Torn Silk Read online

  The mourners flowed out onto the wide pavement. Terry's ex-wife, Maureen hadn't attended the service. But Doris had earlier pointed out the presence of Terry's son, David. He now stood alone, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. His gaunt features bore little resemblance to his father and his hands jagged about nervously. It was easy to believe he'd been - and probably still was - a coke addict.

  I said: "David, we haven't met before; I'm Ben Kennedy, I knew your father well. I just want to say how sorry I am about his death. He was a good man."

  A blank stare and a shrug. "Yeah, thanks."

  "If you need any help, let me know, OK?"

  He nodded and stared over my shoulder. "OK."

  Feeling uncomfortable, I shuffled away, looking for Doris, but found myself face-to-face with Detective Sergeant Malloy and one of his too-many-pies sidekicks. "Hi."

  Tired grey suit and expression. "Hello. Quite a turn-up."

  "He was very popular."

  "Good of you to give the widow so much support," he deadpanned.

  A touch of panic made me glance away when I really, really shouldn't have. "Ah, yes, doing my best. How's your investigation going?"

  He casually slipped meaty hands into trouser pockets. "Oh, still exploring leads."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. In fact, I'd like to have another chat with you, if you don't mind?"

  My stomach dropped and lay quivering. "That so?"

  "Yes."

  "What about?"

  "I'll tell you when we chat."

  That sounded ominous. "OK. When?"

  "As soon as possible. What about early next week? Monday or Tuesday?"

  "The Arnold hearing resumes on Monday. Not sure how long it'll go for - maybe a few days. I'll probably be available on Thursday."

  A reluctant nod. "Alright, that'll have to do, though no later, understand? Don't make me chase after you."

  "Of course I won't."

  I slipped away and chatted to a few mourners until the crowd had almost dissolved. Doris and Beth were talking to the priest at the bottom of the steps. I strolled over and heard Doris thank the priest for what he'd done. He headed back into the church and Doris turned towards me, grey but obviously relieved.

  I said: "Ready to go home?"

  She sighed. "Definitely."

  I escorted the two women over to a black limousine. We all climbed into the back and headed for Beth's house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning, I drove over to Yvonne's terrace in Paddington to pick up Robert for an access visit. Yvonne opened the front door wearing a flannel tracksuit and no make-up. Her smile lopped 10 years off well-preserved features. "Hi. Come in."

  I followed her up the hallway. "Robert ready?"

  A laugh. "You kidding? He only woke ten minutes ago." Yvonne stood at the bottom of the staircase and yelled our son's name. No response.

  Yvonne shrugged. "He'll be down soon. Come into the kitchen."

  "Where's little Tanya?"

  Tanya was her child with Rex Marston - six years old and bright as a button.

  "Rex has already picked her up. They've gone to Luna Park. He always looks terrified when he's got to spend the whole day with her. Says it's harder than appearing in the High Court. He'll be exhausted when he gets back."

  I followed her into a wide kitchen with a huge marble-topped island and big French doors opening out onto a small lawn. We sat on bar stools.

  She casually touched my arm and said she really enjoyed our dinner on Wednesday night. "We should do it again."

  I recalled that the dinner became rather tetchy after she pushed me to apply for silk and I pushed back. However, she was now trying to paper that over. Why? She still hoped to persuade me to apply for silk? She wanted to resurrect our marriage? Or she just wanted reassurance as she re-acclimatised to single life? Probably didn't know herself. However, I was getting a bit annoyed, because I was fairly sure I didn't want a relationship. However, I had a nagging fear I might not be resolute enough if she declared she wanted one.

  I said: "Yeah, I'd like that."

  "When?"

  "The Arnold hearing starts again on Monday. So I'll be pretty busy for most of the week. Maybe the following weekend?"

  "Fine."

  She got me to describe Terry's funeral service, which she missed because she was in court. She didn't seem aware I sat next to Doris and I didn't enlighten her.

