Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  “How did it check out with samples of handwriting?”

  Bourke made a face. “Inconclusive. The expert wasn’t willing to pick anyone out as a definite possibility. He did say it was unlikely to be Evan Berry or Hilary Cosgrove.”

  “Did you manage to contact Pete McIvor and Terry Clarke?”

  “McIvor’s waiting outside. Clarke’s on his way.”

  Pete McIvor was like a puppy, anxious to please, but unwilling to admit he had done anything wrong. Carol’s patience began to erode. “So this argument between Bill Pagett and Terry Clarke just slipped your mind?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  Carol leaned forward. “Mr. McIvor,” she said, “this is a murder case. Two people have been killed. When you were first interviewed you played dumb, didn’t you?”

  Pete was flushed and confused. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  Carol raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Not important that Bill Pagett was threatened by Terry Clarke just the day before he was murdered? Come now, Mr. McIvor, what would you regard as important?”

  “Terry wouldn’t have done that to Bill. He might have beaten him up, but a drill. . .”

  “You’re an expert on criminal psychology, Mr. McIvor?”

  Pete grew even redder at her sarcasm. “No, of course not. But Terry often said things to Bill . . . I mean, they didn’t get on. . .”

  “Let me see if I understand you: not only did Clarke threaten Bill Pagett on the beach the Sunday before he died, but this was just one of a series of disagreements the two had had over some time.”

  Pete shifted uncomfortably. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

  “It does, Mr. McIvor. Perhaps now you’ll be willing to be frank.”

  Skewered by Carol’s cold green eyes, Pete McIvor capitulated. “All right, this is what happened that Sunday morning. I’d been surfing, and when I came out of the water I ran into Bill. He wanted to talk to me about something.”

  “The five thousand you owed him?” Bourke said.

  Pete looked, if possible, even more miserable. “Yes. I said I was getting the money on Monday, and he said all right. Then Terry Clarke came up. He ignored me and started shoving Bill in the chest, telling him to leave Syb alone. Bill said Syb didn’t want to be left alone, and Terry started swearing. I was sure he was going to hit Bill, but Bill didn’t seem worried. In fact, he laughed at Terry, and told him he had a date with Syb that evening and she was going to stay the whole night with him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Terry looked as if he was going to punch Bill, but then he thought better of it. He told Bill he was sure Syb wouldn’t waste her time on him, and started to walk off. Bill called out after him, and I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t.”

  “What did he call out?”

  Pete looked unhappy. “The exact words?”

  “The exact words.”

  “He said something like, ‘Syb’s a randy little bitch, but you wouldn’t know that, would you—you’ve never rammed it up her like I have.’”

  Carol played with a pen. “What did you take that to mean?” she said after a pause.

  “Why, that Syb had made love with Bill, but not with Terry.”

  “Do you know if there was any truth in that?”

  Pete shook his head. “Syb’s my friend, but I don’t have anything to do with her private life.”

  Bourke said, “And what was the reason you had for keeping quiet about this?”

  Pete groaned. “Ah, jeez, it was Terry. He got me on Monday, after we’d heard about Bill, and he said he’d shut up about the five thousand I owed Bill if I shut up about his argument on the beach.”

  “But you said you had the five thousand to pay back.”

  “Well, yes, I thought I had, but it fell through. It was going to be from my mum, actually, but when my dad found out it was for gambling debts, he wouldn’t let her give me the money.”

  “And you realized that gave you some sort of motive for the murder.”

  “I wouldn’t have killed anyone for five thousand.”

  Carol smiled sarcastically. “But you have your price, do you?”

  “No, of course not. I just thought it would be easier all round if the whole thing was forgotten.”

  Carol leaned back and glanced at Bourke. He flipped over a page and said, “Mr. McIvor, you’ve had a lot of days absent from school, and the term is only a few weeks old.”

  “I was sick.” He sighed. “Well, actually I took some time off to try and get the five thousand. It mightn’t sound like much money, but Bill was turning nasty about it.”

  “This is just one of a series of gambling debts you’ve struggled to pay over the last year or so, isn’t it?”

