Good Murder (30 page)

‘My understanding,’ he said slowly, ‘is that Detective Sergeant Conroy has a reasonable suspicion that you’ve been on a bit of a killing spree. Now, I don’t know what I think about that, and what I think doesn’t matter anyhow. But if I were you, I’d shut up just at the minute, because if you don’t, you’ll find out what the inside of that dunny can looks like.’

He looked me up and down. ‘So, if that’s all, I’ll get back to the desk. Nice skirt, by the way.’ Here he inserted a dramatic little pause, before tipping his cap and saying, ‘Ma’am.’

This brief, ugly exchange made me think that he was not as dull-witted as he appeared. Everyone around me was assuming a dangerous alter-ego. The world is a sorry place when you can no longer rely on the stupidity of others.

I waited two more hours before I was taken from the cell and placed in the interview room. Conroy entered a few moments later, accompanied by Peter Topaz, who did not meet my eye. A thin, pallid man, so bland in appearance that he almost merged with the wall behind him, sat off to one side, a notebook at the ready. Conroy sat opposite me, emanating self-satisfaction.

‘Lovely outfit,’ he said, and quickly indicated to the amanuensis that he was not to begin writing yet.

‘I want a lawyer,’ I said.

‘You’ll get one. This interview is just to formally charge you with the murder of Harry Witherburn.’

‘On what evidence?’

‘Well, now, it seems poor Harry was strangled with a cord, and then pages from a book were stuffed into his mouth and pushed down his throat — way down into the oesophagus. It must have taken quite some effort.’

I was suddenly aware that my bladder was very full, and I wished that I had used the can in the cell before the interview had begun. Conroy continued.

‘Now, Harry wasn’t a big reader, it turns out, and the book wasn’t one of his. It was a play. Shakespeare.’

‘I agree that narrows down the list of suspects in this town,’ I said.

‘Like I said, it was a play.’

He snapped his fingers, trying to recall its title, and turned to Topaz.

‘
Coriolanus
,’ Topaz said, and this time he met my eye.

‘That’s right,’ said Conroy. ‘
Coriolanus
. Never heard of it. Worth reading, is it?’

‘Might be a bit ambitious for you,’ I said, and I felt quite pleased that my demeanour was not betraying my quaking insides.

‘Maybe I could borrow your copy. You do own a copy?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In my room, I suppose, or maybe the truck. I haven’t seen it for a while.’

He let that sit a moment.

‘But it was a piece from
Coriolanus
that you were about to perform at the Witherburn’s, wasn’t it? Or have I got that wrong? Peter?’

Topaz said flatly, ‘According to the other actors, it was a piece from
Coriolanus
, yes.’

‘So,’ said Conroy, ‘I presume you used your copy to bone up on the part.’

‘Naturally. So?’

‘So what is your copy of
Coriolanus
doing down Harry Witherburn’s throat and up his arse?’

He took great pleasure in delivering this little
coup de théâtre
.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘A preliminary autopsy has revealed that many of the pages of the play were rammed up Harry’s rectum, probably with a broom handle. It’s difficult to say whether this was done before or after he was dead. Perhaps you could clear that up for us?’

I then foolishly asked the question Conroy had been waiting for.

‘What makes you think that copy has anything to do with me?’

He smiled.

‘Right at the top of the rectum, like it was the very first page to go in, is a page with somebody’s name in the right-hand corner. Guess whose?’

With an enormous act of control, I said, ‘So somebody used my copy of the play to violate Harry Witherburn. So what? Is this your evidence? Why would I be so stupid as to use a page with my name on it, knowing full well that it would be discovered?’

‘There are a couple of possible explanations,’ he said. ‘One of them is that you are in fact that stupid. Another is that it gave you a bit of a thrill to leave your calling card. I think a jury might buy either explanation, don’t you?’

‘You don’t have enough evidence to hold me or charge me. I insist that you release me.’

‘There is one other small piece of evidence,’ Conroy said, and the smugness in his voice suggested that whatever it was, he knew it was going to shut me down.

‘Charlotte Witherburn has told us that you told her you were going to kill her husband, and that you were going to do it last night. She didn’t believe you, but when her husband didn’t come home, she began to worry. She would have called us then, but it was late and she thought it was possible that Harry had got drunk somewhere, and she didn’t want to make a scene. When the body was found, you went straight to her and said …’

He stopped here and pulled a notebook from his pocket. He flipped a few pages and continued:

‘… and said, “It’s over, Charlotte. I’ve done it. We’re free. I’ve got rid of Harry.”’

He looked from his notebook to me. I couldn’t grasp what was happening. Conroy said, ‘Mrs Witherburn admitted that she had been having an affair with you, and that she had tried to break it off, but that you had become obsessed with the idea that, if Harry was out of the way, the two of you would live happily ever after, spending his money.’

Conroy’s voice began to recede, and I felt suddenly very cold, despite the fact that the room was hot and close. Was he making this up, attempting to trap me into a confession? Were the police allowed to do this? I found my voice, although I barely recognised it when it emerged.

‘I don’t believe you. Charlotte would not say those things.’

‘Oh, she said them, and lots more besides, and she signed a statement.’

He signalled to Topaz, who produced a typed sheet — the contents of which, when I ran my eye over it, were more or less identical to the words Conroy had spoken. At the bottom, with a confident flourish, was the signature of Charlotte Witherburn.

So far, Peter Topaz had been silent. Now he spoke. ‘You’ll need a lawyer. When you’re returned to your cell, you’ll find your clothes there.’

That was all he said, and his voice was carefully neutral.

‘I didn’t do this,’ I said weakly.

