by Claire McNab
The caller was hardly more welcome than Terry’s telephone call. “Mrs. Quade, I saw you at your husband’s funeral, but of course I didn’t want to intrude.”
“How thoughtful of you, Mr. Brand. I gather you considered your television cameras and crew weren’t an intrusion?”
Pierre Brand gave an appropriately regretful smile. “I am always worried about the problems of privacy versus the public’s right to know,” he said smoothly.
Sybil had no intention of allowing him into the house. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you’ve called at a very inconvenient time. If you don’t mind . . .”
“Inspector Ashton has let drop to me, unofficially, of course, that you are the main suspect in this rather bizarre case. I wonder if you’d like to comment on this?”
He was standing to one side as he spoke, and Sybil caught a glimpse of reflected light from a car parked across the road. “You’re filming this,” she said.
“Would you like to say anything about the murders—for example, about your interesting relationships with both victims?”
All her anger and frustration boiled over. “I’d like to push you down the steps!” she exclaimed.
He smiled at her, delighted. “Do you always respond so violently, Mrs. Quade?”
She didn’t trust herself to say anything else, so she stepped back and slammed the door. She leaned her forehead against the wood. “Why did I say that?”
She was puzzled to hear Pierre Brand’s voice in conversation on the other side of the door. Then she realized what he was doing—delivering the Pierre Brand on-site monologue to tie up the story. She had watched his shows where shonky business people, con-artists and the shocked victims of crime had been given the Pierre Brand specialty—the knock at the door, the charming smile, the questions designed to confuse, annoy or confront, followed by Brand turning to the camera with some concluding words that usually skated just close enough to libel to titillate his audience but kept him out of court—all this lovingly caught on videotape, carefully edited, and presented to a public primed to receive the latest scandal delivered in easy-to-digest but sensational television morsels.
As she stood irresolute, his voice stopped, then, after a moment, a white card was pushed under the door. She stared at it, then picked it up. On his business card Pierre Brand had written in tiny, spidery writing: Suggest to your distinct advantage to let us put to air your side of the story right now, before you’re arrested. Then, it’ll be too late for both of us.
She carefully placed the card face down on the television set. What had he said to her? That Carol had told him, unofficially, that she was the main suspect. Did Carol really believe that she could cold bloodedly kill two people?
“The detailed lab report on the stuff vacuumed up in Pagett’s workroom has just arrived,” said Bourke. “Haven’t had time to read it yet.”
Carol took it and began to skim read. “Look at this, Mark! Those flakes of colored lacquer mentioned in the preliminary report have been identified as nail polish.”
Bourke looked over her shoulder. “Pale pink pearl nail varnish,” he read from the page. “How would flakes of nail polish get on the floor? Chipped fingernails?”
“I imagine so. Of course, there might not be any connection with Pagett’s murder.”
Bourke grinned. “In these enlightened times the girls do woodwork with the real men,” he said. “There must be a chipped fingernail or two—a small price to pay for equality, I say.”
“Perhaps it’ll wipe the grin off your face to learn I want to know which of the suspects wore nail polish on the morning of the murder—and, of course, if any had chipped nails.”
Looking rather less enthusiastic, Bourke said, “We know Lynne Simpson always wears nail polish. Won’t she do? It’ll save a lot of trouble if we just arrest her, won’t it?”
“I’ve only noticed her wearing deep red colors.”
Bourke nodded. “Yeah, I remember thinking in the first interview with her that her nails looked like they were dipped in blood. Horrible purple-red color.”
Carol said, “Pale pink’s the sort of color a young girl might wear, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’ll certainly check out Hilary Cosgrove, though I don’t expect many people will remember a little detail like nail color.”
“And this doesn’t rule out the male suspects,” said Carol. “It may be a red herring.”
“More like a pale pink pearl herring,” said Bourke, his humor restored.
Somehow Sybil had to fill in time until she could escape to Barbara’s friendship. She wrote a neat list and stuck it to the refrigerator, thinking with a wry smile that anxiety had made her outstandingly efficient. Following its instructions, she packed her suitcase for the trip tomorrow, arranged for the neighbors to feed Jeffrey and then cleaned the house, changed the bed, tidied the cupboards—anything to keep occupied. She usually turned the radio up high while she ironed or did the housework, singing along with favorite songs, executing a dance step or two, mimicking the commercials she knew well, but today she needed silence. She felt as if sandpaper had been used on her nerves so that any loud noise would be an assault.
She jumped at the sound of the knock, but was elaborately casual when she answered the door. “Hi. Come in.”
Carol looked tired and drawn. “Sybil, I’m sorry about last night.”
“I don’t suppose I helped by bringing up Terry, and then storming out like someone in a soap opera, did I?”
“Forget it?” said Carol.
“Forget it,” agreed Sybil, handing Carol Pierre Brand’s card. “He was here this afternoon. Had someone filming while he talked. I lost my temper and said something stupid. Later he shoved this under the door.”
“How would he know you were home? He would expect you to still be at school.”
Sybil rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know, maybe he follows me around like Terry does.”
