MURDER BRIEF (4 page)

"I can understand that. Alright,
now tell me what you did on the weekend your wife died."

Markham repeated what he told
the Homicide detectives at his
second
interview. When he’d
finished, Brian asked him why he decided to dine with his literary
agent, Hugh Grimble.

Markham shrugged. "After almost
a week by myself at the beach-house, I got stir crazy. Hugh’s been
a mate for a long time. In fact, I owe him a hell of a lot. Without
him, I’d probably still be a hack reporter on the
Sydney Morning
Herald
, dreaming of becoming a novelist. Anyway, I drove up to
see him. He cooked dinner, we drank a few beers and we
chatted."

"What about?"

"Nothing much: gossiped about
other writers; argued about books we’d read; talked about my latest
novel."

"And you left at about eleven
o’clock?"

"Yes, and drove straight back to
Nowra."

"Didn’t see your wife at
all?"

Markham shook his head
ferociously. "No. I mean, why would I? Like I said, our
relationship was lousy. She was the last person I wanted to see.
There was no point."

Robyn reflected that the
antagonism between Markham and his wife gave Markham a good motive
to avoid her
and
a good motive to kill her.

"I understand," Brian said and
turned to Bernie Roberts. "The police have interviewed Grimble,
right?"

"Yes, and he supported Rex’s
alibi."

"And you’ve spoken to him?"

"Of course."

"He’ll give evidence for us at
the trial?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely."

"And he’ll come in here for a
conference?"

"Yeah. He’ll see you any time
you want."

"Good. Then you’d better wheel
him in."

Bernie nodded. "I’ll arrange
it."

Markham leaned forward
anxiously. "So what are my chances?"

Brian exhaled loudly. "Frankly,
you’re in a lot of trouble. You had a bad marriage; you had a
violent argument with your wife; you lied to the police and you
were in Sydney on the night of the murder. The prosecution has a
lot of ammunition."

Markham said: "I’ve got an
alibi."

"Yes, you have. But you divulged
it late and your alibi witness is a very close friend. It might not
be believed."

Markham blanched. "OK. But I’ve
got a chance, right?"

"Yes, you definitely have. A lot
can happen in a courtroom and I’ve certainly won more difficult
cases than this one."

And, Robyn reflected, lost
easier ones.

Brian stood and shook hands with
Markham. "Thank you for coming in. This chat’s been very helpful.
Where are you living right now? At the terrace?"

"Oh no, too many bad memories.
I’ve rented a small apartment in Potts Point."

"That’s understandable. I’d like
to inspect the terrace fairly soon. You’re welcome to join us."

Markham looked uncertain then
nodded. "Yes, I think I will, if you don’t mind."

"Not at all. Bernie’ll
co-ordinate the visit."

When Markham shook hands with
Robyn, his hand felt clammier than before and he didn’t quite meet
her eye.

Markham and Bernie left, and
Robyn turned to Brian. "So, what do you think? Guilty?"

"It doesn’t look good. The only
person who can save him is Grimble. He’s the joker in the pack. The
sooner we talk to him, the better. However, I suspect he won’t be
much help."

"Why? You haven’t even talked to
him."

"True. But I know a big fat
juicy lie when I hear one."

Hugh Grimble was in his
mid-fifties with silver hair, a square jaw and trim frame neatly
encased in a bespoke suit and white linen shirt. To prove he was an
aesthete, he wore green suspenders and a blue polka-dot bowtie.
Robyn bet he also wore striped silk boxers. His manner was smooth
and affable, but slightly unreal and inflated, as if he was
performing on the stage.

He sat between Robyn and Bernie,
facing Brian behind his desk.

Brian leaned forward. "Mr
Grimble, thank you for coming to see us. Your evidence is obviously
an important part of Rex’s defence."

Grimble said: "I’ll do anything
to help."

Brian frowned. "Good. But I hope
you won’t say that in the witness box."

Grimble grinned. "Oh, I see.
Well, don’t worry, I’ll be discrete."

"Fine. How long have you been a
literary agent?"

"Oh, about twenty-five years. I
represent lots of novelists. That’s the work I love. But I also
represent scriptwriters, film directors, producers, historians and
even a few actors."

"And how’s the book trade at the
moment?"