  He looked sulky. “I’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all.”

  “Three weeks ago, on a Wednesday, you were absent from school.”

  “Was I? I don’t remember.”

  “Who took your sports duty that afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. A relief teacher, maybe. I never asked.”

  A constable put his head around the door. “Inspector? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. Clarke to see you.”

  Carol nodded. “Give me two or three minutes, then bring him in.” To Pete she said, “Please go with Detective Bourke to make a formal statement.” She watched him anxiously groom his mustache as he left. Stupid fool, she thought, why the hell would Sybil offer to give you two thousand dollars?

  Her eyes narrowed as Terry Clarke was ushered into the room. He sat down without a word and stared flatly at her. “Well?” he said at last.

  “Pete McIvor has told us you had an argument with Bill Pagett on Bellwhether Beach the Sunday morning before he died.”

  “Has he? Did he tell you Bill was leaning on him about money he owed?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And that Bill said unless he got the money on Monday, he’d arrange for someone to come and break Pete’s legs?”

  “What I’m interested in,” said Carol, “is your argument with Bill Pagett.”

  Terry looked impatient. “Look, I told the bastard to leave Syb alone. He was a nasty piece of work, you know. Said things about her that made me want to shove his teeth back down his throat. But I wouldn’t kill him. I’ve told you, he wasn’t worthwhile killing.”

  “You agreed with Pete McIvor to keep the whole scene on the beach quiet, didn’t you?”

  Terry gave her a black frown. “Of course I did. Why go looking for trouble?”

  Carol stared at her fingers as she played with a pen. “Did you follow Sybil Quade when she went to Pagett’s place on Sunday night?”

  “Did Syb tell you I did?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Terry leaned back, satisfied. “Syb wouldn’t. I can trust her. Suppose the kid, Hilary Cosgrove, told you about Syb being there.”

  “How do you know about Hilary Cosgrove?”

  Terry was darkly amused. “I was sitting in my car, watching to see that Syb was all right. I saw this kid sneaking up the drive. I taught her last year, so I knew who she was—anyway, it was common gossip that Bill had cracked on to her.”

  Carol hid her distaste, saying mildly, “So you saw Sybil Quade leave?”

  “Her car nearly flattened the kid, screaming down Pagett’s drive. I followed her home to make sure she made it okay.”

  Carol raised her eyebrows. “Do you often secretly follow her around?”

  “I’m keeping an eye on her.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates that.”

  Terry stood up. “Don’t get smart with me,” he said.

  Carol looked at him reflectively. “Were you watching her the night Tony Quade died? Perhaps she had an appointment with her husband on Bellwhether Headland and you saw them meet.”

  “I don’t know anything about Quade’s death, and neither does Syb. Can I go now?”

  At the door, he turned back to say, “You can’t pin anything o
n Syb, so don’t try. Why don’t you ask Pete if he wanted his legs broken, eh? Seems to me he had a perfect reason to want Pagett dead.”

  “But why would Pete McIvor want to kill Tony Quade?”

  Terry grinned wolfishly. “Maybe you’re not so smart, lady cop. What if Quade died accidentally? Or took a dive himself? You just want to make a bigger splash on television—I see you every night on the box. You love it, don’t you—all the attention?”

  Carol smiled at him. “You’ll be asking for my autograph next,” she said.

  Carol drove to a car park overlooking the beach. She sat in her car, gazing at the waves rolling to the beige sand, the surfers riding, falling, heads bobbing in the white breaking water, and thought of Sybil.

  Thought of how many people she had seen involved in violence, and of the heightened emotions, the intensity, the sharp-edged brilliance of life contrasted to death.

  You won’t feel this way, Sybil, when your world stabilizes, when normality returns, when I no longer have power over you.

  Give it up now, she said to herself. Don’t drag it out. Don’t let yourself be seduced by passion, by promises, by love. She shut her eyes. Come on, don’t feel sorry for yourself. You’ve already gone too far. Get out now.

