by Robert Gott
WHEN INSPECTOR LAMBERT entered the Melbourne Club, he felt a mixture of revulsion and envy. Wealth and privilege had never impressed him. There was something about the Melbourne Club, though, that was seductive. There was an immediate sense, in its deliberate lack of ostentation, that this was a place where power was exercised with quiet certainty and with wily discretion.
Lambert had heard of Sir Marcus Ashgrove and knew that this would be a difficult interview. He’d spoken to him briefly on the telephone, and Sir Marcus had seen no reason at all why he needed to speak to a policeman about Peter Lillee’s death. It was unfortunate, but what had it got to do with him? Lambert had been frank and had mentioned the Wombat Forest goldmine. He could feel Ashgrove’s indignation rushing down the line towards him.
‘I would be happy to visit you at home, Sir Marcus.’
‘Lady Ashgrove would not be happy to have a policeman in the house. The club would be the best place to get this over with.’
Inspector Lambert didn’t have to wait long in the foyer of the Melbourne Club. The porter had been told to expect him and as soon as he’d arrived had telephoned for one of the staff to take him to Sir Marcus. The porter, in his sixties, was deferential without being obsequious. As he followed the gentleman upstairs, Lambert thought that it would have been a mistake to have asked Joe Sable to interview Sir Marcus Ashgrove. His youth would have worked against him in this place, although he might have appreciated what was hanging on the walls.
Sir Marcus had chosen a small, private sitting room on the third floor. When Lambert entered the room, Sir Marcus was seated, reading The Age newspaper. He didn’t stand up to greet Lambert, but merely indicated that he should sit down.
‘At least you didn’t send some acne’d constable, Inspector. I suppose I ought to be flattered.’
‘I’m not here to flatter you, Sir Marcus.’
‘I hope you’re not going to take up much of my time.’
‘That feeling is mutual.’
As if Sir Marcus couldn’t conceive that someone else’s time might be valuable, he said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We’re both busy men, Sir Marcus.’
If Lambert had been observing one of his men conducting this interview, he would have been annoyed at that officer’s having allowed the interview to get off to a hostile start. He was glad no one was observing him. His instant dislike of Sir Marcus had got the better of him. It was unprofessional and a mistake someone like Helen Lord would never make. He wanted her back in Homicide, though he had, as yet, no clear idea how to accomplish this.
Sir Marcus folded the newspaper.
‘Well, get on with it.’
‘What was your relationship with Peter Lillee?’
‘Cordial. He had a lot of talent. I got him into this club.’
‘Is that of some significance?’
‘Of course it’s bloody significant. You have to be somebody to be a member of this club.’
‘You were at odds with him, though, weren’t you?’
Whatever else Sir Marcus was, he wasn’t stupid, and he knew that this policeman would have talked to various people before turning up here at the Melbourne Club.
‘I wasn’t just at odds with him. I was so disappointed in his actions that I was prepared to have him blackballed.’
‘Why?’
‘Lillee was on the Capital Issues Advisory Committee, and he was actively blocking an investment opportunity into which several members of this club, including me, had sunk considerable funds. He was in a position to advocate for the investment and to protect us against losses. He refused. This was disloyal and, I believe, self-interested. Don’t talk to me about the bloody war. My son is in a bloody prisoner-of-war camp. Lillee wasn’t blocking us out of some sort of patriotism. He had something up his sleeve. I don’t know what it was, but he was ambitious. The thought that he would sit back and watch fellow members possibly go bankrupt made me sick. So, yes, I wanted him blackballed.’
He paused. Lambert waited.
‘Wanting him blackballed is not the same thing as wanting him dead, Inspector.’
‘But he is dead, Sir Marcus.’
‘His death doesn’t benefit me. The committee has made its decision, and it doesn’t benefit anyone else here, either. Quite the reverse.’
‘Oh?’
‘As I said, he was talented when it came to money. Lots of men would go to him for advice.’
