by Claire McNab
“Which was?”
“Barely restrained shock—God-not-again, but mustn’t let the staff see me clutch at my throat—sort of reaction.”
“Colorful,” said Carol. “They were Florrie’s exact words?”
“Of course not. I like to add a little zip to my reports.”
“Any idea when Mrs. Farrell received the last one?”
“On Thursday, the day Quade’s body was discovered at the bottom of the cliff.”
“She’s positive it was Thursday last week?”
“She is. She says the second death burned the events of that day into her mind,” said Mark with amusement, “and those were her exact words.”
“It’ll be interesting to hear what Mrs. Farrell has to say. I’ll leave it to you to ring and suggest we see her early tomorrow in her office.”
“Do you want to hear about my man-to-man meeting with Alan Witcombe?”
“Can it wait till tomorrow?”
“Sure . . . Carol, you sound tired. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Ten
Carol was wearing a green that exactly matched the color of her eyes. Bourke looked at her admiringly as she walked through the main doors of Bellwhether High’s administration block. “You look great this morning,” he said.
She gave him a brief smile. “Mrs. Farrell?” she said.
“Mrs. Farrell’s been called away—some kid’s fallen off the Art Block roof while trying to get a ball. I get the impression the Education Department demands reports in triplicate with twenty witnesses, but she says she won’t be long. She said to make ourselves comfortable in her office, but I don’t know if she really meant it. There’s a certain frosty reserve about our Mrs. Farrell this morning.”
“Perhaps she knows why we’re here,” said Carol as she entered the principal’s office. She looked at the green carpet and pale furniture, and visualized Sybil the first time she had seen her. “Tell me about Witcombe,” she said, sitting down.
“Before I describe the fascinating two hours I had with him, just let me tell you about Evan Berry. You asked me to find out if he knew about Hilary’s pregnancy. Well, the answer seems to be no. There was no way Hilary wanted Evan or anyone else to know about it. She only told her parents after Pagett was killed.”
“So Evan doesn’t have a real motive.”
“No, and he doesn’t seem the type to plan such a careful murder—he’d be the impulsive, oh-God-what’ve-I-done sort.”
“I hope you’re using less racy language in your reports,” observed Carol. “Now, about Alan Witcombe . . .”
Bourke had found it easy to get Alan Witcombe to talk once he had innocently commented upon the present and future degradation of society. Alan was delighted to discuss corruption, both in broad terms and in specifics. Bourke introduced the problem of immorality among teachers and the influence this could have upon students, and had been rewarded with a much more detailed picture of Bellwhether High’s staff than that which Carol had obtained from him.
“Don’t be upset,” said Bourke with a grin. “Alan Witcombe wouldn’t discuss these sorts of things with a lady like yourself.”
Witcombe had made moral judgments on his colleagues with some enthusiasm. He had found Bill Pagett a disgrace to the profession of teaching, but was well aware there was no way he could do anything without proof. Unfortunately, while there was a good supply of rumor and innuendo about Bill Pagett, no one was willing to come forward with details of times and places. He was sure Pagett had had a bad influence on Pete McIvor by encouraging him to gamble in illegal casinos, but his fatherly words to Pete had been ignored. He had a high opinion of Edwina, although he deplored the viciousness of her tongue at times. Did Bourke know that she, single-handed, looked after an invalid mother? About Lynne he had some reservations. Bourke privately thought Lynne would represent a painted woman to Alan’s biblical eyes. Certainly she seemed to be a good mother, but he had the impression that she indulged in a succession of relationships. Bourke delicately referred to the mention of nymphomania Florrie had repeated. Alan frowned at this. It was a word seriously misused and one which was bandied around far too freely. In Lynne’s case he was sure it wouldn’t apply. She was ultimately looking for a permanent relationship, he thought, but perhaps she was searching in the wrong area. Bourke wondered if that meant Alan thought she should join Family First.
