The Celibate Mouse (19 page)

He yanks a chair forward and gestures her to sit. White-faced with shock, lips folded into a hen’s-bum moue, she moves to the table and he shoves it under her bottom.

She settles gingerly onto the seat.

He pushes her up to her place with one sweep of his arm.

The silence is electric.

Marli’s eyes swivel between the combatants like a metronome.

‘Susan, get Brittany something to eat, please. No, I’ll decide when you can speak,’ he adds with narrow-eyed fury, as she opens her mouth for another tirade. He sits down and picks up his utensils, nodding to Marli to continue her meal.

I dish up a liberal serving of casserole for Brit and pop it into the microwave to heat. I’m trying to hide a smile, as I take out utensils and a serviette. At last I have some support in my on-going battle with her. It seems my wayward, volatile, but much-loved daughter has finally run into a brick wall.

CHAPTER 26

Cuckoo Cuckoo

Brittany

Thursday: after midnight.

A
nger boiled inside, a writhing thing, erupting into scorching heat. It was a wonder her sheets didn’t catch on fire. Humiliated and unable to take control of Marli and her mother, Brittany tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, before she slipped into the recurrent dream which pleased her most. This time the ending had changed.

She pushed past her, striving to reach the house before her twin. ‘Brit, wait for me!’ Marli screamed. If Brittany got to their father first, she’d be the one he would pick up and swing around. Oh no, her mother was there as well. She tried to veer away from her, but her legs refused to change direction. Then Marli got there first, and dad picked her up and swung her around.

Brittany pushed her mother’s arms aside and kept running ... running ... straight into the arms of–him. Maguire. She struggled as he picked her up and swung her high into the air, higher and higher until she flew over the countryside, trying to land but totally unable to. Then Harry was beside her– ‘You’re not worthy, Brit,’ he said, ‘no one likes a smart arse. Behave yourself or we won’t love you anymore.’

Brittany kicked wildly, until she got free of the sheets. Breathless and trembling, she sat up, covered in perspiration, her cheeks wet with tears. The impenetrable black and silence of the night disoriented her. A wild dog howled on the mountain, sending shivers through her. She glared at her sister, asleep in the other bed. ‘I look like a fat toad next to Marli,’ she thought bitterly. ‘Dad doesn’t like me because I’m fat.’ Her lack of confidence didn’t allow for them being identical twins and therefore exactly the same size. Self-pity was too enjoyable to acknowledge facts, and the interloper, Maguire, was not the pushover she’d expected. The prospect of regrouping seemed insurmountable.

She contemplated climbing into bed with Marli, but rejected the idea. She had to go to the loo, but didn’t want to fumble her way along the hall to the bathroom. Couldn’t the stupid Kirkbridges have put in an en suite? She supposed it was a sad environmental thing. She reached over to the bedside table and fumbled around for her watch. The tiny lighted dial said 1.30am. At least four hours before she could leave. The treatment that man had meted out to her at dinner was unbelievable. There must be someone she could report him to. The pol
–
he
is
the police, she reminded herself. Child Protection would do
–
no, that was for young kids.

It transpired that David Maguire was leading the investigation into a couple of boring murders, and her mother, who couldn’t keep her nose out of anything, was helping him. What a laugh! ‘Mum’s a flake. Everybody knows that,’ she muttered, trying to get comfortable. As for Marli, where did she get off with the attitude? Brittany threw her pillow onto the floor and turned the second one over so it was cool under her neck.

She had treated
that man’s
caution not to roam around outside at night, with the contempt it deserved, but when her mother displayed marks on her neck and told her about the attack, Brittany had hidden her shock, sneering, ‘I don’t give a “monkey’s”.’

The dog howled again, nearer this time. The family dogs, whom she had missed more than she cared to admit, answered from their yard. Marli stirred and rolled over, but didn’t wake. The pet rats chased each other around as they trashed their cage, occasionally pausing to look at Brittany with disdainful shoe-button eyes.