  Edwina looked up, surprised, as Carol opened the front gate. “Doing some gardening,” she said, brushing ineffectually at the dirt clinging to the knees of her floral overalls.

  “I wonder if you’d mind discussing a few things with me.”

  Edwina was delighted with her words. “Discussing!” she said cheerfully. “What happened to interrogations? Where are the bright lights and rubber hoses?”

  Carol smiled moderately. “Could we talk?” she said.

  Edwina led the way through to the veranda at the back of the house. Carol, looking with admiration at the view of water and yachts, said, “I believe your mother lives with you.”

  Edwina gave a snort of laughter. “She’s an invalid. In the front room. Do you want to see her to make sure I’m not making her up? After all, this could be Psycho, and I could be a Norman Bates.”

  Carol had a vision of Anthony Perkins, thin and gangling, standing beside Edwina’s rather fuller form. “May I say hello to her?”

  Carol wanted to see for herself how alert Mrs. Carter was. Bourke had noted that Edwina had used her mother as an alibi the night Tony Quade had died, adding in pencil on his report, ‘might be a bit ga-ga, and confused about the day and time.’

  She found a charming little woman sitting up in bed, vague but polite, who confused Carol with an old friend’s daughter and began a rambling story that Edwina finally cut off with, “Time for your sleep, Mum.”

  Carol didn’t comment on Mrs. Carter as they returned to the beautiful view. Instead she said, “You helped Mrs. Quade with baseball a week or so ago, didn’t you?”

  Edwina shrugged. “I’m the bunny who’s expected to fill in when anyone’s away on a sport afternoon. Why? What’s it got to do with anything?”

  “Did you return all the bats to the sports store?”

  Edwina laughed. “You kidding? The PE Department are so slack they don’t know what equipment they’ve got, let alone what they should have. Anyway, Syb took the stuff back. Why don’t you ask her?”

  Carol ignored that, saying, “You’ve been on television a couple of times.”

  Edwina gestured for her to sit down. “Are we going to be discussing my budding television career?”

  “Not exactly. What I am interested in is the information being supplied to Pierre Brand.”

  Edwina pouted. “You’ll have to ask Lynne about that. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “But it is. Mr. Brand wasn’t very cooperative, but he did eventually admit that you have been supplying him with inside information. For example, he mentioned that you have given him information about anonymous letters received by Mrs. Farrell.”

  Edwina was unrepentant. “So? It’s a free country. I can say what I like.”

  “How did you know about the letters to Mrs. Farrell?”

  Edwina was scornful. “You can’t be a very good detective if you don’t know that already. Florrie told me.”

  “We’ve already spoken to Mrs. Dunstane. I wondered if you’d tell the truth.”

  Edwina beamed at her. “I always tell the truth if I think a lie will be found out.”

  “How did Pierre Brand know Mrs. Quade had gone home early yesterday afternoon?”

  “I rang him and told him.”

  “Do you get paid for these little tips?” asked Carol.

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d do it for love?”

  “How about hate?”

  Edwina’s face was flushed and there was a line of perspiration along her upper lip. “Hate Syb? Why should I hate her?”

  “Do you know several people have received anonymous telephone calls like the one you had?”

  “Yes, of course I do. Lynne went on and on about hers and how she felt and how Bruce had to keep the kids because she thought they were in danger.” She set her mouth. “Stupid bitch,” she added. She looked over at Carol. “And, Inspector, Alan and Syb had calls. Have I missed anyone? Don’t tell me Phyllis Farrell! I can just see her face.”

  “Did you tell anyone that you had received a call?”

  Edwina’s face became mottled. She heaved herself to her feet. “I told you, Inspector, because it’s your job to know. But why the hell do you think I’d go round telling anyone else someone called me a bag of lard and threatened to push me off a cliff?”

  Carol nodded. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  Sunday was gray and heavy. Carol groaned as Bourke dumped a bulging folder in front of her. “Why can’t it be like the movies?” she complained. “They never get all this paperwork.”

  Bourke’s enthusiasm was not infectious. Carol hadn’t slept well and her head was aching, but she was determined to plow through the work with Bourke to get it out of the way. She thought of Sybil and wondered what she was doing.