‘But you were going to blackball him.’
‘Money trumps everything, Inspector. I could have got him kicked out of the club, but chaps would still have gone to him, and each of them would have told him, of course, that he had been opposed to the blackballing. Peter Lillee’s exit from this club wouldn’t mean the end of his career. It would just have given me satisfaction. Invitations to things might have dropped off, but Lillee rarely went to such events anyway. And if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m not sure the blackballing would have been successful. He was too well-liked, and he was too bloody rich.’
‘You don’t seem very curious about how he died.’
‘I’ve heard rumours, but it’s none of my business.’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘The same sort you’ve heard, I imagine. The grubbiest is that he was murdered by some bloke he met down by the river. I’ve heard of men getting up to that sort of thing. I’d like to think Lillee wasn’t one of them, but if he was, well, there it is, and that’s what happens. I was also told that he might have taken his own life, but I don’t believe that for a second. Not at all the type.’
Inspector Lambert came away from his interview with Sir Marcus Ashgrove believing that Ashgrove wasn’t implicated in Lillee’s death, but also believing that there was nothing admirable about him. He supposed it was unfair to think it, but he thought that whatever Sir Marcus had achieved in his life it would have been at the expense of someone else. Nevertheless, as he stepped out into Collins Street and looked back at the front door of the Melbourne Club, he couldn’t entirely extinguish a small part of him that felt it might be grand to belong to such a place. He knew that when he told Maude about it later, he could rely on her to snuff out that little pilot light of envy.
MAUDE LAMBERT HAD stopped worrying about her brother’s recovery, up to a point. His physical wounds were healing well, and he was in the hands of a good psychiatrist. She couldn’t imagine herself ever discussing her private fears with a stranger, especially one who took notes. She had Titus, of course. She still had one worry about Tom that she’d never expressed to Titus. Tom was over thirty, and he was unmarried. It bothered Maude that her concern about this might indicate that she was a deeply conventional woman — an accusation she would have been unhappy to hear from somebody else. She knew Tom liked women. He’d had several girlfriends over the years and any one of them would have made a decent wife — well, except for the actress, who Maude had thought vain and empty-headed, and to whom Tom had actually become engaged. Still, Tom’s female companions were the least of his worries at the moment.
Maude thought that it was time for Tom to retrieve his privacy. If she and Titus moved back to their house in Brunswick it would be a sign to Tom that life was returning to normal. There were still the nightmares, but Maude was sure these were becoming less intense. It was Monday. Her plan was to return permanently to their house on Friday, which she realised, suddenly, was Good Friday.
She didn’t like leaving the house unattended. Houses became stuffy so quickly, so she’d gone back often to open windows and to water plants. It was 2.00 p.m. when she put the key into the lock of the front door. As she pushed it into the barrel, she experienced an odd sensation of dread that passed from the key into her body. Maude Lambert didn’t believe in ghosts or any occult phenomena. People who did believe such things were gullible fools who deserved to be relieved of their money by charlatans. Nevertheless, th
is feeling engulfed her, and she withdrew the key. This was absurd. It was just some sort of panic attack. She’d read about these in material associated with some of Titus’s cases. She took a couple of breaths and reinserted the key. This time there was nothing. She turned it and opened the door.
The smell of urine wasn’t overwhelming, but it was strong, and Maude’s first thought was that there must be a problem with the plumbing. The smell became stronger as she walked down the corridor towards the living room. She could see through the far door of the living room that the back door had been smashed open. Her immediate fear was that whoever had done this might still be in the house. She froze on the spot and listened. She ought to have gone out into the street, just in case, but she saw the open scrapbook on the table and was drawn to it.
She could see that there was a spray of what she assumed was piss across the table, and that some of it had dried, which indicated to her that the intruder had defiled the house several hours earlier. She knew better than to touch anything, but the nature of the clippings in the open pages meant that surely this could belong to only one person. Sergeant Joe Sable. The bullet hole and the act of befoulment meant that that, too, could be attributed to only one person. George Starling.
