Torn Silk Page 10

  "Absolutely. Scowls. Frowns. Finger pointing. If they had swords there'd have been a duel. They were close mates - they were even prefects together at Riverview - and Terry was appearing before Sloan, so whatever made them fall out had to be serious."

  Greg shrugged. "Not necessarily. I mean, if you can't fight with your friends, why have 'em?" A frown. "You're not suggesting, are you, that the Honourable Justice Richard Sloan murdered Terry?"

  I shrugged. "He's a candidate."

  "He's a Supreme Court judge."

  I smiled. "So what? We're all capable of murder: we just pretend to be civilised. We just needs the right provocation."

  A shrug. "You're probably right, and he's definitely a miserable prick."

  "You know him?"

  "A bit. He was a member of my floor before he went to the bench. Unpleasant dickhead, even before his wife died."

  That tugged a mental chord. "When did that happen?"

  "Don't you remember? About five years ago, in a car accident."

  I vaguely recalled reading about it in a newspaper. "Yes, but I've forgotten the details."

  "He was driving her home from a dinner party: the car left the road and hit a telegraph pole. She died almost instantly. He walked away with hardly a scratch."

  "What caused the crash?"

  "He claimed he swerved to miss an on-coming car."

  "Did he?"

  A shrug. "The cops didn't press charges. But, even if it wasn't his fault, that's a bloody heavy burden to lug around, even for an arsehole. I bet his kids weren't impressed."

  "He's got some?"

  "Yep, three. In fact, his son's just arrived at the Bar. He's on my floor, being cuddled and caressed by his dad's old mates. Before you know it, he'll be one of the Bar's hereditary silk."

  We strolled out onto Macquarie Street and headed up towards Parliament House.

  Gary gave me a sideways look. "You know, applications for silk close soon. You gonna apply?"

  "I'm toying with the idea." Best not to mention I'd been offered an inside run and would probably take it.

  Greg frowned. "Really? You mean, you want to strut around and pretend you're a higher being? I thought you were better than that."

  I grinned. "So did I, but I was obviously fooling myself."

  Greg had built up a head of steam. "You ask me, they should scrap the whole charade. I mean, why should my professional association create its own home-brand barristers and tell people they're better than me? They should let the market decide who's good."

  "You've no right to complain: you've applied before - you're no snow-flake."

  "That's how I found out it's an unjust system. I got knocked back twice. Did I tell you what happened the second time?"

  He had, but why ruin his pleasure? "No."

  "I asked the President of the Bar Council, Des Riordan, why I didn't get silk. He said I'd applied a bit early, and if I waited a couple of years I'd have a much better chance."

  "What did you say?"

  "I said: 'In a couple of years, you won't be here, so can I have that in writing?'"

  "That was fucking diplomatic."

  He shrugged. "Bastards weren't going to give it to me anyway. I didn't bother applying after that."

  I sighed. Why were most of my friends troublemakers on the fringes of the Bar? "Anyway, if I do take silk, I hope we'll still be mates."

  "I'll give it some thought."

  I strolled into Thomas Erskine Chambers and tried to slip past the ever-vigilant Denise. She nailed me with an accusing stare. "You're pissed, aren't you?"

  I tucked in my shirt. "Definitely not. I drank in moderation."

  She frowned. "Crap."

  I considered defending myself, but couldn't duel with her when my head was clear. I slouched into my room.

  Her prediction that I wouldn't work that afternoon proved correct. While waiting for the fog to lift, I spent an hour with my feet up, listening to Jenufa, while foolishly trying to work out who killed Terry. Since I'd learnt that our floor clerk, Philip Milliken, had a screaming match with Terry, he'd become a prime suspect. Doris Riley had said Terry's funeral service would be held on Friday. So, still tipsy, I strolled out to the front desk and informed Philip about the service. "Ask the Bar Association to e-mail all barristers about it, and this floor should send a wreath."

  Philip said: "Will do. That all?"

  Alcohol helped me ask the next question. "You know, umm, I've heard you had a big argument with Terry in his room, last Thursday."

