Torn Silk

by Mark Dryden

  I said: "That sounds good. I'll drop over to Beth's place later tonight."

  She sounded utterly exhausted. "OK, OK. You know where she lives?"

  "No."

  Doris recited an address in Wollstonecraft. I picked up a pen and scrawled it on the palm of my hand. "Got it."

  "Good. Got to go. See you there."

  "OK. Stay strong."

  CHAPTER SIX

  An hour later, I drove to Beth's house, still emotionally numb. Terry's sudden death was hard enough to digest. The manner of his demise compounded the shock. Who the hell would murder him? He was no saint and must have had enemies. Yet, he seemed the last guy to provoke murderous rage.

  The last time I saw him, at the Bench & Bar Dinner, he hinted he'd soon be leaving the Bar and exchanged some harsh words with Justice Sloan. Surely though, the judge didn't kill him. I was quite happy to believe a judge was capable of murder. After all, they're monkeys in suits, like the rest of us. But Sloan seemed much too smart to solve a problem with homicide.

  I gave up playing detective and felt the tug of sadness. My friendship with Terry mainly revolved around work and I found his defects far more amusing than I should have. But I knew him for a long time, and always enjoy his company because he was so affable and positive about life, and himself.

  Beth lived in a small Federation bungalow in Wollstonecraft. I hadn't met her before, though Doris once mentioned she was twice divorced and lived alone. Doris often used her as an alibi when she visited me, and claimed Beth didn't mind.

  I pressed the door buzzer. Feet approached. My heart thudded. A tall, angular woman in her mid-forties, strikingly similar to Doris, opened the door. A heavy frown. Why? Concern for Doris? Anger at me?

  A prim voice. "Ben Kennedy?"

  "Yes. Beth?"

  "That's right. Please come in."

  "How's Doris?"

  "Devastated, just devastated."

  I nervously followed her down the hallway to a small living room with mahogany picture rails, an art deco fireplace, two plush sofas and an armchair in which Doris sat, eyes closed. I whispered her name.

  Her eyes shot open. "Ben."

  "Doris. How are you?"

  She lurched to her feet and almost collapsed into my arms. "Oh, Ben, it's terrible. Just terrible."

  I held her tight. "I know."

  Terry's death suddenly hit me. Tears laced my cheeks.

  She buried her face in my chest and sobbed hard. After about a minute, I stepped back, holding her shoulders. "You'd better sit down. You must be very tired."

  She nodded dumbly and collapsed back into the armchair. I sat on the adjoining sofa, holding her hand. Beth leaned back against a wall.

  Doris closed her eyes again; her voice slurred. "Oh God, I'm so tired, so tired. Beth gave me a couple of tranquillisers. They've helped. But I don't know how I'll sleep tonight. I just can't stop thinking about what I saw. I mean, when I left Terry, he was alive, and when I got home, he … he … he was laying on the floor in the kitchen, covered in blood." Her eyes sprang opened, reliving the horror.

  "It must have been terrible."

  "Oh, it was. It was."

  "I know you're in shock, but you've got to tell me what happened. How did Terry seem, when you left the house to see me?"

  She shrugged, looking drowsy again. "Oh, he seemed fine. In fact, he seemed rather happy."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged slightly. "I don't know. He just seemed in a good mood."

  "Did he say what he'd do while you were out?"

  "No, and I didn't ask."

  "Did he mention meeting anyone?"

  "No. Like I said, we didn't talk about what he'd do. I guess I assumed he'd watch TV or potter around; I just said I'd be home between about four and five, and left."

  "OK. And what happened when you got home?"

  Doris went grey and held her stomach. Haltingly, she described how she wandered into the kitchen and found Terry laying on his belly, blood all over his back. She closed her eyes and sounded disembodied. "It was obvious he was dead; I mean, the blood had already started to dry." She sobbed again. "Oh, it was horrible, horrible."

  I squeezed her hand and tried to stay calm and factual, as if she was a client at our first conference. "And there were stab wounds?"

  "Yeah, looked like it."

  "You didn't see a knife?"