Fighting anger and nausea, Maude hurried into Bishop Street and knocked on the door of the house opposite. Mrs Read, whose husband was somewhere in the Pacific, had a telephone. Maude’s knocking woke the youngest of her three children. Maude telephoned Titus and waited with Mrs Read, and her crying child, for him to arrive.
CLARA DAWSON AND Helen Lord stood at the place where Peter Lillee’s body had been found. All evidence of the tragedy and of the police investigation had been removed. Joe had told Helen approximately where the place was, and she had confirmed it using one of the photographs he’d taken from Inspector Lambert’s desk.
‘It’s been well and truly trampled now, but when Uncle Peter was found, his were the only footprints — his and the footprints of the man who found him.’
‘What do you know about him. He’s not a suspect?’
‘No. He’s been questioned, but there’s nothing to link him to Uncle Peter.’
‘So there’s no evidence of any kind of sexual contact?’
‘Like what?’
Clara took Helen’s hand.
‘I know you’re a policewoman, but if my frankness offends, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly, Clar. Sparing my sensibilities is the last thing I want.’
‘All right. If Mr Lillee was down here to meet someone — a man, say — for sexual purposes, there may be evidence of it. As there are only two sets of footprints, the man who found him might well have been the man he was meeting. Or if he wasn’t meeting him by arrangement, perhaps this is the spot where men know they’ll meet other men late at night.’
‘That was raised, apparently. Joe’s been very good about passing on the more lurid speculations.’
‘You’ll need to see the autopsy report to see if there’s any evidence of semen.’
‘That might be difficult.’
‘Mr Lillee’s clothes will have been gone over for fluid stains, and the doctor doing the autopsy will be looking for foreign hair, especially pubic hair on your uncle’s body.’
‘Christ. So much for dignity.’
They walked around the scene, comparing the two photographs with what was in front of them.
‘The shot from the water is interesting,’ Clara said. ‘I suppose you noticed the dead fish.’
‘Cyanide?’
‘Possibly. You know what, Helen, I think we need to pay a visit to the local council office.’
‘You’re wasted as a doctor, Clar. You should be a bloody detective.’
‘I prefer my bodies to be breathing.’
INSPECTOR LAMBERT’S INTERVIEW with Sir Marcus Ashgrove had left him in a bad mood. Which is how Ron Dunnart found him when Lambert called him into his office. He’d also called Sergeant Reilly in. He didn’t want this to be an unwitnessed discussion. Dunnart was wary, but gave no indication of nervousness. Lambert didn’t beat about the bush.
‘Your investigation into the murders of the two homosexual men has been exemplary.’
Dunnart looked at Reilly. It was an involuntary glance which Lambert noticed and which he took to confirm that Dunnart knew perfectly well that he was being watched.
‘I hope all my investigations are exemplary, sir.’
‘You knew you were being watched on this, though, didn’t you? So many tempting targets to touch.’
Dunnart leaned back in his chair.
‘I think you’ll find that’s more Bob O’Dowd’s thing, sir.’
‘You’ve had a bit of time to think about this, Ron. Is there any part of your version of events that you want to change?’
Dunnart was genuinely puzzled by this question.
‘Bob O’Dowd’s accusations against me are grotesque, sir. What you call my “version” is the truth.’
‘Without any evidence, I’m afraid the word “version” will have to do.’
He let the word ‘evidence’ settle.
‘If you’re trying to rattle me, it won’t work. There is no evidence. There is no possibility of evidence, because I am telling you the truth.’
Inspector Lambert put the gold fountain pen on the desk in front of him. He said nothing.
‘That’s mine,’ Dunnart said.
‘I know it’s yours, Ron. What I want to know is, what was it doing in Peter Lillee’s car?’
