The Simple Death (4 page)

The other cupboard contained almost as many masculine products and along the bottom shelf were boxes of European aftershaves. It was a bit like a shop, Troy thought. Or a place where unwanted gifts came to die. He poked around the items on the three other shelves. There were two electric shavers, one with its own complex cleaning unit, and four razors. Three containers of shaving cream and four of moisturiser. Where have I been, he thought.

The pethidine ampoules were on the top shelf, behind a box of strips for cleaning nasal pores. There were five in a small box, and when he took one out he saw it was from the same batch number as those found in Mark's bag on the ferry. It was made of glass, and tiny red writing announced it contained one hundred milligrams in two millilitres of water. Troy stared for a moment, then replaced the ampoule in the box. He closed the cabinet door and finished his search, flushed the toilet while he removed his gloves.

When he got back to the lounge room, Emily wasn't crying anymore. Her mother had returned to her seat by the window and was staring down at the cove, while Emily told McIver the story of Mark's life. He'd grown up in Killara, gone to Sydney Grammar, met Emily at the University of Sydney. She'd come from Cabramatta, a poorer, immigrant centre, and Troy wondered just how rare it was for two people of such different backgrounds to marry. He'd married an Indian woman himself, but he wasn't from one of the city's wealthiest suburbs.

‘We both did law,' Emily said. Her voice had grown more confident while Troy was out of the room, and he could see the strength in her more clearly. ‘I went to work at Bakers but Mark stayed on and did an MBA, he'd become interested in business. He worked for a while with Westpac but then he got headhunted for this role at the hospital, out of the blue. It was a tremendous opportunity.'

‘Because of his age?'

She nodded. ‘The third sector's booming, a lot of people aren't aware of it yet. Mark likes the idea of being ahead of the curve, and the salary's acceptable.'

‘How much?' said McIver.

‘The package is one-fifty with an escalator.'

‘What does he do?' Troy said quickly, knowing the answer but wanting to keep her talking. McIver had a deep interest in the salaries of the people they dealt with during investigations. Sometimes they noticed.

‘He's the ombudsman at St Thomas'. The first one, so since he started eight months ago he's had to set up all their systems.'

‘He deals with complaints from patients?'

Emily shook her head again, a series of small, quick movements. ‘He doesn't deal with clients himself, he has staff for that sort of thing. He deals at the conceptual level, and represents the hospital when necessary, that sort of thing.'

Troy wondered what she was talking about. ‘Does he actually meet people who've complained?'

‘Only the very difficult cases.'

‘Has he ever mentioned anyone threatening him?'

‘Of course not.'

‘It's just, with a job like that,' McIver said, ‘he might come across some angry people.'

Emily blinked, as though the thought had never occurred to her. ‘Well,' she said, ‘Mark didn't.'

Troy glanced at McIver. ‘Usually in a case like this,' he said to Emily, ‘with a missing person, we look around their home as soon as possible, in case there are any indications of what might have happened.'

She turned to him as though stunned, and regarded him for a few seconds. He recalled the mother saying Emily had had a good life, until now.

Finally she said, ‘But his room is my room too.'

‘Still—'

‘I've already looked, and in the study as well.'

‘Would you mind if we—'

‘No. It's not necessary.'

McIver said, ‘You called the police for a reason.'

‘Don't patronise me.'

She looked at her mother and said something in Vietnamese, sounding indignant.

‘Don't take it out on Mark,' Troy said. She stopped talking. ‘What about a compromise? Could we just walk around the apartment and get a feel for it, a sense of Mark?'

‘How can you get a sense of him by walking around?'

She stared as if he were mad.

‘Really, you have to give us something. We've done this before.'

Shaking her head wearily, she got up and started to walk out of the room. Paused in the doorway, raised her eyebrows. Being in control seemed important to her. Troy stood up and looked at McIver, who got out of his chair slowly.

They followed Emily into the kitchen and learned about the provenance of the steel-fronted appliances. McIver was soon bored, but Troy could see he knew not to say anything. Back in the hall, Emily walked right past the open bathroom door, but Troy stopped.

