Web of Deceit (7 page)

She put the phone down, then brought up the file about the murder Marko had witnessed. His statement included the investigating detectives’ names: Michael Paterson and David Schuster. She opened the staff database and typed them in. Schuster had been killed in a car crash while on duty twelve years ago, but Paterson was a sergeant on the Central Coast.

She called his station and asked if he was there.

‘He’s off duty,’ the desk officer said. ‘Can I take a message?’

Ella gave her name and office and mobile numbers. ‘It’s about an old homicide case involving a witness named Meixner. Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘I don’t know. He’s on sick leave.’

‘Any chance my details could be sent to him in the meantime?’

The station would have his home and mobile numbers. Sometimes people would pass messages on, sometimes not.

‘Is it urgent?’

‘The witness is dead and I wanted to ask about the case,’ Ella said.

‘I’ll see,’ the officer said.

‘Thanks.’ Ella didn’t feel hopeful. But she could always call back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. At some point, either Paterson
would come back to work or the desk officers would get sick of her and let him know.

Murray came over as she hung up. ‘Langley wants a briefing. A proper one.’

She bounced a fist off the desk.

Ella had expected – hoped – the room to be full, but only four detectives looked up when she and Murray took their places at the head of the table. James Kemsley, John Gawande, George Lee,
and Aadil Hossain. They were hard workers at least. She and Murray would need to wring every last bit of energy out of them to get as much done as possible before Langley decided to call them off.

And here he came now. He shut the door, then sat in a chair to one side of the room, shaved head shiny under the lights, tie a Greek ocean blue, legs in ironed trousers neatly crossed and hands
clasped on his lap.

Ella opened the case folder and stuck Meixner’s blown-up driver’s licence photo to the whiteboard. ‘Victim is thirty-six-year-old Marko Meixner, killed last night at 6 pm when he fell in front of a train at Town Hall station. Suffered major traumatic injuries. No cause of death yet; post-mortem’s first thing tomorrow morning.’ She described his earlier car accident and
transport to hospital, and his apparent paranoia. ‘The car he was driving belongs to a colleague, Daniel Truscott, who reported it stolen yesterday afternoon. He’s yet to be interviewed.’

Murray summarised Meixner’s leaving the hospital, getting somehow to the station, the smoke bomb and man in the cap. ‘It was impossible to tell from CCTV footage whether he was indeed pushed or fell in
the panic.’

‘Or jumped,’ Langley said.

‘Yes,’ Ella said, feeling the burn begin.

The four detectives said nothing and scribbled notes.

‘Meixner was the star witness in a homicide case seventeen years ago,’ Ella said, and described how Meixner had come across the two men fighting, how he’d tried to save the victim and was injured. ‘Paul Mitchell Canning, twenty at the time,
was convicted and jailed, and released on parole seven weeks ago. Three weeks ago, Meixner complained to his local station that Canning was following him. Officers spoke to Canning and found he had alibis for each occasion, and told Meixner there was nothing more they could do. Those officers, Canning himself and his parole officer are yet to be interviewed.’

‘Last night we spoke to Meixner’s
wife, Chloe,’ Murray said. ‘He had a history of depression and anxiety, and was on medication. Years ago he attempted suicide, but Chloe is adamant that he would not have killed himself now. They’re expecting a baby, and she said he’d even talked about how glad he was that his attempt hadn’t succeeded because of how much he was looking forward to the new addition. Meixner’s doctor is yet to
be interviewed.’

The detectives turned pages in their notebooks and kept writing.

‘Chloe also told us about some trouble she’d had with a former co-worker.’ Ella summarised what Fletcher had done to Chloe, his past convictions for stalking and assault, and his response when they spoke to him last night. ‘His offsider, Daley Jones, is also yet to be interviewed.’

She glanced at
Langley, but the growing list didn’t seem to be having any effect. He sat rubbing the fingertips of one hand across the knuckles of the other, his face empty.

‘So this is where we are this morning,’ Ella said. ‘As you can see, there’s plenty to find out.’

Langley got up and sauntered over to stand beside them. ‘And here’s the manner in which you’ll do it. Lee and Hossain, you start
by checking out Simon Fletcher’s alibi. Talk to the offsider, then go to the pub. That shouldn’t take you long because I doubt the clientele of the Thorn and Thistle are sympathetic to our cause. Don’t worry about Bunnings for now, it’ll take too long to check all their CCTV and watching it is probably unnecessary at this point. Then talk to Meixner’s friends. Ask them especially about any recent
mention of suicide.’ He turned to Ella. ‘You have their names?’