  "No."

  "Then you called the police?"

  "I called triple-O and said my husband was murdered. About ten minutes later, police cars started arriving from everywhere."

  "And you talked to the police?"

  "Yes, of course, to the detective in charge. I think his name was Molloy or something like that."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I was incredibly upset, of course. I told him I was out all afternoon and, when I got home, I found Terry dead."

  My chest constricted and hands curled into fists. This was where I slotted into the murder investigation. Terry was murdered while Doris and I were bonking in my apartment. Did she reveal that? I had to know.

  I said: "Umm, did he ask where you were this afternoon?"

  Doris' lips trembled and voice quavered. "Yes."

  My vocal cords tightened. "What did you say?"

  "I, umm, said I was with Beth."

  My brain processed relief, fear and guilt without really making a selection. "You what?"

  "I said I was with Beth."

  "You lied?"

  "Umm, yes."

  "Why?"

  "I panicked. I didn't want to tell them that I spent the afternoon with another man. They might have suspected us. I tried to protect you."

  She'd had a bunch of bad options and I couldn't really blame her for lying. But I had a terrible feeling her lie would come back to haunt us. We wouldn't escape the police net so easily.

  Doris said: "Don't worry, Beth will back me up: she'll give me an alibi. We'll say we went shopping together."

  We both looked across at Beth who nodded coolly. "Don't worry, that's fine with me."

  I blurted out. "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  Christ. If the police ever found out that Doris lied to them, and I knew she lied and did nothing, I would get struck off the roll of barristers, permanently, and maybe go to gaol.

  This topic was very unsettling. Time for another. I turned to Doris. "Have you got any idea who killed Terry?"

  She shook her head. "No. But the police think he knew the killer."

  "Why?"

  "We've got an expensive alarm system, and big locks on all the doors and windows. There are no signs of a break-in. So they think Terry let the killer in through the front door."

  "Maybe Terry invited the killer over to your house because he knew you'd be away for the afternoon, umm, seeing your sister; maybe he didn't want you to see this guy."

  Doris' eyes widened. "I suppose that's possible."

  "So, does that set off any bells?"

  She looked exhausted. Heavy wrinkles blossomed on her forehead. "No. I still can't imagine why anyone would want to kill Terry. It's just crazy - crazy."

  "You said he was worried about something recently?"

  "Yes. But, like I said, I don't know what - I just don't."

  Even if Doris knew something worthwhile - which I doubted - she was too tired to focus. So I asked if she'd contacted Terry's ex-wife, Maureen, or his son, David, to reveal what had happened. She hadn't and begged me to do it.

  "Leave it to me."

  I had to ring a few people to get Maureen's telephone number. Then I went into the next room and broke the news to her. She sounded quite upset and pressed me for information about who killed Terry. I said I had no idea, and would keep her informed. She promised to pass on the news to David.

  When I got back to the living room, Beth went off to prepare a bed for Doris. I sat and took Doris' hand. She obviously didn't want to talk much, which suited me.

  Terry's death would drastically alter the bond
between us. I'd always made it clear I didn't want a full-on relationship. Now I didn't have Terry as a bulwark. A great attraction of my affair with Doris - its simplicity - was gone. Somehow, I had to provide her with real support without becoming an emotional crutch or partner. Beware of pity, I told myself - beware.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I woke the next morning, tired and crappy, and not sure why until the events of the previous night flooded my brain: Terry murdered; Doris widowed. Christ. My heart thumped as if I'd just plunged off a building.

  The day ahead also filled me with gloom. The hearing of Arnold v Taggart & Ors was scheduled to resume in the Supreme Court and I was now in charge. Normally, that wouldn't have bothered me. I knew a lot more about the case than Terry ever did. But the events of the last 24 hours had left me exhausted. I'd have trouble focusing. In one sense, that wouldn't matter, because the case was going head-first over a cliff. Still, I liked to do a good job.

