MURDER BRIEF Read online

  However, his smugness was a big turn-off and he was widely known as a skirt chaser. One female colleague warned her that "he’s a hard dog to keep on the porch" and another cautioned that "he’s nice enough to break a girl’s heart, but not marry her".

  After declining his invitation to dinner, she didn’t expect to see him again. Now he was back. Why? What the hell did he want?

  He nervously shot his linen cuffs. "Umm, hi."

  "Hi."

  "I haven’t seen you for a week, so I thought I’d pop up and see how you’re getting on."

  "Oh, I’m fine."

  "Really? Good, good, that’s good. Well, I was wondering if you’ve got time for a cup of coffee. I’ve got some good news to impart."

  Jesus. Why couldn’t the arrogant bastard take no for an answer? But she might as well have coffee with him. She wasn’t busy and a little curious. "OK. Sure."

  They descended in a lift and strolled across the road to Angelos, a cafe with black walls, polished floorboards and metal tables. The cafe was full of lawyers loudly talking to each other or into their mobile phones. The waiters were all female Scandinavian backpackers who spoke better English than most of the barristers they served.

  Robyn and Brian sat near the pavement.

  He said: "How’s life? How did the offensive language case go?"

  Robyn sighed and described how Mrs Vandervelt imploded in the witness box. "She looked so sweet and gentle, but was mad a meat-axe."

  He laughed. "That’s not your fault. I once had a client who found God in the witness box. I’m not kidding: he saw a vision of Jesus on the wall behind the judge and confessed to everything. The judge gave him ten years inside."

  "But maybe I should have noticed earlier she was totally insane."

  "And done what? Told her to behave herself? That wouldn’t have worked. Don’t beat yourself up. Remember, you can’t drag all your clients into the lifeboat. Some are gonna drown. And when they do, send your bill and move on."

  His sympathetic tone surprised her. Maybe she’d misjudged him a little. "I suppose. But I’m tired of representing total losers in the Local Court. I want to play in the big leagues."

  He smiled broadly. "And so you shall, and so you shall - maybe sooner than you think."

  "What do you mean?"

  His soft lips curled arrogantly. "Well, yesterday I got a fantastic brief, really fantastic."

  Typical of him to start talking about himself. "Really? Who’s the client?"

  His smile almost jumped off his face. "Rex Markham."

  Robyn was stunned. Nine months ago the novelist was charged with murdering his wife, igniting a media frenzy. Soon afterwards, a magistrate committed him to stand trial. It must be due to start fairly soon.

  She said: "You’re going to appear for him at the trial?"

  "Yup."

  "When does it start?"

  "In three weeks."

  "You must be excited. It’s gonna be big."

  Brian grinned. "Huuuge."

  A very senior silk called Bert Lightfoot had appeared for Markham at the committal hearing. "But what about Lightfoot? What’s happen to him?"

  "He’s been dumped."

  "Why?"

  "According to Markham’s solicitor, a guy called Bernie Roberts, Markham lost confidence in old Lighthead, which isn’t surprising: he’s well past his prime. Markham wants a young and vigorous silk who’ll run rings around the prosecution. So Bernie recommended me."

  Christ, he was full of himself. "Have you met Markham yet?"

  "No, Tomorrow morning."

  "And who’s your junior?"

  He leaned forward and smiled. "That’s what I want to talk about."

  Her stomach flip-flopped. "What do you mean?"

  "I want you."

  A big hand squeezed her lungs. Why the hell did he want her? Because he respected her legal ability? Or wanted to shag her? Or both?

  The answer didn’t really matter because she couldn’t afford to waste this opportunity. Appearing in the Markham trial, even as junior counsel, would really boost her career: she’d get priceless exposure, earn good money and maybe even learn a trick or two.

  True, she’d probably have to beat off his grubby advances, but she was a big girl and could defend herself, if necessary.

  She leaned forward and smiled. "Thanks. I’d love to?"

