The Port Fairy Murders (30 page)

Mrs Scotney sought reassurance for the second time that Matthew’s assault hadn’t actually ended in rape. It was as if, thought Helen, she could cope with a certain level of violation, but anything beyond it might change the way she thought of her daughter.

‘Were you at home last night, Mr Scotney?’

Tom laughed.

‘Having just said I’d happily kill Todd, I suppose I need an alibi, don’t I?’

‘I suppose you do.’

‘I was here until 4.30 am. There are two people who can prove that — my wife and my daughter.’

‘Why 4.30?’

‘That’s when I left to take the boat out fishing. Sharks don’t catch themselves. I was later than usual because …’

Mrs Scotney blushed a deep scarlet.

‘Well, let’s just say I was later than usual. Johanna made me a cup of tea before she headed out to Abbot’s farm. We get up early in this house.’

‘And you didn’t leave the house between midnight and 4.30 am?’

‘No, I did not. I was in bed, which the wife will confirm, and I was probably snoring, which Johanna can confirm.’

‘Dad was definitely here,’ Johanna said.

‘I’m glad I’ve got an alibi, but you know what? I see it as a missed opportunity.’

Helen saw no point in questioning the Scotneys any further. Either Tom Scotney had a solid alibi, or his wife and daughter were both lying. Johanna walked outside with her. Helen realised that she was hungry, having eaten nothing since lunch on the train. It was 8.00 pm.

‘Is there anywhere I could get something to eat?’

‘There’s a fish-and-chip shop in Sackville Street. That should still be open. I’ll walk you there.’

The light was beginning to fade, and the smell of the sea was strong in the town.

‘That detective, the one with the bruises, he’s talking to Timothy, isn’t he?’

‘Sergeant Sable will be doing that now, yes.’

‘Timothy couldn’t have killed Matthew Todd. He’s a boy.’

‘You said he’ll be 18 soon.’

‘Yes, but he’s very young. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.’

‘Did Rose Abbot ever talk to you about her brother?’

‘Mrs Abbot used to listen to me prattling on about Timothy. She was good like that. She didn’t talk about her own family much. I know she didn’t get on with Mr Todd. When he came to the farm she was never very friendly to him. She didn’t like him being there, and she didn’t like the way he spoke to her.’

‘How did he speak to her?’

‘Like he couldn’t understand why she’d married Mr Abbot. He really didn’t like Mr Abbot. I’m surprised they never came to blows. They were rude to each other.’

‘What about Rose and her Aunt Aggie?’

‘Oh, Rose definitely didn’t get on with old Miss Todd. Matthew was Miss Todd’s favourite. Mrs Abbot did tell me that. She said that whenever she visited her, Miss Todd used to talk about Matthew as if he was the best thing on two legs. Once she said that she thought Miss Todd was in love with Matthew. Not that she loved him, as an aunt would, but that she was in love with him. I thought that was creepy.’

The fish-and-chip shop was on the point of closing. Helen said she’d make it worth their while to stay open, and ordered what she hoped would be enough to feed whoever was still at the police station when she got there.

‘What’s good?’ she asked Johanna.

‘Sweet William. It’s got no bones, and Dad might’ve caught it this morning.’

THE HARRISON HOUSE
was, by Port Fairy standards, rather grand. It was in Philip Street at the western end of the town. Joe drove there in Inspector Halloran’s car. There were no lights visible — the result of blackouts still being up. Perhaps the Harrisons were paranoid about an attack from the sea. It was dusk, so finding his way to the front door wasn’t a problem, even though there was a long driveway from the street to the house. Joe was glad of the half-light; it would soften the bruises on his face.

The door was opened by a woman in her late fifties. She was thin, elegantly dressed, and with expensively styled hair, which would have been auburn had it not faded to grey.

‘Mrs Harrison?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Sergeant Joe Sable, from Melbourne. Is Timothy at home?’

‘Are you from the army?’

‘No, Mrs Harrison. I’m a police officer from Homicide.’

Mrs Harrison’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘This is about those dreadful murders, isn’t it?’

‘May I come in?’

