‘You think not telling anyone is for the best?’
‘I’ll tell Mac because of who was responsible and I’ll probably tell Ben in due course. But I don’t want their angst for me right now. They’ve both got a lot on their plates and I don’t want them distracted. And it’s better for me that I move on, you know? I feel I have. And it may be the lawyer in me talking, but I know the circumstances weren’t as physically tortuous as those that many women go through. That’s why I wasn’t intending to tell you.’
Margie North nodded. She had to respect her client’s wishes. Sasha was not there for trauma counselling. ‘So apart from your recent conversations with Mac, is there anything else that brings your feelings of being fraudulent into focus right now?’
‘This QC business. Not to put too fine a point on it, I did it more for Mac than myself. I expected I might be turned down, that the reassuring messages Mac was getting were just appeasement. But now colleagues and the judiciary are saying I’m this leader among peers – one of the best. I don’t see that. I don’t think I am. Now that I’ve been made a silk, I feel like I’ve played the ultimate deception. That’s what’s keeping me awake. Not even the bastard who raped me is keeping me awake.’
‘I have to tell you that you’re in good company.’
‘What do you mean?’
Without breaking confidences North outlined similar experiences of others she’d helped, then responded to Sasha’s questions about research. ‘Let’s think about your imagined end to this. You feel you’ll be discovered one day?’
Sasha nodded again.
‘What might lead to this discovery, Sasha?’
‘There will be more significant and more complex briefs. With that comes greater responsibility. I’ll be expected to be up to this level of work. There’ll come a day when I won’t have covered all the necessary issues and I’ll snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in a very public way.’
She fell silent.
‘Unfortunately, Sasha, our time’s up. I’d like you to come again but in the meantime I want you to think about something, please. You acknowledged earlier that many of your colleagues and the judges you appear before are successful, and presumably there’s a high degree of collective intellect and insight among them, Mac included.’
‘Of course.’
‘So what I want you to ponder is the probability of all of them being so horribly wrong about your ability. All these very erudite and intelligent people making such a big mistake about you. Failing to see what you alone can see – that your success is always a result of flukes and luck.’ She paused before adding, ‘And when you think about that, allow for the possibility that on this one occasion, you might be wrong and they, as a very wise jury, might be right.’
Chapter 23
The killer moved cautiously between the oak trees shrouded in darkness on the western edge of Hagley Park. It was 10.15pm. On the far side of Deans Avenue, the direction in which he was headed, a street light had blown out. A good omen. He was wearing a dark suit and carried a briefcase containing the tools for his night’s work. His gait was slightly impeded by the telescopic broom handle fixed to his back under his suit jacket.
When he stepped out of the lift on the top floor, Dench took no time to buzz the door open.
‘Mr Trembole, I presume? Come on in. I’m just getting myself a scotch. Will you join me?’
There was a clink of crystal as his host took another glass from an antique sideboard. While Dench was pouring the whisky, his visitor plunged a needle into the left side of his exposed neck, just below his ear.
Swinging around, his hand clutched to his neck, Dench yelled, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Now square on and eye to eye, he lunged at his assailant who, rather than blocking the blow, stepped aside so that Dench fell onto a soft leather sofa.
As he rolled over to confront his assailant again, Dench opened his mouth, but he’d already lost control of his facial muscles and only strained guttural sounds emerged.
Panicking, Dench fumbled for his mobile phone but was unable to get his right hand inside his trouser pocket. His motor skills and coordination had also deserted him. All his muscles would be useless within seconds.
The visitor pulled out the broom handle and extended it to its full length. His tone was jubilant. ‘Yes, you can see and hear, but you can’t move or talk. Sad for a man so fond of his rich vocabulary.’ He ferreted in the bottom of the briefcase for the rope with the noose, slipped it over Dench’s head and tightened it. ‘Game’s up, Dench.’ He rubbed his gloved hands together.
As he threw the other end of the rope across an exposed ceiling beam, he studied Dench’s face, pleased with progress thus far. He undid his captive’s trousers and pulled them down, then did the same with underpants.