  He looked startled and half-shouted. "Who told you that?"

  I shrugged. "Oh, it's just something I heard in passing."

  His darting eyes betraying him. "It's not true - not true."

  "Really? Then what did you talk about last Thursday?"

  "Last Thursday? Nothing. Nothing. We didn't talk about anything."

  "You didn't talk at all?"

  "No, not at all."

  He looked so upset I felt sorry for him.

  I said: "OK. I obviously got a bum steer."

  "Yes, you did."

  I strolled away, convinced that Philip argue with Terry a few days before he died and was, for some reason, terribly nervous about that fact. Of course, his nervousness might be due to a reasonable fear that, though he was innocent, I intended to fit him up. Still, I considered informing the police about his yelling match with Terry. However, the police had recently done a good job of terrifying me, and my colleagues wouldn't thank me if I fingered our clerk and heaped more shame upon the floor. Best to let the matter drop, for now.

  Back in my room, I spent the rest of the afternoon on the mentally undemanding task of dictating fee notes. By six o'clock the pea-souper in my brain had almost lifted and I headed for home.

  I strolled past Denise's empty cubicle and reached the lifts. A lift door opened and Joan Mantel strode out, face scarlet. Her husband, Geoff, trailed behind looking desperate. The power couple had obviously short-circuited.

  Joan sailed past me, oblivious.

  Geoff said: "Darling, stop, stop. Let's talk."

  She yelled. "Leave me alone."

  "We can sort this out."

  "Forget it."

  She stalked into her room and slammed the door.

  I got into the lift wondering what sparked their confrontation. Was it just another dreary scene from married life? Or did it have something to do with Terry's murder? The Mantels had been acting very suspiciously recently. With absolutely no consistency, the focus of my suspicion jumped from Phillip Milliken to them. Time to ask them some direct questions. But who should I speak to first? Joan scared me a lot more than Geoff, who as clearly the softer target.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning, I arrived at Thomas Erskine Chambers, got out of the lift, strolled over to Geoff Mantel's room and glanced through the doorway. He sat at his desk, reading a brief. I entered and coughed politely.

  He looked up. His tired face suggested he'd spent the night in a very turbulent marital bed. "Ben, how are you?"

  "Fine, got a moment?"

  He leaned back, looking puzzled. "Umm, yeah, though I've got a conference with some clients in about half-an-hour. Got to finish reading this brief."

  "I won't be long. In fact, I just want to know one thing."

  A slight frown. "What?"

  I leaned over his desk. "Why were you looking through Terry's desk on the morning after he was murdered?"

  Fear danced in his eyes as if it had the floor to itself; his soft lips formed a perfect circle. "Like I said, I was looking for a book."

  Like my father, when cross-examining, I preferring to enter the House of Truth through the back door rather than kick my way in through the front. However, sometimes, there's no point being fancy. "Bullshit."

  "Yes I was."

  "Look Geoff. I know that's crap for two reasons: first, even you aren't that insensitive; and second, Terry, like most people, didn't keep books in his desk."

  Geoff's lo
wer lip trembled and his body seemed to shrink. Did he react like this when a judge yelled at him? Many judges would see that as an open invitation to torture him. He said: "I looked on the shelves as well."

  "Rubbish. You weren't looking for a book, were you?"

  He petulantly crossed his arms. "Yes I was. And even if I wasn't, it's none of your business."

  "Yes it is."

  "Why?"

  "Because Terry was a friend. So if the cops ask me who's been acting suspiciously, I'll have to mention you."

  He looked like a big-game hunter without time to reload. "You won't do that, will you?"

  "Yes I will. I'm sure they'll ask and I'm sure I'll tell."

  After a long nervous stare, he shrugged and sighed. "OK. If you really want to know why I was looking through his desk, I'll tell you."

  "Please do."

  "I was looking because I invested in a scheme Terry recommended."

  "What scheme?"

  "About a year ago, Terry and a few of his rich buddies were promoting a tourism development near Cairns. They were going to build a big resort and fly in zillions of tourists from Asia. Anyway, Terry claimed investors would get a big profit and a big tax deduction. He claimed it couldn't fail. So I invested about $400,000."