Ella nodded curtly. Talk about slanting the approach. But the detectives were smart guys: they could read between the lines.

Langley faced Lee and Hossain again. ‘Then talk to Canning and ask the usual questions about where he was yesterday, then check with his parole officer about how he’s doing.

‘Gawande and Kemsley,
call the taxi and bus companies and find out how Meixner got from RPA to Town Hall station and how he was acting on the way. Then go to Town Hall and watch more CCTV until you can see when he arrived, what he did, if the man in the cap is visible in any other frames with him.

‘Marconi and Shakespeare, you check with Meixner’s GP, then go to his workplace and interview his colleagues, including
that Truscott. Ask again about suicidal references. He might’ve told someone he was depressed and thinking about ending it. People often do.’

Ella could feel that her face was set in a stony frown. She could hardly bring herself to nod.

‘I’ll get onto Media and have them put out a request for any witnesses to Meixner’s car crash and from the train platform to come forward. I’ll also
check with the officers at Ryde, find out exactly how Meixner was acting when he made that complaint and how he responded when they said there was nothing to it.’ Langley motioned the detectives to their feet. ‘Priority is to rule out as many of these issues as we can, so let’s get on with it.’

SIX

D
octor Elizabeth Hardy’s receptionist barely looked at the badges that Ella and Murray held out. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have an appointment,’ she said.

Ella raised her eyebrows. ‘I said homicide.’

The woman wore a name badge labelled Hester. Her brown hair lay in flat curls all over her head and her shoulders were angular points inside her blue synthetic
blouse.

‘You see all those people?’ She pointed past them at the waiting room, where two women and one man of varying ages sat watching them. ‘They have appointments, and those appointments need to be kept. Doctor Hardy runs to an extremely tight schedule and this morning, in particular,’ she glanced at the computer screen before her, ‘she has not a single minute spare.’

‘It’s about
a patient of hers,’ Murray said.

His voice was still tight. They’d talked about Langley all the way here, and Ella had been impressed by his anger. It seemed the nameless girlfriend had ignited a new drive in him. Callum, on the other hand, was igniting nothing but frustration in her. No text, no call.

‘In that case, privacy laws preclude her from sharing any information.’ Hester paused.
‘Unless, that is, you have a warrant.’

The pause was for effect; she knew perfectly well they didn’t have one, because if they did it would be right in her face.

Ella eyed her. ‘How about we ask Doctor Hardy herself if she can give us a moment?’

‘That won’t be possible,’ Hester said. ‘She’s with a patient and cannot be disturbed.’

A young woman opened the front door and
stepped in, bringing a gust of wind and the sound of pelting rain. Hester looked past Murray and Ella and smiled at her. ‘Have a seat, thanks, Mrs Donaldson.’

Murray said, ‘How about we wait here until she brings that patient out and ask her then?’

Hester turned even steelier. ‘I promise you she has no time.’

‘We like to give people the benefit of the doubt.’ Ella smiled.

The phone rang and Hester picked it up and turned away from them to speak. ‘Doctor Hardy’s surgery, may I help you?’

Ella rested her elbow on the high counter and Murray tucked his hands in his pockets. Ella could smell his fresh cologne.

‘How is she?’ she asked.

He grinned. ‘How’s who?’

The door beside the desk opened and a crooked grey-haired man hobbled out on a walking
frame, followed by a woman in her mid-forties with black hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and wearing a plum shirt with the sleeves folded up.

‘See you next time, Mr Williams,’ she said.

Hester was still on the phone, but on her feet and flapping a hand in the doctor’s direction. Ella already had her badge out.

‘Doctor Hardy? Detectives Marconi and Shakespeare.
Do you have a moment to speak to us, please?’

Hardy glanced past them at Hester, then at the roomful of patients. ‘One moment is about all I have.’

‘Thank you,’ Murray said.

Her office was warm and well-lit. It smelled of alcohol swabs and disinfectant, a smell Ella associated with Callum, and she felt a little pang.

They sat in chairs below sunny autumn prints, and Hardy
went behind the desk. ‘Which patient?’

‘Marko Meixner,’ Murray said.

‘Is he okay?’

‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Poor Chloe.’

‘You don’t sound surprised,’ Ella said.

‘He had a number of issues,’ Hardy said. ‘Was it suicide?’

‘We don’t know,’ Ella said. ‘Had he been suicidal?’

Hardy sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘He’d been
on antidepressants for a few years, and I know he’d attempted suicide at least three times.’

‘Three,’ Murray said.