‘It's only the bathroom,' she said.

He took a few steps in, forcing her to come back.

‘Twin sinks,' he said.

She nodded seriously. ‘We leave home very early. Having only one bathroom can create a bottleneck.'

‘You have your own cabinets?'

‘We don't like clutter on the sinks.'

McIver was leaning against the doorway, trying hard not to yawn.

Absent-mindedly, she pulled open the door above her own sink, using only one finger as though to demonstrate the smoothness of the hinges.

‘Fantastic,' he murmured, doing the same to the door on Mark's side. He reached in, idly, and pulled out the box of nose strips, pointed to the box of ampoules on the shelf.

‘What's that?'

Without interest, Emily looked from him to the open cabinet. ‘I don't know.'

She put out a hand and he grabbed it. Angrily she wrenched it back, staring at the box. She seemed puzzled, not upset.

‘What is it?' she said.

Pulling on a glove, he took it out. The word
Pethidine
was clearly visible.

McIver pushed himself off the doorway. Said, ‘Your husband has an injury, some physical pain? A prescription?'

‘I said he didn't.' Her face was flushed now. ‘I've never seen it before,' she said to Troy. ‘You knew they were here, didn't you? You put them here.'

‘You're aware pethidine comes from hospitals?'

‘You saw it before when you came in, you searched our bath- room!'

She was looking confused. Upset as well, but mainly confused. An intellectual response, as though some calculation had produced the wrong answer.

‘Mark works in an office, he's not a doctor,' she said, with an impatience that seemed to be for herself, not them.

McIver said, ‘You didn't put this here?'

‘No. What?'

Her glance was flicking between the two detectives, but there was no more pretence of control and her thin chest was heaving as she gulped for air. Something inside of her had broken.

Troy asked who else had been in the flat in recent weeks.

‘We had a party on Wednesday night,' she whispered. ‘Our tenth wedding anniversary.'

‘On a Wednesday?'

‘It was just drinks,' she said. ‘Forty or fifty people, friends dropped in on their way to other engagements. We wanted to keep it casual.'

‘You can give us a guest list?'

‘Sure.' She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘None has the initials LS. Do you have any indication Mark is seeing someone?'

‘You've asked that before. Do you have any reason to think that?'

‘Of course not.' She took a deep breath. ‘Not everyone we asked came. And some brought friends if they were going on. It was casual. But . . . Is it necessary to talk with them?' She stared at the detectives with wide red eyes, angry at the whole world. Starting to realise what a police investigation would involve. Then she nodded, slowly. ‘You think one of them must have planted this stuff. There were caterers, too. And the cleaners.'

‘And the security door downstairs doesn't seem too secure.'

‘We've complained . . .'

‘We'll need all the names,' said Troy. ‘Were any of Mark's work colleagues here?'

‘Lots.' She waved her hands, an expression of surrender. ‘I want you to search the whole place, you have my permission. Do it properly.' She shook her head some more, and said it again. ‘
Do it properly
.'

Emily left the room and a moment later they heard her talking to her mother. Both voices rose and McIver pushed the door to and helped Troy put the ampoules into an evidence bag.

‘Anything else?' he said, looking around. ‘You checked the bedroom?' Troy shook his head. ‘Hotshot with a law degree and an MBA, goes to work in a public hospital, why would that be? Access to drugs?'

‘Pethidine?' Troy said dubiously.

‘Used to be good enough for plenty of doctors. Maybe he's got a friend at St Thomas' who gets it for him. Old mate from Grammar, whatever. Might have had a taste for the stuff before he took the job.'

‘She would have noticed.'

‘Maybe she did.'

McIver had taken out his phone. He called Rostov and asked him to come over with some uniforms as soon as possible. When he'd finished the call he said, ‘What do you think of the paintings?'

Troy had never looked at art much. ‘It's a free world.'

‘But still, a bloke collecting art?'

This was one of McIver's games, rules known only to himself.

