The Celibate Mouse (18 page)

But just then, her father’s mobile rang. Her heart sank as she watched the expression on his face change.

CHAPTER 24

Making Tracks

The Killer

Friday: 5pm to dawn.

H
e couldn’t keep still. The fear and rage bubbling inside him found its outlet in smashing things; cutlery glass–anything which came to hand. Fear oozed out of his body, permeating his nostrils. His stomach roiled.

Shards of glass flew around the room with cyclonic force. Kitchen implements bounced off the walls, the doors, and clashed in mid-air as they crossed flight paths.

It still wasn’t enough, even as he leaned, exhausted, against the kitchen dresser.

Something had to give.

The family secret could not be allowed to choke his future. Surely Arthur wouldn’t be so stupid as to even
hint
... no, they agreed at the family meeting, that nothing would be said. Arthur had been the most vigorous supporter of silence. Well, he would be. His biography could blow the past apart and there was no way to stop the bloody thing from being written. The book had been commissioned and paid for by the Historical Society. If he intervened, people would want to know the reason why.

He looked at the clock. His girlfriend, disguised as his current secretary, Gloria, would arrive shortly. How to explain the devastation in the room? What to do? A solution came to mind.

He crunched across the glass fragments to the sink, took a full bottle of detergent from the shelf underneath and squirted a huge swathe of the liquid onto the floor, trailing it across the draining board. Then he reached behind, squirted some over his right buttock and smeared it down the back of his trousers. Then he drizzled it over his shoes and swiped his hand along the underside of his sleeve and over his shoulder. He followed up with a stream of detergent on the right side of his face, hair and ear. He dumped the bottle and edged carefully around the mess to the laundry.

His cleaner tended to put things in the wrong place, but this time the mop was where it belonged. He half-filled the bucket with hot water and carried it back into the kitchen, dunked the mop into the bucket, squeezed it and swiped at the detergent, skilfully cutting wild paths from the sink to the table. The resultant tracks looked for all the world as though he had slipped and fallen on his right-hand side.

He finished just in time. As he reached the end of his track-making, Gloria’s high heels tapped along the path at the side of the house. He dropped the mop into the bucket, grabbed the dustpan and brush, and was diligently sweeping up crockery and glass from the other side of the room when she walked in the back door.

‘Oh my goodness, what’s happened here?’

‘I spilt the dishwashing liquid and slipped in it while I was filling the dishwasher,’ he explained, with rueful charm.

She gave a “poor man let me do this and I’ll show you what a good wife I’ll make” smile and took the implements from his helpless hands.

Three quarters of an hour later, he’d had a shower and Gloria had cleaned up the chaos. He took two glasses from his crystal collection, normally kept for special occasions, poured them a glass of wine each and chatted to her as she loaded the dishwasher with what was left of the china.

Then he took her out to dinner, fed her, brought her home, “did” her and was forced to listen to her breathing beside him for the rest of the night. But it was a small price to pay for her naiveté in accepting his fairytale, and too stupid to question why he was filling the dishwasher. His housekeeper
always
did that.

He hadn’t given up the idea of returning for Susan Prescott, but the police hadn’t done anything more than question him along with everyone else in the family. He wasn’t worried; she hadn’t seen him at the hospital after all. For some reason his attempt to strangle her hadn’t been reported, which made him a little anxious, but there was no way she could identify him. And now he’d managed to destroy the photos as well. He’d made sure no clues remained.

He stirred uneasily, reliving the moment on the six o’clock news while the announcer reported the fire at the hospital. Images of the fire engines and crews mopping up the mess played themselves out on the screen, while he seethed with fear and anticipation. Glenwood must have died. The dose of insulin had been enough to kill three men. Perhaps the police were not going to make the attack public? The young constable had his back turned when he was hit, so no danger there. And The CCTV footage would only show a tall, hooded man.

He clenched his teeth as he waited for some mention of a death–two deaths–for he’d belted the constable so hard, his skull had cracked.

Gloria stirred, rolled over and draped her leg over his. He wanted to smash her face in, but she was so damn useful and just how he liked women–stupid, pretty and skeletal. Having a woman around was the only way he could conceal which side he really batted for. He always took his lovers to out-of-the-way places, where no one knew either of them, but he’d begun to lay the groundwork of Gloria’s instability in case she went public with their relationship. Discreetly, he had told his colleagues she was crazy and coming on far too strong. If necessary, he would ask one of them to quietly advise her to back off; perhaps even to counsel her.

