Golden Relic (3 page)

Sam could picture the label for the handgun as clearly as if she was looking at it
now. Then there was her favourite exhibit: stuffed, encased in glass and towering over her, Sam had
been no less impressed by Australia's greatest racehorse than her grandfather who had actually
watched Phar Lap win the 1930 Melbourne Cup.

"Where's Phar Lap?" Sam asked, interrupting Constable Rivers who had been telling her he couldn't
tell her much, except that the deceased's body, lying by his work bench in one of the storage rooms,
had been found by an assistant curator at nine that morning.

"I've no idea where he is," Rivers stated.

"What does the forensic pathologist say about the cause of death?"

"Phar Lap's or the guy downstairs?" Rivers asked.

"Phar Lap was allegedly poisoned," Sam said, as if this was a perfectly logical conversation.
"How about the guy downstairs?"

"I don't know about him," Rivers shrugged and waited while a museum guard used a security card to
open a door for them before continuing. "The forensics team have only been here about half an hour
and the pathologist arrived just before you did."

Sam gave him a sideways glance and then looked at her watch. "It's nearly 2.30."

"Ah well, apparently," Rivers explained, escorting Sam down a wide staircase to their left, "the
assistant curator, named Duncan Jones, found the body and informed the security boss, who came and
had a look at it. He notified the Chief Librarian who also came and looked at it, and when she saw
who it was she rang the Director of the Museum, who was in a whole other building in the city. After
he too came and checked out the deceased, he called us. That was 11 am. We attended the scene and
then called Homicide who arrived just before noon. Forensics have only just got here because they
were tied up on another job."

"And the fp?" Sam asked.

"He was doing lunch with the Commissioner, the Police Minister, the Premier and members of a
citizen's group lobbying for…something," Rivers said, running out of details.

"That's a pretty sound alibi, if he needs one," Sam said dryly.

"Yeah, but only for lunchtime," Rivers laughed. "Where he was before that, is anyone's
guess."

They passed through a door on the next landing and entered another hallway at the end of which
Sam could see and hear the obvious signs of a crime scene investigation in progress: police tape,
police officers, police cameras and a familiar voice booming at everyone to get the hell out of the
way.

"Am I allowed to know why you're here, Detective Diamond?" Rivers asked. "I mean, what interest
does the ACB have in all this?"

"Somewhere amongst all those phone calls this morning," Sam explained, "someone also rang my boss
- in Canberra - who rang me, at lunch on my day off, and said 'get down there and have a look at
that body'. So here I am, at the end of a rather long queue of spectators by the sounds of it."

"Is that Sam?" It was those familiar bellowing tones again, fast approaching the doorway Sam and
Rivers were about to enter. "It's about bloody time she got here."

Detective-Sergeant Jack Rigby, all six-foot-five and three miles wide of him, came barrelling out
of the room. Sam stepped aside; the Constable didn't stand a chance.

"Damn it Jack," Sam said, helping Rivers up from the floor, "this is not a football field."

"The boy is half my size and age Sam, he should have better reflexes." Rigby placed a hand on
Rivers' shoulder. "Isn't that right son?"

"Yes sir. Whatever you say," Rivers smiled.

"Good. Now step aside," Rigby commanded and then wrapped Sam in a bear hug that left her
breathless. "Completely unprofessional, I know," he said, letting her go. "But it is so good to see
you."

"And it's reassuring to find you haven't changed a bit, Jack," Sam stated, giving him the once
over. Jack Rigby's clear blue and ever-watchful eyes were the most noticeable things about him,
apart from his height and despite the almost comical distortion of his ex-boxer's nose. His crew cut
had turned quite grey since she'd last seen him but Sam felt sure that her mother, who'd met him
briefly two years before, would still describe him as a fine and handsome man.

Despite Rigby's sheer bulk, which was all bone and muscle, not an ounce of fat, and his loud,
irascible and at times downright stubborn personality, he was an agile and surprisingly gentle man.
He'd probably seen the results of more terminally violent crime than anyone else in the city, yet
away from work his relaxed demeanour and untroubled personality was more akin to someone who'd spent
his life working in the Botanic Gardens.

"Now that the pleasantries are over," Rigby began, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"It's just a guess Jack, but I'd say it's probably the same thing you're doing," Sam stated.

Rigby cocked his head on the side and squinted down at Sam. "Doc Baird says the guy probably had
a stroke, so it looks like even we're not needed here," he said. "And if it does turn out to be
murder then you can't get more local than a homicide in the heart of the city. This is barely
State-related let alone Federal. Therefore I'll rephrase my question: why are you here? What
interest does the Australian Crime Bureau have in the demise of Professor Marsden in there?"

Sam shrugged. "Jim Pilger called me at Walter's Wine Bar, where I was enjoying my day off, and
told me to get down here and check things out."

"Pilger? The Minister of …Whatever. That Pilger?" Rigby was baffled.

"Yes, Pilger the Minister for Cultural Affairs," Sam agreed. "He's my new boss, in that he is top
of the tree when it comes to the Bureau's Cultural Affairs Department."

Rigby looked blank, which was a rare occurrence.

"I've been transferred from Major Crimes to the ACB's CAD," Sam explained. "I was going to
Canberra this evening, for six weeks, to be briefed on my new job but instead I find myself here:
still standing in the hallway; still lacking any real information about this situation; in fact,
still without having laid eyes on the actual body - homicide victim or not."

"Cultural Affairs? That explains the way you're dressed," Rigby stated.

Sam looked down at her leather jacket, cotton shirt, jeans and runners. "I did mention it was my
day off, didn't I?"

"So, Pilger rang you. How did he find out about this? He's in Canberra for goodness sake!"