‘Someone's got to,' Troy said, slipping into his role. Mac and him, together again.

‘What?'

‘Buy paintings. There are art galleries, aren't there? They must have customers.'

‘You don't think he might be a poof?'

‘Because he collects art, you mean?'

McIver smiled, leaned over the cistern and began to struggle with the lid.

‘Give me a hand here, will you?'

Six

L
eila has collected her bag at last and is in the long queue moving towards the customs exit. It is a slow burn. To try to keep her mind off the officials circling the hall, she thinks about the sight of Sydney as the plane came in, the city on the edge of this distant southern sea. She'd wanted the plane to turn around and return her to the simplicities of the tourist experience. America had been a surprise . . . more exciting than she'd expected, never having been there. More impressive. Her mother despises America.

Checking her watch, she wonders if anyone is here to meet her. Leila is single but there are good friends, even if she hasn't seen them much this past year. They keep in touch by phone and email, of course, and soon she'll be seeing them again, when she moves back to her own house. Maybe Lewis and Wendy will be here. She went out with Lewis long ago, but somehow he ended up with Wendy. Lewis is handsome and cultured, works in the education department too.

Maybe they won't be here: for the first time, Lewis and she have applied for the same job. He didn't seem too happy when she told him she was going for it, which is ridiculous, because she's far more qualified. He is a good-looking man, tall with floppy blond hair, and being vain, being occasionally ridiculous, is part of his charm. It still feels good to think about him, despite Wendy. One of those things Leila has come to accept. She should have moved on but sometimes we don't. Sometimes we get stuck.

More flights have arrived and the big hall is full of thousands of people. She'd hoped to attach herself to someone for this final part of the journey, looked around for Marilyn and her husband as soon as she'd recovered her suitcase. But the couple were well down the line. Jim is a man prepared by natural selection to thrive in the modern airport.

Leila tried to time her arrival at the tail of the queue to meet another solo traveller, and succeeded in barging in behind a single man, just in front of a noisy family. She banged the man's trolley and apologised, and a moment later he was sharing his opinion of the in-flight cuisine. He was kind of Greek, sleepy, but she could see she was waking him up and they began to chat. Leila is turning forty soon and there's been a quickening of the pulse lately, indeed she'd been hoping she might meet someone in LA, but the hotel was all wrong, she hadn't done the research and it was full of families and couples. She'd considered changing but lacked the energy, ended up spending time by the pool, what she really needed anyway. She doesn't look forty on a good day, and believes firmly there is still plenty of time, for just about everything.

The Greek guy was warming up when his attention was distracted by a man further back in the queue, a colleague, and with a smile of apology he pulled his trolley away and moved back. Now Leila is stuck between the westies behind and a young couple in front, she leaning her head on his shoulder while he steers a trolley carrying a pile of bags and a surfboard in a soft case.

Don't worry about anything, Stuart said to her. Join the red queue for people with something to declare and then act like a slightly impatient zombie. Look at your watch every five minutes, no more often than that. Do it right and you'll be part of life's rich tapestry. Just be aware they could be observing you at any point, so stay in character. The cameras are everywhere, but don't look around for them.

The queue slows down and Leila smiles at the family behind, happy in white T-shirts and baseball caps. They are her professional raw material after all, the people who fill the schools she helps run. These ones are reminiscing about their trip to Disneyland, talking in loud voices, people without nuance or discrimination. She tells herself not to feel negative, it's just the tiredness setting in, but it is more than that. She doesn't want to be back in this country, for several good reasons. Not looking forward to next week at all.

Another customs woman comes along the line, carrying a clipboard and looking at everyone and their luggage. Leila stares at the wall, afraid to make eye contact. There's a moment's panic as the physical aspects of the place almost overwhelm her, the noise and harsh glare and white floor. It is like a factory for processing people. Think of poetry, she tells herself, sees her mother's wasted face in her mind and feels sad, sad about this place that has (cue Matthew Arnold)
neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

The official is next to her and Leila abandons melancholy and concentrates on looking tired. The woman makes a mark on her clipboard and moves on. Don't panic, Leila tells herself, as a sliver of ice melts in her stomach. It is another of Stuart's maxims: If anything unusual happens, it's just as likely to be good as bad. Don't react as if you assume it's bad—they will be watching your reactions.