He rolled her over, heaved himself on top, rammed into her and began to ride her as though he was winning the Melbourne Cup.

Her eyes flew open, startled. She wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist. The faster he got to the finish, the sooner morning would come and he could find out if John Glenwood was still alive.

Then he would reconsider his position.

CHAPTER 25

Condemnation

Susan

Thursday: early evening.

D
avid is speaking to a woman. His deep, soft, playful tones, accompanied by bent head and slightly hunched shoulders, indicate he’s seeking privacy.

He steps out onto the verandah and closes the glass door, so we can’t overhear the conversation. I see the disappointment in Marli’s face before she has time to assume a nonchalant facade. I cram down my own regret and continue to inventory the people who had been at the luncheon.

Euon Jellicott, solicitor, late 40s, early 50s? Grandson of Grace, Arthur’s sister, unmarried. No comment on Jack, but liked Edna.

Mark Gordon, Ferna’s son - first marriage? Mid 50s? Also unmarried. Don’t know how he felt about either victim.

Peter Robinson, architect, 40 something, son of John, Arthur’s brother. Another unmarried.
These men aren’t very successful with women–or are they all gay?

Jason Hardgreaves, doctor, 30-ish, engaged to Libby, Edna’s grand-daughter. Who are Libby’s parents? Beatrice Eams, the director of the hospital is the second wife of Libby’s father. The first wife is dead.
Lots of deaths in this family.

George Murphy, developer, forty maybe, cousin. Connie’s son. Married. He loathed Jack, a sliver of gossip I picked up at the luncheon.

The cricketers, Ferna’s brothers. Both unmarried, but can’t remember their names, so will ask Daniella if they prove important to the investigation. They thought Jack’s sexual antics admirable.

Every last one of them needs to be investigated. Here’s hoping David’s troops are dealing with that. Now what about Sir Arthur? Hm ... a bit old for the current murders, but the right age for the original–happening. John was too young at the time. None of the women in the family are tall enough to be the killer of Edna, but were they involved? Maybe.

David returns indoors, folding his mobile into its pouch, as I finish the list

‘I suppose you’re going out again now?’ pouts Marli, earning a startled glance from her father.

‘Why would you assume that?’

‘Well, you got a phone call and that means you’re leaving for work,’ she snarls, but before he can reply, she storms off down the hall and slams into her bedroom.

‘What brought that on?’ David is shocked by her vehemence.

‘She’s used to having me dash out at all hours to attend crime scenes, so she expects you to do the same,’ I answer dryly.

He eyes me, warily. ‘I know you’re longing to know who phoned. Right? It was a friend.’
Yeah, right.

‘Your love-life is none of my business, David. I am only concerned by your relationship with Marli and right now, this case.’

He takes time to digest my statement. ‘What do you mean, ‘this case’? It’s my case, Susan. You’re on leave, remember? All I want you to do is list who was at lunch today. I’ll talk to Marli when she cools down.’

I measure up the distance between my hands and his throat, wondering how I can get away with killing him.
Susan, control yourself
,
don’t blow it
. Doesn’t he realise how much Marli wants him to be here for her? And how much I need to get back into harness?

His well-developed male instinct for survival kicks in. Of course this is programmed into male DNA. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply your help isn’t invaluable. You’re the only one of us who knows the Robinsons on a social basis, so let’s look at your list and you can give me your ‘take’ on each one. Please?’ He moves a chair over next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. His warm, male aroma and lemon-based aftershave waft up my nostrils. My skin burns under his hand. Deep inside me, vibrations of lust drum a cicada’s song.

‘You need to go and talk to Marli,’ I insist. Head-banging music blares out from our daughter’s room. Heaven help her rats, though I suppose they’re used to it.

David closes the door to the hallway and sits beside me. ‘I told you, I’ll talk to her later. So what do you make of this bunch?’ He’s clearly trying to appease me, but I’m determined to find this killer before he does.

‘So how many have you checked out so far?’

He squints at the paper, sighs and takes a pair of spectacles out of his shirt pocket. Unfortunately, he looks better in them than any middle-aged man has a right to.