Another sudden yearning for comfort almost sent her scurrying into Marli’s bed, but she rejected the idea. Showing any sign of weakness might get her sucked into the crap going on here. She sat up, slipped her coat over her pj’s and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She crept to the door and quietly opened it. The nightlight above the skiring board sent a soft glow down the hallway.

‘I’ll bet
he’s
with mother,’ she thought savagely. ‘They’re
disgusting.’
The ticking of the pendulum in the grandfather clock followed her to the kitchen. After she turned on the light, the dogs began running up and down outside, under the window. Footsteps sounded outside in the hall, followed by the door opening. Maguire came in, dressed in jeans, boots and a thick sweater.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he asked quietly.

Acid dripped from her lips. ‘Give the man a medal! However did you guess?’

Maguire’s mouth tightened. He brushed past her, opened the back door and disappeared without replying. A moment later, the back yard became bathed in brilliant light. Brittany looked through the window at the dogs standing to attention, noses pointed toward the mountain. Her mother came into the kitchen, yawning, as she tied the belt of her robe.

‘Can’t sleep, Brit? Want a hot Milo?’ she asked, mildly.

‘What is this? The night of the cliché?’

‘No, a courteous question,’ her mother replied, brushed past her and went out to the back steps.

‘Ooooh, my bad!’ countered Brittany. She marched out of the kitchen and charged down the hallway to the bathroom. When she’d finished, she went back to the bedroom where she turned on the bedside lamp and rooted around for her clothes. ‘I’m not staying here, I’m starting back now,’ she muttered, jamming her belongings into the backpack. ‘Marli, wake up!’ she hissed, as she zipped up her jeans.

Her sister rolled over, blinking in the light. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘I’m getting out of here and you’re coming with me,’ Brittany snapped.

Marli sat up and knuckled her eyes. ‘No. I’m not coming and if you go back, Brit, you can stay there. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. You’re blaming everyone but Harry for what’s happened. I want to be with mum and dad. I’m not leaving, especially with what’s happening with the murders and everything. You’re being selfish, spiteful and childish.’

Her sister loomed over the bed. ‘You listen and you listen good, Mar. Dad’ll be back in Brisbane soon and I’m going to move in with them.’

Silence ensued, as her sister lay back staring at the ceiling, not deigning to reply. Titch yawned and snuggled closer to Marli.

‘What’s she like?’ Marli asked, folding her arms behind her head.

‘Who?’

‘Sharon? She’s all right. She’s got two little kids, and he’s very happy,’ replied Brittany, remembering her father’s pleasure in playing with them. But he was often just a little too happy. Those were the times she pinched and slapped the kids when no one was looking.

‘Well, bully for him!’ snapped Marli.

Brittany frowned. ‘Harry?’

‘You know nothing about what happened, Brit, so pack it in, will you?’ Marli turned onto her side and pulled the blankets tightly around her shoulders. ‘Turn the light off when you go.’

Brittany, routed for the moment, placed her backpack in the corner. The dogs’ barking had died down. Voices and laughter came from the kitchen where her mother and
–he–
were probably making coffee. Fury rose up and almost choked her. She turned off the light, flung herself fully clothed onto the bed and rolled into the top blanket, feeling almost safe in the warm cocoon of wool.

‘Aren’t you going to get back into your pjs?’ Marli asked, without opening her eyes.

‘No.’

‘Okay. Goodnight then.’

Brittany screwed her eyes tightly shut to prevent the tears from trickling out. She’d always been the one to be the boss of the nest. The old Marli would have crawled over and climbed into bed with her, grovelling for forgiveness because she’d dared stand up to her sister. The kitchen door closed and then her mother’s footsteps headed for her room, then his paused outside their door. She held her breath as it opened a little. A torch beam played over their cocooned bodies.