She nodded. ‘Once with an overdose of tranquillisers; once he swam out to sea hoping to drown, but couldn’t face it and came back to shore; and once he went to a national park near the Blue Mountains and set his car up to gas himself, but somebody happened along while
he was still conscious and pulled the hose out and said they were calling the police. He gave up and drove back home.’

‘When was that?’

‘The first time was years ago,’ Hardy said. ‘Before he was my patient. He told me about it. The other two were in the last two years. I changed his medication a couple of times – antidepressants have varying effects on different people – and lately
he seemed better. I thought we had the dosage right.’

‘Did he ever go to counselling or see a psychologist?’ Ella asked.

‘I suggested it each time, but he said he just wanted medication. Some people are like that. I can’t force them.’

‘Did he ever tell you what he thought was the cause of it all?’

‘You mean the murder?’ She nodded. ‘I believe that he was predisposed to
anxiety and depression though, and if that incident hadn’t happened he would more than likely have developed both anyway.’

‘Did he talk about the murder?’

‘Now and again,’ she said. ‘That’s one reason why I kept recommending counselling. He thought he should just be able to leave it behind, but as I told him, sometimes you need help to process things before you can do that.’

‘Was he ever paranoid, thinking someone was out to get him?’ Ella said.

‘Not that I saw.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Murray asked.

She typed something into her computer and looked at the screen. ‘Two months ago. He had an infected cyst on the back of his neck. I prescribed antibiotics and said to come back if it didn’t heal within ten days. He didn’t come back.’

‘How was
his mental state?’

‘We talked about it briefly. He said he was feeling okay.’

‘Did he talk about the murder that day?’

‘No.’

‘And nothing about him gave you concern?’

‘Nothing. He was quiet and serious, but he always is. He was bothered by the cyst, but I didn’t get the feeling that anything else was going on. I do sometimes, with patients. They talk about little
problems, but you can see in their eyes there’s something big they want to say. He didn’t look like that.’

Two months ago was just before Canning was released from prison, Ella thought. Chloe had talked about Marko’s reaction on opening the letter from the parole board, which would’ve arrived some weeks before that. It seemed strange that Marko would have told Hardy but not his wife about
the other two suicide attempts, and then not mentioned the letter if it bothered him.

‘Do you look after Chloe too?’ Ella said.

‘I do.’

‘Do you think Marko was stressed about the pregnancy?’

Hardy smiled. ‘He was delighted. They were both a little anxious, seeing as how they’d miscarried before, but otherwise they were thrilled.’

There was a tap at the door and Hester
looked in, red-faced and frowning. ‘Doctor –’

‘Yes, I know. Just a minute.’

Hester withdrew and yanked the door shut.

‘Is Chloe okay?’ Hardy asked.

‘She’s in hospital actually,’ Ella said. ‘Just a precaution, I believe.’

Hardy shook her head. ‘So sad.’

‘Thanks for your time,’ Murray said.

Out in the waiting room, Hester scowled at them as she thrust a
cardboard file into Hardy’s hand. ‘Mrs Stubbs couldn’t wait any longer, and Mrs Patel has moved her appointment to this afternoon.’

‘Thank you again,’ Ella said to Hardy, and they went outside to run through the rain to the car.

Once in, Murray slammed his door. ‘Langley’s going to be delighted. He’ll say the crash into the pole was probably an attempt too, but Meixner chickened out
at the last second, just like when he swam off the beach. Jump in front of a train and there ain’t no way back.’

Ella brushed raindrops from her forehead and started the car. ‘Maybe we’ll learn something different at his work.’

*

Jane had left another message for Steve while sweeping up the glass and nailing plywood over the window holes before she left for work, then a further
one while being jostled by wet umbrellas on the bus. Once at the station, she and Alex got a job the moment they signed on, so she didn’t get a chance to make a third call until they pulled back onto station an hour later.

‘Well, hello,’ Steve answered.

‘Thanks for ringing me back,’ she said, her voice echoing in the plant room. She glanced inside the station. Alex was busy on the
computer in the muster room.

‘I thought you might’ve been sleeping before nightshift.’

‘Yeah, that’s why I keep calling,’ she said. ‘You sorted her out yet?’

‘The timing wasn’t right this morning.’

‘You mean you’re gutless,’ she said.

‘You sound like you think I’m not trying.’

‘I know you’re not.’ She walked to the open roller doors. Tourists hurried from awning
to awning along George Street. Rain dripped from the station’s eaves. Seagulls whined in the grey sky and the damp air smelled of the briny, seaweed-filled harbour. ‘Phone calls last night
and
smashed windows. You’re doing nothing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Not good enough.’

‘What can I do? I tell her nothing’s happening. She doesn’t believe me.’

