by Robert Gott
The threat of being unfairly sent to Coventry again was part of the reason he found himself, in the late afternoon of 1 April, sitting in his car outside Peter Lillee’s house. He didn’t have a specific plan, just a notion that he needed to find out for certain whether or not Ron Dunnart had killed Peter Lillee. The key to that, he thought, was to be found behind the doors of Lillee’s mansion. He needed to talk to the housekeeper, even though she’d been so suspicious of him and Dunnart just a few days ago. He needed to see inside the house. He thought he had a reasonable chance now of convincing that surly bitch that he had a legitimate reason for questioning her, and for looking around the place. He was a Homicide detective. The man who employed her was dead.
‘I’m just following up on some details.’ That’s what he’d tell her. She wouldn’t have a clue how homicide investigations worked, so this time she’d let him in. What was he looking for? O’Dowd didn’t know. Perhaps he’d find a note written by Dunnart asking Lillee to meet him down by the Yarra River. This was unlikely, but he needed something to link Dunnart to the crime. Could he create this note himself? Could he use Lillee’s own typewriter to produce something that linked Dunnart to the crime? Lillee was bound to have a typewriter. All O’Dowd needed was a few minutes alone with it. Would he turn such evidence in, or would he use it to have more control over Dunnart? O’Dowd’s hands were shaking, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Why did he feel so desperate? He should turn around and drive home. No. He’d come this far. Who dares, wins. His father had been in the air force and barely a day went by without him saying, ‘Who dares, wins.’
O’Dowd got out of his car, put his hat neatly on his head, and took a few deep breaths. ‘I’m following up on some details.’ He rehearsed this line in a whisper, and walked to the front door. He took the odd-looking knocker in his fingers and let it fall heavily against the metal plate three times. The woman he believed to be the housekeeper opened the door. Ros Lord was surprised to see O’Dowd standing there. She noticed that he was sweating more profusely than the day’s heat warranted. She also noticed as he took off his hat that his hand shook slightly. Here was a nervous man. O’Dowd produced his identification.
‘I remember who you are,’ Ros said. ‘Why are you here again?’
‘I’m an investigating officer with the Homicide department, Mrs …?’
Once again, Ros didn’t provide her name.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I’m sure other members of the department have already spoken to you about the death of your employer, Peter Lillee.’
He waited a moment to allow the woman to confirm that this was so. She merely stared at him.
‘I’m just following up on some details. If I could come inside, I’d like to ask you some questions and perhaps examine Mr Lillee’s papers, if there are any.’
Ros Lord could hardly believe that a man as transparent and stupid as this man was could be employed as a detective. She thought about shutting the door in his face, but realised that his interest in Peter Lillee’s death must be outside the official investigation. This had something to do with his earlier visit with the detective named Dunnart. She invited him in.
O’Dowd was relieved that his strategy had worked. His relief didn’t last long. He was intimidated by the opulence of Lillee’s house. It made him feel clumsy and shabby, and the sensation was exacerbated when the woman directed him away from the main rooms towards what, if he’d known the term, he would have called the butler’s pantry. It was a small room with an ironing board and iron, a sewing machine, and a couple of uncomfortable-looking plain chairs. The woman indicated that he should sit in one of these. Ros hadn’t chosen to park O’Dowd here in order to embarrass him. She knew that Helen and Joe were in the back garden and that they might come back into the house at any moment. She wanted a few words with O’Dowd before she turned him over to them.
‘My name is Mrs Rosalind Lord.’
O’Dowd nodded, but gave no indication that the surname meant anything to him.
‘And you are, were, Peter Lillee’s housekeeper?’
‘No. Well, in a manner of speaking. I looked after the running of the house.’
O’Dowd didn’t understand the distinction she was making. Was she Lillee’s mistress? Lillee was queer, though.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. So, you’re not his housekeeper?’
‘No, Sergeant. I’m Peter Lillee’s sister. Lord is my married name.’
‘His sister? But you live here?’
‘Yes. I live here with my daughter, Helen. Helen Lord.’
