Best Served Cold
Mark McGinn
Copyright © 2013 Mark McGinn
All Rights Reserved
FOR ENA
For her love, support and her patience
Author’s note
None of the characters in this book are based on real people and any similarity between any character and any person known to any reader is unintentional and purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
March 1995
The taller of the two, dark suit, briefcase in a sweaty hand, waited at the door for the okay. His colleague, in jeans and a black hooded jacket, had just severed the outside phone line. He peered through a gap in the kitchen’s dusty blinds, a last check that their victim was still on his own.
When the thumbs-up signal came, the suit knocked on the glass door. Neil Apsley appeared, staggering slightly as he came down the hallway, flattening his comb-over before turning the key in the lock.
Apsley muttered, ‘Mr Trembole, I presume.’ He wiped spittle from his lip.
‘Terribly sorry about the hour, Mr Apsley.’
Nodding his visitor inside, Apsley led the way back to the kitchen, shuffling in brown slippers. ‘Rang your joint in Australia, you know,’ he slurred, ‘after I finished talking to you.’
Trembole waited, resisting any flicker of an eye.
‘Fought I might’ve got Shimon’s sexy sec, someone who could’ve given an update, you know.’ He gulped air and burped.
‘I’m sure I’ve told you everything we know about Simon.’
Trembole’s tone was apologetic.
‘So.’ Apsley lurched backwards. ‘Bitch’s attacked him and done a runner, eh? Boy’s in a coma.’
The bloodshot eyes pleaded, hoping for a change in the story, hoping his son had recovered and that the power of attorney papers Trembole said he needed to sign would be redundant.
Trembole flicked the latches on his briefcase. ‘Afraid so. If your son wasn’t a partner in the firm, this wouldn’t have been necessary, Mr Apsley. I’m sorry.’ He laid sheets of paper on the dining table. While Apsley was struggling to focus, Trembole pulled a syringe and needle from the case and injected him in the neck.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ screamed Apsley, suddenly sober.
Trembole looked at his watch, then put on rubber gloves and fitted plastic wrap over his shoes. Apsley went to grab his mobile phone and missed. Trembole smiled, then let his colleague into the house.
In the dim kitchen light, Apsley sat, arms dangling, conscious but unable to speak or move. The intruders dragged him into his bedroom and threw him onto the unmade bed. His trousers and underwear were soon removed and a noose was slipped over his head, carefully tightened over the puncture mark made by the needle. The two men positioned the semi-naked Apsley on his knees, manoeuvring him toward the end of the bed. Trembole held him steady while his colleague fastened the rope to the bed head, then pushed Apsley forward until the rope was taut.
Chapter 2
At 12.30pm, Sasha Stace walked the six hundred and seventy-six paces from her office back up Montreal Street to the Coffee House. She counted thirty-four cars: twelve parked, twenty-two moving. She knew it took a fully laden 747 jet thirty-seven seconds to lift its wheels off the tarmac. It would burn one tonne of fuel taxiing onto the runway. Lift-off time was only four seconds slower than a near full 737. Counting. Trainspotting. What was the big deal? She’d done it for as long as she could count past ten. It didn’t hurt anyone.
She knew Mac would be late. Somewhere in the range of two to five minutes and forty-five seconds. She’d note it, but would never mention it.
As she walked across the wooden floor, she heard herself sigh. Tina Turner was singing in the background, something about living more, moving into the fast line. Have I really moved beyond life into its shadow? Do I need excitement? Am I settling for whatever happens next, good enough or not? Are the criminals of the world my legal destiny? Exactly one minute after the appointed time, Mac walked into the café.
‘Gidday, Sash, how are you doing?’ He held out his arms for their customary hug.
Laminated menu in hand, Mac muttered about the cream cheese on the bagels.
Sasha chided him, then grinned. ‘You’ve already outlived one set of pall bearers. Don’t get greedy.’
