Torn Silk

by Mark Dryden

  I said: "Then I suppose you also know that the police aren't going to do anything about Sloan getting pissed and killing his wife."

  "I've heard that."

  This conversation reminded me of those we had just before we divorced: stilted and never getting to the point. "OK. Then tell me this: if you know so much, why are we having this lunch?"

  "Because I'm concerned about you."

  I raised an eyebrow. "And..."

  She nervously fingered her wine glass. "I want to know what you're going to do next."

  "You mean, about the judge?"

  "Yes."

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "Whether he continues sitting on the Supreme Court bench. If he does, I will cause trouble - lots of it." That was an empty threat because, if the police wouldn't act, nobody would be interested in what I had to say about Sloan and Meredith. Indeed, I'd hurt myself more than them. Still, I was in the mood to kick over the traces and machine-gun the messenger.

  "Don't worry, he won't get off Scot-free. He's been told to retire. It'll be announced in the next few days."

  I scowled. "Really? The drunken bastard ran into a telegraph pole and killed his wife. Now he's going to retire on a big fat pension and join the brigade of retired judges hobbling up and down Phillip Street earning a fortune as mediators."

  "I'm afraid we don't live in a perfect world. And if you keep quiet, people - important people - will be very grateful."

  "You mean, they'll send me Christmas cards?"

  She frowned. "Smart-arse. No, you'll be looked after."

  I crossed my arms. "You mean, I'll get silk?"

  "Definitely. And in a year or two, you'll be offered a judicial appointment - probably the Supreme Court bench. Ironically, by causing so much trouble, you've put yourself in a very good position."

  "You know, a very nasty word is floating around in my brain that starts with 'B'".

  She shook her head. "It's not a bribe. It's a reward for being sensible. I'd also be very grateful." She softened her gaze and touched my arm. It was a familiar gesture, which I had learned to distrust.

  I arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

  "Yes. So don't rock the boat. Though I admire your principles, this isn't the time or place."

  "And if I do cause trouble? What then?"

  "Your career would be more, umm, problematic."

  "Though you'd support me, right?"

  She hesitated. "Of course, though that wouldn't count for much."

  Time to throw in the towel. Feeling empty, I said: "Don't worry. I won't rock the boat."

  She smiled triumphantly. "Good."

  Detective Malloy had indicated he stiIl suspected that I murdered Terry. Maybe Yvonne knew where his investigation was heading. "Are the cops any closer to catching the murderer?"

  She shrugged. "Don't think so. It's still a big mystery."

  It seemed Malloy hadn't pointed the finger of blame at me. That was some consolation.

  We spent the rest of the meal gossiping about friends and discussing Robert's performance at school. Yvonne was very cheerful, obviously pleased to have achieved her goal. Afterwards, as we rode down in the lift, she said: "You alright?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "You look a bit upset. I'm just trying to help, you know."

  Our lunch had reminded me what a bully she could be. I decided our relationship had thawed enough - I didn't want us to get any closer. We would be good friends and, hopefully, good parents - no more.

  I sighed. "I know. Don't worry, I'm just tired. I've had a very stressful week."

  "I understand. Let's have dinner one night?"

  "Sure, maybe sometime next week. I'll give you a call."

  "OK. And make sure you apply for silk."

  I wasn't sure if I would apply, but didn't want a fight. "Don't worry, I will."

  "Good."

  I kissed her on the cheek and trudged off to my chambers, knowing I wouldn't give her a call about dinner and might not apply for silk. She'd be annoyed with me if I didn't do both. But she'd be even more annoyed if Malloy charged me with murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  On Saturday I drove up to Bowral to visit my father. While we sat on the patio, eating a salad lunch, I recounted the events of the last week. However, I didn't mention my affair with Doris or that I might now be a murder suspect, just in case he still harboured some illusions about me.

  When I'd finished, he leaned back, shocked. "My God, you were assaulted in your own chambers. That's something I never worried about when I was a barrister. Times are changing. I'm glad you're alright."