A wry smile. "The market for
cookbooks and gardening manuals is quite buoyant. Everything else -
including novels - is in the toilet, I’m afraid. Apart from the
fact we’re moving into a post-literate world, digital piracy has
gone crazy."

Robyn interjected: "How long
have you known Rex Markham?"

"Oh, about fifteen years. He was
a journalist who sent me a manuscript called
Dark Before
Dawn
. It was a bit of a mess. I mean, in those days, he was
just learning his craft. But it showed real promise. So I helped
him knock it into shape and found him a publisher."

Brian said: "And since then,
he’s done well?"

"Oh, yes. Nine novels translated
into 14 languages; eight million copies sold; two books made into
movies."

"And his dead wife, Alice, she
worked for you?"

"Yes. She was one of my
assistants. That’s how she met Rex."

"And after they got married, she
kept working for you?"

"Yes."

"So you got on well with
her?"

"Yes, I think so. I mean, we
didn’t fight or anything. We had a harmonious working
relationship."

"What was she like?"

Grimble laughed. "Ah,
intelligent, charming and tough –
very
tough. She seemed
meek and mild. But if you tangled with her, she’d take lumps out of
you. Nobody pushed her around."

"When was the last time you saw
her?"

"Umm, probably on the Friday
before she died."

"You’re not sure?"

"Not really. I’m a bit vague on
that. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time."

"OK. Now, according to Rex, on
the evening she was murdered, he dined at your house in Watson’s
Bay?"

"That’s right."

Robyn studied Grimble closely to
gauge if he was telling the truth. His tone was calm and confident.
But she suspected he could slip from truth to falsehood without
ever grinding gears. After all, fiction was his great love.

Brian said: "You live
alone?"

Grimble looked rueful. "Yes.
I’ve had three wives. But the last one threw in the towel four
years ago. I was disappointed at the time, of course. But, quite
frankly, it was a blessing in disguise: bought myself a Harley
Davidson and started taking long overseas trips."

"Sounds like fun. There were no
other guests?"

"Correct. Just us two."

"Who arranged the dinner?"

Grimble shrugged. "Well, he
phoned and said he was tired of writing his latest novel and
desperately wanted company. I could understand that. Writing novels
is lonely work. So I invited him to drive up and have dinner with
me. I cooked osso bucco, if I recall. Very tasty. We also drank a
good deal of red wine."

"What did you talk about?"

Another shrug. "Not much. We
chatted about books we’d read and exchanged gossip. But, to be
honest, I don’t remember many details. I drank quite a lot and
never thought I’d have to repeat it in court."

"When did he leave?"

"Oh, around eleven. I asked him
if he wanted to stay the night. But he said he’d head back to
Nowra."

"OK. Now, since then, have you
spoken to Rex about that evening?"

"You mean, compared notes?"

"Yes."

Grimble shook his head. "Of
course not. Rex said we shouldn’t talk about it and I agreed."

Robyn knew that was a lie. It
was a universal law of litigation that witnesses in the same camp
always talked to each other, then denied it.

"Good. Now, I assume you’re
prepared to get into the witness box and repeating what you’ve just
said?"

"Of course." Grimble picked up
his briefcase and put it on his knees, ready to go. "Any more
questions?"

Brian shook his head. "Not right
now."

"Good. So, you’ll get Rex
off?"

Brian shrugged. "There are no
guarantees. We’ll do our best."

Grimble smiled. "If you get him
off, sales of his novels will go through the roof."

"And if I don’t?"

A wolfish smile. "Probably go
into orbit."

The literary agent stood, shook
hands with the two barristers and said goodbye before Bernie
escorted him to the lifts.

When they’d gone, Robyn turned
to Brian. "You think he’s telling the truth?"

"About dining with Rex on the
night of the murder?"

"Yes."

"No, I think he’s lying his head
off. But my opinion doesn’t count. It’s what the jury thinks."

"And will they believe him?"

"I doubt it."

"Why not?"

"Well, for a start, they’ll
probably think he’s a bit too slick, especially if he gets into the
witness box dressed like Beau Brummell. I mean, he looks like he
pisses cologne. That won’t enhance his credibility. But the biggest
problem is that he’s a good mate of Rex. The jury will reckon that
Rex invoked the Old Mates Act and they cooked up the alibi
together." Brian shook his head. "I’m afraid Rex might have
outsmarted himself. I’d prefer it if he
didn’t
have an
alibi, so Grimble doesn't have to give evidence."