  My watch insisted it was almost seven o'clock. Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed, padded into the living-room, turned on the TV and slumped onto the couch. A wiry woman in a leotard pranced up and down, barking out commands like a Marine drill sergeant: "Stretch, one, two, three, four …" She couldn't persuade me.

  Mercifully, after about five minutes, the morning news program started. As I expected, the lead story was about Terry's death. A bouffant newsreader contrived a mournful expression and intoned ominously. "A prominent Sydney barrister was murdered yesterday afternoon. Terence Riley, a leading silk, was stabbed to death in the kitchen of his house. According to police, his wife found his body when she returned home. Police are still searching for the culprit. Action News Reporter Brian Gilbert is now at the scene ..."

  Terry Riley's large Federation mansion in Woollahra flashed onto the screen. Crime scene tape fluttered across the lawn. A police car was parked in the driveway. A bearded reporter in a trench-coat stood on the nature strip, shoulders hunched against the cold, holding a microphone.

  The newsreader said: "Brian, any new developments?"

  The reporter tapped his earpiece. "No Doug, afraid not. The Homicide detectives investigating the murder have no firm leads. However, they strongly suspect Mr Riley knew the killer and let him into the house."

  The new-reader said: "Have the police found the murder weapon?"

  "No, they're still looking for it."

  "So this story is just developing?"

  "Yes, that's right, Doug. There are a lot more revelations to come."

  The newsreader moved on to another item and I went through my morning ablutions. Then I caught a ferry to Circular Quay and trudged up the hill, already incredibly tired. I didn't want to talk to anyone or do anything, and didn't expect my mood to improve for quite a while.

  The NSW Bar floats on gossip seasoned with pinches of truth. News of Terry's demise would already be ricocheting around Phillip Street. Wherever barristers gathered - in chambers, courthouses, bars and coffee shops - it would be the number-one topic. Dark rumours about him and the identity of his killer would spawn and mutate, and harden into fact like drying manure.

  Thomas Erskine Chambers had about 30 barristers whose rooms were spread around the outer walls. Secretarial cubicles and the library clogged the centre.

  When I first joined the floor it had a certain Dickensian squalor. A recent refurbishment had introduced mahogany walls, brass fittings and a thick red carpet. The new fit-out should have cost a fortune. However, because builders love gouging barristers, it cost a hell of a lot more than that. I'd probably still be paying off my share when I retired.

  On Monday mornings, the floor usually hummed with life as barristers scurried about preparing for court. Now there was a special tension. The first indicator was our receptionist, Melissa, twenty-one and, when her acne was in remission, quite pretty. Terry had - so far as I was aware - barely noticed her existence, except to berate her for losing calls or forgetting messages. Her eyes and nose were bright red, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She hadn't been so upset since her cat base-jumped out of her apartment.

  She wiped her eyes with some tissues. "Oh, Mr Kennedy, it's terrible about Mr Riley, isn't it? Just terrible."

  Her distress was a little embarrassing, as I could never hope to match it. "Yes. Your concern is very touching."

  "Such a lovely man - so lovely."

  "Yes."

  "He gave me a big box of chocolates last Christmas." She choked up and her face pitch forward into a bed of tissues.

  The Floor Clerk, Philip Milliken, occupied a small glass-fronted cubicle behind the reception desk. His chubby frame scuttled towards me.

  His job was to manage the floor and market barristers to solicitors. He was competent at the first, which wasn't hard, and lousy at the second, which was. Certainly, he'd never steered any work in my direction. So, while I was polite to him, I usually paid him little regard.

  His forehead was heavily creased and jaw trembled. I wasn't surprised. The murder of our Head of Chambers wasn't good for the floor's image. Solicitors would wonder what dark secrets lurked behind our mahogany-panelled walls. Philip also had to worry about his job security. He and Terry had a symbiotic relationship: Terry loved adulation and Philip loved giving it. Now Philip's investment in Terry was dust.

  He said: "Mr Kennedy, have you heard the news? Unbelievable, isn't it? Who would murder Mr Riley? Incredible."

  "It certainly is."

  "He was a great man. A truly great man."

  "You're right."