“What about Terry Clarke?” said Carol.
“Witcombe said he was the brooding Heathcliff type.” He made a face. “Who was Heathcliff?” he said.
“A tormented, jealous, romantic hero,” said Carol, amused. “Terry Clarke cast as the Heathcliff of Bellwhether High. Well, well. Alan Witcombe has a sense of humor after all.”
“And,” said Bourke as Mrs. Farrell came into view, “Alan thinks Sybil Quade is wonderful. Not a word against her. I find that suspicious in itself, don’t you?”
“Thank God it’s Friday,” said Pete McIvor to the staff room in general.
Edwina, resplendent in yellow, was in a waspish mood. “I don’t know what’s worn you out, Pete—it certainly wouldn’t be teaching.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Peter dear,” said Edwina with an edge in her voice, “that your distinct lack of effort has been noticed. I happen to know you didn’t bother to do either of your playground duties, and I’m getting sick and tired of disciplining your classes for you. Every time there’s a racket from your room, I go in—and where’s little Peter? Not there.” She glared at him. “And stop stroking your bloody mustache, will you? Did you grow it to prove you have balls?”
Pete’s fair skin flushed. “Look, the cops wanted to see me. It’s not my fault there wasn’t someone covering my classes.”
“And what did they want to see you about?” asked Lynne lazily as she painted a fingernail blood red.
“Something about sports equipment. The stuff we use for softball and baseball.”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Edwina, “I detect the noose tightening about Syb’s neck, don’t you?”
Pete looked appalled. “Syb? Are you saying they think she killed Bill?”
“And her husband,” added Edwina. “Of course, I’m sure Syb’s not guilty, but it’s starting to look awfully bad for her.”
“I don’t see what sports have got to do with it.”
“Of course you don’t, Pete. You’ve never been the brightest boy on the block, have you?” Edwina beamed at him. “I think you’ll find that Bill, to make him more amenable to having a hole drilled in his head, was knocked out by something rather like a bat. And funnily enough, a kid in my roll class, Bruce Kennedy, happened to spill the fact that he’d found a school baseball bat up on the headland where Tony Quade took a dive.” Her smile widened. “Looks incriminating for you, too, Pete. I mean, you supervise baseball with Syb on Wednesday afternoons, don’t you? Gives you a great chance to take some of the equipment. Who knows, maybe you and Syb are in it together . . . though I would have thought she’d have chosen more wisely.”
Pete’s face was now beetroot as he struggled to find a rejoinder. Lynne interposed lazily, “Leave him alone, Edwina, will you?” She yawned. “Speaking of Syb, do you happen to know if Pierre Brand got her to cooperate?”
Edwina shrugged her yellow shoulders. “Frankly, I think Syb’s decided to tough it out.”
“Tough what out?” demanded Terry, who had walked in as Edwina had been speaking. “What are you saying about Syb?”
“My, Terry, you did look good on television,” said Edwina, ignoring his question. “And Syb looked ravishing, as usual. But do you think it was wise to go to the funeral with her? People could talk, and the last thing she needs is a motive, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“God, you’re a poisonous bitch,” he said.
“And I love you, too,” Edwina replied with amusement.
“Where is Syb, anyway?” said Lynne, inspecting her nail polish
at the window. “Don’t tell me our paragon of virtue is going to be late again. That would make it twice this week—quite a record for someone so punctual.”
Lynne appeared not at all put out to hear Sybil say, “Thanks, Lynne. It’s nice to know you’re taking such a keen interest in my activities.”
“How did it go with Pierre Brand?” Lynne said.
“I haven’t spoken to him. Why?”
“Oh, just that he was very keen to interview you. He thought you got the wrong idea the other day at Edwina’s.”
“What wrong idea was that?” asked Sybil tightly.
Lynne made an expansive gesture. “Syb! You can’t beat them, so you might as well join them. Cooperate with Pierre and you’ll get a fair coverage, but you know what he’s like if he decides to dissect someone on his program.”
