Lessons in Murder (7 page)

“Yes, and he belongs to a rifle club, but Bill Pagett wasn’t shot.”

Bourke turned his hands palms up. “I bow to your superior logic,” he said, “so tell me why Clarke finds it necessary to have Sybil spitting in a desert.”

Carol laughed at his words, then grew thoughtful. “Terry Clarke seems keen to protect Mrs. Quade, but maybe he’s just trying to make sure we don’t overlook her,” she said.

“Subtle,” said Bourke, “and for my money, too refined for him to even think of. If you ask me, I think it’s Terry and our Syb in it together.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, it makes sense. Sybil’s the brain who sets it up, and Terry’s the brawn who carries it out.”

“Terry Clarke has an M.A. in English Lit from Sydney University,” said Carol, “so I think you’d better consider the possibility that along with the brawn he has the brains.”

She smiled at his expression. “I’ve arranged for a female police officer to accompany you to interview Hilary Cosgrove,” she said. “I’ll see Mrs. Quade.”

“Swap you,” said Bourke. “You take the kid and I’ll take the delectable Syb. No? Ah, well, she’d probably fool me, anyway.” He shuffled through papers on the desk. “Look, before I go, have a look at this.” He handed her one of his neat pages. “You asked me to find out if anyone had special medical expertise to help them drill the hole in Pagett’s head. That’s all I’ve got.”

He left Carol frowning at the page. Terry Clarke’s interest in martial arts might give him some detailed knowledge of anatomy; Edwina’s father had been a dentist (Bourke had written “far-fetched, but after all, concentrating on the head!”); both Pete McIvor and Sybil had advanced first aid qualifications; but for Lynne Simpson and Alan Witcombe he could find nothing of interest. He was still waiting for information on Tony Quade from England.

Carol sat thinking long after the last sounds of activity had faded and the school became strangely quiet. She rested her chin on her linked fingers and stared unseeingly out the door and down the silent corridor.

Lynne Simpson had made a dramatic entrance just before Terry Clarke had arrived, breathless with her news of Tony Quade and full of insincere apologies for keeping the information to herself for three days. “One’s loyalty to one’s friends,” she said soulfully, “that’s the only explanation I can give.”

Carol resisted the tart remark that rose to her tongue and listened with flattering attention to Lynne’s story. “I’ve told Syb,” Lynne concluded, “though I suppose you’ll say I shouldn’t have. Anyway, I’m sure she’s seen Tony, though she says she hasn’t.”

Neat knife job, thought Carol, I wonder if she has a grudge against Sybil as well as Edwina? As Lynne turned to go, Carol remarked, “We’ve been told you and Bill Pagett were rather more than friends at one time.” To Lynne’s look of inquiry, she added, “But that he lost interest, and switched to someone younger.”

Lynne’s lips had twitched. “Oh, dear,” she had said, “I do hope Edwina isn’t leading you up the garden path. She has
such
an active imagination.”

Carol’s thoughts now strayed to Tony Quade. She had a photograph of him, but it was difficult to read character into the regular features that gazed out at her. She found herself actively hoping that Sybil’s husband was guilty. Even so, Sybil would have to endure probing questions and the curious gaze of strangers into her personal affairs, but at least she would not be charged, and consigned to the cold brutality of a women’s prison. Her gaze dropped to the photocopy of Sybil’s note. Who had sent it, and why? Had the power drill been planted to incriminate her too? She gave herself a mental shake. She was acting as though she was on Sybil’s side, and, of course, she wasn’t. “My only interest is the truth,” she said mockingly to the silent office.

She checked a file and dialed a number. “Mrs. Quade? It’s Carol Ashton here. I hope this isn’t inconvenient, but I wonder if I could call by and see you, now? In about twenty minutes, then.”

Carol didn’t get up immediately, re-reading the short note and picturing Sybil’s face as she wrote it. It was undated, and the angular writing hurried urgently across the paper:

Bill,

I won’t say anything to Tony about what happened, so you don’t have to make up any convincing lies. I don’t ever want to think about it again.

                                                     Sybil

She packed her briefcase slowly, uncomfortably aware of how much she was looking forward to seeing Sybil again. Straight women, she thought bitterly. You know where that leads—and it isn’t worth it.