‘Time to feel some real pain, syph head.’
The man stood and tugged hard on the rope, lifting Dench from his seat and starting the process of strangulation. The victim’s eyes bulged; his face was flushed and his paralysed arms hung useless by his sides.
After tying the rope temporarily to a table leg, the visitor grabbed the broom handle and knelt between his victim’s backside and the sofa as if he was a motor mechanic looking for an oil leak. ‘I haven’t had much practice at this. Not something done in the finance industry, eh?’ He shoved the handle into Dench’s anus. The injection immobilised but was otherwise useless in numbing pain.
Dench’s agony was evident by his open mouth and silent scream.
The assailant spent seconds twisting and pushing the broom handle before giving a last pull on the rope. Counting to thirty, he eased off the tension, the broom handle fell free and he let the body slump back onto the sofa. Satisfied Dench was dead, he tipped out the second scotch, washed, dried and replaced the glass, ensuring it was clear of fingerprints.
He wandered around the apartment until he found a place suitable to secure the rope. Wheeling out a high-backed ergonomic chair, he placed Dench’s body on it and moved him to a bedroom on the south-west corner of the apartment. Tying the rope to the bed, he carefully tipped Dench’s body out of the bedroom window, slowly extending the length of rope.
Back in the park, the killer punched a number into his mobile phone. As he looked up through the rustling trees around him, a sudden wind gust caught the weight of the body, causing it to sway slightly. Sounds of car horns, revving engines and a siren in the distance punctured the night’s calm but all was well.
When the phone was answered, he said, ‘Make the call.’
****
Thomas had just got off the phone when the bloody thing rang again. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, what now?’
‘Titman.’ The caller sounded ebullient.
‘Who is this?’ More scornful than inquisitive.
‘That’s not important. What’s important is whether you’ve cleared your letter box yet. You’ve got an important parcel detailing how your good friend Jack Dench has ripped the heart out of your life savings. As of now, you have zero equity in that million-dollar house you’re standing in. It’s all gone on reimbursing Dench’s clients for the investment fuck-ups you both made on their behalf. And it’s been spent on high roller gambling and filthy child pornography, all in your name. But before you find out the details, you need to know he’s on the last flight to Auckland tonight before he leaves the country.’
‘Who the hell are you, arsehole? This is just a bloody wind-up. You don’t know shit.’
‘Listen carefully, you arrogant turd. If you don’t think I’m in the know, let me just remind you of something you’ll be very familiar with.’ He paused. ‘Your woman has kindly offered to suck my cock for Christmas, you sad prick.’
There was another pause.
‘Check it out, Titman, but you’ve got minutes rather than hours before Dench flits with what’s left of your cash.’
Thomas ran to the letter box, ripped open an envelope and
rifled through the documents. The dossier was clear. In his panic, he swung his red BMW left instead of right into Park Terrace. Realising his mistake, he started a violent U-turn, cutting across the bow of a car heading in the same direction. The elderly female driver braked but was unable to avoid rear-ending him. Looking through his rear vision mirror he gave her the finger. He continued as if there’d been no collision, but was forced to stop at the next red where the other car caught up and stopped alongside. He refused to look but imagined the woman and her female passenger gesticulating and abusing him.
Who cared? They’d hit him, and they were in the wrong, but he had the thieving bastard in Hagley Park to attend to. He sped away when the left arrow turned green.
How to get into Dench’s apartment was a problem solved when Thomas found the door ajar. At first, suspicious, he peeked through the crack. He saw nothing but the open top of a briefcase on the corner of a dining table. It was obvious Dench wasn’t expecting any visitors. He palmed the door open, still reluctant to go in, and listened for movement inside. Nothing. He tightened his grip on the golf club that he’d wrenched from the boot of his car.
Another peek gave him a view of a suitcase at the other side of the table. Thieving fucker! The bastard was going to do a runner with his cash. He listened again, straining to hear movement – nothing. If Dench wasn’t inside, he wasn’t far away. Probably having a crap and been careless. Nothing new in that.