The house smelled of the evening meal being cooked. It was a rich, pleasant odour of something roasting. It didn’t smell of austerity.

‘I suppose you want to speak to Timothy because he’s been stepping out with Johanna. She worked for the dead woman, Rose Abbot, didn’t she?’

‘Is Timothy home, Mrs Harrison?’

‘Yes, yes. He’s in his room. Please come through to the living room. My husband is in there. He’s an invalid.’

The living room confirmed, if it needed confirming, that there was money in the Harrison family. There was a piano, with silver-framed photographs sitting on top of it, and above the fireplace a portrait in oils of two young boys. It was competently done, a thoroughly professional job, and Joe could see that the signature was William Dargie’s. It would have been an expensive commission.

‘This is my husband, Albert.’

A good-looking man, his hair thinning, but his face retaining the unlined skin of a much younger man, sat in a plush armchair. He’d been reading a Josephine Tey novel.

‘Mr Harrison, I’m Detective Joe Sable.’

Mr Harrison nodded.

‘I’m afraid speech is quite difficult for Albert, Sergeant. He was gassed in the last war, and it did a great deal of damage.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.

Mr Harrison smiled, stood up, and whispered. ‘I heard you say you wanted to speak to Timothy. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Joe had expected Albert Harrison’s incapacity to have affected his mind, but he should have seen as soon as he laid eyes on him that this wasn’t so. His face had none of the slack, imbecile quality of Selwyn Todd’s. It was a taut, intelligent face. This might be a quiet house, but it didn’t feel to Joe like an empty one. Albert Harrison, unlike Joe’s own father, wasn’t the embodiment of a paradoxically absent presence.

Timothy Harrison entered the living room, and his mother made the introductions.

‘Would you like me to stay, darling, while the detective speaks to you?’

‘No,’ Timothy said, his voice betraying his nerves. This was probably the first time he’d ever been interviewed by a policeman, so Joe understood that nervousness was a reasonable response. Joe’s initial impression of Timothy was that he was tall enough and strong enough to have killed Matthew Todd. There was something not yet fully formed about him.

‘You’ve heard, I presume, Timothy, that Mrs Rose Abbot and Mr Matthew Todd have been murdered.’

‘Yes, of course. News like that gets around pretty quickly in Port Fairy.’

‘Could you tell me where you were last night between midnight and 5.00 am?’

‘What?’

The question seemed to stun Timothy.

‘It’s a routine enquiry, Timothy.’

‘But why would you ask
me
that?’

‘You have a friendship with Johanna Scotney, do you not?’

‘Johanna is my girl.’

Good grief
, Joe thought.
He’s seen too many Andy Hardy pictures
. There was no time to watch him grow up slowly, so Joe spoke to him with roughly and directly.

‘Miss Scotney has told us that she confided in you that Matthew Todd had tried to rape her.’

‘She told you that?’

‘Do you mean that she’d confided in you, or that she’d been assaulted?’

‘She told me those things yesterday, in the gardens.’

‘She also said that you didn’t believe her.’

Timothy Harrison looked as though he was about to cry.

‘But I did believe her. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You were the only person she’d confided in. Are you sure you didn’t know what to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Matthew Todd had made obscene advances to your girl. Maybe you thought about that, and maybe you thought someone ought to do something about it.’

Timothy shook his head rapidly.

‘So, Timothy, where were you between midnight and 5.00 am yesterday?’

‘I was here, asleep.’

‘Would anyone know if you slipped out?’

‘Timothy didn’t slip out, Sergeant.’

Joe hadn’t noticed the quiet entrance of Albert Harrison into the room. He was standing just inside the door. In a hoarse, painful whisper, he said, ‘Timothy had a nightmare around 2.30. I’m a poor sleeper. I heard him cry out, and I went to him. He’s had nightmares since he was a child. I sometimes think that they must be contagious, that he caught them from me. I sat with him until he went back to sleep. My wife will corroborate that.’

‘I didn’t know I had a nightmare last night.’

‘You’re lucky, Tim. You don’t recall your nightmares.’

‘That was at 2.30. What about between midnight and that time?’