Again, O’Dowd gave no sign that the name meant anything to him. He took out a notebook to make a show of asking questions. It was Ros who asked the first question.
‘What are you really doing here, Sergeant? Why have you come back without your detective chum? Dunnart was his name, wasn’t it?’
‘As I said, Mrs Lord, there are details …’
‘You’re lying, and I want to know why. What have you got to do with my brother’s death?’
The baldness of the question ambushed O’Dowd into physically revealing that he was indeed lying. The colour drained from his face, and he stammered an inadequate attempt at outrage.
‘… I-I understand that your brother’s death must have come as a shock, but why would you think that I had something to do with it? I’m here to find out what happened to Mr Lillee. Have you accused every policeman who’s been here of killing your brother?’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Sergeant. It was a stab in the dark. I’m sorry if I offended you.’
O’Dowd felt mollified by the apology and failed to see it for what it was — an empty expression that masked Ros Lord’s conviction that she’d stumbled on a suspect. She didn’t believe that O’Dowd was a murderer — she’d met one or two murderers, and O’Dowd didn’t strike her as having the stomach for it — but he was implicated in some way. She had neither the skill nor the authority to go any further, so to back up her apology, and to put O’Dowd at his ease, she suggested that he come with her to the library, where she would be happy to allow him to go through Peter’s desk.
‘There’s a drawer that was locked when the other policemen were here. I found the key this morning, so you’ll be the first to go through it.’
This volte-face ought to have been unconvincing, but O’Dowd’s head was still fizzing as his panic receded, and he congratulated himself on manipulating this Lord woman into giving him what he wanted. Dunnart couldn’t have done a better job.
Ros took O’Dowd to the library and told him that she’d just fetch the key and that he should feel free to look around. He thanked her and was pleased to feel that he’d reasserted his authority. Ros closed the door behind her and went out into the back garden. Joe and Helen were deep in conversation, and amid the confusion of emotions Ros was experiencing, an uninvited one raised its head: jealousy that her daughter was speaking so freely to Joe, when she’d rarely, if ever, granted her the privilege of such easy chat. Ros tamped down this unworthy thought. She coughed to signal her presence. Both Helen and Joe greeted her with a smile.
‘There’s someone in the library I think you should both meet. He’s a detective from your department, Joe.’
‘Not Inspector Lambert?’
‘No. Sergeant Bob O’Dowd is here to follow up on some details. That’s what he said.’
Helen and Joe stood up quickly.
‘He didn’t recognise your name, darling.’
‘He’d never have bothered to learn my name, Mum.’
‘I think he’s going to be very, very surprised to see you. He’s expecting me to come back with a key to unlock a drawer. He’s most anxious to look through Peter’s papers. I knew the first time I met him that he was a wrong’un. He’s also a very stupid man, and stupidity can be dangerous.’
‘He’s here
off his own bat,’ Joe said.
‘I know. I’d like you and Helen to find out why.’
RON DUNNART HAD looked closely at all the available evidence in relation to Peter Lillee’s death, including David Reilly’s and Joe Sable’s notes. It was clear to Dunnart that whatever this was, what it wasn’t was murder. He’d noted that everyone who’d known Lillee discounted suicide as a cause. Dunnart wasn’t so sure. He’d read Lambert’s account of his interview with Lillian Johnson. The night Dunnart had bearded Lillee in his car was the night that that relationship had come to an end. Would breaking off an engagement cause a bloke to take his own life? That might depend on the reason for the break-up.