Thomas walked in, adrenalin pumping furiously through his veins. Ears and eyes alive with vigilance, he swivelled his head in search of Dench. Part of him wanted to call out, have the confrontation, break the bastard’s fingers. But if he could find his money without being disturbed, he’d be in and out before Dench could wipe his arse. Thomas’s eyes opened wide at the contents of the briefcase.
****
As he neared his house, the BMW headlights caught a figure in dark trousers and hooded jacket walking briskly away from his driveway. Thomas thought nothing of it. His cash recovery operation had gone well but he scowled at the thought that someone had to have helped Dench steal from him. There must be clues in the papers he’d been given. He’d have the bastard sooner rather than later. Someone would pay for this, pay heavily.
He downed half a bottle of scotch in the hour before Michelle and Christine got home. He’d got some money back but now cursed his memory. In his urgency he’d forgotten to secrete, on Dench’s property, the rope that had been around Derek’s neck. It was still in the boot of his car.
When his wife and daughter returned he lied about watching mindless crap on TV. ‘No one else called,’ he said. Michelle looked at Christine, rolled her eyes and shook her head in silence. Irritated by the silent conspiracy, Thomas yelled, ‘What now?’
Dench was a piece of cake compared with these women.
Once the household was quiet he snuck out and ditched Dench’s briefcase in the bin at the back of the shed. At the shed door he was surprised to find he’d left the only key in the lock. Figuring that his beer fridge was the safest place from prying eyes, Thomas placed the cash he’d put in a bag behind a stock of Heineken.
He resented the fact that his daughter found it necessary to put her chemicals and food additives in his shed. The parasite should’ve dumped them on her ex, just like he dumped her. His rancour increased on discovering Christine had even pinched space in the fridge. He extracted the glass jar of clear liquid and unscrewed the lid, sniffing with caution. Nothing recognisable.
In the dim light of the shed, he squinted at the label. The contents required refrigeration at four degrees or less. He was tempted to tip it out but couldn’t be bothered with another domestic. Life was tough enough as it was.
Back inside the house he wandered the hall double-checking for signs the women were still awake. There was no light coming from underneath either bedroom door. He’d give them another half-hour before returning to Dench’s place to hide the rope.
In just under an hour, when he reached Hagley Park, all he could see were red and blue flashing lights. The place was crawling with cops.
Chapter 24
Chief reporter Katrina James waited for Editor Peter Stipe to sit before she spoke. ‘Last night, police comms heard of a suicide by hanging. Second of two deaths, the last appearing to be strangulation.’
‘But we don’t do suicides,’ said Ben, frowning. He didn’t think James was up to the chief reporter’s job, would have liked it himself, but Stipe preferred to take a punt on talent without much of a track record. Ben couldn’t fathom what the editor saw in James other than shapely legs under short skirts and overdone make-up.
‘Hang on, Ben,’ said Stipe. ‘These two deaths are probably related.’ He sounded annoyed, then looked to hide it by fiddling with a blue tie that had a fatty stain in the centre.
James continued. ‘The guy found hanging out his bedroom window last night was Jack Dench, a well-known financier, formerly of Dench, Thomas & Donaldson. The previous night, Donaldson was found strangled. Both were alone in their own city apartments. There might be a story to be worked up here.’
‘What’s our angle? Financier serial suicides?’ asked Ben, leaning back with his hands behind his head. He smirked. ‘I knew things were bad for those guys but I didn’t think they were that bad.’
‘Too early to tell yet,’ snapped Stipe. ‘Just how bad is actually the point. But there’s history there, isn’t there, Polly?’
Julian Pollard stroked his grey beard. He had a line of pens across his shirt breast pocket and held a notepad that looked as if it had sat on a window ledge soaking up sunlight. In marked contrast to James, he spoke slowly and in a single flat tone.