  Eventually, our fourteen-year-old son wandered into the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt and shorts; tall and solidly built, with broad shoulders and short brown hair. Despite his size - I no longer dared box or wrestle with him - he was mild and sensible, and didn't seem to blame me for his long incarceration under Rex Marston's roof. Of course, he might be storing up his resentment and his hormones might detonate at any moment, but I'd been lucky so far.

  "Hi Dad."

  "Hi. Ready to go?"

  "Yup. We still going to see Grandpa?"

  "Yes, that OK?"

  "Sure. Staying overnight?"

  "No. I'll have you back this evening."

  "Cool."

  Yvonne looked at me. "You want a cup of coffee, before you go?"

  I shook my head. "We're already running late."

  She shrugged. "OK."

  At the door, she hugged Robert and pecked my cheek.

  As we drove away, I glanced at my son. "How're you getting on with your mum?"

  "OK. She gives me the shits sometimes. But I guess that's mutual."

  "I guess so." Was Yvonne telling the truth when she said she had no time to meet any men. "She, umm, seeing anyone?"

  A glare. "Dad, that's none of your business."

  "I'll buy you an ice cream."

  "That won't work anymore."

  Sadly true. "Come on, spill the beans."

  "I won't."

  I hummed tunelessly for about twenty seconds, until he cracked. "OK, OK, she's not seeing anyone. In fact, you're the only guy she really talks about."

  "That so?"

  "Yes, she says nobody else makes her laugh like you do. So what do you think, Dad - you two going to get back together again?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not? You get on well together."

  "Only when we're not in a relationship."

  "I don't understand."

  "Join the club."

  Robert went to a very expensive private school in Double Bay. I casually inquired about how my investment was going and he claimed he was studying hard and his grades were good. "In fact, I deserve a reward."

  "Like what?"

  "Next month, the ski club's going to New Zealand, and I want to go along." He spoke like a salesman talking through a screen door.

  "What's the tariff?"

  "Oh, about $2,000."

  "Jesus. To think that, at the start, I only had to put a dummy in your mouth. Are they serving caviar for breakfast? Is the Swiss Olympic team giving lessons?"

  "It's not that much."

  "It's money I can't spend on myself. I suppose your mum expects me to pick up the tab?"

  "Looks like it."

  I sighed. "Alright, I probably will. Otherwise you'll hate me for the rest of your life."

  He smiled. "That's quite possible."

  We chatted about his extra-curricular activities which ranged from playing break-away for the Second Fifteen to honking on a saxophone in the school band.

  He said: "Mum wants me to try out for the debating team."

  "Why?"

  "Says I should learn to think on my feet." A half-smile. "I think she sorta hopes I'll become a barrister, like everybody else in the family."

  "She said that?"

  "Not straight out, but she drops hints."

  "You want to be an engineer, right?"

  "I think so ..."

  "Well, do what you want to do. Your mother is a very pushy woman. Ignore her."

  "OK. You know, I might decide to become a barrister - I just don't know."

  I wanted to tel
l him that being a barrister is a great life and he was probably well suited to it. But I didn't want to pressure him. "Just make sure it's your decision. Don't let your mother - or grandfather - push you around."

  "Don't worry, I'll make up my own mind."

  Bugger all chance of that happening: the kid was outnumbered and out-gunned. "Good."

  We argued about which radio station we'd listen to: I wanted a classical station - nothing better than Bach on the open road - and he wanted to listen to ghetto rap. Soon I was listening to a guy called Dollar Bill recite doggerel about torturing and shooting various bitches who'd let him down.

  For the rest of the drive we dissected the strengths and weaknesses of the Wallabies team. I lost interest in the Wallabies when they started a long losing streak, but it was a safe-harbour topic.

  Ten kilometres past Bowral, I turned onto a dirt track which I followed for a couple of kilometres until, with my usual mixture of pleasure and apprehension, I turned into my father's property.

  As we climbed out of the car, he emerged from his house and smiled broadly at Robert. "Ah, my favourite grandson."

  A hard stare. "I bet you say that to your other grand-kids."

  "Of course, but I don't mean it when I do. You fellows hungry?"

  I said: "Starving."

  "Then let's eat."