‘Okay. I agree. It’s a family thing. We’ve got alibis for–’

He ticks off the names as he enumerates the Robinson male contingent, finishing up with the future bridegroom, Jason Hardgreaves who is dismissed, being on duty with witnesses when both murders occurred. Some of the other males in the family are also accounted for. However, ‘Slimeball’ has no alibi for Edna’s demise, and was actually at the showgrounds when Jack was knocked off.

‘Beatrice Eams was on duty when Harlow was killed and at a dinner party when Edna died. So that lets her out. Libby doesn’t have an alibi for either times, but neither of these women are tall enough. You didn’t include Daniella Winslow and her daughter here,’ he says, doodling on the paper, ‘Adam Winslow’s tall enough and where’s Daniella’s husband?’

‘He was killed in an accident years ago at the same place John Glenwood had his accident.’

‘Okay, that lets him out.’ PC Winslow’s name is added to the bottom of the list and his father is crossed off.

‘I hadn’t gotten around the lot of them yet. I think we can discount the women although they could be accessories. The twins, Grace and Connie were at the luncheon, they’re Arthur’s sisters and almost as old as he is. There’s the Royal Couple of course and Ferna’s son, Mark.’

My tone alerts him to something interesting, because he subjects me to a curious stare. ‘You have a thought about him?’

‘Er, no. He’s invited me out to dinner tomorrow night. I’m counting on you to babysit.’

He stares at me, astonished. Light gleams along the rims of his spectacles, turning his eyes into satanic slits.
What? Don’t you think anyone would want to take me out?

‘He’s a suspect in this case, Susan. You can’t fraternise with him.’ His words are laced with chilli.

‘Ah, but it’s your case. You just reminded me, didn’t you? I’m a private citizen right now and not bound by ethics in this instance.’ I fix him with a narrow-eyed glare. ‘
You
are though!’
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, mate!

‘But
I’m
not dating anyone connected with the case, Susan,’ he points out, reasonably enough.

My glance falls on his mobile phone. His expression is inscrutable, then a flush starts under his chin and travels up to his cheeks.
Gotcha!

‘Leanne has nothing to do with this case. I’ve only been seeing her since I moved to Ipswich. Now can we get on with this? We haven’t had dinner yet and I’m starving.’

‘And you still have to talk to Marli.’

It is 6.30pm by the time we’ve listed everyone who could be even remotely connected to the case. I make copious notes and phone Briony Feldman to organise a date for coffee tomorrow morning. Her grateful response betrays her loneliness.

I’m determined to take the mutilated photo to show to Ms Feldman. David will consider it his duty to take it to the station to add to the evidence and then quiz the Robinson rellies. No way. David isn’t going to get his hands on it, until I’ve discovered who ‘pin-hole’ man is. ‘If you take this photo to the station and ask the rellies before I’ve discovered who he is, they can lie and we’ll never know the name.’

He concedes I am right, and heads down the hallway to talk to Marli. I go to the kitchen, take a large container of casserole out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. Then I quietly open the cupboard door under the sink and peer inside. The tiny mouse nest heaves with transparent, pink life. Mrs Mouse peers up at me and abandons ship to hide behind the mop. I partially close the door and look around to see an empty cardboard container waiting to be binned. A creative minute with a pair of scissors and my mouse has a mansion, complete with front and back entrances.

David almost catches me, as I pop it over the top of the nest, a protective shell for the little family. They will be safe until I can decide which outside shed to place them in.

‘What’re you doing?’ he asks, glancing around the kitchen.

‘Nothing. Has Marli calmed down?’ I ask, standing in front of the cupboard, hoping David won’t take it into his head to investigate.

‘Yes, we’ve had a chat. She’s getting washed up for dinner. What’s that?’ His eyes light up. ‘Casserole?’

‘Yep. Beef Stroganoff. You can set the table.’ I thrust cutlery into his hands and go on a sour cream hunt through the refrigerator. A few minutes later, Marli comes into the kitchen, gives me a kiss and takes the pup into the laundry to feed him.

As we hoe into the succulent casserole, Marli and David share a significant glance.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

David nods to Marli.

‘Mum, when Dad took me to tea the other night, we got talking and we realised something about Da–Harry.’ She stalls and casts a pleading glance at David.

He stops eating, his face grim. ‘Susan, you need to know something ...’