‘There was an acrimonious split in the 1980s between Dench on one side and Donaldson and Thomas on the other. It was the talk of the town at the time. Something to do with pornography, extra-marital affairs, partners carrying a mix of venereal disease and mental disorders. Lovely stuff, but from memory we, or should I say, our conservative competitors in the Square, couldn’t get any reliable source to go to print with.’ He offered to dig out the detailed notes.
‘I reckon Thomas is a good place to start for a comment,’ said James, flicking hair out of her eyes. ‘Donaldson was still in business with Thomas and if Julian’s right, there’ll be no love lost between Thomas and Dench.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ replied Ben. ‘I mean, getting a comment from Thomas.’
When his colleagues looked surprised, he explained. ‘He’s very pissed with us about our coverage of his daughter’s sex case. He gave me a mouthful over the phone, threatened us with the Press Council. Reckons apart from our unbalanced coverage, we invaded his privacy by photographing him with the fake lawyer he organised for the defendant outside Warners.’
‘What?’ asked Stipe in disbelief.
‘Long story,’ continued Ben, ‘but it was one of our photos that undid his credibility in court. That and his heavy hand of direction in the police investigation.’
‘Still, sounds like there might be a follow-up piece there,’ said James, keen to stay in charge.
Ben ignored her and continued to look at Stipe. ‘While I think of it, Pete, at Neil’s funeral, the detective looking into his case asked me if I knew Derek Donaldson. Whether we’d had him in The People lately. I said I thought he was Thomas’s partner, but if he was in our building he should talk to Julian.’
‘Never contacted me,’ said Pollard.
‘What’s your point?’ asked James, annoyed.
‘A bit of a strange coincidence that he asked about Donaldson at Neil’s funeral. Knowing old Apsley was into child porn, I just wonder if there’s an angle there, a connection between Apsley, Donaldson and Dench.’
Stipe asked for something for tomorrow morning, preferably front-page material.
****
Thomas had asked Toby Latham to engage criminal barrister Finn Fitzpatrick to defend him on the charge of interfering with a police investigat
ion at Donaldson’s apartment.
High up in the Clarendon Towers, Thomas stood in Fitzpatrick’s office looking out on the river running through the city, the botanic gardens and Hagley Park. Beyond that, he could see the tower blocks of the university out at Ilam. But at this height, the view was dominated by the Southern Alps, sprinkled with early snow. He saw it all but appreciated none of it.
From behind him he heard Fitzpatrick say, ‘It’ll be impossible to prove that some unknown third party entered Donaldson’s apartment, cut him down and interfered with the death scene, Trevor.’
Thomas turned to face him. Fitzpatrick and Latham were sipping coffee in plush leather chairs. Fitzpatrick’s degree was framed on the wall behind him, between photos of the famous and infamous he’d defended. Both men looked grim.
‘So I’ve got a pair of fuckin’ defeatists on the team, have I?’ Latham looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Listen to Finn, Trevor. I’ve got to go. I’ve done what I need to.’
When he’d gone, Thomas said, ‘I was hoping you’d have a bit more bloody lead in your pencil than that soft cock.’
‘He’s not so bad.’ Fitzpatrick walked over to a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of single malt and poured them each a drink. ‘Can’t handle his booze. That’s his main problem.’
‘So what am I supposed to do? Thomas tossed the whisky down his throat, offering no thanks.
Fitzpatrick fingered the inside of his collar, then pulled up the zip of his black pin-striped trousers. He saw Thomas frowning. Making a joke of his disarray he said, ‘Man of action.’
Thomas glared, in no mood for humour.
‘A plea in mitigation. We’d centre on the shock and trauma of finding the body of a lifelong friend and colleague who had committed suicide.’ He took Thomas through the other elements of the plea: overwhelming guilt at not picking up on the symptoms of his mate’s mental illness, lack of real planning. He added, ‘It’s not like you’ve set the cops on a course that’s wasted huge resources. They’ve seen through your misguided actions very quickly. I think diversion is appropriate.’