Without missing a beat, Dunnart said, ‘I have no fucking idea, but if I was a betting man, I’d bet that Bob O’Dowd put it there. I thought I’d lost it.’
‘Sergeant O’Dowd’s fingerprints aren’t on it.’
‘Of course they’re not. He’s not a very good detective, but he’s not that bad.’
‘That’s all for the moment, Ron. Thank you.’
Dunnart was taken aback. This was clearly a strategy. He knew that much. What was Lambert up to? He stood up and left the office without so much as a glance at Reilly. Outside in the corridor he stopped, took out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow, which had only now begun to sweat.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
DUNNART HAD JUST left the office when Maude was put through to her husband. When he’d replaced the receiver, he said to Reilly, ‘Where’s Sergeant Sable?’
‘He’s out interviewing a couple of Peter Lillee’s business associates. He should be back by 3.00.’
‘Leave a note on his desk telling him to wait here until I return.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want you to come with me to my house in Brunswick, Sergeant. I think George Starling has paid us a visit.’
JOE RETURNED TO Russell Street at 2.30 p.m. He read the note, and rather than sit at his desk, he decided to visit the gymnasium, and perhaps test the level of antipathy for him among his fellow officers. He took a locker key from the board near the entrance. When the gymnasium had first become available, there’d been no locks on the doors of the lockers. It had become clear within the first week that there were light-fingered policemen who helped themselves to wallets and watches. Locks were as essential inside police headquarters as they were outside it.
Joe didn’t have shorts and a singlet to change into. He was only filling in time. He put his suit coat and tie, along with his watch and his wallet, into the locker, and put the key into his trouser pocket. He intended to do no more than sit on a bench and do a few dumbbell curls. There were two men near the lockers when he entered, and both of them turned away from him.
In the gymnasium there were a dozen men doing various exercises, and the smell of sweat was strong. Joe picked up two small dumbbells and sat on a bench near a wall, away from much of the activity. Gradually, the exercising officers noticed that he was there, and one by one they stopped wh
at they were doing and stared at him. There was silence as men stopped skipping, punching, and grunting under weights. They simply stared at him. Joe, in turn, stared at each of them, one by one. Not all of them could meet his eye, but most of them did. Four of them walked across to where he was sitting. He knew them to nod to and to make small talk with, and none of them had ever made ugly remarks to him or treated him differently from any other officer. Clearly the veneer of politeness had been wafer-thin, and now these four men formed a phalanx in front of him.
Joe was conscious of the fact that now no one else could see him. A skipping rope dangled from one of the men’s hands. It twitched in response to a slight movement of his wrist. Joe placed the dumbbells on the floor. The gymnasium was eerily quiet. The sound of a locker door slamming, which would normally have been lost amid the echoes of the high-roofed space, sounded like a gunshot.
‘Am I about to have an accident?’ Joe’s voice was strong. None of the men spoke. First one, then each in rapid succession, leaned in towards him and deposited a gobbet of phlegm near Joe’s feet. They were careful not to hit him. It was a warning, telling him the gymnasium was off-limits to him. It was clear from the expressions on their faces that this was just the opening salvo. They’d begin by spitting near him, but that wouldn’t be where matters would end. The implication of a grim, ugly, and inevitable declension was obvious.
The men moved away from him, and everyone went back to what he’d been doing. Joe stood up and returned the dumbbells to their rack. Not a single man looked at him as he did so. He unlocked his locker, retrieved his belongings, hung the key back on the board, and left the gymnasium. Well, now he knew where he stood. He was a pariah, and he’d have to watch his back. He was in physical peril, of that he had no doubt. He was oddly exhilarated by this sense that he was an outsider. It didn’t feel like banishment. It felt like liberation.
MAUDE HAD WEANED herself off sugar since the beginning of the war, and she’d learned, too, to drink her tea black, which is how her brother Tom presented it to her. Titus had dropped her in South Melbourne before heading back to Russell Street. She’d seen no reason to keep the news of what had happened from Tom.