As Carol walked up the steps, Sybil, who had changed to shorts and a brief top, opened the door. Smiling, she said, “Your call just caught me—I was going for a swim.” She added impulsively, “Have you got a costume with you in the car? Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m sorry—no. I’ll only keep you a short time.”

Carol watched Sybil take the photocopy and read it. The animation in her face was suddenly stilled. She didn’t look up immediately, but reread the words. She’s not going to tell the truth, thought Carol.

Sybil handed the photocopy back. “It’s nothing, really. Bill and I had some stupid disagreement over something. I can’t even remember what it was, now. Anyway, I wrote him a note because Tony hated it if we didn’t get along—his best friend and his wife—and I didn’t want Bill to mention it.”

“Rather an intense note for a friendly disagreement,” said Carol.

“Perhaps I express myself badly.”

Carol smiled at her. “Somehow I doubt that. You can’t be any more explicit?”

“No.” Sybil was self-possessed. She raised her eyebrows. “I do hope, Inspector, you haven’t been pinning too much on this note. It really was of no importance.”

“You haven’t asked me how I came to have it, Mrs. Quade.”

Sybil looked surprised. “Why, I imagine you found it at Bill’s place. It’s the sort of thing he’d do—keep a stupid little letter like that.”

“We didn’t find it there. Someone posted it to me, anonymously.”

Carol watched Sybil’s face tighten.

“Who would do that?” Sybil said.

“I was hoping you could tell me that.”

Sybil suddenly became brisk. “No, I’m sorry. Now, if there’s nothing else. . .”

“Do you do your own repairs around the home?”

“What?”

“Are you familiar with the use of common power tools, for example?”

“Anyone can plug in a Black and Decker and use it—that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Have you ever used any of the power tools in the Industrial Arts Department?”

“Of course I haven’t. What are you getting at?”

“You had a power drill on the bench in your garage. You gave permission for it to be taken for tests.”

“Tests?”

“The drill bit itself had small pieces of flesh and bone clinging to it.” At Sybil’s appalled expression she added, “It wasn’t human. The forensic department says it’s animal matter, lamb to be exact.”

“You mean someone was . . . practicing?” She stared at Carol.
“Here?”

Oh, very good, thought Carol—either you’re bright, or guilty, or both. Aloud she said, “A trial run. I don’t suppose you have any other explanation?” Sybil shook her head. “Has anyone borrowed your power drill lately?”

“I loaned it to Pete a week or so ago. His flat had been burgled and he wanted to install safety locks on the windows. He gave it back to me last Friday, I put it on the front seat of the car, and when I drove in I left it on the bench.”

“Was there a drill bit in it?”

“No, Pete gave me back the bits in their separate plastic case.”

“Is the garage kept locked?”

Sybil sounded defeated. “No.”

“So anyone could come in?”

“Anyone,” said Sybil wearily. “Are you finished?”

“I’d like you to show me the garage, and also I’d like your permission for a closer scientific examination of the area. Will that be all right?”

Sybil was white, but self-contained. “Why would I be so stupid as to leave evidence like that on a drill?” she said.

Carol thought, Because of monstrous self-confidence, or nerves, or just an oversight. Aloud she said, “I can’t speculate on that.”

“Inspector, do you think I need legal representation?”

“That must be your decision.”

“I wish I knew what you were really thinking,” said Sybil, turning to lead the way to the garage.

No, you don’t, thought Carol, watching the graceful turn of her head.

Chapter Five

Carol was cleaning her teeth when the telephone rang. She glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock on a burnished summer morning. “Yes? Carol Ashton. What?”

She listened intently. “Right. Put a clamp on this. No news, especially radio stations. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She rang Mark Bourke. “Mark? You heard? Extraor-dinary in light of the phone call to Edwina Carter, isn’t it? And I don’t want Sybil Quade to know anything before I speak to her. I’ll leave that side to you. I’m going down to the beach.”

Even though Carol had changed into jeans and jogging shoes she found it difficult to clamber around the rocks at the base of the headland. It was just after eight, but the day was already singing with heat, the light shattering on the heaving water and splintering into her eyes. “Much further?” she asked the young constable.

