Eden (22 page)

. . .

Denise had agreed to testify against Margot, but refused to talk to the media. She didn't want to see me either. I sent her a message, describing how I'd found the wig box in Margot's flat. In the end, she told me I could have ten minutes.

. . .

Rebecca half sat, half lay against her mother, touching, massaging and stroking first one, then another part of her—her upper arm through her T-shirt, the small of her back. She looked like Denise must have at nine or ten, her fine, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

‘Mum?' she whispered. ‘Can I get you anything? Do you want a cup of tea?'

Denise smiled and said, ‘That would be lovely.'

Her eyes, fixed on the top of her daughter's head, were tired but calm, the relief of not having to pretend any longer an almost visible cloud around her head.

Rebecca uncurled herself. I knew Denise would not give me a minute more than the allotted ten.

‘Did you see Margot coming?' I asked. ‘Why did you leave your phone in the cabin? Why didn't you ring for help?'

Denise turned to me and spoke reluctantly. ‘I didn't think. Margot knocked on the front door. I ran out the back. It was practically dark. I hoped she wouldn't hear me. I planned to double back to the office and get help. But she was faster than I thought. I could hear her catching up. She called out my name, said she wanted to talk. I grabbed that branch, you saw it? I stopped running, and got behind a tree and waited.' Denise licked her lips. ‘She just kept coming. I waited till she was ahead of me and hit her. Then I hit her again.'

‘Margot defended herself.'

‘She tried to, but I had the weapon. She's a strong woman. In the end, we went down in a heap.'

‘What happened the night Jenny was killed?'

‘Margot went home early. She said she was sick.' Denise was silent for a moment. ‘I wanted to believe her.'

‘So did Eden Carmichael.'

‘He'd just found out, that day he turned up. Stan told him. Margot said it was an overdose. He
wanted
to believe her. Just like I did. But too much had happened by then.'

‘What about the wig box? The one you said was in the room with Carmichael.'

‘You gave me such a hard time over that. I didn't find out Margot had moved it till afterwards. She forgot to tell me. She was angry with me for telling you it was there.'

‘What was in it?'

‘Photos. Margot liked—she liked keeping them nearby. Ed ripped them up and threw them round the room. Then after, after he was dead—you see, Margot made me put his dress on him. She said it would look more convincing that way, but I forgot his underwear. She was collecting the photos. She was scared of not finding all the pieces. She kept on saying that we couldn't wait. We'd have to ring the ambulance. She shoved them in the wig box together with some letters Ed had brought. When he lost his temper, he threw those at her too. When he stopped breathing—it was terrible.'

‘What happened to the letters?'

‘She burnt them that night.'

‘What about Rebecca's phone call?'

‘You think I'd have made that up?'

‘What were you doing when she rang?'

‘Trying to put Ed's dress on him. That's why I ripped it. I was so upset!'

‘Margot wore the dark wig when she went to Jenny's house.'

Denise said nothing to that. I wasn't sure if she was aware of the full implications of it. With a long dark wig, and at a distance, Margot could easily have been mistaken for her.

‘When did you take the blonde wig?' I asked.

‘The night before I left. Margot wasn't feeling well. She went home and left me to lock up. I saw it sitting there. That's what gave me the idea that I might take off.'

‘Didn't you expect Margot to come after you?'

‘She had to find out where I was first.' After another short silence, she said softly, ‘I would have left as soon as I found out Jenny was dead. But I had Rebecca. Together, we were too conspicuous. Where could we have hidden without being found? I didn't want to leave Beck, but then Ed died. It was too much. I'm getting out of sex work. Beck's asked me to, and I've promised.'

As though responding to her name, Rebecca came in carrying a tray. She'd made tea in an earthenware pot. There was milk beside it, and a matching sugar bowl. She'd been gone longer than she needed to make a pot of tea, and I knew, from the look that passed between mother and daughter, that my role was now to drink it and leave.

‘Great,' Denise said. ‘Thank you.'

Rebecca smiled. I knew she wouldn't leave her mother's side again while I was there, and that Denise would not answer any more questions in front of her.

They said goodbye to me with their arms around each other. Neither tried to hide her relief that I hadn't overstayed my welcome.

. . .

I was driving back through Civic when I spotted Stan Walewicz sitting at a pavement cafe. I pulled into a side street, found a park, and approached him from behind. He was on his own, and I guessed that he was waiting for someone.

‘Hello,' I said.

Walewicz swung around, scowling as he recognised me.

