MURDER BRIEF Read online

  Markham studied them carefully, smiled quickly and shook their hands. "Hello. Pleased to meet you."

  Robyn interjected. "No, it’s my pleasure. In fact, I’ve read some of your books."

  Markham relaxed slightly. "Really?"

  "Yes. My favourite’s Edge of the Abyss."

  Markham’s smile widened. "Funnily enough, it’s mine too. I admire your taste."

  "Thanks."

  Brian said: "Anyway, let’s sit down." He retreated behind his desk and dropped into his high-backed swivel-chair. The others sat facing him, Markham in the middle.

  Brian looked at Markham. "Alright then. Robyn and I have read through our briefs. But we want you to tell us what happened. Start by telling us about your wife. How did you meet?"

  Markham wrung his hands. "Oh, through my literary agent, Hugh Grimble. Have you heard of him?"

  "He’s mentioned in our briefs."

  "Hugh’s one of the biggest agents in Australia. Acts for lots of successful writers. Alice was one of his assistants. That’s how I first met her, about ten years ago. Hugh asked her to edit one of my novels and one thing led to another. We married about six years ago."

  "After you married, she kept working for Grimble?"

  "Yes."

  "On your novels?"

  "No. We wanted to keep our personal and professional lives separate, so Hugh handled all of my affairs."

  "OK. And what was your marriage like?"

  He shrugged. "Well, like everybody, we had our ups and downs. But towards the end, it got pretty difficult."

  "Why?"

  Markham shrugged. "It’s hard to say. Boredom? Fatigue? Latent incompatibility? Take your pick. We stopped communicating and got on each other’s nerves. I even suspected she was cheating on me."

  Brian leaned forward. "Really? Why?"

  "Oh, lots of little things. Sometimes she disappeared for a few hours and I couldn’t contact her, or she got dressed up when there was no point and so on. Maybe I was jumping at shadows. I don’t know. But I just had this feeling."

  "Who do you think she was seeing?"

  "I’ve got no idea."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t even sure she was cheating. So it was pretty hard to draw up a list of suspects."

  "Did you ever confront her with your suspicions?"

  "Yes. About six weeks before she died, we were at home and we’d both been drinking. I accused her of cheating. She denied it. We started screaming at each other. She hit me a couple of times. I pushed her off and she fell and hit her head on a table."

  "Then a neighbour called the police?"

  "Yes. An ambulance also turned up."

  "Who called it?"

  "I did." Markham dropped his head. "I know the whole episode sounds bad. I’m ashamed of it. But believe me, I was just trying to protect myself."

  "Your wife had a temper?"

  Markham half-smiled. "She looked like a pussy-cat, but had claws of steel."

  "I understand you two were going to get divorced?"

  "Yes. Soon after our big fight we agreed to split up. In fact, that’s why I kept going down to the beach-house: to get away from her and write in peace and quiet."

  "And you went down there about a week before she died?"

  "Yes, to finish my latest novel, Summer Storm."

  "Finished it yet?"

  "No, I’ve been, umm, distracted. In fact, for the first time in my life, I’ve got writer’s block. Getting charged with murder sort of stifles the creative juices."

  "I can understand that. Alright, now tell me what you did on the weekend your wife died."

  Markham repeated what he told the Homicide detectives at his second interview. When he’d finished, Brian asked him why he decided to dine with his literary agent, Hugh Grimble.

  Markham shrugged. "After almost a week by myself at the beach-house, I got stir crazy. Hugh’s been a mate for a long time. In fact, I owe him a hell of a lot. Without him, I’d probably still be a hack reporter on the Sydney Morning Herald, dreaming of becoming a novelist. Anyway, I drove up to see him. He cooked dinner, we drank a few beers and we chatted."

  "What about?"

  "Nothing much: gossiped about other writers; argued about books we’d read; talked about my latest novel."

  "And you left at about eleven o’clock?"

  "Yes, and drove straight back to Nowra."

  "Didn’t see your wife at all?"