  His part-time farm hand, Bob Graveney, had set up a barbeque on the verandah. My father cooked the meat and we ate at a wooden table overlooking his tiny spread.

  He pumped me for more information about Terry Riley's death. I told him what I'd recently discovered - naming the various suspects I'd tripped over - while editing out my affair with Doris.

  When I'd finished, Robert said: "Dad, this is so exciting. Why didn't you tell me all this?"

  "I didn't think you'd be interested."

  "Are you kidding?"

  My father mused. "Mmm, most detectives try to reduce their list of suspects; you keep adding to yours. Any idea why Sloan argued with Riley?"

  "Nope."

  "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he dun it: I reckon he's quite capable of murder."

  I was glad to see my father didn't subscribe to the view that, because Sloan was a judge, he wouldn't murder anyone. "Seriously?"

  "Yes."

  "You know him?"

  "Yes, knew him quite well at the bar. Very smart and very devious. Never trusted a word he said, in or out of court."

  Robert said: "But he's a judge."

  "So what? You think that because he's sworn an oath to uphold the law he couldn't murder someone? When you get older, you'll realise we're just Great Apes with a veneer of civilisation." He took another sip of wine. "Still, this shows how exciting things can be at the Bar, doesn't it? A lot more exciting than - what are you planning to do? - engineering."

  I glared. "Dad."

  My father looked defensive. "What have I done wrong? Being a barrister's a good life."

  "If it suits you."

  "I'm sure it'd suit Robert." He stared at my son. "You get to be your own boss. No performance reviews. Nobody screaming at you."

  I said: "Except judges."

  "True, sometimes, but what can they do? Put you in gaol? Pelt you with rotten fruit? Hardly. They scream at barristers because they know they are powerless. Anyway, judges are a lot softer these days. When I was a baby barrister, there were some real animals on the bench - yelled like regimental sergeant majors." He turned to Robert. "Have I ever told you about my first hearing?"

  Robert leaned forward attentively. "No."

  "I appeared for a plaintiff in the District Court, before a grumpy old bastard called Arthur Gilbert. Anyway, when I made my final submissions, I talked for a whole day and left no stone unturned. When I'd finished, the judge growled and said: 'Mr Kennedy, I am going to find in favour of your client on one very strict condition'. I thought that was great news and said: 'What's the condition, your Honour?' And he said: 'It's that you don't say another word - not one. If you do, I'll find in favour of the defendant'."

  Robert giggled. "You kept quiet?"

  "I didn't say a word, and won, but I didn't feel as triumphant as I expected. After that, talked a lot less."

  I'd heard my father tell many stories about his time at the Bar - usually boasting about his triumphs - but I'd never heard that one before, because he rarely engaged in self-deprecation.

  We spent the rest of lunch gossiping about family and friends. Then my father took us on a long walk around his property and introduced us proudly to each of his dozen cattle.

  Just after five, Robert and I headed back to Sydney. As we drove off, I turned to him. "Was that OK?"

  "Fine. Grandpa's a lot nicer these days. But boy, he talks a lot."

  "A common affliction among barristers."

  "I've noticed."

  I stared at him. "I'm not that bad, am I?"

  He grinned. "Sometimes. You know, I bet you can't stay quiet for more than five minutes."

  "Yes I can."

  "No you can't."

  "Alright. Starting now."

  After four minutes, words gurgled up my throat and burst out of my mouth, before dissipating in the air.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On Sunday afternoon, I sat at my desk, preparing for the resumption of the Arnold hearing the next morning. I re-read my brief and read the transcript of Mick Arnold's evidence to date. Then I decided to assemble the legal authorities I'd cite in my final oral submissions. There wouldn't be many: the case turned mostly on the facts.

  I grabbed a few law reports and recalled Terry's statement that Portland v Egan would help Mick's claim. Perplexing. Portland was an important High Court case about the liability of property owners when trespassers get injured. But Mick wasn't a trespasser at the Royal George. He was what the common law calls an invitee. So how was Portland relevant?