Maguire’s voice was deep and forbidding. ‘Brit, I know you’re still awake. Regardless of what you think of me, don’t take out your anger on your mother and Marli. They deserve better and that sort of behaviour is unworthy of you. Goodnight.’

The door closed. She let her breath out in a careful whoosh. He needed to be reminded that she was seventeen and he couldn’t stop her doing what she pleased. She fell asleep, vowing to get even with all of them.

From the moment Brittany Maguire charged into the world, she needed to be first with everything. She’d wailed the loudest to be fed, so she was first to the breast and later, the bottle. She’d heard she was the first to lift her head up, to sit and roll over. Crawling had been skipped altogether. Their grandmother told her card-playing cronies: ‘Brittany’s my little princess. She’s so advanced for her age.’

Marli didn’t get a “look in” if Brittany could prevent it. She’d been the one to crawl into their father, Harry’s, lap to make sure there was no room for Marli and always the first fed at table, except when her mother was home. Tantrums got her everything she wanted from Harry, for he denied her nothing. She always got to open both their birthday presents because she always tore the paper on Marli’s, pretending it was a mistake. She made sure she played with new toys before her sister. When their mother supervised, things were very different. Sometimes she could hear their parents arguing about her, but that made her feel important. By the time they were five, Marli automatically deferred to her elder sister in everything.

At school, Brittany majored in gang warfare, so her twin was safe from bullying. At home Marli kept their room clean, fed the animals and generally dogsbodied for Brit. Sometimes when she felt particularly brave, she would refer to herself as Cinders, which didn’t go down well with her twin. ‘Don’t you tell anyone what I make you do or I’ll give you a Chinese burn.’

But worms have a habit of turning.

CHAPTER 27

Doing Coffee

Susan

Friday: mid morning

B
riony Feldman is wearing a bright red dress with a sort of flowing colourful cape top, the corners of which billow around her, reminiscent of curtains in front of an open window. She surges into the cafe, like a gaily painted river-barge, carefully negotiating the tables, scattered artistically al fresco.

I arrived early and selected a table in a corner of the courtyard in order to observe her as she approached. Our brief meeting at the luncheon yesterday was not conducive to discovering the secrets of the Robinson clan.

I used my waiting time to re-hash Brit’s arrival last night. My mojo is reviving, but still fragile from the gale force of my eldest daughter’s verbal and emotive attack on all of us. I was wounded by her diatribe, not only against her father and myself, but against her sister, who should have been exempt from her venom. David, of course, was more than capable of dealing with her fury and rudeness, but the incident didn’t bode well for future father-daughter bonding.

My heart aches for my angry, unhappy child. Her low self-esteem always manifested itself in stubborn competitiveness and outright aggression. Monstrously indulged by Harry, all her life she’s been determined to beat her sister in everything. I’m amazed that my younger child is so well-balanced, and delighted that she is bonding so well with David.

We were relieved when the girls went to bed and the atmosphere settled. ‘It’s okay, Mum, I do love her!’ Marli replied, when I’d asked her if she felt comfortable sharing her room with Brit.

Briony Feldman shakes hands with the confidence of the straightforward, ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ career woman. We exchange pleasantries and order cappuccino, then debate whether to risk our hips with cheesecake and if so what sort. I settle for caramel, Briony, lemon. I ask how long she anticipates being in the district.

She doesn’t beat about the bush. ‘You mean, how long have you got to get some information out of me, Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott?’

Shock streaks through me and settles somewhere in my gut. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mrs Prescott, I know who you are, but as far as I’m aware, the Robinsons don’t yet and it’s not my place to tell them.’

She spoons the froth off the top of her coffee, pops it into her mouth then licks the spoon, leaving a faint line of froth and chocolate on her top lip. Now she’s more approachable.

I’m sprung, there doesn’t seem to be any point in lying. ‘Technically I’m on leave,’ I tell her. ‘Detective Inspector David Maguire asked me to see what I can find out to help with the investigation.’