  "So am I."

  "Lucky that woman turned up and rescued you."

  I frowned. "She didn't rescue me: she distracted Schwartz just long enough to give me an edge."

  He giggled. "Yes, I see your point."

  "Anyway, what should I do about Sloan and Meredith? They might not be guilty of murder, but they've committed a lot of other heinous crimes."

  He frowned. "Follow Yvonne's advice and do nothing. They've got you beaten, I'm afraid."

  I was half hoping he'd say that. "I know, though the whole thing pisses me off."

  He smiled. "You, as a lawyer, should know that the legal system is neither just or fair."

  "True."

  "So, I hope none of this will deter you from applying for silk."

  "You're worried it might?"

  "It had crossed my mind."

  I took a long breath. "Well, if you must know, I don't think I'll apply this year - maybe later."

  He frowned. "Why?"

  I looked down at the cattle, chewing the lush grass without a care in the world. The creek sparkled in the distance. "I didn't like being offered silk under the table, but came to accept that. However, when Yvonne told me it would be a reward for keeping quiet about Sloan, she went a bit too far. That really soiled it."

  "You deserve silk."

  "That's not how it was presented."

  "You're being too sensitive."

  "I don't think so."

  A wry smile. "I was worried you might react like this. You know, sometimes I feel you make everything hard for yourself, just to prove you're better than me."

  I often felt he didn't understand me at all. Then he said something like that and made my head spin. I shrugged. "Maybe. But not this time: this time, I'm really pissed off - and not with you."

  He made a bold attempt to look happy, without success. "It's your decision. Though I'd like you to take silk, you've got to feel comfortable about it."

  "Thanks. I'll probably apply in a year or two," I said sincerely.

  "Good."

  "Sorry, Dad."

  He smiled. "Don't worry, I understand. At the end of the day, it's just a bauble. It doesn't change much. If you weren't happy before you got a silk gown, you wouldn't be happy afterwards."

  "You're getting very philosophical."

  "It comes from talking to the cattle."

  We spent the rest of lunch chatting with real affection. The competition between us would continue, of course. But at least we were both starting to enjoy it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  When I got out of the lift on Monday morning, Greta Milliken, the wife of our clerk, sat in the reception area, reading a magazine. I'd met her several times when she accompanied her husband to floor functions.

  I said: "Hello Greta. What brings you here?"

  A dark-haired and olive-skinned, her bird-like frame looked ready to take flight. "Oh, just waiting for Philip. We're going to inspect an apartment."

  "Really? Where?"

  "Pyrmont."

  "So you want to move into an apartment?"

  "Yes. Philip thinks that, with the kids gone, we should downsize."

  "Well, good luck."

  As I strolled towards my room, a shapeless thought attached itself to the base of my brain. I tried to jimmy it free, but nothing happened. Maybe, if I ignored it, it might detach.
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  As I passed Barbara Carmichael's room, I remembered that she once mentioned that Greta complained her husband didn't let her shop anymore.

  Didn't let her shop.

  The trapped thought detached, floated up to the surface of my consciousness and exploded like fireworks: maybe the Millikens were downsizing because they were in financial trouble. That seemed unlikely because Philip earned a good wage and his kids had all left home. But many middle-aged couples did very stupid things with their money.

  I stopped in front of Denise. "Morning. Could you get Dan, the junior clerk, to see me ASAP?"

  "Sure."

  "Thanks."

  Thirty seconds later, my door opened and Dan Butterworth slouched in as if doing me a favour. Dan cruised through life with the world's steadiest pulse.

  I said: "Hi. Take a seat."

  He dropped into an armchair and threw an arm over the back, as if about to interview me. His cockiness would carry him a long way, if he didn't over-reach. "Yeah?"

  "Look, I've heard that Philip Milliken and Terry Riley had a big fight in Terry's room, a couple of days before Terry got murdered?"

