup of coffee with Florrie and Lionel Dunstane, and there are a couple of things
I thought you’d like to know.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Coffee and a piece of cake.”

  “Mark, I’m not in the mood for humor.”

  “Well, Lionel Dunstane’s bedridden, of course, so apart from radio and television, he relies on Florrie’s little snippets of gossip. That made it easy to get them chatting about Bellwhether High, and the two of them rambled on for an hour or so.”

  “Mark, will you get on with it?”

  “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?” At Carol’s irritated sigh, he said hastily, “Well, the first thing is that not only does Terry Clarke make a habit of shadowing Sybil Quade in his car to check where she goes and who she sees, but he had a particular reason to be interested in her movements the Sunday night before Pagett died. It seems that Pete McIvor was on Bellwhether Beach on Sunday morning when Clarke and Pagett practically had a stand-up fight over the redhead I most admire. Apparently Pagett announced that he and Sybil had a date that night, which didn’t please Terry Clarke at all. Pagett’s last words were something in the order of ‘Don’t hang around Syb’s place waiting to see her, she’s spending the night with me.’ Actually I think Florrie was sparing my feelings—I suspect the words were rather more basic, but that was the general message. Clarke threatened him and left. End of story.”

  “Why do you think Pete McIvor has conveniently forgotten to mention this argument?”

  “Who knows?” said Bourke. “Maybe it’s misplaced loyalty, although frankly I think he’s frightened Terry Clarke will tear his head off if he says anything.”

  “We’ll follow it up tomorrow. What else?”

  “One of Florrie’s duties is to sort the mail coming into the school. She was delighted to tell me that Mrs. Farrell has received a series of letters identical to the one you got, each in a square white envelope with ‘personal and private’ printed in sloping capital letters.”

  “Is she sure they were the same?”

  “Absolutely. For one thing, very little mail to Bellwhether is marked as personal. And you must take into account Florrie’s lively interest in everything around her. I think what particularly impressed her about the letters was the effect they had on Mrs. Farrell.”