‘You might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,’ Conroy said. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course. Why don’t you save us all a lot of trouble and confess to the murders of Polly Drummond and her mother, and tell us what you’ve done with, and to, Joe Drummond’s body?’

The matter-of-factness with which he said this drained the last vestiges of resistance from my body, and I began to sob. I sobbed like a broken and guilty man. I sobbed like a man betrayed.

On the short walk back to the cell I regained some of my composure. One thing was clear. I could not now afford to collapse or lose my grip. I had to suppress the overwhelming sense of abandonment that threatened to cripple me. Where was Arthur? Where was Annie? Where was anybody?

I had not until now allowed myself to ponder the implications of Charlotte’s statement, except to assure myself that it must have been extracted under duress and amid the general trauma of Harry’s death — or that it was a fiction, designed by Conroy to frighten a confession out of me. If I could speak to Charlotte, the hideous error could be corrected. The sight of me being taken away, handcuffed and humiliated, must have wrenched her heart. I could not, though, quite silence that unsettling ‘Thank you’ she had uttered.

When the door was closed behind me, I saw that a change of clothes had been put on one of the beds. A few minutes later I was taken from the cell by a constable I did not recognise, and told that I was to be driven to the courthouse, where I would appear before a magistrate named Murray. There was no one in the courtroom when the charge of murdering Harry Witherburn was read out, despite the fact that the George was only a short walk away. I could not believe that Topaz hadn’t told them anything. They must all have decided that staying well away from me was the best policy. The police opposed bail, and the magistrate determined that I had a case to answer. All this was accomplished with expedition. I don’t think I have ever felt so completely alone as when I walked from the courthouse to the police van and looked up at the upper verandah of the George Hotel. My despair was mirrored in the sky. Great banks of roiling clouds had gathered, and the light had assumed the blue-grey depth it acquires before a storm. There was a strong smell of rain on the still air, and the trees outside the courthouse seemed to have curled in upon themselves in an instinctive, protective gesture against impending violence. That is how it seemed to me, although my vision of the world had been warped by the collapse of all my certainties.

When we returned to the police station I was put into the interview room, rather than being taken directly to the cell. I was alone for a few minutes until Topaz entered. I had been standing, and he signalled that I should sit.

‘Conroy’s gone home,’ he said. ‘His wife’s sick.’

‘He has a wife?’ Even through the haze of my desperation, the idea that that repellent, quivering-eyed robot was married struck me as extraordinary.

‘Yes,’ Topaz said. ‘She’s frail. Always ill.’

‘I don’t have the energy to talk to you,’ I said.

‘A lawyer has been organised for you. A good one. He’s coming up from Brisbane tomorrow.’

‘There’s no money to pay for a good lawyer.’

‘You do have friends.’ He paused. ‘And family.’

I felt ill.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was Annie who suggested it. The troupe has put money in, but Annie said that your brothers and your mother would want to know, and that they’d probably want to help.’

‘What do you mean “probably,” and how does she know they even exist? I have never discussed my family with her or anybody else.’

Topaz had the grace to blush.

‘Well, I’m afraid that’s my fault. When I was checking up on you I found all that out, and Annie …’

‘My family as pillow talk. Whatever gets you going, I guess.’

‘Maybe it’s me, Will. Maybe I bring out the worst in you. I know that your life has turned to garbage, and I know that you’re terrified, but there you sit, still drawing on your bottomless reservoir of bullshit.’

I began to protest, but thought better of it.

‘Look’, I said, ‘I am under a bit of pressure here.’

This was as close as I could get to contrition. To give Topaz credit, he had not yielded to what must have been a considerable temptation to gloat over my predicament.

‘All right, Will’, he said. ‘I want you to listen to me without interrupting, and I’m asking you to trust that what I’m telling you is the truth. I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. Conroy would spontaneously combust if he knew.’

I couldn’t help myself.

‘Just tell me one thing first. Conroy hates me. Why?’

‘Conroy doesn’t hate you, Will. Conroy hates me. But he does believe he’s caught his killer. He really does. He isn’t using you as a convenient stooge. He truly believes you’re guilty.’

‘He assaulted me.’

‘He thinks you’ve murdered four people. If I thought that I might thump you, too.’

A great wave of relief washed over me.

‘You still think I’m innocent?’

He leaned forward.

‘I don’t think you’re innocent. I know you’re innocent.’

‘How?’

He considered that for a moment.

‘I know you’re innocent because I know who isn’t. Now just listen, Will. I’m not going to give you any names. Not yet. Unless I get more evidence, you could still go down for Harry Witherburn’s murder, on Charlotte’s evidence alone.’

‘But Conroy made that up.’

Topaz was genuinely startled, and looked at me as if he thought I might be mad.

‘No, Will,’ he said firmly. ‘Conroy didn’t make that up. Charlotte Witherburn couldn’t wait to provide that information. I know this is hard for you to accept, but Charlotte Witherburn is as unpleasant in her way as Harry was in his. It’s no coincidence that they were married. These people find each other.’

‘She asked me to kill him.’

These words tumbled out of my mouth. There was no emotion in them. Some part of me had suddenly and finally surrendered any faith I had left that Charlotte would intervene and recant her testimony.

‘She thinks you did kill him, and she’s happy to let you pay for it.’

‘She didn’t kill Harry, then?’

‘No. No. But she did interfere with his corpse. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure it was Charlotte who put your name up Harry’s arse.’

‘Why?’

‘Will,’ he said, with some exasperation, ‘don’t you get it? She wanted you safely out of the way. She thinks you did her dirty work for her, and she certainly doesn’t want you under foot now. She’s rich and she’s free. She’ll stand up in court, look you straight in the eye, and declare you guilty, and all she’ll feel is relief.’