‘As I say, Sergeant, I’m a poor sleeper. I was awake until well after 1.30, and I would have heard Timothy if he’d left the house. The floorboards in this house are better than a burglar alarm.’

Mrs Harrison, who must have been hovering near the door, came into the living room. She knelt by the chair that Timothy had sat in.

‘Oh Tim. Poor Johanna. You must bring her here. She must feel like the world is a terrible place.’

Timothy was trying to keep his tears in check. He failed. Joe let himself out of the house and made his way back to the station. The Harrisons were, he thought, decent people who didn’t give a tinker’s curse that their son was stepping out with a fisherman’s daughter. It was a house where nightmares lay in wait each night for sleepers, but where they were endured and patiently soothed.

THE SMELL OF
fish and chips and malt vinegar assailed Joe’s nostrils when he returned to the police station. The newspaper in which they’d been wrapped had only just been torn open. Inspector Halloran, Constables Manton and Filan, and Helen were busy eating their share. A small parcel had been set aside for Constable Adams, which Constable Manton would take him as soon as he’d finished eating.

‘There’s plenty,’ said Helen. ‘Dig in.’

They ate in silence, each of them going over the information that had been gathered so far. When everyone had stopped eating, Inspector Halloran said, ‘Let’s line all our ducks up in a row and see if any of them quack. Sergeant Sable, before we do that, what did you think of Timothy Harrison?’

Joe outlined his interview and his impression of the Harrison family.

‘All right,’ Halloran said. There was a chalkboard on the wall, and he began to write a list of names on it.

‘We have two bodies: Rose Abbot and her brother Matthew Todd.’

He underlined Matthew’s name.

‘Let’s start with him. If his Aunt Aggie is correct, he was a popular and respected member of the Port Fairy community, with one or two enemies, whose names have been supplied by Agnes Todd. We know, however, that our Mr Todd was accused by Johanna Scotney of attempted rape. This alone gives us three credible suspects for his murder: Johanna’s father, Tom Scotney, who overheard her telling Rose Abbot that Todd had attacked her; Timothy Harrison, the boyfriend in whom Johanna had confided; and Johanna herself. We’ll throw John Abbot in there on the basis that he loathed Matthew Todd. All of these people have solid alibis.’

He underlined Rose Abbot’s name.

‘We have no suspects in the murder of Rose Abbot. Instead, we have a man who can’t tie his own shoelaces, whose sister, Agnes Todd, saw him hit Mrs Abbot with a shovel. Or so she says. Wouldn’t it be nice if her death were as straightforward as that? My problem is that I don’t believe a word of what Agnes Todd has told us. She wrote a false confession, and it can only have been she who wiped fingerprints from the shovel handle and from the slate. Having interviewed her myself, and having watched Constable Lord slice and dice her version of events, I’ve changed my mind, and I’m now firmly of the view that it is entirely possible that Agnes Todd wielded the shovel that killed her niece, and that she is willing to sacrifice her brother, Selwyn, to cover her tracks. Why would she do such a terrible thing? I have no idea. And I have no idea, short of getting her to confess, how we pin this on her. I don’t give any credence to her notion that Selwyn was acting on someone’s instructions. She helpfully offered up John Abbot to us, but she neglected to mention that it was she who telephoned Rose and summoned her. I’ve checked with the exchange, and that call was definitely made.

‘Now, what muddies these waters into a turbid mess is the murder of Matthew Todd. He was killed much earlier, and elsewhere. I’ve been to his house; there are no signs of disturbance. The door is unlocked, but no one locks doors in Port Fairy. It would have been simple for someone to enter his house — he might even have invited that person in — and overpower him. It must have been someone strong. Dr Marriott says that the ligature dug deep into his throat, and that strong arms would be necessary to achieve this. That person, either alone, or with help, carried the body to his aunt’s house, and propped it grotesquely in her front room. Why? The obvious answer is to both incriminate Agnes Todd and force her to make the discovery of her beloved nephew’s corpse. I’d say Matthew Todd’s killer hated Aggie Todd almost as much as he hated Matthew Todd. Who among our suspects fits that bill?’