  He showed plenty of sparkling teeth. "You sure?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Good. I’ll tell Bernie to brief you."

  "And he will?"

  "Yeah. He said I could pick my junior, and now I have."

  "Thanks, thanks a lot."

  He looked smug. "Forget it. Believe me, good juniors are bloody hard to find." He leaned forward. "And you know the best thing?"

  "What?"

  "Bernie has money in trust - lots of it. You can charge your full rate."

  Christ. She’d earn twice what Legal Aid usually paid. She smiled. "Goodness, then he must be innocent."

  Brian beamed. "You betchya."

  She squirmed. "This is really exciting. You know, I’ve even read some of his novels. Four, in fact."

  "Any good?"

  "Yeah. I’m a big fan. You read any?"

  "No. But I’ve seen a movie based on one, I think."

  "That doesn’t count. You’ve got to read a novel, not watch it."

  "I know. But these days, I don’t get much time to read. I used to. In fact, I majored in English Lit. Even got a few credits."

  The waiter brought their coffees and both took sips.

  Brian said: "Anyway, I’m meeting Markham tomorrow morning, in my room, at 10 o’clock. Can you make it?"

  "Definitely."

  They exchanged some Bar gossip. Then he strolled over to the counter and paid for the coffee. As he did, she noticed that her skirt had ridden up her thigh. She smoothed it down.

  Once again, she wondered if he was just trying to get her into bed. Probably. But it wasn’t her job to crawl into his perverted brain and find out what nasty erotic fantasies were brewing. She hadn’t enticed him and didn’t plan to. She’d be polite, friendly and, above all, professional. If he put the hard word on her, she’d pull him into line.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That evening, Brian Davis drove his late-model Audi coupe across the Harbour Bridge towards his big water-front apartment in Milson’s Point. He usually enjoyed his drive home because it was one of the few times during the day when he could, without interruption, wallow in self-satisfaction, although he didn’t quite see it in those terms.

  At forty-one he was already a silk with a huge practice. Many silk aged fast in the job and started shying away from battle. But he still had most of his brain cells and a thirst for combat. In Court he was extremely glib and good at massaging the truth. His clients were usually acquitted. Solicitors deluged him with briefs.

  His love-life was just as successful, arithmetically at least. He had a panel of girlfriends who shifted in and out of favour, oblivious to each other. The trick was not to invite them anywhere - like his apartment - where their paths might cross.

  He’d always pitied his pals who got married and endured twenty years of wage-slavery - shackled to shopaholic wives and nasty kids - before divorce consigned them to penury. Marriage was a psychotic illness that could only be cured at ruinous expense. No woman would lead him into captivity. He’d keep all of his options open all of the time.

  Then he met Robyn Parker.

  Without his knowledge, she was briefed as his junior in a drug trial and he was immediately smitten. Despite her clunky glasses and slightly frumpy clothes, she was more attractive and alive than any of the panellists who, he now saw, were just banal and grasping. She didn’t just act like a woman, she was one. Maybe, after a while, he’d find her cleverness a threat and her bluntness tiresome. But, for the moment, they were invigorating.

  Her sudden appearance made him take stock of his life. Strange fears infected his brain. What if he ended up
childless and alone? Died without issue? Would his whole life have been wasted? Would all of his great accomplishments be rendered naught? Jesus. Maybe he should settle down and have kids? He even fantasized about reading bed-time stories to his incredibly good-looking and well-behaved children.

  Because his previous relationships had been so sterile, his love for Robyn hit him like a freight train. He’d vowed not to have a mid-life crisis, but was obviously now in the middle of one, ahead of schedule.

  He usually pursued women aggressively, but sensed she would react badly to pressure. Better to stay cool and let his charm soften her defences. So, during the trial, he was quite formal. Only after it finished did he ask her out to dinner.

  And she refused!

  Shit. Women rarely did that. He was perplexed and upset.