As I listen to their theory I don’t know whether to cry or explode with anger. Harry, aided by his secretary, would have found it very easy to separate the girls from their father by blocking letters and gifts, because I wasn’t home to beat them to the mailbox.

‘For the last few years I haven’t sent anything, Susan. I gave up.’

‘Mum, how could dad–Harry–do that? It’s so
mean!’
Marli is getting her father’s mixed up.

‘I’m sorry I blamed you,’ I say contritely to David, who accepts my apology with a gracious nod and continues eating his meal.

In the ensuing silence, my mind flips back to Harry’s greatest betrayal. A year or two after we were married, I told Harry I wanted another baby and he confessed to knowing he was infertile before we were married. ‘Just how long have you been aware of this?’ I’d screamed.

‘Since I was seventeen, when I had mumps.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me
before
we were married?’ I wanted to kill him.

‘‘Well, I didn’t because you wouldn’t have wanted me. I loved you–love you,’ he hastily corrected himself.

‘But that was unfair and deceitful, Harry! I had a right to know.’

‘Well, get over it, all right?’

He refused to consider adoption. ‘I don’t believe in it,’ was his explanation. But what then did he consider his appropriation of my children? Adoption, surely. Why hadn’t I walked out when he admitted his monstrous deception? My love for Harry was severely rocked by his revelation, but I wouldn’t–couldn’t–allow myself to acknowledge I might have made a mistake. For the girl’s sake, I told myself to paper over the cracks and move on. ‘You couldn’t face up to starting over again, could you? ‘And Susan,’ a little voice inside said. You were only too happy to accept Harry’s protection, weren’t you?
And then use it to your advantage to pursue your career.’

And then there were my mother’s words inside my head, repeating the old cliché. ‘You’ve made your bed so you’ll have to lie in it.’ What right did I have to condemn Harry, when I was hardly blameless? So we stayed together and jogged along well enough, and ten years passed before I faced the fact that my second marriage had gone the way of my first, but still I hung on, to no avail. Three years later, we are separated and going for a divorce.

The dogs start barking, alerting us to someone approaching the house. David leaps to his feet and charges out the back door. As his footsteps fade, the front door opens and slams shut. High-heels tap down the parquet hallway. Marli and I exchange a “what now?’ glance.

‘I’ve been driving for hours. I thought I’d never find this fucking place!’ announces Brittany, as she marches through the kitchen door, slings her backpack off her shoulder onto the floor, where we can all trip over it. ‘I had to come and see what you’re up to, Marli. You can’t be trusted with anything, no more than you can, mother.’

‘Brit–’

‘Shut up, Marli. You listen to me. You insisted on staying with the emotional loser, so I’ve had to come back to take you to live with us. You won’t get anywhere staying with her!’ She shoots me a withering glare. ‘She’s run off two husbands so far and she managed to get her subordinate shot. What does that say about her? Stress leave, my arse. She’s
crazy!’
Brittany’s voice rises with each syllable.

A volcano is gathering momentum deep within me, but my voice is steady. ‘Brittany, mind your mouth. I was completely cleared of negligence and I am not crazy. And Marli has a right to make her own choices without your interference. I won’t tolerate you poking your nose into her life. You’ve made your own choice–’

Brit shouts over the top of me, enunciating each word as though she’s biting pieces off my body. ‘No, mother. You
influenced
Marli to come with you, playing the
sympathy
card sooooo well. ‘

‘She did not!’ shrieks Marli, tears welling.

Brit doesn’t miss a beat. ‘I know how you work. You’re like, beyond sad,’ she shouts, with practised contempt.

David comes into back into the kitchen, his face like granite.

Brit turns on him, incandescent with rage. ‘
You!
We were perfectly happy with dad, until he couldn’t put up with her any longer!’ she screams, advancing toward her father, fists clenched.

Marli listens open-mouthed and I, with interest. Her sister pulls no punches; we are all ‘mentioned in despatches.’ Her condemnation is evenly distributed between Marli and me, but David gets the lion’s share. He is accused of everything with the possible exception of murder, and she would include that if she can drum one up for the occasion.

David lets her hang herself with words before responding.
‘Sit down and be quiet!’

Brit’s mouth opens, but before she can say anything, he cuts her off. ‘You heard me,’ his voice is soft, his tone deadly. ‘Don’t you ever–
ever
–let me hear you speak to your mother and sister like that again.’