‘Go home sometimes,’ Jane
said. ‘Like you should’ve done with me.’

‘Janey,’ he said. ‘Janey, Janey. If I could have that time over again.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘No, I swear. It’d all be different,’ he said. ‘It’s ironic, actually, that she thinks I’m seeing you, because it makes me think how great it would be if I was.’

‘You’re delusional.’

‘If we got back together the kids’d be so happy.’

‘It’s been seven years,’ she said. ‘I think the kids have dealt with it.’

‘No, listen, I’ve realised things. I’ve realised I can’t talk to Deb like I can to you.’

‘You didn’t talk to me,’ she said.

‘She doesn’t get me like you do.’

‘You don’t remember telling me in a fight once that I never got you?’

‘I was crazy back then. I can see that now. And I can see the
age gap is too much. It’s as if she and I come from different worlds.’

‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘Tell her to stop harassing me. Tell her where you go at night so she knows you’re not with me.’

‘How can I tell her that I’m –’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she said. ‘Sort it out with her or else I’ll have to call the cops.’

‘You don’t need to do that. She’s just stressed at work.’

‘She’s a receptionist, for God’s sake.’

‘Well, she finds it tough. And so she goes overboard sometimes. She doesn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Bullshit.’ The muster room door opened and Jane saw Alex look out. She lowered her voice. ‘Fix it. This is your last chance.’

‘Janey –’

She hung up on him and shoved her phone into her pocket. For years, Steve had chased after every
girl who worked as his PA in his sheetmetal company, and by some miracle he’d never been sued. Deb had just been the last. To Jane’s amazement, they got married and were still together five years later. When she looked back, she wondered why the hell she’d stayed with him for so long. Even the kids agreed.

‘We all knew how unhappy you were,’ Breanna had said over coffee soon after the wedding.
‘I get that you didn’t want to disturb my schooling, but some things are more important.’

Jane loved her kids. She loved that they were grown too, off living their own lives: Breanna with her delightful girlfriend, Alice, both of them graphic artists in Melbourne; David, a year older and single, working for the Commonwealth Bank in Adelaide; Glenn, two years older again, married and running
a Cheesecake Shop franchise in Brisbane with his lovely Laura. Jane’s friend Tracey Chapman – not the singer – whose own kids lived in the next suburb thought it was terrible, but for Jane it was great. The kids called on the phone most weeks, emailed now and again, and they all got together a few times a year. What more did you want? She’d raised them to go out into the world, not stay under
her wing.

Alex opened the door again. ‘Coffee?’

‘Sure.’

She looked out at the wet street and the leaden sky and the wheeling seagulls once more, feeling like she’d drawn a line in the sand. Steve had his ultimatum now, and if he didn’t tell Deb the truth about where he was spending his evenings, or at least persuade her he wasn’t spending them in Jane’s arms – a thought that
made her shudder – he had nobody to blame but himself when the cops came calling.

Inside the station she found Alex in the kitchen, filling their cups. ‘Sorry if I was yelling. Deb’s been up to her tricks again.’

‘She’s persistent.’

‘And deranged.’ She got the milk from the fridge. ‘I left him. Why the hell would I go back?’

Alex smiled. ‘Hey, see the note Mick left on
the table?’

Mick had scribbled that Ken had slipped a lumbar disc and would be in hospital for a couple of days while they decided about surgery.

‘Ouch,’ Jane said, as much for the nurses who’d have to look after him. He’d hate being stuck in bed.

There was an arrow on the bottom of the sheet of paper, and she turned it over. She looked at Alex. ‘It’s a girl. Mick and Jo are
having a girl?’

He grinned. ‘I rang him when you were outside. They had a scan, they’re at twenty-four weeks and everything’s fine.’

‘That’s fantastic.’

Mick and Jo had been trying with IVF for years. Jane wasn’t surprised they’d held off telling people for so long.

‘Do you remember seeing your own kids like that?’ Alex said. ‘I couldn’t stop staring at Mia on the screen.
The tiny face. The hands and feet.’

Jane nodded. ‘They must be over the moon.’

‘They’re having a girl; Lauren and Joe had girls – there must be something in the water. You better watch out.’

‘Oh, that’s funny,’ she said. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, because it has been a long time, but don’t you need to have sex to get pregnant?’

‘Don’t ask me. I’m as dateless as you are.’

Jane took the cup he held out. You not only had to have sex, you had to be fertile, and she’d gone through early menopause two years ago.

‘How’s Mia today?’ she asked.

‘As delightful as she was yesterday.’ Alex sat in one of the recliners and turned on the TV. ‘Morning shows. What crap.’