Really, though, it has all been good, the entire trip. The best thing is that none of the immigration officials at the Mexican border marked her passport. They'd glanced casually at it and nodded her through, that was it. She'd taken a day trip from Los Angeles by bus, easy to arrange. After identifying a company that made pick-ups at a hotel a kilometre from her own, she took a taxi to its downtown office and bought a ticket, paid cash. The bank notes threw the woman at the counter for a moment, but she'd cheerfully opened her own purse to find change, while Leila told a story about having left her cards in the hotel safe. She'd given a false name, and when the bus picked her up the next morning at the other hotel, the driver didn't ask to see her passport. So there is no record of that part of her journey.

The queue moves a little and Leila looks at her suitcase, wondering if it has already been opened and searched while she was waiting at the carousel. She'd locked it, and the tiny padlock is still in place, but presumably they could pick a lock. It is possible they are playing with her, and the customs woman has been sent to see how she'd react. Maybe she should have looked her in the eye, maybe that is what an innocent person would do. She is sweating a bit now, can feel it under her arms, but no one would know: on Stuart's advice, she is wearing a double quantity of scent-free deodorant.

The woman with the clipboard is coming back now, stopping and directing some people out of the main queue and down towards the green exit, which is for people with nothing to declare, and which isn't doing much business. The official stops and says something to the couple in front of her, and then Leila realises the woman is actually talking to her.

‘Sorry,' she says. ‘Daydreaming.'

‘I said could I see your customs declaration.'

Leila hands over her card and the woman reads it and looks back at her.

‘This is all you've got to declare?'

Points to the yellow plastic bag containing duty-free liquor: one bottle of Baileys and one expensive French red.

‘Yes.'

The woman makes some sort of mark on the card and returns it, tells Leila to leave the queue and give the card to the person at the green exit. She moves on and Leila pushes her trolley out of the queue, aware of the curious stares of those around her, people wondering if she's been caught doing something wrong or has been given a quick trip out of here. It is the question she is asking herself.

Marilyn and Jim smile as she reaches them, and she stops to say goodbye.

‘They told me I can go straight through,' she says.
Eat my dust
.

‘You must have an honest face,' Jim says generously.

‘It comes from leading a pure life.'

They laugh and she walks on, on and out, gives someone the card and he waves her through, and it is done. She goes through the doors and comes out into the noisy arrivals area, wanting suddenly to laugh and cry, but still keeping it under control. These fucking cameras, they are everywhere.

There is no one waiting for her, of course, not Wendy or Lewis or anyone else. And why should there be? She has no partner, no children. Steve left her soon after she moved in with Elizabeth. She knew it was the messiness of it, although he never admitted that, said he needed to spend more time with his daughter, she was going through a difficult patch. Steve was into refugees, raising money for East Timor. Leila really hadn't seen it coming.

Most of her friends are busy women with children and she hasn't even told them the time of her flight. There is no family of her own, because her father is dead, and her brothers live in different cities. Her mother is too sick to leave the house anymore.

And then she recognises a face in the crowd, familiar but unexpect- ed. Julie is here, pushing her way between people with a big smile, coming around the trolley and hugging her. A big woman with tears in her eyes, smelling of some teenage perfume, musky and cloying, even though she must be around thirty. Wearing a striped sweatshirt and jeans.

‘This is a surprise,' Leila says. ‘Is Mum all right?' Julie is the nurse who's been caring for Elizabeth this past week.

‘She's fine.'

‘You're crying.'

Julie wipes her eyes and stares at the moisture on her hands as though surprised. Looks around. ‘Everyone here,' she says, ‘they're so happy.'

Leila nods, and wonders. Stuart didn't actually say no one from the group would meet her, but she assumed they'd want to keep away from the airport.