  "Umm, I just got a call from the police - a Homicide detective - who said some detectives are on their way here. I hope they don't cause too much disruption. This is bad for our reputation."

  "We could ask them to wear disguises."

  He brightened. "You think so?"

  "I'm joking. Did he say what they want?"

  "Yeah. They want to search Mr Riley's room and maybe interview a few people on the floor."

  A flutter of concern. Stay calm. "Did they say who they want to interview?"

  "No. He also told me to stop anyone going into Mr Riley's room."

  "OK, though there's a trolley of stuff in there I'll need for court this morning. I'll grab it myself."

  "Alright."

  "What's the rest of the floor saying about Terry's death?"

  "They're shocked, of course. A floor meeting has been arranged for this evening."

  Barristers love calling meetings and talking issues to death. I sighed. "Why?"

  "To, umm, review the situation."

  "What time?"

  "About five, in Gary Eslick's room."

  "I'll try to make it."

  On the way to my room, I passed the cubicle of Terry's secretary, Rosemary Clarke, a big, buxom woman with a booming laugh. Now though, she was hunched over the phone, whispering, cheeks wet.

  My secretary, Denise Roberts, sat in her cubicle, wearing earphones, typing hard. Denise was a stocky woman in her early forties with a mousy husband and three teenage kids. Despite her lowly position, she was smarter than any of the barristers on the floor, including me. She usually carried that heavy psychic burden with dignity. However, she could be quite waspish and, because one of her children was intellectually disabled, had no sympathy for my "first world problems".

  Now, she whipped off her earphones, eyes like saucers. "My God, Ben, have you heard?"

  "About Terry? Yes, I've heard."

  "What do you think? It's terrible, isn't it?"

  "Yes - poor Terry."

  "On TV, they said he was murdered."

  "I saw that."

  She looked suspicious. "Do you know anything - any inside stuff?"

  "A bit."

  "What?"

  I held up my hands and shook my head. "Sorry, I can't talk right now. I've got lots to do, including getting ready for court."

  She looked ultra-annoyed. "OK. But you'll tell me later, right?"

  I sighed. "Yes, we'll have a fabulous chat."

  "Good. A
nd, umm, Bob Meredith's already here. I said he could wait in your room."

  "Thanks."

  I ducked into Terry's room to grab the trolley holding the Arnold brief and discovered a colleague called Geoff Mantel kneeling behind the desk, rummaging through a drawer.

  I've always distrusted men who comb their hair straight back, smile too much or get caught riffling through the desk of a deceased colleague. Mantel was guilty on all counts. Though he'd only been at the Bar for a few years, he was quite successful, mainly because several heavyweight silk, including Terry, had picked him as a rising star and bestowed their patronage. However, I had serious doubts about his brains and judgement, because he'd told me, several times, that Terry was a brilliant lawyer. I suspected his only real talent was for being a protégé.

  His wife, Joan, was also a floor member and, like him, had tremendous drive harnessed to meagre talent. She once told me that she and Geoff were one of the Bar's "power couples", and took my stunned silence as assent.

  Why was Geoff ratting Terry's belongings? I coughed politely. His head bobbed up and he looked close to a heart attack. Obviously, neither of us had been in this position before.

  "Oh, shit, Ben, what the hell are you doing here?"

  "I was about to ask you the same question."

  Geoff used his thigh to close the drawer. "I'm, umm, umm, looking for something."

  "Yeah? What?"

  Despite his profession, he wasn't good at thinking on his feet. A long pause. Trembling hands. "I'm looking for, umm, ah, something."

  "What?"

  "Ah, something."

  "Do you know Terry's dead?"

  "Yes. I heard this morning, on the radio. Terrible, just terrible. That's why I thought I'd look for, umm, a book I lent him. That's right, a book."

  Too bad I hadn't opposed him. "A book?"

  "Yes, a contracts textbook. You know, Fosdick & Malone." Geoff edged towards the door, as if this was a bad pantomime.

  I said: "I don't think Terry kept any textbooks in his desk drawers."

  Geoff feigned surprise. "You don't? You really don't?"