  Maybe Terry got confused. After all, he only had a passing interest in the law. Or maybe I was confused and the judgment contained an obscure ratio decidendi that helped Mick.

  I couldn't remember which volume of the Commonwealth Law Reports contained Portland. But, sitting on the court trolley I took from Terry's room, was a CLR volume that looked about the right vintage. I opened it and studied the index. Yes, the Portland judgment started on page 610.

  I turned to that page and a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the carpet. I casually picked it up, assuming it was a scrap Terry used as a bookmark. Instead, it was a pro forma NSW Police charge sheet dated 8 June, four years ago. It stated that "Richard Allan Sloan", 58, of Woollahra, had been charged with drink driving. His alcohol reading was a very healthy 0.16.

  Richard Allan Sloan. Surely, not Justice Sloan; surely, he wasn't caught drink-driving. Jesus. Say it ain't so.

  I grabbed a copy of the NSW Law Almanac and scanned the list of Supreme Court judges. Sloan's full name was Richard Allan Sloan. Hell. I also vaguely recalled that he lived in Woollahra. He was obviously the person charged. Unbelievable.

  Greg Hilderbrand had reminded me that, about four years ago, the judge crashed his car into a telegraph pole, killing his wife. Was he drink-driving when he did that?

  I scurried over to my computer, accessed the archives of the Sydney Morning Herald and read a three-paragraph story about the accident, which occurred on 8 June. My blood percolated. It looked like the judge was heavily intoxicated when he crashed his car and killed his wife.

  A torrent of questions roared through my mind. If Sloan was drink-driving when his wife died, and charged with that, why the hell didn't the media report it? Indeed, why was he still sitting on the Supreme Court bench? A judge caught drink-driving - nothing more - would normally have to resign. One who crashed and killed his wife should now be in gaol.

  I smelt a cover up. But who was involved? Terry? Was that why he had the charge sheet? Certainly, it was now obvious why he and Sloan exchanged angry words at the Bench & Bar Dinner. Terry, with a huge tax debt and facing professional oblivion, tried to use the c
harge sheet to blackmail the judge into bailing him out. But the judge couldn't, or wouldn't, stump up the cash. Indeed, it looked like the judge chose a cheaper option: murder.

  The possibility that a Supreme Court judge murdered a senior silk to cover up a serious crime made me light-headed. Despite my general cynicism about the legal profession, and judges in particular, my whole world rocked on its foundations and refused to settle.

  Yet that conclusion seemed inescapable. Sloan must have arranged to meet Terry at home on the Sunday afternoon. Maybe he planned to kill him. Or maybe they argued and he lost his temper. Anyway, Terry ended up dead as mutton.

  That should have solved Sloan's problems.

  However, Terry knew he was playing a dangerous game and cleverly hid the charge sheet where, if anything happened to him, I'd find it. For insurance, he even mentioned that Portland v Egan would help Mick Arnold's claim, which was true because, while Terry had the charge sheet, the judge wouldn't dare find against Mick.

  I turned back to my computer, accessed the Supreme Court's database and punched up a list of all judgments Sloan had delivered in the last four years. I quickly saw that Terry had appeared for the plaintiff in seven cases and won them all. Jesus Christ. Sloan was notoriously anti-plaintiff. Yet Terry had a perfect record. That could only be because of the charge sheet. In other words, besides negligently killing his wife and murdering Terry, the judge was also corrupt.

  Funnily enough, I found it easier to believe the judge was a murderer than corrupt. Judges have a difficult task and often make egregious errors. However, until now, I'd always assumed those errors were due to incompetence. The idea that a judge might be dirty never really crossed my mind. Yet, that conclusion seemed inescapable.

  Unless, of course, the charge sheet was a forgery or the drink-driving charge was dropped for a good reason, in which case all of my nasty suspicions would dissolve to nothing. Maybe I was missing a vital piece of evidence that would exculpate Sloan. I certainly hoped so, because this information was the mental equivalent of a ticking bomb.

  I could approach Sloan and challenge him to explain the charge sheet. But I was appearing before him in a personal injuries hearing and might be accused of blackmail.