‘I just couldn't wait,' Julie says in her slightly squeaky voice. ‘Have you done it?'

‘We can talk outside,' Leila says, gently pushing Julie's arms, the smell of her, away and getting the trolley moving again. ‘Does Stuart know you're here?'

‘I just couldn't wait. You're not angry?'

Leila thinks of the cameras. ‘Of course I'm not. It's wonderful to see you. Let's keep walking.'

‘Elizabeth's great. She thought it would be nice if someone came and met you.'

That doesn't sound like her mother at all. Although this past year she's seen things in her mother she didn't know were there. Maybe they weren't, before.

‘Is anyone with her?'

‘Of course. Tami came over. It's such a lovely house, I've never lived in a place with two storeys before. Is that painting over the fireplace a Monet?'

‘No.' It's a minor impressionist work bought by her father on her parents' honeymoon in London a long time ago. A horrible picture of a farmhouse. Their most valuable painting is actually a small Tom Roberts smear in the hall, but Leila doesn't want to go into that with Julie.

‘When Elizabeth was asleep I used to just wander around, there's so much room.'

Leila nods. The place is a mock Tudor monstrosity named Ingleholme. When she grew up there it seemed like a prison, boring and old and with roses outside, a symbol of all she despised about her parents' world. And remote from everything.

God, she thinks. I was so young.

Now it would be lovely to be able to live there, once her mother is gone, redecorate the whole place and acquire an interest in gardening. But of course this is impossible. As soon as Elizabeth is dead, her sons will insist the house be sold. They moved from Sydney to get away from their mother, left it to Leila to care for her when she became ill. But once she goes they will want their share.

‘I spent a lot of time bringing my diary up to date,' Julie says, chatty as they make their way through the crowd.

Leila remembers a big book Julie was carrying when she'd arrived at the house with her bags, more like a ledger than a diary.

‘Is that just one year?'

‘It goes right back,' Julie said. ‘I only put in the really important things. Sometimes you just need to put stuff down. I wanted to be a writer once.'

‘Right back to when?'

‘To when I met Carl,' she said, referring to her long-term boyfriend. ‘Sometimes I take it out and we read about things we've done together. Holidays and things.'

Leila smiles. Socially, she can hardly relate to Julie at all. Professionally it's a different matter: Julie makes sense.

It is hot outside and Julie directs Leila into the big car park. Once they are away from other people, she says, ‘What's the news?'

‘I got it,' Leila says, feeling ridiculously proud, ‘Two bottles.'

Julie gives a little shriek and tries to embrace Leila, who keeps hold of the trolley firmly. ‘Let's just get out of here, okay?'

‘You, girl, are a champion. Stuart will be so pleased with you.'

Leila doesn't really care what Stuart thinks of her. And yet, she's glad she's been able to get an extra bottle for him. The man has been a great help to her, and to many others.

‘I wish I could have got more. But I had to put them in pockets in my coat to cross the border.' An awful baggy denim number she'd bought in a mall in LA and left in the hotel room.

The women go up a level and Julie chats about the past five days and how Elizabeth has been, which is not so good. Carl spent some of the time there with her. It isn't what Leila wanted, a couple she doesn't know very well living in the house, but Julie had offered to look after Elizabeth for free, and Elizabeth was adamant Julie was the only carer she would accept. And Carl came with Julie. He is a nurse too, a big, intense man who keeps to himself but reveals a low-level charm when he gets talking. The arrangement worked out. Leila spoke with her mother on the phone every day she was away, and she was happy enough.

Julie says, ‘I lost some of the money. I'll pay you back, of course.'

‘What money?'

‘I took some of the thousand dollars when I went to the shops one day, and I was in such a rush to get back to Elizabeth I must have dropped it somewhere. I wanted to get back as soon as I could, you know how impatient she gets.'

Leila left the money for food and in case of emergencies. She feels a twinge of annoyance, says, ‘That's fine. There's no need to pay me back.'

‘It's five hundred dollars.'