  For once, Dan looked uncomfortable and stroked pimples embedded in downy whiskers. "Yeah, they did: a big argument; lots of shouting. I don't know what it was about. The door was shut so their voices were kinda muffled."

  "Fair enough. But, just out of curiosity, who did most of the yelling?"

  "Philip, I think."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Which kinda surprised me."

  "Why?"

  "Well, because he's such a … a …"

  "Suck-arse?"

  Dan smiled. "Yeah, sorta."

  "OK, thanks."

  Dan looked surprised. "That's all?"

  "Yes."

  Dan got to his feet. "No probs."

  As he left, I reflected that Philip had thrown his heart and soul into grovelling to Terry. Only a gross provocation would have persuaded him to launch an insurrection. I was starting to get a good idea what that might be. After a few minutes of reflection, I made some phone calls.

  About mid-afternoon, I phoned Philip and casually asked him to come and see me.

  "What about?"

  "Oh, just something I want to discuss. Take your time."

  "No problem. I'll be right around."

  A minute later, he bowled into my room and smiled like a turkey who's voted for an early Christmas. "Hi, how can I help?"

  I pointed casually towards an armchair. "Take a seat."

  He sat, still smiling. "OK."

  I leaned back. "How's life?"

  He shrugged. "Fine."

  "I ran into Greta this morning. She said you two were going to inspect an apartment."

  He looked wary. "Did she? Well, umm, yeah, we did."

  "You're selling your house?"

  "Yeah. It's on the market."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why's it on the market?"

  He frowned. "We need something smaller. I mean, the kids are gone."

  "Really? Or is it because you lost so much money on the tourist resort project that Terry Riley recommended?"

  His face went white. "The what?"

  "The tourist resort project that Terry recommended."

  His face exploded with colour and eyes bulged. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words emerged. Finally, he croaked. "Don't know what you're talking about."

  I leaned forward and he stared straight past me. "Then let me explain: this morning I asked Doris Riley to look through Terry's papers for a list of investors in the project. She found one that showed you invested $500,000. That's right, isn't it? And you lost the lot, didn't you? The promoters took it as so-called management fees." His face remained frozen. "You lost $500,000, didn't you?"

  After a long pause his voice seemed to come from far away. "How do you know I lost it?"

  "Because everybody lost their money: the project was a scam from day one."

  Another long pause and a slight nod. "That's true."

  "That's why you're selling your house and looking for an apartment, isn't it?"

  He sighed. "Yes."

  "It's also why you shouted at Terry in his room a few days before he died, isn't it?"

  Philip's plump cheeks seemed made of red jelly. I hadn't noticed the gin blossoms before. "H-h-how do you know about that?"

  "You did, didn't you?"

  "Ah, yes."

  "You were demanding repayment, weren't you?"

  Philip looked shocked. "Who told you that?"

  Nothing annoys a barrister more than a witness asking questions. I yelled: "You demanded repayment, didn't you?"

  His whole body trembled. "Yeah, I did. I mean, he told me it was a safe investment; told me he'd keep an eye on my money, and I believed him. So I invested most of my retirement money. But he betrayed me. I wanted my money back."

  "He couldn't pay you back, could he?"

  "He claimed he was broke."

  Time to go bare-knuckle. "So on Sunday afternoon, you drove over to his house and killed him, didn't you?"

  Milliken's eyes fogged up and he emitted a meaningless high-pitched squeal, as if releasing huge psychic pressure.

  "You killed him, didn't you?"

  "No, no."

  "Then where were you?"

  "I...I...I can't remember."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "I can't."

  I yelled. "You kill him, didn't you?"

  "No."

  "Then where were you?"

  He slowly put his head in his hands and surprised me with a loud wail. "OK, OK, but I didn't mean to. I didn't … didn't …. mean to."

  "What happened?"

