Lessons in Murder (11 page)

They came to a halt beside Sybil’s car. Carol jangled her car keys. “I’ve no idea,” she said with a shrug.

Sybil watched her as she walked away, but she didn’t look back.

“Been trying to get you,” said Bourke as Carol walked into Bellwhether police station.

“I was out running. What’s up?”

Bourke gestured to the desk. “Possible weapon. Looks like blood and some hair on it. Thought you’d like to see it before it went to Science.”

Carol considered the varnished wooden surface. “Baseball or softball bat.”

“Yes, and government issue. Look at the lettering stamped on the shaft. I’ll bet it comes from Bellwhether High School’s sports supplies. Kid found it on the headland near where Quade fell. Don’t know how we missed it when we searched, but it was on a narrow ledge a couple of meters from the top.”

“Thrown down there or deliberately hidden?”

“Don’t know. The kid found it, picked it up, was sharp enough to think it might be important, but he took it home with him before he rang us. He’s in the other room. Do you want to see him?”

“No. Take him back to the headland after you fingerprint him, Mark. And take a photographer and a couple of officers with you. I want the place searched again in case we’ve missed something else.”

She sat down at the desk Bourke had been using and checked through the papers until she found a full timetable for the school. Wednesday afternoon was reserved for sport. She leafed through the pages to the supervision schedule. There it was, blankly staring at her: Senior Baseball. Bellwhether Oval. Supervisors: S. Quade and P. McIvor. She had a vivid picture of Sybil clutching a baseball bat—swinging it in a looping arc—the dull whack as it connected with her husband’s skull.

She pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on the other name. Pete McIvor? She visualized his open, immature face. He was the sort who would blush with guilt if he evaded a bus fare. She ran the interview with him through her mind. He had constantly smoothed his mustache, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat at every question, however innocuous. But that could be a very sound way to behave if you were hiding something. A high level of anxiety for harmless queries could be used to mask genuine alarm when dangerous questions were asked.

During the time Pagett had been murdered Pete had no corroboration of his movements until he began teaching in the first period of the day. He claimed to have gone to assembly and then to the book room to collect textbooks for distribution to his first class. He was always very punctual, and that Monday morning had been no exception. Bourke had checked that he had distributed the textbooks at the beginning of the lesson, though of course he could have collected them from the book room at any time.

The coroner had given Tony Quade’s probable time of death as somewhere between ten and twelve o’clock on Wednesday night, the warm night and the complication of cooler sea breezes making it difficult to be more accurate. Bourke had confirmed that Pete McIvor had been at the pub with friends until about eleven, when he had announced he was going home. Although he shared a flat with two other people, one had been out when he had arrived and the other was very vague about the time, so Pete certainly had the opportunity to dispose of Tony Quade if he had wanted to.

She turned to the notes on Sybil. At the very beginning of the assembly she had taken the microphone to give details of an excursion to the drama theatre of the Opera House. She said she then went down to stand by the students, but no one remembered her definitely being there. Then, because she didn’t have a roll call or a first lesson, she was free to go to Bill Pagett’s workroom and kill him. She said she was sitting in her empty classroom preparing lessons, but no one had seen her there.

As far as her husband was concerned, the day before he died Carol had confronted Sybil with the note she had written to Pagett and the results of the tests on the power drill in her garage. Carol had left her silent and white-faced. Had she then coolly planned to meet her husband so that she could kill him before he was able to incriminate her in some way?

Carol stared at the papers in her hands. Be objective, she thought—wanting her not to be guilty doesn’t make her so.

Terry was furious. Ignoring the others in the staff room, he confronted Sybil. “Where’d you go Saturday? Why wouldn’t you see me yesterday? Syb? I want an answer.”

“Will you shut up! I’m trying to mark essays,” snapped Lynne.

Alan Witcombe thought it politic to intervene: “Yes, Terry, we’re all very upset, but please do show some consideration. It’s a difficult time—”

“Mind your own business!”

Before Alan could respond to this challenge to his position, there was a knock at the staff room door.

Terry snatched it open. “Well, what do you want?”

The small student, intimidated, said with a rush, “Ms. Simpson’s lunch. Asked me to get it for her. From the tuckshop.”