  Geoff was obviously telling the truth because Terry, who kidded himself he was a canny businessman, tried to persuade me to invest in the same project. However, I don't like the taste of pie in the sky and turned him down. But Terry could be very persuasive when dealing with a fool, like Geoff.

  I said: "Terry mentioned that scheme to me; it sounded too good to be true."

  Geoff signed. "It was. The whole project collapsed. I paid over my money and nothing happened: there was no development approval, no building work - nothing. Then the Tax Commissioner said the whole thing was a big wheeze and refused to allow any deductions. It was a disaster."

  "And your money?"

  Geoff frowned. "Disappeared. Evaporated. Poof. The two promoters were a couple of spivs who paid themselves huge management fees - with my money - and did nothing. It was really just theft."

  "Did Terry get any of your money?"

  "I don't think so. He claimed he was also duped and lost about a million."

  "Did you believe him?"

  "Yeah, I think they led him up the garden path too. You know, I feel pretty stupid now. But when your Head of Chambers claims an investment scheme's a winner, you believe him. Now I realise he was just a patsy, and I was the junior patsy."

  Terry would have lied to himself before he lied to Geoff. That was what made him so dangerous.

  "Did you consider suing the promoters?"

  "Of course. But there was no point: they'd arranged their affairs so they were judgment proof. So I told Terry that he got me into the stupid mess and he should bail me out. In fact, I even threatened to sue him."

  "How did he react?"

  "Claimed he couldn't help: he was completely wiped out."

  "Did you believe that?"

  "Of course not. That's why I was looking through his drawers, to see if he - or, at least, his estate - had any dough."

  "I'm afraid he was telling the truth. When he died, he was about two mill in the red. In fact, he owed the Tax Commissioner almost that much. If he hadn't died, he would have gone bankrupt."

  A grimace. "Shit a brick."

  Geoff looked too spineless to murder Terry, though maybe losing all of that money - and having to admit as much to his unforgiving wife - drove him over the edge. I had to know where he was on the afternoon Terry was murdered. My mouth went dry and I stared above his head at volume 196 of the Commonwealth Law Reports. "Look, don't get upset, but where were you on Sunday afternoon?"

  He looked surprised. "You mean, when Terry was murdered?"

  "Yes."

  His usually moist eyes went hard. "None of your fucking business."

  "I know, but …"

  His voice jumped an octave and his chin wobbled. "None of your fucking business at all."

  "Maybe, though I'm just curious…"

  His face reddened and his backbone rematerialized. "I don't give a fuck if you're curious. It's none of your business. I'm not telling you."

  "OK. I'll leave you alone."

  "Thanks," he snapped.

  I headed for the door, wondering whether he faked his rage to hide his guilt. It seemed contrived. But so did all his actions.

  As I neared the door, he said sharply, "I wasn't the only person in Terry's room that morning."

  I turned back. "What do you mean?"

  "There was another guy, a little guy, wearing a funny hat - I think it's called a Trilby. He was there before me."

  "How do you know?"

  "I saw him leave, just before I went in."

  I knew only one Trilby wearer: Bob Meredith. What the hell was he doing in Terry's room that morning? He was instructing Terry in a case, so there could easily be an innocent explanation, though that didn't exclude a very dark one.

  I left Geoff and headed for my room. Denise saw me and leaned out of her cubicle. "You've got a visitor."

  "Who?"

  "Barbara. She's in your room."

  "Oh."

  Denise's eyebrows laughed hard. "She's been popping into your room quite a bit recently."

  I flushed slightly. "My, what big eyes you have."

  "True. What's happening?"

  "Nothing. We're working on a case together."

  "What case?"

  Pretending not to hear, I strolled into my room and found Barbara sitting on an armchair. "Hi."

  She looked pleased with herself. "Hi. I know where Philip Milliken was on Sunday afternoon?"

  I sat behind my desk. "Really?"

  "Yeah. His wife, Greta, dropped in yesterday to see him. While she was waiting, I sort of sidled up to her."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Sidled?"