  He sobbed hard for almost a minute, before looking up, red-eyed, obviously desperate to unburden himself. "When I saw him, in his room, he said he'd only talk to me at his house. So I went over there to discuss everything. But when I got there, he kept saying he didn't have any money. We argued again, I got angry, grabbed a knife off the kitchen bench and … and … stabbed him." Another heavy bout of sobbing. "Jesus, it was a mistake - a big, big mistake. You understand, don't you?"

  I felt some pity. Terry bullshitted Philip that he was a great barrister and businessman, and persuaded Philip to invest far too much money in the resort project. So, when Philip realised that Terry had a brain of straw and feet of clay, he discarded his natural servility and flew into an immense rage.

  I stood up. "Thank you. That's all I wanted to hear. Now, you'll have to talk to the police."

  He looked stunned. "The police? I won't talk to them."

  "You just admitted you killed Terry."

  His lower lip vibrated. "Yeah. But I won't talk to the police. I'll deny everything - everything."

  "I'm afraid you can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Our conversation was taped."

  His jaw dropped. "Taped?"

  "Yes. While you were out having lunch, the police wired this room. They've recorded everything you said."

  He scowled at me. "You bastard. You fucking bastard."

  I hit the button of my intercom. "Detective Malloy, you can come in now."

  Malloy's voice: "On my way."

  Philip glared hard. "Shit, you bastard. You can't use this stuff."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Why not?"

  "What I said was privileged. I'll claim legal professional privilege."

  A little law is a dangerous thing. I shook my head. "If you try, you won't succeed. You didn't brief me to do anything: I was never your lawyer. Sorry, you're going to gaol."

  Malloy came through the door with a burly detective holding a pair of handcuffs. "Mr Milliken, you're under arrest."

  Philip jumped up and took a few steps back. The burly detective grabbed him, snapped on the handcuffs and told him his rights. While being led away, Philip gave me a crimson glare and yelled: "Barristers, fucking barristers; I hate you all - all of you. You're scum, fucking scum."<
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  Those words lingered in the air and clung to the walls long after he'd gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Numerous barristers, and visiting solicitors and their clients, watched in goggle-eyed silence as the detectives frogmarched a handcuffed Philip Milliken towards the lifts.

  My secretary, Denise, sidled up next to me. "What's he done wrong?"

  "He killed Terry."

  "My goodness. Why?"

  "Terry recommended a dud investment. Phillip lost half a mill."

  "Lot of dough."

  "Sure is. You know, Philip now claims he never liked barristers."

  She smile. "That's hardly surprising, is it?"

  "Why?"

  A sardonic grin. "He worked for you lot."

  Why did I employ such a smart-mouthed secretary? Wouldn't make the same mistake next time. Hopefully, she wouldn't start cheering and clapping our murderous floor clerk as he made his final exit. "Ouch. We're not that bad, are we?"

  "Yes you are. In fact, I can think of several more he should have bumped off. He just wasn't ambitious enough."

  "But not me?"

  "No, you pay my salary."

  "Thanks."

  "You know what everyone will say about Phillip now?"

  "What?"

  "They never did like him; always thought he was a bit odd."

  It was as if she'd read my intentions. "I'm sure you're right."

  Thomas Eslick shuffled out of his room, wearing a cardigan, head slightly tilted, as if his thoughts about tax law were too heavy on one side. He saw the detectives shove Philip into a lift.

  Eslick turned to me. "My God, what the hell's happening? Why're they taking him away?"

  "He's been arrested."

  "I can see that. Why?"

  "He murdered Terry."

  "Shit, you're kidding?" His thousand-dollar-an-hour Oxbridge accent had disappeared through a grate, leaving only a faint whine.

  "Nope, he dun' it."

  "Why?"

  "Terry talked him into making a poor investment. Poor guy lost most of his money."

  Eslick's eyes widened. "Oh hell, then that explains it."

  "What?"

  "When I became Head of Chambers, I got our accountant to audit the books. Last week, he found about $40,000 missing."