‘What do you want?'

‘Just a quick word. Did you break into my house?'

Walewicz's frown deepened, then he shook his head and laughed.

‘So it was you.'

‘You want to hang me for it?'

‘You dressed up as a woman.'

‘How did you know?'

‘Your wigs have a particular smell. Do you like dressing up?'

‘Now and again.'

‘What were you looking for?'

‘What do you think?'

‘I think you were trying to find out how much I knew about
CleanNet
.'

‘What's it matter now?'

‘Before that you'd tried hacking into my computer. When you couldn't find what you wanted, you got angry.'

‘If the cops ask me, I'll deny it. You can't prove it was me. And I never touched either of those girls, Bishop or the other one. If it hadn't been for bloody Simon—'

Walewicz broke off and offered me another scowl.

When he spoke again, his voice was distant and deflated.

‘I can't stand junkies. Never use them in my movies. Girls turn up, I can see they're on something, doesn't matter if they've got the best tits in the world, straight away I show them the door.'

‘But Jenny—'

‘Not in those days, she wasn't. Jenny was a great kid when I met her, full of life. The world was her oyster.'

‘That movie title.'

‘What about it?'

‘“Jane Springs the Trap.” She almost succeeded.'

Walewicz gave a snort and glared at me through narrowed eyes. I took it as my cue to leave.

. . .

Brook turned up as I was pulling into the driveway. I was pleased to see him. I knew better than to expect him to apologise for ordering me to turn back off the highway, and for the way he'd kept his distance since.

‘You're looking well.'

Brook nodded, not rejecting the compliment, not quite accepting it either.

‘You didn't end up getting much of a holiday,' he said.

‘My choice.' I heard an unintended sharpness in my voice, and felt myself recoiling a little, as spectators must, who cannot sustain a gesture of anticipation. I thought how desire could be forever suspended, forever about to be acted on. How long had I gone on wanting this man, behaving well, and not so well?

Brook followed me into the house, and through to the kitchen, where I poured us both a beer.

‘Cheers,' he said. ‘Well, it seems young Picoult's clean. Apart from stalking you, that is.'

Brian Picoult had finally been interviewed and a copy of the interview sent down. Lawrence had paid him to follow me when I was in Sydney.

I sipped and listened, while Brook continued with his summing up.

‘And Simon Lawrence has confessed to that business on the highway. After Picoult dobbed him in, he didn't have much choice. Picoult's willing to testify that Lawrence was with him that night. He waited in a bar while Picoult followed you out to the Esplanade. But the boy had had enough after that. Lawrence left him behind while he tailed you on the highway. Picoult refused to go along.'

‘He might have had enough, but he still didn't go to the police.'

‘He was scared.'

‘Lawrence might have killed him? He tried to kill me.'

‘Lancaster was the killer, Sandra.'

‘She wouldn't have put her money into
CleanNet
if the other two hadn't persuaded her.'

‘You don't know that.'

Brook spoke sharply, but I could feel his interest in the case dissolving. He'd taken it on reluctantly, and was more than prepared to let it go.

Ken Dollimore had announced his retirement. He'd decided not to wait until the next election. When I'd tried to ring his office, I'd been told he was in Townsville with his daughter. His PA refused to give me any contact details. I'd rung his home phone just to make sure. There was no answer and no answering machine.

Brook and I agreed that Dollimore would probably go on blaming himself for warning Senator Bryant's office on January 4, and precipitating the events that had led to Carmichael's second, fatal, heart attack.

‘I regret never having seen Richard McFadden in a cowboy hat,' I said.

‘Yeah, well. There are worse things to regret.'

I put my glass down carefully and turned to face him. ‘Don't say I disobeyed you and betrayed your trust.'

‘I wasn't going to.'

‘What then?'

‘Just—perhaps you shouldn't push yourself so hard.'

‘Why not?'

When Brook didn't answer, I said, ‘Maybe pushing ourselves is something we have in common.'

When he still didn't reply, I said, ‘Don't feel sorry for me. Canberra in January turned out to be far more interesting than I expected.'

‘
I
thought I'd keep an eye on you.'

‘I know you did. Thank you.' After a moment's hesitation, I added, ‘You never liked Margot, did you?'

‘Never had an opinion one way or the other. Don't look at me like that. I know that look. You're wishing she'd never laid a finger on the girl. You're wishing it was those other two—dimples and muscles.'

‘And number three. Don't forget Aces-Up-His-Sleeve.'