Dunnart was reluctant to give up the idea that Lillee was queer. What if this Johnson woman had discovered the truth about him, and what if she’d threatened him with exposure? He wished he could talk to her, but he wouldn’t be so reckless as to talk to anyone involved in the case without consulting with Lambert. The last thing he wanted to do was to give the impression that his interest was personal. This was just another case, and he’d only been assigned to it peripherally. He couldn’t be seen to be distracted from the other cases he was working on. His and O’Dowd’s visit to the Lillee house was bound to come up, even though it hadn’t yet appeared in any of the notes. He needed to pre-empt this discovery by revealing it himself. He’d do this first thing on Monday morning, having taken O’Dowd aside first. The explanation was simple. He’d go into Lambert’s office and tell him that he’d just noticed that Lillee’s address was one of the houses he and O’Dowd had doorknocked in relation to another investigation. They’d visited several houses that day, he’d say. Would Lambert check? Why would he bother? He might want to know which investigation he was referring to. That was easy. It didn’t matter which one. Dunnart was just following up on a tip he’d been given by one of his snouts, and it hadn’t proved useful. All it had resulted in was this coincidence. Dunnart was happy with this story, and even O’Dowd couldn’t mess it up. Surely.
WHEN HELEN AND Joe entered the library, they found Bob O’Dowd going through some papers that he’d removed from a drawer in Peter Lillee’s beautiful desk. He stared at them blankly for a moment. What was Joe Sable doing here, and wasn’t that that sheila who’d worked with Lambert for a while? What was her name?
Helen asked, with ominous calm, ‘What are you doing going through my uncle’s desk?’
O’Dowd couldn’t comprehend what was happening.
‘Uncle?’
Both Helen and Joe let the silence grow. In an effort to marshal the disordered fragments that were hurtling through his mind, O’Dowd stood up. It was a mistake. He felt light-headed. A voice, his, although it sounded disembodied to him, said, ‘What are you doing here?’
Helen walked towards him.
‘I live here.’
With a supreme effort of will, O’Dowd rallied sufficiently to grasp the connection between this young woman, who he’d seen at Russell Street, and Peter Lillee. Helen Lord. The other woman, Rosalind Lord, must be her mother. Although this made sense, what didn’t make sense was Dunnart’s failure to warn him of the connection. Unless Dunnart didn’t know. How could he not know? A sudden rush of anger cleared O’Dowd’s head.
‘I’m just doing my job, trying to find out who murdered your uncle.’
‘Murdered?’ Until Joe spoke, O’Dowd hadn’t begun to account for his presence. Lambert must have sent him to question Lillee’s sister and niece. This was awkward, but perhaps he could co-opt him as a fellow investigator.
‘Sergeant Sable and I are following up on leads. Right, Sergeant?’
Joe ignored the question.
‘Murdered?’ he repeated. ‘You said Peter Lillee was murdered.’
The tenor of Sable’s question made O’Dowd feel as if he’d made a misstep.
‘This is a murder investigation, Sergeant, as you very well know.’
Joe and Helen again let the silence grow. O’Dowd’s confidence deserted him.
‘Mrs Lord is getting the key to one of these drawers,’ he said uncertainly. O’Dowd quickly checked something he should have checked as soon as he’d sat down behind the desk. All the drawers opened easily.
‘I think we should get comfortable,’ Helen said. She indicated the armchairs ranged around the elegant Adam-inspired fireplace. ‘Then you can tell us why you lied to my mother and why you’re lying to us.’
Us? O’Dowd thought. Oh Christ, were Sable and Lord an item? He moved to an armchair. Helen and Joe did the same.
‘You have no authority to be here,’ Joe said.
‘I’m your senior officer, Sergeant. I think you need to explain your presence before I do.’
Joe could have discomposed O’Dowd by simply saying ‘I live here’, as Helen had done, but Inspector Lambert had warned him that this arrangement should be known to as few people as possible.
‘I’m here,’ Joe said, ‘because Inspector Lambert sent me here.’
‘Likewise,’ O’Dowd said.
‘The answer to that is a telephone call away,’ Helen said. ‘Shall I make that call?’
O’Dowd wished he’d paid more attention when Sable’s and Lord’s names had come up in conversation at Russell Street. Helen Lord’s name hadn’t stuck. They weren’t popular, he knew that, and Sable was about to become the most hated man in the force. They were seen as Lambert’s favourites. That much he did know.
‘No,’ O’Dowd said softly. ‘Don’t make that call.’
‘Do you know who murdered my uncle?’