Terry took it from him, and he scuttled away. “Think everyone’s your servant?” he said, dumping the lunch on Lynne’s pile of essays.

“It gives the kids a sense of responsibility,” said Lynne airily. “Besides, they love running messages.”

Terry grunted, and turned back to Sybil. “I want to know what you did this last weekend.”

Sybil felt she could scream with frustrated irritation. “Please Terry, I’ll speak to you later,” she said in an effort to placate him.

“When? When later? I want a time.”

“After school. I’ll ring you.”

“All right,” said Terry, “I’ll follow you home, straight after the final bell.”

Sybil felt trapped and angry, but before she could speak Edwina, blinkworthy in luminescent green, said, “Terry, I’m so sorry to upset your plans, but Syb’s promised to call in to my place for a cup of coffee after school.” She beamed at his frown. “We girls must stick together at times like this, you know,” she said archly, “and who knows how long Syb will be? It would be much better if she rang you when she got home, wouldn’t it?”

Hiding her surprise at this unexpected invitation, Sybil said briskly, “Yes, Terry. I’ll ring you, okay?”

Terry nodded and stalked out of the staff room. “Dear, dear,” said Edwina. “He’s so possessive, isn’t he? Dangerously possessive, do you think, Syb?”

She smiled at Sybil’s resigned expression. “You sure can pick them,” she said. “Come to my place straight after school, I think you need to escape for a while.”

Sybil drove to Edwina’s house with her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. She felt battered by demands and emotions, filled at one moment with bitter anger, and the next with helpless anxiety.

Detective Bourke had contacted her to make an appointment at lunchtime. She expected Carol to be with him, and was disconcerted to find him alone in the deputy’s office. Unable to resist, she heard herself saying, “Is Inspector Ashton here?” and was startled at the shaft of disappointment when he shook his head.

She answered his questions about the supply and storage of sports equipment with a puzzled frown. “Surely Physical Education could help you more than I could,” she said.

He smiled and continued. She wanted to know why he was so interested in the bats, although, suddenly, she knew the answer. “Was one used. . .” she began. Bourke looked encouraging. Sybil retreated. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” A few more questions, then Bourke had thanked her and she left to walk back to the staff room. She had walked unheeding through the lunchtime din, thinking of Carol.

As Sybil parked outside Edwina’s fence she was surprised to see Lynne’s RX7 draw up behind her. Lynne slid languidly out of the seat and waited for Sybil to lock her car.

Edwina met them at the open front door, full of enthusiasm. “Hi. Come on in. Slipped out a few minutes early to beat you home. Have you two noticed how Farrell’s losing her grip? She isn’t patrolling the school perimeters with her usual regularity, is she?”

Lynne was amused. “Lucky she isn’t. I’ve cut enough classes short in the last few days to earn an official reprimand.” She glanced at Sybil. “We aren’t all conscientious saints like you, Syb. Besides, the way I feel at the moment, facing a difficult class is enough to send me off into screaming hysterics.”

Edwina raised her eyebrows. “Frankly, Lynne, dear, I can’t see you having anything but simulated hysterics at any time. Those of us privileged to know you well realize beneath that glossy exterior there beats a similarly glossy, hard heart.”

Lynne just laughed at Edwina’s sarcastic words. Sybil looked from one to the other. In what uneasy alliance did they stand? Their usual relationship ranged from indifference to loathing. “Did you ask me here for some particular reason?” she asked Edwina.

Edwina ignored the question, leading them to the back veranda overlooking the sheltered waters of Pittwater. Sybil’s eyes followed the yachts tacking against the breeze. But however serene the view, she couldn’t relax. “Edwina?” she prompted.

“The fact is,” said Edwina, smugly confidential, “both Lynne and I have been approached by Pierre Brand for exclusive interviews.”

Sybil said nothing. I’m learning the value of silence from Carol, she thought fleetingly.

“Pierre really is the most delightful man,” said Lynne, to fill an awkward pause. She smiled at Sybil. “Anyway, Syb, he asked us if we could arrange for him to meet you, especially as you don’t seem keen to speak to reporters.”

“Not seem keen! Lynne, I won’t speak to anyone. I don’t want to discuss anything. I don’t want to be photographed, pawed over, chewed up and spat out by Pierre Brand or anyone else.”