Mac was not only a mentor, but a substitute father. Her own had died when she was two years old. A couple of years off seventy, Mac hadn’t changed significantly over the years. Hair no longer jet black, but parted on the left-hand side as always, plenty of grey around the temples. Doe eyes and wild eyebrows seemingly competed with each other for prominence.
‘I know.’ His tone was grave as he held up a forefinger. ‘But I’m not giving up on good single malts and claret, Sash.’ Orders placed, they let a few seconds pass.
Mac looked concerned. ‘So, did you read about the pardon? There might be a bit of chat.’
Sasha felt a pang of guilt. She’d failed to check the newspaper, when they set their lunch date. Hiding her ignorance, she nodded without speaking.
He continued, ‘I just thought you’d be concerned about your dad, given that he prosecuted. I was junior counsel for the defence. Our man, Albert Fraser-Clark, was found guilty of murdering his wife Mary. Her body was never found. Albert was hanged forty years ago.’
‘So I gather,’ she said, moving a non-existent hair away from her eye. ‘But why is this on the agenda now?’
Mac’s eyes widened. ‘His wife Mary’s turned up. Well and truly dead, of course, along with nearly everyone else involved in the case, apart from yours truly. The twist is, she was around seventy. Obviously been alive for the best part of forty years. Poor old Albert. It might stop those bloodthirsty buggers voting for the return of the death penalty for five minutes, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, Christ. Dad was involved in sending an innocent man to his death?’
‘Well, he presented the evidence, Sash, did everything required. Not the first man hanged when the alleged deceased was never found.’ A solemn head shake. ‘In the end it was all down to twelve good men and true, as they say. Albert’s got his posthumous pardon from the government. All a bit pointless. I understand he has no living relatives here.’
Noting her frown, Mac continued. ‘His sister Eileen took Albert and Mary’s young son, Michael, back to England after Albert was executed. My preliminaries show Eileen died about four years after Albert. What became of Michael after he was fostered isn’t clear.’ He moved his shoulders. ‘Anyway, there might be some recap on the old story. John’s name has been in the paper.’
Sasha heard her mother’s constant refrain in her head. We mustn’t sully your father’s good name. John had a reputation worth protecting. He was a Supreme Court judge in the making, was your father.
‘Could there be any suggestion of prosecutorial misconduct by the Crown or in the investigation?’
Mac shook his head decisively. ‘No. And if there was, I’d say on behalf of the defence that the prosecution was fair in its approach. There was always a case to answer, despite the lack of a body. ‘John never pushed the jury for a guilty verdict, Sash. I’ve seen him work a lot harder for a conviction. He was scrupulous and the epitome of propriety in this one.’
‘And therein lies the problem for the defence,’ Sasha replied, frustration in her tone. ‘It’s why prosecutors are so bloody successful. A calm presentation of the facts without histrionics. Often a powerful contrast to the defence. We both know juries trust that quiet, objective, well-reasoned fireside chat approach.’ She gave Mac a sad look. ‘Still, it’s awful to feel Dad was involved in this. And Albert – that poor man.’
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‘Well, the troubles for Albert’s family didn’t stop there either. He had a life insurance policy on his life and Mary’s.’
Sasha rubbed her forehead. ‘Null and void. He couldn’t be allowed to benefit from a crime he was convicted of.’
Mac nodded.
‘So, what happens to that now he’s been pardoned?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Probate’s not one of my strong suits. Given no family to claim on the estate, it may have gone to the Crown already. A cruel irony, wouldn’t you say?’
‘So we take his life, then his estate.’ She shook her head. ‘Truly awful, Mac. Is there nothing we can do?’
‘Let’s think about it.’
The food arrived. Looking down at her plate, Sasha said, ‘I called in on Mum yesterday. There are times when I have to tell her who I am. At others, she’s angry when she realises that she’s losing it.’
‘Same for me, I’m afraid. I struggle with the fact Natalie’s five years younger than I am.’