  On the few occasions he’d been rebuffed, he shrugged his shoulders and moved on. Plenty more fish in the sea, especially for a fine angler like him. But this time, defeat was not an option. He wanted Robyn and intended to have her. The hunt was on.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d done to displease her, but suspected she was just confused and nervous. She found him intimidating and feared he wasn’t serious. Somehow, he had to put her mind at ease and show his bona fides.

  However, first he had to get close to her again.

  His chance came sooner than he expected. He was briefed to appear for Rex Markham and told he could pick his own junior. He immediately chose Robyn.

  It was easy to justify that decision to himself, because she was bright, enthusiastic and hardworking. With the right opportunities, she’d go far. She deserved the brief on merit alone.

  Having a woman on the defence team might also soften Markham’s image with the jury. Certainly, in a murder trial, he fought for every possible advantage he could get.

  But his main motive was to curry her favour and win her over. He wouldn’t be pushy. She obviously needed gentle coaxing. Indeed, he’d impress her with his professionalism and courtliness until she finally succumbed.

  For once, while chasing a woman, he’d actually have to suffer a little. That prospect gave him a strange erotic charge.

  And when he won her over he’d disband the panel - or, at least, most of it - and become a one-woman man. But, of course, until then, the panel would continue as presently constituted. Indeed, he might need their support in the lonely weeks ahead while he chased the woman of his dreams.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That afternoon the solicitor, Bernie Roberts, had called Robyn and said that Brian Davis wanted her as his junior in the Markham case. "You interested?"

  She tried to sound calm. "Of course."

  "OK. What’s your hourly?"

  Better to shoot high and compromise if necessary. "$300 an hour, plus GST."

  He giggled. "Really? That all? I’d be embarrassed to tell the client that; $400 an hour, plus GST, and you’re onboard."

  "You’ve twisted my arm."

  "Good, I’ll send you the brief."

  "Thanks."

  An hour later, a courier delivered three lever-arch folders from his office. She immediately dropped the first onto her desk and opened it.

  Clipped inside the front cover was a publicity still of Rex Markham which she studied closely.

  Her clients were usually young male recidivists from the Western Suburbs with scars, tattoos, missing teeth, long criminal records and limited vocabularies. They started their lives at the bottom of the pile and finished there. In between, they popped in and out of prison.

  But Markham was in his late forties, with strawberry blond hair, sharp features and alert blue eyes. Hard to believe he would murder anyone: too normal with too much to lose.

  Robyn had read several of his thrillers. The main characters were usually ordinary people struggling to survive sinister forces while a hot-button geo-political issue - like terrorism, the clash of civilizations, religious extremism, ethnic warfare or famine - throbbed away in the background.

  In the latest, Jihad, an Australian doctor doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan falls in love with an Afghan woman. Taliban insurgents kidnap them and force him to save the life of a brutal Taliban leader. After the doctor discovers the Taliban leader is really working for the CIA, the couple must flee to Pakistan. The pace was quick and the dialogue snappy, but the book had enough keen insights into politics and human nature to give it some weight.

  Robyn slowly read through the ten pages of "observations" her instructing solicitor had prepared and the "prosecution brief" which included police witness statements, forensic reports, crime scene photographs and police notebooks.

  She pieced together that Rex and Alice Markham were married for six years - no kids - and Alice worked at a literary agency. They lived in a large terrace in Paddington and owned a beach-house near Nowra, a few hours south of Sydney, where Rex often retreated to write his novels.

  Six days before the murder, he drove down to the beach-house to finishing off his latest one. Alice stayed in Sydney.

  They never saw each other again. On Saturday night, at around nine o’clock, someone broke into their terrace and stabbed Alice to death in the kitchen. The terrace was ransacked and some jewelry stolen.

  When Homicide detectives visited Rex, at the beach-house, he claimed he spent the whole weekend there, except for a short shopping trip to Nowra. He went nowhere near Sydney. The detectives started to suspect that a burglar committed the crime: a druggie whose conscience was erased by addiction.