“No, Inspector. Just round this rock fall.” Carol looked up at the overhang. “Quite a recent one,” said the constable helpfully. “The rock’s rotten. Look, there’s where the next lot’s going to go. See the crack?”

“You’re a comfort,” said Carol, laughing.

The body was near Carter’s Cave, which was actually a huge cleft in the cliff face. Its floor was composed of earth, stones and debris that had fallen from above, the walls narrowing at the top to allow further debris to form the roof. Below the cave a rock platform covered with jumbled sandstone blocks stretched to the sea. The tidal pools glittered in the sunlight and the dull thump and suck of the water added a continuous accompaniment. Carol looked up to the top of the cliff where several uniformed figures stood, curious onlookers. “He fell from up there?”

“Looks like it,” said the constable. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have landed where he did, just above the high water mark.” He pointed to where a group of men in white overalls stood patiently waiting for the photographer to finish, for Carol to view the body and for the basket stretcher to bump its way to the top with its dead burden.

Tony Quade lay in a curious position, face down, one knee drawn up under him, his hands outstretched as if paying homage to some greater power. “There was a passport in his pocket,” said the constable. “This kid found him about six this morning. As soon as we realized who it was, you were contacted.”

Carol walked over to the white-faced boy, who was staring with sick fascination at the activity around the body. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him away towards the sea. “Tell me how you found him,” she said.

The boy swallowed. “I came down to fish,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “Climbed down from up there. I was almost at the bottom when I saw him. Just lying like that. I came up close. Told myself he was asleep, but knew he wasn’t, really. I could see the blood. I watched for ages to see if he was breathing.” He looked up at Carol. “You know, I was frightened he might be alive . . . that he might turn over and his face would be all smashed. . .”

Carol asked a few more quiet questions, then sent the boy off with the constable to make a written statement. The tide was licking closer, but the water would only wash within a few feet of the outstretched broken hands. High water was at 8:48 AM and it was 8:30 now. “Turn him over,” she said.

The photographer, chewing gum relentlessly, clicked away with bored competence, unaffected by the smashed face and congealed blood that once had been the handsome Tony Quade. He shifted the gum to his other cheek. “These jumpers,” he muttered.

“This one had a lot to live for,” said Carol, thinking of Sybil’s red hair—and of her mouth. “And not much to die for. I don’t think it’s suicide. I want everything on this, fast.”

Carol went straight into the office without changing from her jeans. She caught Bourke’s slight confirming nod that he thought Sybil had been isolated from the news of her husband’s death.

Sybil was sitting tautly, an untouched cup of coffee on the table beside her. “What’s happened? Why am I being kept here?”

Carol didn’t answer immediately, but walked deliberately around Mrs. Farrell’s polished desk to sit with the light behind her. Did Sybil already know what was about to be said because she had pushed her husband to his death? A vivid picture, clear as a movie, danced in her imagination: Tony Quade meeting his estranged wife, arguing with her, turning his back in contempt, and then, the impulsive shove, the body turning, the scream blending with the shrieks of wheeling seagulls.

“Did you see or speak to anyone last night?” asked Bourke mildly.

“Why?” She sighed. “You won’t answer, will you? All right. Inspector Ashton saw me late yesterday afternoon. After she’d gone I drank about half a bottle of whiskey, all alone. I rang a friend who’s moved up the coast and told her what had happened. Then I cried myself to sleep. Okay? Is that what you want? Now, why?”

Carol said with brutal directness, “I’ve just come from examining a body. We believe it is your husband. He fell, or was pushed, to his death.”

Sybil said nothing, merely covering her eyes with one hand. Carol wondered if it was to hide grief, fear, or exultation. Bourke raised his eyebrows to Carol in an unspoken question. At her silent assent he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Sybil.

“I know what a shock this must have been,” he said sympathetically. “Would you like a glass of water or a fresh cup of coffee?”

She takes shock so well, thought Carol, or is it arrogance that gives her that iron control? Carol didn’t interrupt Bourke as he was by turns solicitous, concerned, and cajoling in an effort to get Sybil to react, to talk, even to cry. She seemed remote, answering his questions politely, but asking none of her own.