Briony stares into her cup, possibly weighing where her loyalties lie. I expound our theory of a long-ago crime, and recount the sequence of events leading up to the present. Then I show her the suspicious photograph explaining my theory as to who might have performed the mutilation. Briony nods and continues to eat, as she absorbs the information.

‘Nasty. Someone didn’t like him, that’s for sure.’ She leans down and picks up her briefcase. I sweep our empty plates aside and signal for more coffee. Briony pulls a large black folder out and thumbs through it, stopping from time to time to catch loose leaves as they flutter out of the pages.

‘As it happens, I have a list of all the relatives already. I only started this contract about ten days ago, and if I can find the list of hatch, matches and despatches for that year–’ she shuffles through more papers– ‘it might give you a lead. Yes, here you are.’ She hands me a foolscap sheet. Excitement skips around my stomach, as I read the list of who was born, married and died in 1947.

There were three births in March and June, also a wedding in September, and two deaths that year, both males. One fell into a grain silo and one was killed by a bull.

‘Could one of those deaths be a murder?’

‘I have no idea, but a farm accident would be fairly easy to arrange,’ I reply.

‘The next year there were two more deaths in the family. Here on the next page, one a tractor rollover and the other died in his bed, aged 90. Unless the cliché jealous husband smothered him, the 90 year-old is a waste of time investigating!’

‘Do we have their names?’ I ask, laughing as I take out my notebook.

‘Yep, Warren Caldwell, the grain silo, a cousin. Bob Jellicott, Arthur’s brother-in-law, the bull and Steven Murphy, the tractor accident. He was Kathleen’s son, George’s father. Arthur and John’s father is Bertram, the 90 year-old. By all accounts, he was a dirty old thing, only bathed as a treat for Rose, his wife, so I don’t think husbands would have had any reason to be jealous of
him!’

She waits until I finish writing and then puts the folder away in her briefcase. ‘Are you going to the funerals, Mrs Prescott?’

‘Yes, and please call me Susan.’

‘I’m Briony. Okay, but it doesn’t look like any of those are murders, does it?’ She looks somewhat disappointed.
Have I found a fellow-sleuth?

‘We’ll investigate all of them. Of course, it could be that the murder was committed long before, or after 1947.’

‘How do you get on with Lady Ferna?’ I seek to turn the conversation to the rest of the family.

Briony rolls her eyes. ‘Oh my God, I could strangle that woman!’ She blushes, realising what she’s said, but I assure her I would help, if given half a chance.

‘I’m getting on quite well with Sir Arthur. Too well, actually. He doesn’t know the meaning of sexual harassment. Well, maybe, he does and thinks he’s going to get away with it. Trouble is, I’m free lancing and this is a contract which I can’t afford to collapse. If I keep him at a distance, he’s okay. As long as he’s stroking Genevieve, his hands are busy.’

I try to stifle my laughter in a paper serviette. This sets Briony off and we become unglued. It’s so long since I laughed, that I feel as though I’m drawing attention to myself. When we’ve calmed down, I wonder if I can push her further. ‘So, have you interviewed any of the younger members of the clan?’

Her eyes narrow shrewdly. ‘Are you asking me to spy for you?’

‘Yep. Who better to ask than yourself?’

‘I guess there’s no one outside of the family who you could ask openly,’ she concedes. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Well, for starters, how about Euon Jellicott?’

‘Well ...’ she launches into Jellicott’s résumé with little enthusiasm. ‘He’s not much chop as far as I’m concerned. Well educated, Scot’s College no less, has everything money can buy. Ambitious, almost to the point of recklessness. All the morals of a rooster.’ She cites a daring takeover bid which he apparently masterminded the year before, and which I’ve not heard about. ‘Of course, he’s a bastard in court as well as socially.’

‘Ruthless enough to kill, would you say?’