Sasha said, ‘The care she gets from Lou is very good but once the toileting becomes a problem...’ She stopped.
The gurgle of the coffee maker and clang of cutlery rode over the hum of other conversations.
Then Mac spoke. ‘Yesterday, Lou asked if we’d considered placing Nat in a unit. Best of care, service and all that. She said she’d heard desperation in our conversation.’
‘We can’t keep putting it off. We’ve both been agonising for a while now,’ replied Sasha.
Mac forced a smile. ‘I was worried you’d have thoughts about moving back home. Thought I’d have to change the locks on the house.’
As Sasha excused herself for a bathroom visit, Mac’s thoughts went back to when she was so intrigued by the drama of the courtroom. He’d watched her passion for the law, for true justice, deepen, though she understood that such an outcome wasn’t easy in a win-at-all-costs world.
But in the last year, she’d lost some of her vibrancy, her zest for her work. He’d encouraged her to apply for silk, to take on greater challenges as an acknowledged leader at the bar. Her look had said she wasn’t interested. How much of that, he’d wondered, was due to the deterioration in her mother, who was also the woman he loved.
After years on his own, he’d thought he’d never enjoy another intimate relationship. But within a few happy years of his living with Nat, she’d started having difficulty recognising people and remembering events. This once fastidious woman, proud of her appearance, often couldn’t recall when she last showered. Sometimes this resulted in constant showering. At other times, she had to be cajoled to wash and change her clothes.
Nat’s pleasures were television and music, into which she drifted in a quiet trance. Once an avid reader, she now seldom got beyond page twenty of a book before she’d start again. In lucid periods she’d be frustrated by the things she couldn’t do. Lamenting the curse on her brain, she’d ask Mac what she’d done to deserve her fate.
Sasha returned and sat. A soft voice, ‘You looked deep in thought.’
Mac’s mouth tightened. ‘Ironic, isn’t it. Before this awful dementia became obvious, Nat and I had talked about formalising things. You know, a proper ceremony. Nat suggested a case of third time lucky for me. Know what I said?’
Sasha, shook her head.
‘I said I’d lost two wives, and wasn’t about to marry again and prove I was negligent.’
She reached across the table to hold a pair of wrinkled and sun-spotted hands. ‘I might be forty but you’re still my stepdad. Not providing Mum with personal care doesn’t mean you’re giving up on her.’
He nodded. ‘It’s her birthday next week. She’s too young for this bloody disease to be so advanced.’
Sasha gazed into her empty coffee cup. ‘I suppose I’ll call in.’
Mac waited for more. It was the tone as much as the words that bothered him. But Sasha was silent.
‘Of course you will.’ He stared at an unhappy face, downcast eyes. ‘If you need support, you know I’ll be there.’
She looked up and her eyes welled. ‘You’ve given me that all your life. Even after the baby, the adoption. Christ knows what…’ She stopped.
‘My dear Sasha. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘That little Michael Fraser-Clark. Orphaned.’ She paused. ‘If it wasn’t for you, Mac, I’d have been an orphan in my own home.’
Mac shook his head, struggling with the comparison.
‘The pregnancy. I proved I wasn’t…’
He interrupted, his voice firm. ‘What happened to you, happened to lots of young girls, Sash. I’m worried you’re still shamed by it after all these years. That’s not right. Please, you mustn’t be. You’re near the peak of your career, if not at it already.’
She forced a smile. ‘Teenage girls, eh! We’ve caused a lot of worry and grief in our time’ How could she tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about the woman he loved?
‘On a different matter, I thought you might like to know Marshall Hall has invited me to join the panel, part time.’
‘Prosecutors?’
‘Yeah. You did that, didn’t you?’
‘Until I wound back the practice.’ Mac’s eyes lit up and he grinned. ‘So the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ He paused, an inquisitive look. ‘What made you change your mind?
‘Tina Turner.’