Carol glanced at the card. “I think someone at your school rang him.” Her face didn’t change as she read the card. Handing it back, she said, “He’s trying to scare you into an interview, that’s all.”
“I could be on his show tonight.”
Carol smiled. “You’ll be in good company. I recorded an interview with him earlier today.”
Keeping her voice neutral, Sybil said, “He told me you said, unofficially, I was the main suspect.”
“I didn’t say anything like that at all. He was trying to frighten you into saying something stupid.”
Sybil made a face. “Well, I fulfilled his wildest dreams.”
“Perhaps we’d better watch his show.”
Sybil was disconcerted by Carol’s cool reserve, but what did she expect? A warm hug? A kiss? She escaped to the kitchen to make coffee. Returning, she said, “Carol?” The green eyes met hers. Say you love me, she thought. Aloud she said, “Do you take sugar in your coffee?”
Carol stood up and stretched. “No, just black, thanks. Sybil, does Terry Clarke really follow you around? I mean, shadow you in his car—that sort of thing?”
“That’s what Terry and I were arguing about the first time you came here. Terry knew I’d been to Bill’s that Sunday night, because he was watching.”
“Is he usually so obsessive?”
Sybil said, “He says he loves me.” The words hung awkwardly in the air. To destroy them, she switched on the television.
“Recapping today’s main stories,” said the announcer, “the Leader of the Opposition claims the Government’s tax package is a confidence trick played on voters; the Australian cricket team is soundly beaten by England; Inspector Carol Ashton hints at an early arrest in the Black and Decker murder case.”
“Carol, is that true?”
“I said that to put the pressure on, but we’re getting closer.”
“To whom?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
Sybil felt uncertainty after uncertainty gathering in a huge wave that would soon break over he
r. “Can’t you tell me anything?”
“Only that I’m a little concerned about your safety.” Startled, Sybil said, “My safety? But why? Has something else happened?”
“It’s just that your name keeps coming up—I can’t give you any details—but it makes me feel uneasy.”
Sybil couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice: “Oh? Does this mean I’m not a suspect any more, but a potential victim?”
“Let’s just say I’d feel better if you’d agree to have an officer with you in the house.”
Sybil shook her head. “No.”
“How about outside, sitting inconspicuously in a car?”
“No.”
Carol smiled faintly. “Thought that’s what you’d say. Will you at least promise me to be extra careful? Try to avoid being alone with any one person, if you can help it?”
“Can I make you the exception?”
Carol’s eyes met hers. “Isn’t this the program you want to watch?” she said in her cool silver voice.
“After this message from our sponsor,” Pierre Brand was saying, “We’ll bring you the latest in one of the most sensational murder cases of the decade, the so-called Black and Decker murder. The victim? The son of the ex-Premier of New South Wales, Sir Richard Pagett, who is battling accusations of corruption during his term of office. Vital questions about his slain son remain unanswered—who drilled a hole in Bill Pagett’s head? A slighted lover? A jealous husband? One of the students at Bellwhether High where Bill was a popular industrial arts teacher? And then, there’s the death of his best friend, Tony Quade, in a mysterious fall from a cliff. All this, and more, after this important message . . .”
“What I can’t really face,” said Sybil, “is that there’s someone out there who hates me, enough to set me up for murder. But why? What have I done?”
“You may not have done anything. Besides, the person’s motives could seem quite unreasonable to anyone normal.”
“It is someone at school, someone I know?”
Carol nodded soberly. “Almost certainly.”
“Couldn’t it be someone else? Someone who’s quite insane? A maniac of some sort?”
“You’re looking for a way out, Sybil. You want it to be some fruitcake who pops out of the woodwork for a little murder or two, and then conveniently disappears. It won’t work. It’s someone connected with Bellwhether High.”
They were interrupted by the reappearance of Pierre Brand, his face set in serious lines. “We bring you this story in the interests of justice,” he began.
“And ratings,” added Carol sarcastically.
There followed a laudatory outline of Bill Pagett’s life, with shots of Sir Richard, grieving family members, short interviews with friends, relations and acquaintances, including the brief appearance of Edwina and Lynne together. “That was the kind of man Bill Pagett was,” intoned Pierre Brand. “Who could, who would, kill him in the prime of his life?” The murder itself was covered by a fast selection of different shots, including the body being carried out to a waiting ambulance and a tasteless close-up of a running power drill with Brand’s voice-over asking, “What hand held this common tool, found in all workshops, and used it to mercilessly end a life?”
“Abysmal would be too flattering a description for this show,” Carol remarked as a commercial break again interrupted. She turned to Sybil. “Did you know Pete McIvor owed Bill Pagett money?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Are there any other little details you’ve forgotten, Sybil?”
Sybil ignored the comment, saying: “I know about Pete because he asked me for money. He was desperate, he said, because Bill was demanding the five thousand back, and he didn’t have it. I got the impression Bill had threatened him about it.”
“And you didn’t think this was important enough to mention before?”
Sybil thought of Pete’s fresh, immature face. “Carol, Pete couldn’t kill anyone, and besides, a couple of days after I told him I couldn’t lend him more than two thousand, he said it was okay, that someone else had come up with the money.”