She looks thoughtful. ‘Enough to squash everything in his path, but to commit two murders? Hm. Doubt it. He’s got his eye on becoming a barrister and word is his ultimate goal is political office, so he needs to keep his nose clean. If there is something nasty in the family archives, especially if the perpetrator is still alive and can be tried for the crime, it could be the death of his career. Or at the very least, a major embarrassment.’

‘What about George Murphy?’

‘I don’t know much about George, except his nickname, which tells you a lot!’ She laughs. ‘But when all’s said and done, being a much-maligned developer it’s pretty much par for the course, wouldn’t you say?’
But is there anything else he wants which could be ruined by familial association with a killer?

‘I tend to agree with you. After all, he’s not running for public office–yet. Mind you, he’s married to a trophy wife, Daphne the Dill.’ We make eye contact and burst out laughing. When we’ve recovered, I ask about Peter Robinson.

‘Much the same scenario as Euon Jellicott. Ambitious, reaching for the stars stuff. Pete punched a fellow solicitor a few years ago over a woman, but that was a hush-up job.’

‘What? Okay, when was that?’

She gives me the year. ‘Okay. What about Mark Gordon? The vicar?’ I feel warmth in my nether regions. He really is
very
attractive, but then so is David. I thrust licentious thoughts into the background of my over-active, sex-starved mind.

‘I don’t know anything about him yet, apart from the fact that he’s very highly thought of, and single. He’s headed for a bishopric one day. Great fundraiser apparently, doesn’t suffer fools gladly, as they say. I expect a killer in the family wouldn’t be something he’d want known about either.’

‘Why aren’t these candidates married? Are they all gay?’ I am hoping the Archdeacon isn’t.
Down girl.

‘I haven’t heard that any of them are gay. Peter Robinson frolics across the social pages with models and socialites, but that might be a cover. The Archdeacon I don’t know about. One interesting point, he only came to the priesthood after he sold a technology business in the 1990s. Don’t know what caused his conversion to religious life. I certainly haven’t delved into his “personals” yet! And before you ask, I haven’t found out much about the cricketing fanatics either, except they think with their dicks.’

We roll our eyes in unison. I make a note to ask David if his team has investigated the brothers.

‘I have to tell you I feel some disloyalty to Sir Arthur by talking to you,’ Briony says, anxiously.

‘Nothing is sacred in a police investigation, Briony. But if it’s not relevant to the case, I’ll forget it.’

‘Okay. Well, Sir Arthur’s first wife, Lily, ran off with Ferna’s first husband, Gerard, father of Mark, in 1980. Arthur and Ferna married in 1984. Gerard died in a car accident two years later. Lily was 50 when they scarpered. She lives in Brisbane in a flat in Hamilton. I think she’s a couple more husbands down the track, though I haven’t had time to sort that out yet.’

Is Lily knocking off husbands?
Is she a prospect for these murders? But in 1947 she was only 16. Something lurks in the deep recess of my mind, and then slithers away. ‘I see. Interesting ... we’ll probably have to interview her, but your name won’t come into it. After all, it’s knowledge which any investigator would uncover. Everything you’ve given me is.’ I smile and she looks relieved.

‘Well, I’ve got to go, Susan. This has been interesting!’ She starts to gather her belongings.

‘Can I ask you to let me know if you come across anything useful?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want the family to find out I’m talking to you about their affairs. My contract–’

‘I understand, Briony. I’ll be discreet.’

She nods, says goodbye and leaves the cafe in a flutter of colour. Perhaps David has more information I can access. I glance at my watch; they’ll be interviewing Penelope Harlow again about now.
We’ve got to get this creep before anyone else gets hurt.
I am about to leave the cafe when my mobile rings. Harry’s voice echoes in my ear. Without any greeting or waiting for me to reply, he launches into the reason for the call.

‘Susan? Has Brittany arrived yet? Because if she has, for chrissakes keep her there. We don’t want her back; she’s causing too much trouble.’