  "Yeah - I'm good at that. Anyway, I said I thought I saw her shopping in the city on Sunday afternoon. And she said: 'No, you couldn't have, because Philip doesn't let me shop anymore. I was at my mother's place.' So I asked if Philip enjoyed visiting her mother. And she said, 'Oh no, he didn't go: they don't like each other; he stayed home and did some gardening'." Barbara beamed. "Brilliant, huh?"

  "Very. So Philip doesn't have an alibi?"

  "Correct. You think he did it?"

  "Don't know. Just because he argued with Terry and doesn't have an alibi doesn't make him a murderer. But it does mean a cloud of suspicion is hovering over him."

  "You want me to investigate further?"

  I'd already developed a long list of murder suspects - Justice Sloan, Geoff Mantel, Bob Meredith, Philip Milliken - and was getting more confused by the minute. That wasn't surprising because, when I read detective novels, I could never follow the plots. So maybe I should stick to what I was reasonably competent at - appearing in court - and leave sleuthing to the Homicide Squad, which had dozens of trained detectives, criminal databases and crime labs.

  However, why stop Barbara poking about? She was obviously obsessed with Terry's death and needed an outlet for her prodigious energy. "Up to you. But be discreet, OK - very discreet; some on this floor might not appreciate your efforts. In fact, commit nothing to paper and trust no-one, except me."

  "Why should I trust you?"

  "Because I am a man of honour."

  She snorted. "I bet. Anyway, leave the snooping to me."

  "Maybe you should have been a cop instead of a barrister."

  Her intense stare missing the sarcasm. "That has crossed my mind."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Terry's funeral service was held on Friday afternoon at St James Church, next to the Supreme Court Building. Judges - including Dick Sloan - barristers and solicitors outnumbered a sprinkling of friends, relatives and former clients. About twenty journalists slouched against the back wall, obviously wondering how God paid for the church and why He didn't give interviews. What was he hiding? Detective Sergeant Mallo
y and a couple of his colleagues stood near the door playing spot-the-murderer.

  Terry lay in a big closed coffin at the end of the aisle, oblivious to the sort of public adulation he loved. He often quipped to me that he wanted to be buried in his wig and gown so that he could do some court work in heaven. However, he wouldn't get that chance, because Doris had decided to sell his court garb instead.

  I sat in the front row, next to Doris, who held my hand and stared ahead with grim fortitude. Our proximity made me uncomfortable. We'd tried hard to keep our affair a secret, but nasty tongues must be wagging behind us. I could almost hear the knives whirring through the air towards my back. Grief, guilt and embarrassment launched a well-co-ordinated assault on my soul. As usual at a funeral, my tear ducts got leaky.

  One of Terry's oldest buddies, Justice Gary Buscombe of the Supreme Court, delivered the eulogy. He was a dull probate judge who looked like he'd soon join Terry in the grave. He spent most of the eulogy describing, in a washed-out tone, their salad days together at Riverview High School and Sydney University Law School. Then he told a few golf anecdotes, outlined Terry's career at the Bar and finally said: "Terry was a role model for any young barrister. He was a fearless advocate with a fine legal mind. But most importantly, he was always ready to raise the trusty shield of justice to protect the poor and weak."

  I was tempted to ask if they were burying the right person. However, as it dawned on Doris that she shared her life with a truly great spirit, she blubbed and squeezed my hand. It was her moment, and she deserved it.

  While Buscombe delivered a verdict in Terry's favour, I tuned out and mentally replayed the horror of the last week. At least Terry's struggle with the world was over. I was hurtling towards an abyss. The police were still hunting for Terry's killer and I might be their prime suspect. I was innocent, of course. But I'd been a lawyer long enough to know that meant little. My brethren certainly wouldn't protect me from a miscarriage of justice. If I became an embarrassment, they wouldn't even visit me in gaol.

  After the service, I helped five other barristers carry the coffin from the church, through a thicket of photographers and cameramen, and slide it into the back of a hearse, which raced off to the crematorium.