“You were going to give him two thousand dollars?”
“I knew I’d get it back. Why?”
“It just throws a different light on your relationship with him.”
Sybil felt indignant. “Carol, are you suspicious of everything everyone does?”
“That’s my job. Do you happen to know who was supplying the five thousand?”
“No.” Then she said abruptly, “Is it true you have a son?”
Carol’s expression didn’t change. “Yes. David. He’s nine.”
“Do you see him often?”
“Oh, yes. My ex-husband’s very correct. He’s married again, of course. A nice woman, actually—I like her. I try to see David once a week and sometimes he spends part of his school holidays with me. He’s a great kid.”
Carol looked at her, coolly waiting for the next question. Damn you! thought Sybil, I won’t ask you anything else, not until you want to tell me.
Pierre Brand reappeared, rich with measured enthusiasm. “And now, an exclusive interview with Inspector Carol Ashton, the beautiful blonde police officer with the enviable record of arrests. But even she seems baffled by this intriguing case.” Sybil watched, fascinated, as Carol fielded the questions with calm professionalism. The planes of her face were made for television. “You look absolutely stunning,” she said to Carol.
Carol gave her a quick smile. “Nothing to do with me,” she said, “it’s just what I inherited.”
With a shock, Sybil saw the screen had switched to her. Pierre Brand’s voice continued a commentary as she was shown walking in the car park, turning her face from the cameras at the funeral as Terry took her arm to lead her into the chapel, full face in the funeral director’s car when she hadn’t realized she was in a viewfinder, with Terry leaning over her speaking confidentially. Pierre Brand was saying, “An intimate friend, Terry Clarke, has been at Sybil Quade’s side since Bill Pagett’s tragic murder and since the mysterious death of her husband. She knew them both. Has Terry Clarke a reason to be alarmed?”
“God!” exclaimed Sybil, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
Carol said drily, “Could be anything from indirectly accusing you of murder to implying you’re the Angel of Death bringing destruction to all you know.”
Pierre Brand was still talking: “Sybil Quade—an attractive woman who could hold the key to the mystery. What is she really like?” With apprehension Sybil saw the footage that must have been shot that afternoon. The voice continued inexorably. “I went to see her this afternoon . . . here’s what I found. . .”
She saw herself open the door and stand, unwelcoming. Brand had apparently used a hidden microphone, as their voices were quite clear. Her comment about the intrusion of the media at the funeral had been edited out. She watched herself look over his shoulder and say, “You’re filming this.” To his next comment the screen Sybil exclaimed, “I’d like to push you down the steps!”
The door slammed, and Pierre Brand turned regretfully to the camera and said, “This story is about passion—passion and murder. Sybil Quade is a passionate woman. You have seen that for yourself.”
Carol seemed quite unsurprised when Sybil said, “It’s been edited!” As she snapped off the set she added, “I don’t know why I was stupid enough to threaten to push him down the steps.”
“It could be worse,” said Carol. “You could have actually picked him up and thrown him.”
Sybil was grinning at the picture that made as the phone rang. It was Terry. How could Sybil have been so stupid as to threaten a man like Pierre Brand? She obviously needed comfort and guidance. Terry would be around in a few minutes. “Terry, I won’t see you. Don’t bother coming round here—I won’t open the door. Please leave me alone. I’m not going to argue with you. I mean it, Terry, no.” She slammed down the phone.
“Hell!” Her eyes met Carol’s. “Don’
t say it, Carol. I know it’s my fault. Terry has that endearing male belief that once you sleep with him you’ve signed over a good part of your life, and that gives him the authority to make demands and expect them to be met.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
Sybil didn’t bother to play dumb. “No,” she said.
Carol’s eyes dropped. “This is an impossible situation,” she said.
Sybil felt an unexpected rush of tenderness. “No, it isn’t,” she said involuntarily, “it can’t be. It feels too good. It’s got to be possible.”
“I should go. You’ve got to get an early start.”
As Carol stood, Sybil thought, what’s the use of talking? The words just drive us further and further apart. She went to stand behind Carol, putting her arms around her waist and nuzzling the side of her neck. “Don’t leave. I want to cuddle you.”
As they slid into an embrace, Carol said, “It’s so easy to give in to you.”
They made love wordlessly, with an aching tenderness that was almost frightening to Sybil. Afterwards, with her mouth against Carol’s bare shoulder, tasting the salt, she said, “Are you happy?”
“Just at this moment, I’m content.”
“That’s not enough.”
Carol moved restlessly. “It’s the best I can offer.”
Chapter Eleven
“I’ve got a report on the anonymous letter,” said Bourke.
Carol was preoccupied. She dumped her briefcase on the desk. “Yes? In summary, what does it say?”
“The person who wrote it is obviously well-educated. The printing is, of course, disguised. The pen is a common ballpoint, identical to the government issue pens given to teachers. The paper and envelope are mass produced and can be bought from any one of a thousand news agents or shops. Of the smudged fingerprints on the envelope, the only identifiable ones belong to Mrs. Farrell and Florrie Dunstane and on the letter itself, only Mrs. Farrell’s.”