“I’m not going to talk to him.”
“Suit yourself, Syb,” said Lynne, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
There’s no point in arguing, thought Sybil, turning away to put her things on her desk. She felt tears sting her eyes. I’m tired and depressed and if Terry touches me I’ll scream.
“Coming to assembly?” said Terry, putting his arm loosely around her shoulders.
“Okay,” said Sybil, postponing the scream and hunting for dark glasses in her purse. She waited until they were walking together to the assembly area to say, “Terry, don’t touch me, all right? I just don’t want to give them any ammunition—you know how people talk.”
“Let them. I’m going to look after you, Syb. Don’t let things get you down.”
“Hah,” said Sybil without mirth.
Mrs. Farrell didn’t take the assembly as she usually did—that task fell to her deputy principal. Instead she sat looking across her desk at Carol Ashton’s expression of polite inquiry. Mrs. Farrell cleared her throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t mention these letters before?” she said.
“Yes,” said Carol.
Bourke filled the awkward pause: “You say you’ve received a total of five letters?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I’ve destroyed them all, except for the last one.” She straightened her shoulders. “Inspector, if you look at it from my point of view, these scurrilous letters deserved to be consigned to the waste paper basket. To do anything else was to dignify them with some kind of weight.”
“Have you the last one with you?”
Mrs. Farrell unlocked the top drawer of her desk and drew out a square white envelope. Handling it as though it were contaminated, she passed it to Carol. “You must realize I had no idea that they were anything else but nuisance letters, designed to give some sick person a cheap thrill.”
“But if they were making allegations about your staff, surely they were worth reporting officially?”
Mrs. Farrell tightened her mouth. “It was my judgment not to do so.”
Carol handed the letter to Bourke, who opened it with the help of tweezers. “We have your fingerprints, Mrs. Farrell?” said Carol.
“You do,” said Mrs. Farrell, remembering with distaste the ink and the familiar way the constable had pressed her fingers down to obtain the prints.
The single sheet of paper had been folded to fit the envelope exactly and it was written in the same sloping capitals as the address:
Phyllis darling,
Don’t you think his eyes should have been out? Drilled out his eyes to stop him looking at those young girls. Still, now that Bill won’t be ramming it up that randy bitch Sybil Quade or any teenage girls anymore think you should turn your attention to the head of English have you noticed how Alan smacks his lips when he talks about sex and he talks about it all the time and it’s not just girls he feels the boys up too watch him you just watch him he gets an erection just thinking about sin.
“Tsk,” said Bourke, “and it isn’t even signed A Friend.”
Mrs. Farrell didn’t smile. “The others were very much in the same vein,” she said. “I suppose you want details?”
“I suppose we do,” said Carol.
“Alan?”
Witcombe looked up from his office desk at Sybil’s voice. “Syb, you look dreadful. Come in and sit down.”
“Alan, I’m sorry, I think I have to go home.”
“Syb, you shouldn’t have come to school today. The funeral must have been a strain.”
“I’ve got a senior class this afternoon and a junior English before lunch booked in to see a video on Dickens. I know it’s inconvenient, but I really can’t face them. Is there any way you can cover them for me?”
“Of course, don’t worry about it.” He leaned forward. “Syb, how are you coping? Are you all right alone, particularly at night?”
Sybil thought of how much she wanted Carol’s company. “I’m okay,” she said to Alan.
“I tried to ring you last night, but you didn’t answer. Thought you must have gone out.”
As head of the English Department, Alan had her unlisted number as a matter of course, but he had only contacted her a couple of times in the last year, and then early in the morning about school matters. “Why were you ringing me?” she said.
“Just to see how you felt—if there was anything Alice or I could do to help. We wondered if you’d like to stay with us until this whole thing’s over.”