"Someone rang him, Jack," Sam said.

"Who?"

"That would have been me," came a soft-spoken voice from behind Sam.

"Ah," Rigby said, as Sam turned around and found that after looking up at Rigby, she had to crick
her neck to be able to look comfortably at someone slightly shorter than her own height of
five-foot-six.

"This is the Director of the Museum, Mr…ah," Rigby faltered.

"Daley Prescott," the Director said. "Assistant Director," he amended.

"Special Detective Sam Diamond," Sam said, shaking hands with the first person she'd ever met to
whom she felt she could apply the word 'dapper'. Prescott was neatness personified from his trim
grey suit to his perfectly styled and perfectly white, collar-length hair.

"Can you tell me anything yet Detective Diamond? I am simply dreading the ramifications of this
should it turn out to be a case of murder," Prescott said and then added, almost as an afterthought,
"not to mention what poor Lloyd must have gone through."

Sam tried to keep her face expressionless as she glanced at Rigby and then back to Prescott.

"We'll discuss the possible ramifications after we ascertain the cause of death, Mr Prescott,"
she said. "I can't give you any details until Detective Rigby brings me up to speed on the
investigation so far."

"Well, we haven't done much yet," Rigby stated. "We were told to wait for you."

"Who told you that?" Sam asked in surprise.

"I'm afraid I did. Is that a problem?" Prescott asked. On seeing Sam's amusement and
the annoyed look on Rigby's face, he continued hurriedly, "Of
course it is not official. I was simply advising you, Detective Rigby, of the imminent arrival of a
representative from the ACB and mistakenly, so it seems, assumed her authority would supersede
yours."

"It's a common mistake Mr Prescott," Rigby said through clenched teeth. "Now, if you could keep
yourself available, or let Constable Rivers here know of your whereabouts, we'll get back to you
when we have more information." He turned to Sam and rolled his eyes. "The body?" he suggested.

"The body," Sam echoed in agreement.

The crime scene, for it would be treated as such until facts proved otherwise, was a long, narrow
room lined with and divided by temporary shelving filled with labelled boxes and a variety of stone
and wooden artefacts. At the far end Sam could see Doctor Ian Baird, the forensic pathologist,
consulting with his team members, one of whom was busy taking photographs. Extra lights had
obviously been brought in to illuminate what she guessed was normally a fairly dingy space.

"What's your best guess Doc? Can we go home and let the family take over?" Rigby asked
hopefully.

"Sorry Jack. Definitely suspicious circumstances here. Foul play is evident," Baird replied, his
Scottish accent, even after 20 years in the country, still unconsciously fighting any Australian
influences. "Hello Sam, long time no see," he added.

"Ian, it's good to see you," Sam acknowledged, stepping forward to take a look at the body and
the evidence of foul play.

Professor Lloyd Marsden lay almost in a foetal position on his left side, although his body had
rolled slightly so that his chest and right arm were also touching the floor. He was holding a pen
in his right hand, his right shoulder obscured the lower part of his face and the weight of his body
was squashing his nose against the dusty floorboards.

To the right of the body, about two metres from the head, was a gruesome-looking stone statue of
a squatting figure with very large toenails. It was much too heavy to be wielded by even the most
determined assailant. To the left about one metre was an overturned chair, a cluttered work bench
and a drafting table. There was no likely-looking weapon, no blood and no signs of violence. It
looked to Sam like the least suspicious of circumstances.

"It's looks pretty straightforward to me," Rigby said.

"That's because you haven't been down on the floor with me, lookin' at the poor man's face.
Someone's dealt him a couple of good punches. Help me roll him over please, Steve."

Steve obliged and between them they rolled the body onto its back.

There was still no blood but the late Professor Marsden had a black left eye and a large purple
bruise on his right jaw.

"Injuries sustained during a fall following his stroke," Rigby suggested.

Baird, who was still on his hands and knees, was inspecting the bruises with a magnifying glass.
"I don't think so Jack. There's a wee puncture mark at the centre of both bruises," he announced. "I
suspect the man was struck and poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Sam and Rigby chorused, looking at each other and then back at Baird.

"I might be wrong," Baird said doubtfully.

"You're never wrong," Rigby moaned. "Though how you can tell that is beyond me."

"What's that in his left hand?" Sam asked, squatting down to get a better look.

Baird reached out with his gloved hand and picked up a small piece of paper which he carefully
unfolded. His eyes widened, then squinted, then he held out the paper for Sam to read.

"I hope he's left us the name of his killer," Rigby stated.

"If that's what it is," Sam stated, "we're going to need help deciphering it."

Unevenly scrawled, and probably with the pen Lloyd Marsden held in his other hand as his life
left him, was the word:

"Oh my god! He was poisoned?" Daley Prescott sounded like all his worst fears and a
couple of phobias had just invaded his personal space. He looked even worse. Sam was glad Rigby had
waited till the man was sitting down before conveying Baird's suspicions.

"That's just the pathologist's preliminary report, Mr Prescott," Rigby stated. "It is not for
general publication. We'll know more after the autopsy of course, but even if he wasn't poisoned,
the man was certainly beaten."

"To death," Prescott snorted, almost as if Marsden's death was more of an insult, to him, than a
tragic end for the professor himself. Prescott swivelled his chair and stared blankly out the
window.

Sam and Rigby, having left the forensics team to finish the crime scene investigation, had agreed
it was time to question Prescott about what sort of 'ramifications' the murder of one of his
colleagues was going to have - apart from the obvious ones - and why he had seen fit to contact the
Federal Minister for Cultural Affairs. They had walked the two city blocks from the Library to the
Museum's administrative headquarters on Exhibition Street and now sat with an agitated Daley
Prescott in his office on the 18th floor.