"Really? Why?"

"Because I hate calling
witnesses. Hate it. You know why?
Because witnesses fuck up.
Even when they’re trying to tell the truth, they stuff up: they get
nervous and confused, make stupid concessions. Remember, the
easiest way to lose a case is to call a witness. Whenever you call
one, you’re a hostage to fortune."

"You don’t trust anybody, do
you?"

"You’ve got that right." He
hesitated and smiled. "Oh, yeah, except you."

"Don’t put yourself out for
me."

Bernie re-entered the room and
looked at Brian. "Pretty smooth, huh?"

"Too smooth. In fact, ask him to
ditch the suspenders and bowtie before he gives evidence. Jurors
don’t like witnesses - particularly alibi witnesses - who wear
artsy-fartsy accoutrements." He almost pronounced the last word
right. "Ask him to dress more middle-class."

Bernie sighed. "I’ll try. But
he’ll probably say no. I get the impression he sleeps in that
bowtie."

"Well, try."

"OK. So do you think Rex has got
a chance?"

Brian rolled his eyes. "Let me
see: our client had a punch-up with his wife just weeks before she
was murdered, he told a huge pork pie to the cops concerning his
whereabouts, and his alibi witness is an old buddy who dresses like
Oscar Wilde. In other words, he’s in bad shape - very bad
shape."

Bernie sighed. "I was worried
you might say that."

When Robyn got back to her room,
she had to forget about the Markham case and prepare for a
sentencing hearing the next morning.

She’d just started re-reading
the brief when someone entered her room. She looked up at a floor
colleague, Gary Monahan. He was in his early thirties, tall and
thin, with lank dark hair and incredibly normal features.

She’d only chatted to him a few
times, at floor gatherings, and knew little about him, except that
he specialized in tax law, which was about as foreign to her as
alchemy. She quickly decided he was nice, but very dull. Of course,
she was biased against him because he was a tax lawyer. But who
could blame her? All the ones she'd met were photocopies of real
people.

Now, he shifted on his feet,
looking nervous. "Sorry to bother you. Got a moment?"

She leaned back, reluctantly.
"Yeah, of course."

He shuffled forward. "I’ve got a
friend who’s been charged with drink driving and he wants to know
what the magistrate might do. But it’s not my field; I don’t have a
clue."

"You want me to speak to
him?"

"Oh, no. Just give me some idea
and I’ll pass that on."

She shrugged. "Sure. What was
his blood-alcohol reading?"

Gary explained that his friend,
while driving home from a dinner party, was pulled over and scored
a 0.12 reading.

Robyn had represented lots of
drink drivers in a similar predicament. "Does he accept the
reading?"

"Yeah, I think so. He was
pissed. He admits that."

"Then he’s got to plead guilty
and I’m afraid he’ll lose his licence. The only question is: for
how long? If he’s a clean-skin, the beak will probably take it away
for about a year."

"Ouch. You sure?"

"Yup. When’s he got to appear in
court?"

"A few weeks’ time."

"Well, if he wants me to
represent him, let me know."

"Don't worry. I’ll probably do
it myself."

"OK."

"Thanks." He looked like he was
about to say some more, but shrugged and shuffled out.

Robyn wondered why he didn’t
consult someone on the floor he knew better. Maybe he didn’t know
many of the criminal barristers. Anyway, no point speculating. She
dove back into the brief on her desk.

Robyn’s best friend at the Bar,
Silvia Tyler, occupied a room a few doors away. Silvia had been a
barrister for twenty years, specializing in land & environment
law. That meant she handled disputes about building approvals, home
extensions, backyard fences, obstructed views and property zonings.
Since these were major concerns for most Sydneysiders, business was
always good.

She had spiky gray hair and a
leathery face. Her only concession to femininity was an ironic dab
of lipstick. In court, she was blunt and acerbic. Outside, she was
even harsher, particularly with male colleagues, who often feared
her. "You know," she once told Robyn, "there aren’t any real men on
this floor. We should tell them to stop using the male loo."