  “Sybil Quade,” said Bourke. “Did I startle you, Carol?”

  “I was just thinking. What about her?”

  “Did you see her lose her temper with Brand on his program? I told you she was passionate. And why has she been so reluctant to tell us the truth? I mean, everything we know has been dragged out of her, bit by bit. Do you think she’s protecting someone?”

  In her imagination Carol could see the turn of her head and her quick smile. “Who?” she said.

  “How about Terry Clarke? I can’t believe they’re not sleeping together. I mean, who could resist Terry? He has a kind of neanderthal charm, don’t you think?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” said Carol.

  Bourke grinned. “Not if it doesn’t please you, Carol, and it obviously doesn’t. About Sybil, though—could she be scared of Terry? Intimidated into keeping quiet? He is pretty formidable.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, then, let’s look at Pete McIvor. After all, she was willing to give him two thousand dollars with no likelihood of getting it back. So how about Pete and Sybil as lovers? I’m sure she could get him to do anything she liked.”

  “You mean murder someone for her?”

  “Well, it’s a popular motive, and, like I said, even I might kill for her.” He smiled at Carol’s expression. “I see Pete doesn’t meet with your favor, either. Well, there’s always Alan Witcombe.”

  “You see Sybil Quade having an affair with Alan Witcombe?”

  “I admit it does require an imaginative leap, but you know as well as I do it’s not impossible. All that concentration on sex and sin isn’t much good without a healthy outlet—and you don’t get much healthier than our Syb. Remember, Alan told me he thinks Sybil’s absolutely wonderful.”

  “I find your flippancy this morning quite wearing,” said Carol, opening the folder. “How are your inquiries about nail polish going?”

  “Oh, fair go!” said Bourke. “It’s up
hill work. You won’t be surprised to learn that nail polish color isn’t a vivid memory in most people’s minds.”

  “Does Edwina Carter wear nail polish?”

  Bourke sighed. “Frequently. And so does every second female on the staff at least some of the time.”

  “Sybil Quade? I haven’t seen her wearing it.”

  “Maybe she’s given it up, since the murder.”

  “All right, Mark, keep at it.”

  “Okay,” said Bourke, “but you know if it’s a woman, she almost certainly changed the color of her nails right after the murder.”

  “Yes,” said Carol, “that’s what we’re looking for.”

  When Sir Richard rang, Bourke had gone and Carol was staring moodily at a glass of whiskey. “Yes, Sir Richard, Mark Bourke and I have just finished reviewing the evidence to date.”

  Sir Richard had seen Pierre Brand’s program on Friday night. He was interested in Sybil Quade’s angry threat to push Brand down the steps. Had Carol spoken to her? As Brand had pointed out, she was a passionate woman.

  As Carol assured Sir Richard she had interviewed Mrs. Quade on several occasions, she thought of Sybil’s naked skin, the smooth line of her back, the way her body arched as she climaxed. “Mrs. Quade may have been responding to the pressure exerted by the media—she’s a very private person,” she said.

  “Has she admitted she had an affair with my son?”

  “No.”

  Sir Richard was impatient. “Well, get it out of her. Bill gave me to understand they were lovers.”

  “At the same time as he was going with Hilary Cosgrove?”

  “Well, Inspector, that gives a perfect motive. Sybil Quade is in love with Bill, but he throws her over for someone younger and more attractive.”

  Carol couldn’t resist. “Have you met Mrs. Quade?” she said.

  “Not in the flesh. No.”

  “If you had, you wouldn’t imagine she’d be passed over for someone else.”

  “Oh?” said Sir Richard. “But isn’t that exactly what happened? Her husband dumped her, didn’t he?”

  Mrs. Farrell’s hand hesitated over the phone, then she lifted it, checked a number and dialed. “Inspector Ashton? Sorry to worry you at home on a Sunday, but there’s one little detail about the day Mr. Pagett died that’s been bothering me. I know it may sound rather ridiculous, but it’s about clashing colors.”