Chapter 3
The dead man’s house was at the rear of a back section. Plants of an indeterminate variety in a strip of dirt begged for a drink as they faced the hot lunchtime sun. There’d been no weeding done here for a while. Roderick Black drained the dregs of an espresso and handed the paper cup to a uniformed constable who’d just descended a ladder leaning against the brickwork.
‘Deal with that for me, lad.’
Unimpressed, the uniform took the cup. ‘Phone line’s been cut, sir.’
Black pointed to a rugby ball lying in a large bush. ‘Done your forensics, eh? Nothing to do with this ball here, landing squarely on the line, pulling it out?’
The constable reddened. ‘Don’t think so, sir.’
‘Get the phone techies on to it. Let’s go with what they say. If it was cut, the cutter might have looked inside the house to see whether anyone was home. Make sure you get this area dusted.’ Black smiled as he moved off, knowing the new recruit would be challenged in directing the forensic scientists.
As he walked through the open back door, Black noticed it was glass. He used a pen to push the switch and check that the outside bulb was working. In the kitchen off the hall, Black said,
‘What do we know, Bazza?’
Detective Barry Hart looked at his sergeant through bloodshot eyes. He didn’t need this work anymore than Black did. They were both tired, both working previously unsolved cases. There were sweat rings under the arms of Hart’s light blue shirt, which, as usual, was having trouble staying inside the waistband of his trousers. The top button was undone and a dark tie was loose around his thick neck.
‘Deceased, Neil Apsley. No history but intel says he’s a paedo-in-waiting.’
Black frowned. ‘Child porn?’
Hart nodded. ‘Recently back from Auckland, recently departed his job as general manager of The People.’
‘And you’re telling me this because?’
‘Apsley got caught up in an IT audit. Visited internet sites his employer disapproved of. Intel says it’s the second time he’s lost a job for this – why he’s on watch. Ended his first career in education although his resignation covered it up.’
Apsley’s body was already inside a bag on a gurney but Black had the paramedics pause before they left the house. He pulled down the zip. The dead man’s skin was the colour of an old grey sheet. The sparse threads of his comb-over were sticking up and the ligature mark around his throat was prominent. White hairs protruded from the shoulder bands of his singlet. Black pulled up the zip and nodded for the paramedics to
continue. It wasn’t his first body, wouldn’t be his last.
The doctor who was following anticipated Black’s question.
‘Ten to twelve hours, I’d say.’
As Hart explained how Apsley was found, Black followed him into the living room. A Thai woman, hair pulled back, bony fingers linked in her lap, sat on the edge of the chair. Hart introduced her as Su Lee, the house cleaner.
She looked more angry than upset. ‘Who pay me?’ she said. ‘I clean whole house before finding Mr Alpa. Who pay me for my shift?’ She held a hand out as she repeated her question.
Black looked at Hart and frowned as he mouthed, “Alpa”.
Hart raised his hand, shielding his mouth from the cleaner. ‘Her nickname for him. Think she finds it easier than saying Apsley.’
In a gruff whisper, ‘Detective Hart tells me you shifted the body.’
A vigorous head shake, ‘No correct. I untie him, he fall to floor.’ She moved her palm up and down. ‘You pay me now.’
‘You shouldn’t have touched that rope.’ Black paused, letting her take in the message, letting her know she had no high moral ground.
The woman dropped her eyes.
‘I’m not going to arrest you,’ said Black, ‘but you’ll need to cooperate.’ He shot a look at Hart, suppressing a grin. ‘I’m a detective sergeant, not a debt collector. You understand me?’
The cleaner nodded. Hart excused himself as Su Lee told Black she’d arrived at Apsley’s apartment at 8 am, as usual.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘About two year.’
‘You have your own key to get in?’
She dug her hand into a pocket of her purple smock and pulled out a silver key, which she handed to Black. ‘But house not locked today,’ she said. ‘I think Mr Alpa out of bed. I normally leave his room to end, let him sleep in. He drink a lot. House smell of whisky.’