Brook finished his beer and said, ‘I best be going, then.'

I kissed him on the forehead, just below the hairline.

‘I'll be seeing you,' he said.

I scrunched my mouth up, not trusting myself to speak, nodding goodbye instead.

I thought of phoning Gail, but suspected she was annoyed with me for not contacting her as soon as I got back from the holiday camp. I didn't feel up to dealing with her annoyance just then. I'd talked Gail into writing an article implicitly praising Margot and her business. This seemed a relatively small thing, but to Gail it might not be. I realised that her friendship was important to me. I wished I'd confided in her more, instead of keeping half the things I'd done a secret. I hoped she'd hang around in Canberra, for a while at least.

I wrote my last report for Lucy. In publicity, if not in legal terms, her organisation would have a good case against
CleanNet
. How they used it would be up to them. But I wondered what difference it would make in the long run, even if they succeeded in tarnishing the company's image. It seemed to me that Richard McFadden would most likely ride out the bad publicity. Walewicz and Lawrence would be charged with attempting to blackmail Eden Carmichael, Lawrence at the worst with attempted murder, at best with dangerous driving, though I had a feeling expensive lawyers might argue their way even out of that. All three men would continue making a profit at whatever they turned their hands to, whether it was filters, or red roses, or eighteen-year-old college girls being filmed for sex.

I sent the report, then took Fred to the oval, apologising to him for the walks he'd missed over the last few days. I told him Peter would be home tomorrow, saying the words aloud to make them true, though I found the idea of his return, and Ivan's and Katya's, impossible to get my mind around. Fred wagged his tail at the sound of Peter's name.

Back at the house, I lay down for a few minutes and fell asleep without meaning to. The last light was leaving my bedroom when I woke up, a glow all yellow and lilac, as though my dreams had been peaceful.

— END —

One

The story I'm about to tell begins and ends by water. It concerns two murders, one following a short time after the other. The mornings after these murders were similar, with heavy dew on the brown grass, an appearance that seemed remarkable after a relentlessly dry summer.

The precious moisture had evaporated before seven in the morning, but left a faint aftertaste, a memory of seasons that hadn't been so harsh. On both mornings, a mist hid the Telstra tower, hanging off Black Mountain's hips. It was gone by eight o'clock, before half of Canberra was up, before they'd heard the news.

Over time, the two deaths ran together in my mind and I came to think of them as the water murders. The name conjures up an image of fluidity; but could as well suggest stagnation; or the leaching away of what is held to be precious by those most in need of it. I don't mean life itself – that absolute division – or not only that. I mean that which gives each individual life its meaning.

I first heard about the second murder while I was eating breakfast at the kitchen table with my sixteen-year-old son. A man's body had been found in our local swimming pool, within walking distance of our house.

When Peter raised his eyes and met mine, they were wary, troubled, wishing to fend off any consequences this new death might have for him, or his family. Without knowing why it had to be this way, he was shouldering yet another responsibility, and was telling me by his expression, by the way his mouth moved, that he didn't trust me to look after him and his sister. He didn't trust me as a mother any more.

I put out my hand to reassure my son, uncertain that he would accept any form of reassurance, aware that my hand was shaking and that he was sure to notice.

Peter blinked and said, ‘I love Dickson Pool.'

We both did. We both hated the day, around mid-March each year, when one of Canberra's few outdoor swimming pools closed for the autumn and winter. Yesterday had been the pool's last day. I wondered if this meant anything in terms of the drowning, if indeed the man
had
drowned, and not been killed elsewhere.

The picture that came to me while I sat there with Peter was of a giant plug suddenly removed from its snug fitting.

Peter licked toast crumbs from his lips and seemed about to ask a question when his sister, Katya, appeared in the doorway, her thin cotton pyjamas twisted and crumpled around her wiry six-year-old body. Katya was as restless a sleeper as her brother had been at her age. When I'd looked in on her shortly before midnight, she'd been lying with her feet on the pillow and the sheet corkscrewed around her middle.

‘Hey Kat,' Peter said.

I leant across and switched off the radio, while Katya balanced on one leg, rubbing her calf muscle with her bare toes, then walked slowly to the table, still in that lazy half sleep of the very young. She picked up one of the crusts Peter had left on his plate and began to chew it.

Peter smiled, wanting to escape the atmosphere of anxiety the news had created, yet feeling protective towards his sister, needing to hang around for her sake, some part of him wanting to be her age again, young enough to trust the stories adults told.