The doorbell rang. Edwina bounced up to answer it, returning a moment later with Pierre Brand in tow.

Sybil stood to go.

“Oh, not yet, Syb,” exclaimed Edwina, “Pierre’s just arrived.”

Brand thrust out his hand. “Mrs. Quade, please accept my condolences. I know this must be a very difficult time for you.”

Sybil shook his hand reluctantly. He was smaller than he appeared on television, but he had the same slightly plastic, artificial air. Sybil imagined ripping open his shirt and finding circuits and switches. “I was just leaving,” she said.

“There’s a great deal of public interest in this case,” said Pierre Brand smoothly, “particularly because of Sir Richard’s son. A painless interview, a few moments of your time—that’s all I ask.”

“No.”

He smiled ingratiatingly. “And it’s to your advantage. As soon as the other media people know that you’ve signed an exclusive contract with my program, they’ll leave you alone.”

“No interview.”

“Has Edwina mentioned a payment? My channel can afford to be generous when such an important story breaks.”

Sybil shook her head. “You’re very persistent, Mr. Brand, but the answer is still no. Now, I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Please, take my card. Ring me day or night when you change your mind, or even if you’d just like to discuss things with me. I think you’ll find, upon reflection, that I’m offering a valuable opportunity.”

How like Terry he is, thought Sybil, wanting something from me and not really caring how he gets it or what it means. “Please don’t waste your card,” she said, handing it back to him.

Edwina followed her out to the car. “Syb, no offense. Didn’t think you’d take it this way.”

“How do you think I’d take it!”

A sulky resentment rose in Edwina’s face as Sybil let her anger show, and glancing back as she rounded the corner Sybil could see her standing slack-armed, her head turned to watch her go.

At home she was restless, fretful and impatient with herself. She glared at the recording equipment. All it did was invade her privacy. There had been no further threatening calls, and she didn’t expect any more. Whoever it was had other plans. She dialed Terry’s number and was irrationally annoyed when he snatched it up on the second ring.

She lied without compunction. “Look, Terry, I’ve got a splitting headache. I’ve taken something and I’m going to bed. For God’s sake, I know it’s only six o’clock. There’s some law that says I can’t go to bed this early? Don’t badger me! All right, tomorrow night. Yes, we’ll have dinner. Okay. Sorry about tonight. Bye.”

She paced around, getting a drink, nibbling corn chips, cuddling the cat. Sybil knew she was in that unsettled state where she could neither sit still nor move with any purpose. Finally she turned on the television and flung herself into a chair. Her wandering attention was suddenly riveted by the sight of herself in the school car park.

“Sybil Quade, close friend of Sir Richard’s murdered son, was too upset to be interviewed about the new and even more dreadful tragedy in her life,” the voice-over said enthusiastically, “as mystery surrounds the death of her estranged husband, Tony Quade, who was found broken and bruised at the bottom of Bellwhether Headland by a young student of Bellwhether High.” The picture switched to a long shot of the school with several kids clowning for the camera. “This is where,” the voice continued cheerfully, “Sir Richard’s son met his death in the bizarre Black and Decker murder, as yet unsolved.”

Sybil’s heart turned as the picture switched to a close-up of Carol, the voice continuing with a few flattering comments on her career. Then followed a brief interview, with Carol, confident and patient, answering reporters’ questions.

As the next story began, Sybil found a card in her purse and sat biting her lip. She switched off the television and stood uncertainly by the phone. She stared at the recording equipment attached to it, then flipped open the lid and removed the tape. She unwillingly dialed the number, saying as soon as the receiver was picked up, “Carol?”

After the slightest pause, the calm silver voice replied, “Yes?”

Sybil shut her eyes, imagining Carol’s face. “I want to see you.”

“Has something happened?”

“No.”

“Sybil, I don’t. . .”

“Please.”

A pause, then: “I’ll be there in about an hour. Is that okay?”

As she put down the receiver, Sybil released her breath in a long sigh. She replaced the tape cassette in the recorder, then moved restlessly around the house, unable to concentrate, even to sit down. Why had she rung Carol against her will and certainly against her better judgment? Why was she pacing like a nervous kid waiting for a date?