The question was so unexpected that O’Dowd received it with the force of a punch. His answer stunned each of them. Perhaps O’Dowd himself was most stunned by it.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do.’
8
GUY KIRKHAM CHOSE King’s Hotel in Russell Street for two reasons. It was close to the police headquarters where his closest friend, Joe Sable, worked, and it sported a glorious Art Nouveau stained-glass window near its entrance. The purity of that window and its neighbour window had been spoiled a little by vulgar stencilling between them that read, ‘First Class Accommodation for Boarders and Country Visitors’. That was sufficient to warn anyone that whatever promise those windows once hinted at, King’s Hotel had reached a point where it could no longer live up to it. Flash hotels did not encourage boarders. Still, it suited Guy Kirkham.
He ought to have contacted Joe weeks ago, as soon as he’d been demobbed, only he couldn’t face telling him why the army had seen fit to release him from service. He’d been invalided out, not because he’d been wounded, but because he’d started screaming in the middle of the night. It had been unnerving for the men who’d slept near him, and during the day he’d found himself falling deeply and suddenly asleep. It wasn’t sleep exactly. It was more like short bursts of unconsciousness. Then it had happened once when he’d been driving a Jeep in Port Moresby. Private Harry Compton had been in the car with him. It was such a short trip, and they should have walked, but Private Compton had had an infected toe and had asked Guy to drive him over the uneven ground between their tent and the hospital tent. Guy had gone over it a thousand times in his head. If only he’d said no. But Harry was in pain and Harry had begged him to use the Jeep. Guy had agreed. And then he’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
The Jeep hadn’t even been going very fast, but it’d hit a pothole and over-turned. Guy was unhurt. Harry Compton’s neck was broken. Harry Compton was twenty years old. He’d never slept with a woman. Now he was dead.
As far as the army was concerned, Guy Kirkham had killed Harry Compton. But Guy’s father was rich and connected, so Guy had been invalided out, with the shameful diagnosis of mental incompetence. The screaming had been real, and the narcolepsy had been real, but the army had been relieved of any obligation to fund Guy’s treatment by Mr Kirkham’s guarantee that the Kirkham family would assume full
responsibility for Guy’s rehabilitation. It was an unorthodox arrangement, but the Kirkhams had enough money and influence to ensure that it happened. He’d be safely tucked away on the family property near Natimuk, in the north-west of Victoria — a small settlement, a long way from Melbourne. Guy had been released into his family’s care. His family, however, hadn’t been prepared for the man who’d turned up on their remote doorstep.
Telling his son to ‘buck up’ didn’t silence the screams that woke the Kirkham household on his first night back home. Mr Kirkham prescribed fence building and mustering as the best treatment for what he dismissed as ‘the collywobbles’. Mrs Kirkham had no opinion on the matter. She was frankly ashamed of her son, even horrified by his condition, as if she were a Spartan woman who believed that her warrior boy should return holding his shield proudly, or lying on it, dead.
Guy volunteered to move into an empty farmhand’s cottage at some distance from the main house. The sounds of his nightmares carried eerily over paddocks and dams, causing nightjars to shift uneasily on their perches, and found their way, faintly, into his parents’ bedroom.
After a few weeks on the Kirkham station, Guy’s compulsion to escape saw him pack a bag and leave. He left a note explaining that he was heading for Melbourne. In the note he lied and said that he’d be staying with Joe Sable, even though he’d as yet made no contact with him. He believed he had no need to discuss his decision with his parents. They might make some feint at asking him to stay, but Guy judged it more likely that they’d threaten to cut him off financially and be secretly relieved that he was off their hands. He took one of the family cars, drove to the Horsham train station, left the keys with the station master, and headed for Melbourne.
It took Mr and Mrs Kirkham twenty-four hours to discover that their son had gone. It was the silence during the night that alerted them. They found the note. They weren’t disturbed by it. Mr Kirkham was annoyed by the inconvenience of having to retrieve the car. Mrs Kirkham’s only comment was that if Guy preferred the company of that Jewish boy to his own family, well, that was his look-out.
