MURDER BRIEF (26 page)

"So you confronted him about the
affair and the novel?"

"Yes."

"And he admitted both?"

"Of course, and we had a huge
fight. In fact, that’s why he went up to Bowral that weekend: to
get away from me."

"And you went to see Alice?"

"Yes."

"And she let you in?"

Beverley smiled at a fond
memory. "Oh, yes. Didn’t suspect anything."

Beverley's admissions were
making Robyn very, very nervous, because Beverley obviously didn't
think Robyn would survive this conversation and repeat them to
anyone.

"And you told Alice what you’d
found out?"

"Yes. Everything."

"And she denied it?"

Beverley scowled. "No. In fact,
she taunted me about it - said it was my fault if I couldn’t keep
my husband happy. Jesus, the bitch. For years she pretended to be
my best friend while she slept with my husband, edited his novel
and treated me like shit."

Small crazy eyes peered out
through a mask of sanity. But Robyn was too engrossed to feel any
fear. "So what did you do?"

Lines snaked across Beverley’s
forehead. "I didn’t mean to kill her. I slapped her a few times and
she ran into the kitchen. So I ran after her." Beverley’s eyes went
foggy and she started mumbling. "There was a knife on the bench. I
grabbed it and stabbed her, and stabbed her again." Beverley
snapped out of her deep revere and glared scarlet. "She deserved it
- fucking well deserved it, the bitch. I hope you understand that.
You do, don’t you?"

Robyn looked at the handbag
Beverley was clutching and wondered if it contained a knife. Fear
lit up her whole system. She tried to sound conciliatory. "Of
course I do. Of course."

"So, you won’t call the
police?"

God, she really was mad. Robyn
said: "Oh, no, of course not. I understand your reasons, I really
do. You were justified."

Beverley looked suspicious.
"You’re lying, aren’t you? You’re going to call the police."

Robyn shook her head. "No, of
course not."

Beverley’s eyes glinted like
daggers. "I can’t let you do that, understand? She deserved it and
I’ve got two kids. Why should our lives be ruined because of that
bitch?"

Robyn showed her palms. "Don’t
worry, I’m not going to call the police. Definitely
no
police."

"I don’t believe you. You are,
aren’t you? You shouldn’t have been so nosey."

Beverley produced the demented
expression Alice must have seen just before she died, then reached
into her handbag, extracted a long knife with a bone handle and
dashed forward. Terrified, Robyn watched the knife rise high in the
air. Instinctively, she jumped to her feet and stepped sideways,
using her forearm to ward off the descending knife. It slashed a
long groove down her arm which sprayed blood. Adrenalin blocked out
the pain.

Robyn desperately wanted to run,
but that would have given Beverley more elbow room. She seized the
wrist holding the knife and grabbed Beverley around the waist.

Beverley had crazy strength. She
put her foot behind Robyn’s ankle and tripped her. Robyn fell over
backwards with Beverley on top. But Robyn clung to the wrist. If
she let it go, she was dead.

Beverley sunk her teeth into
Robyn’s shoulder. Robyn screamed and was about to release the knife
when Veronica dashed into the room, grabbed Beverley around the
neck and rode her face-first into the carpet. Beverley yelled and
dropped the knife.

Robyn rolled out from under
Beverley, scooped up the knife and crawled away, gasping for air.
Her back hit a wall and her bloodied forearm throbbed.

Veronica lay on Beverley’s back
and used the strength gained from three gym work-outs a week to
choke her hard. Beverley wasn’t going anywhere.

Veronica was breathing heavily,
but looked remarkably composed. She stared at Robyn. "What the
fuck’s going on? Who is this bitch?"

Robyn looked at her and was, for
once, relieved to be living with a future managing partner of a
major law firm.

Robyn’s relationship with
Veronica improved markedly after Veronica saved her life. True, she
still thought Veronica a cold and manipulative cow. But Veronica
showed plenty of strength and courage when she held Beverley until
the cops arrived and made the arrest.

Indeed, Robyn was so grateful
that, the next day, she sat in a café with Veronica and Brian, and
told them how she discovered Beverley killed Alice. Robyn even
managed to be polite when Brian revealed that he and Veronica had
decided to get engaged.

"Oh, congratulations."

Veronica smiled like a ruthless
general who has just sacked a wealthy city. If Robyn had any pity,
she would have told Brain to run for his life. But she said
nothing.

Brian said: "Thank you. You
know, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us. But Veronica’s a
wonderful girl - wonderful. I’m sure we’ll be happy."

Robyn thought that unlikely.
"I’m sure you will."

"And I hope we can all stay
friends."

"Oh definitely," Robyn said,
while wondering how she could avoid these two in the future.

Two days later, Detective
Inspector Holloway phoned Robyn to report that he’d charged
Beverley with murdering Alice and attempting to murder Robyn.

Robyn said: "You can prove she
murdered Alice?"

"Oh yes. For a start, some of
her hair was on Alice’s clothes and - wait for it - we found traces
of Alice’s blood in her car."

"You’re kidding?"

"No. She must have deposited it
there when she fled the scene. Very careless."

"Strong evidence."

The detective laughed. "Yeah.
But best of all, she’s confessed."

"Really?"

"Yep. Ignored her solicitor’s
advice and gave us a full interview. Answered all our questions.
Gave us a blow-by-blow account of how she murdered Alice and tried
to stab you. You know, I think she wants a medal for bumping off
Alice: kept calling her ‘the bitch’. Said that if she spends the
rest of her life in prison for killing her, it was worth it."