  Then Rex’s story unravelled.

  First, the detectives discovered the Markhams had a rocky marriage. Indeed, about six weeks before the murder, they quarrelled so loudly a neighbour called the police. Two patrol officers arrived and found Alice with a large cut on her head. They took her to a hospital. But she claimed she tripped and fell. No charges were laid.

  Soon afterwards, she confided to some girlfriends that she and Rex had agreed to divorce and just had to sort out the financial details.

  But Rex’s credibility took a real hammer blow when the detectives checked his credit card transactions and discovered that, a couple of hours before his wife died, he purchased petrol at a service station in Redfern, a few suburbs from Paddington. His claim that, on that weekend, he went nowhere near Sydney was obviously a total lie.

  Markham was now the prime suspect. The detectives confronted him with the credit card evidence and, not surprisingly, he changed his story. Yes, he drove up to Sydney that evening. But he went nowhere near his terrace. Instead, he visited his literary agent, Hugh Grimble, at Watson’s Bay. After dining with Grimble, he drove back to Nowra.

  Asked why he’d previously lied to the detectives, he said he was afraid that, if he mentioned he was in Sydney, they’d suspect him of murder.

  The cops interviewed Grimble, who supported his client’s alibi. But to no avail. The cops were now sure Rex’s plan was to slip quietly up to Sydney, kill his wife, fake a burglary and head back to Nowra. But he messed up because he ran out of petrol and used his credit card to buy some more. When confronted about that, he cooked up a false alibi that Grimble supported. The cops charged him with murder.

  If the cops were right, it was a pretty tawdry tale, hardly worthy of a novelist. Where was the fantasy and imagination? Surely, there had to be a twist.

  Brian Davis had arranged to meet Markham tomorrow morning, in his chambers, and Robyn was invited. Supposedly, it was never a good idea to meet a favourite author in the flesh. But she had no choice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning, just before nine, Robyn caught a lift down to Lord Mansfield Chambers and strolled past the vacant reception desk to Brian Davis’ room.

  The door was open. Brian sat behind a huge boomerang-shaped desk, talking to a chubby man with a shiny pate, red cheeks and mutton-chop whiskers.

  Robyn coughed politely.

  Brian said: "Ah, Robyn. Come in. This is our instructing solicitor, Bernie Roberts."

  The solicitor stood
and looked at her with twinkling eyes. She immediately liked him.

  She said: "Hello. Thank you for the brief."

  They shook hands.

  "Don’t mention it. Brian was very complimentary."

  She wondered if the solicitor thought Brian recommended her because Brian was sleeping with her. She prayed not.

  She also wondered if Brian also suggested that Rex Markham, charged with murdering his wife, needed a woman in his corner to improve his image. The sneaky bastard probably said something like that.

  Bernie said: "So you got the brief?"

  "Yes. And I’ve read through it. Very interesting. Our client here yet?"

  "No, but he will be soon."

  She sat next to the solicitor and they all chatted about the case for a few minutes, sharing their pessimism.

  The phone rang. Brian picked it up, listened briefly, put it down and glanced at Bernie. "He’s here."

  Bernie rose. "Alright. I’ll get him."

  The solicitor left the room and, thirty seconds later, returned with Rex Markham.

  The publicity photograph was a little misleading. Markham was taller than she expected, and his face more worn and lined. Maybe being charged with murder had expunged his last traces of youth.

  She searched his face for some sign he was capable of murder, but saw none: no demonic glint in his eyes; no pent-up aggression; no furtiveness. But clients like Mrs Vandervelt had taught her to distrust appearances and Markham obviously had plenty of rage in his breast. His punch-up with his wife proved that.

  Seeing him in the flesh made Robyn realize, for the first time, they were playing for high stakes. Her guts squirmed a little. As a colleague once commented, being a barrister is all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

  Bernie said: "Rex, let me introduce you to Brian Davis and Robyn Parker, who’ll be representing you."