Sybil felt close to tears at this unexpected kindness. “Alan, that’s so thoughtful of you both. Actually I was out—Inspector Ashton asked to see me.”
Alan looked stern. “Such a pity,” he said, “I had a lot of time for the Inspector, until I found out she was an unfit mother.”
“What?”
“It’s been kept quiet, of course, but she has a son, and when she and her husband divorced, she freely gave up custody. Unnatural behavior for a mother, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Unnatural behavior,” repeated Sybil.
“Children should be with their mothers. Ideally, of course, they should be with both parents, but I’m not unrealistic, I know some marriages aren’t perfect, so divorce is an unpleasant necessity.” He looked concerned. “Syb, I wasn’t referring to you and Tony . . . your separation . . .”
“It’s okay, I know you weren’t. You were saying about Carol Ashton . . .”
“It just so happens that through the Family First meetings, I’ve come in contact with some legal men, top of the profession, concerned about the way society is going . . . well, the other night we were having a cup of coffee after the meeting and the conversation turned to the dreadful things happening here at Bellwhether. I found myself talking to a close friend of Inspector Ashton’s ex-husband, and he was saying how she just walked out on her marriage, left her son, and refused to have anything more to do with her husband, Justin Hart. You must know his name, he’s a very well-known barrister.” He shook his head. “Apparently she didn’t change her name when she married him.” Alan’s expression indicated that he thought the rot had set in from that point.
Sybil said. “We don’t know the whole story. Maybe there’s a reason she didn’t ask for custody.”
Alan looked dubious. “Syb, I can’t think of one reason why a normal, natural mother wouldn’t want to be with her child. Can you?” When she remained silent he said, “I shouldn’t be keeping you here. Go home, I’ll make sure your classes are okay. And Syb, try and get away from Sydney this weekend. I’m sure you’ll feel better if you do.”
As soon as Sybil got home she went to the telephone. “Is Inspector Ashton there?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Sybil Quade.”
A pause, and then a jolt at Carol’s voice: “Yes, Mrs. Quade?”
“This is an official call,” said Sybil, feeling ridiculous.
“Yes, of course.”
“You’re not much help,” said Sybil.
The silver voice seemed faintly amused. “No.”
“Is someone else there with you?”
“That’s right.”
Sybil wondered if C
arol really was restricted by someone else’s presence, or if she just didn’t want to speak to her at a personal level. She felt ridiculously uncertain and embarrassed as she said, “It’s about. . . Well, I want to go away this weekend—out of Sydney. I thought . . . perhaps you should know, officially, that is.”
“Where will you be going?”
“To the Far North Coast—Grafton.”
“That’s a long way for a weekend.”
“Carol, I’ve got to get away. I can’t stay here. My friend Barbara—probably my best friend—she moved up there last year—escaping the city, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll be flying, of course. When will you be leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’ve tentatively booked a flight. So it’s all right then?”
“Just give me details so we can contact you if we need to.”
Sybil gave her the information, then waited, angry with herself because she was reluctant to hang up.
“You’ll be at your usual address until tomorrow morning?” said Carol.
Sybil’s heart leaped. “Carol, I’ll be alone. No one will be here.”
She waited. Carol said, “Yes, that’s interesting. Thank you for calling.”
The moment she replaced the receiver, the phone rang again. “Oh, hello Terry . . . I’m sorry I didn’t see you before I left school . . . No, I’m not sick, I’ve just had enough . . . I’m going away for the weekend . . . Barbara’s. I’m flying up tomorrow morning . . . Thanks, but I’ll leave my car at the airport. It’s easier when I get back to have it there . . . No, I don’t want to see you tonight. Please, Terry, will you just for once take no for an answer?”
Terry was implacable. She was still arguing fruitlessly against his smug proprietary tone that drove her mad with irritation when to her relief she heard the front doorbell sound. “Terry, sorry, I’ve got to go because there’s someone at the door. Call you when I get back on Sunday night, okay?”