"Boy, one angry woman."

"Got that right."

"She’ll plead guilty?"

"I expect so."

"So you’ve finally got the real
culprit."

"Yes, and I suppose I should
thank you for that - for solving the case."

"I’m sure you’d have solved it
eventually," Robyn said politely.

"No I wouldn’t. I was positive
Rex Markham was the murderer and got off the hook because of his
smart-arse barristers. I’d already closed the file. As far as I was
concerned, it was over."

Robyn giggled. "Which just
shows, doesn’t it, that there’s a role for smart-arsed
barristers?"

An uncertain laugh. "Sometimes -
just sometimes."

For the next few days, there was
blanket media coverage of Beverley being charged with murder. The
stories highlighted Tim Nolan’s affair with Alice and authorship of
Waiting for Rain
. Robyn was credited with solving the
mystery, so lots of people called to congratulate her, including
Rex Markham, sounding a little embarrassed, but very pleased he was
no longer under suspicion.

She even got a call from Gary
Torkhill, the crime novelist, who sounded a little nervous. "Hi. I
read in the paper that Beverley killed Alice and you solve the
mystery. Congratulation."

"Thanks."

"I’m not surprised Beverley
dunnit. I only met her a few times, but always thought she was
tuned to the wrong frequency."

"Good assessment."

He paused. "You know, I think
you should publish a book about the trial. It would make a great
true crime story."

"I’m not a writer."

"I know. So I’ll ghost it for
you. Your name will appear on the front cover as the author, and
you’ll be the heroine of course, but I’ll do all the writing."

"No thanks."

"Why not?"

"Because I think the name of the
real author should always appear on the cover. Saves a lot of
trouble."

Torkhill laughed. "Hah, yes, I
see your point."

"Anyway, I’ve already returned
my brief in the Markham case. It’s time to move on."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He paused. "OK then. Well, I
suppose I should get to the other reason I called: I was wondering
if I can buy you dinner one night."

Robyn had decided to start
dating again. But Torkhill was definitely not the sort of guy she
wanted. True, he was intelligent and amusing. But he was obviously
a self-contained loner, and she'd grown wary of novelists. She
wanted something stable and lasting.

She said: "Thanks. But I don’t
think that would be a good idea."

He sounded disappointed. "Why
not? Because I had an affair with Alice?"

"Oh, no. That’s none of my
business. I’m not judgmental about that."

"Then why not?"

"Because I glanced at your
novels in a bookshop and saw they’re all dedicated to different
women."

A friendly laugh. "Touché. But
if you change your mind about dinner, or the book, let me know,
OK?"

"Sure."

After the Markham trial, Robyn
became used to arriving at work and finding one or two new briefs
sitting on her desk. However, one morning she found a square
package, which looked too small to contain a brief. Puzzled, she
opened it and found a red enamel tin with the intitials "BJP" - her
father’s initials - on the lid. She took off the lid and found a
barrister’s wig with a note on top, in her mother’s
handwriting:

"You might find this
useful."

Damn. She told her mother not to
send it. Why didn't her mother ever listen?

She tentatively picked up the
wig, yellow and frayed, at least 50 years old, obviously needing a
few repairs. At the Bar, tattered wigs with a pedigree were highly
prized, but she preferred her shiny new one.

She twirled the wig around on
her finger. Should she wear it to court? Why not? Surely she'd
stepped out of her father's shadow and done enough to make him
proud. Wearing it would be a nice way to remember him. In a few
months, she'd be appearing in the High Court as junior counsel to
Gary Frost SC. She'd get it repaired and wear it then.

The rest of the day, she
struggled to get on top of her chamber-work. By 9pm she was too
tired to think straight and decided to go home. She wearily put on
her overcoat and strolled towards the lifts. To her surprise,
someone was playing
Earth on Fire
, one of the Shy Boys’
biggest hits.

"You stab me in the chest with
your cold hard lies

"Stab me one more time and I’m
gonna, gonna die."

Light spilled out of Gary
Monaghan’s doorway. She hesitated, stepped through it and found him
at his desk, reading a tax textbook. From the sound system behind
him came a raunchy bass guitar riff.

"Hi."

He looked up, surprised.
"Hi."

"You're here late."

"Got a big advice to
finish."

"You’re listening to the Shy
Boys. I’m a big fan."

He leaned back and paused the
music. "So am I. Got all their CDs, including the bootlegs."

"Really?"

He smiled. "Yeah. You sound
surprised."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes you are. You think I’m just
a boring tax lawyer, don’t you?"

"No, I don't," she lied.

"Yes you do. You know, a lot of
people are deeply prejudiced against tax lawyers: they think we're
all as dull as ditchwater. I've spent my whole career fighting
against that sort of bigotry."

She laughed. "You must admit
that some tax lawyers are a little bit dull."

A grin transformed his face.
"That's not how we see ourselves."

She smiled. "You know, the Shy
Boys are playing in Sydney next week."

"I heard."

"You going?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No-one to go with."

"Really? I heard different."
Shit, that was a big give-away.

He flushed. "Who told you
that?"

"Oh, someone on the floor."

"I was seeing someone for a
while; it didn’t work out."

"Well, I’ve got a spare ticket
to the Shy Boys. You want to go with me?"

He stared hard. "You
serious?"

"Yeah."

"But I heard
you
were
seeing someone."

"I was, but it didn’t work out.
So, you’ll come along? It'll be a great chance for you to fight
bigotry."

A broad smile. "Yeah. And I
promise I won’t talk about tax."

"You can talk about anything you
like."