  Markham shook his head ferociously. "No. I mean, why would I? Like I said, our relationship was lousy. She was the last person I wanted to see. There was no point."

  Robyn reflected that the antagonism between Markham and his wife gave Markham a good motive to avoid her and a good motive to kill her.

  "I understand," Brian said and turned to Bernie Roberts. "The police have interviewed Grimble, right?"

  "Yes, and he supported Rex’s alibi."

  "And you’ve spoken to him?"

  "Of course."

  "He’ll give evidence for us at the trial?"

  "Oh, yes. Definitely."

  "And he’ll come in here for a conference?"

  "Yeah. He’ll see you any time you want."

  "Good. Then you’d better wheel him in."

  Bernie nodded. "I’ll arrange it."

  Markham leaned forward anxiously. "So what are my chances?"

  Brian exhaled loudly. "Frankly, you’re in a lot of trouble. You had a bad marriage; you had a violent argument with your wife; you lied to the police and you were in Sydney on the night of the murder. The prosecution has a lot of ammunition."

  Markham said: "I’ve got an alibi."

  "Yes, you have. But you divulged it late and your alibi witness is a very close friend. It might not be believed."

  Markham blanched. "OK. But I’ve got a chance, right?"

  "Yes, you definitely have. A lot can happen in a courtroom and I’ve certainly won more difficult cases than this one."

  And, Robyn reflected, lost easier ones.

  Brian stood and shook hands with Markham. "Thank you for coming in. This chat’s been very helpful. Where are you living right now? At the terrace?"

  "Oh no, too many bad memories. I’ve rented a small apartment in Potts Point."

  "That’s understandable. I’d like to inspect the terrace fairly soon. You’re welcome to join us."

  Markham looked uncertain then nodded. "Yes, I think I will, if you don’t mind."

  "Not at all. Bernie’ll co-ordinate the visit."

  When Markham shook hands with Robyn, his hand felt clammier than before and he didn’t quite meet her eye.

  Markham and Bernie left, and Robyn turned to Brian. "So, what do you think? Guilty?"

  "It doesn’t look good. The only person who can save him is Grimble. He’s the joker in the pack. The sooner we talk to him, the better. However, I suspect he won’t be much help."

  "Why? You haven’t even talked to him."

  "True. But I know a big fat juicy lie when I hear one."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hugh Grimble was in his mid-fifties with silver hair, a square jaw and trim frame neatly encased in a bespoke suit and white linen shirt. To prove he was an aesthete, he wore green suspenders and a blue polka-dot bowtie. Robyn bet he also wore striped silk boxers. His manner was smooth and affable, but slightly unreal and inflated, as if he was performing on the stage.

  He sat between Robyn and Bernie, facing Brian behind his desk.

  Brian leaned forward. "Mr Grimble, thank you for coming to see us. Your evidence is obviously an important part of Rex’s defence."

  Grimble said: "I’ll do anything to help."

  Brian frowned. "Good. But I hope you won’t say that in the witness box."

  Grimble grinned. "Oh, I see. Well, don’t worry, I’ll be discrete."

  "Fine. How long have you been a literary agent?"

  "Oh, about twenty-five years. I represent lots of novelists. That’s the work I love. But I also represent scriptw
riters, film directors, producers, historians and even a few actors."

  "And how’s the book trade at the moment?"

  A wry smile. "The market for cookbooks and gardening manuals is quite buoyant. Everything else - including novels - is in the toilet, I’m afraid. Apart from the fact we’re moving into a post-literate world, digital piracy has gone crazy."

  Robyn interjected: "How long have you known Rex Markham?"

  "Oh, about fifteen years. He was a journalist who sent me a manuscript called Dark Before Dawn. It was a bit of a mess. I mean, in those days, he was just learning his craft. But it showed real promise. So I helped him knock it into shape and found him a publisher."

  Brian said: "And since then, he’s done well?"

  "Oh, yes. Nine novels translated into 14 languages; eight million copies sold; two books made into movies."

  "And his dead wife, Alice, she worked for you?"

  "Yes. She was one of my assistants. That’s how she met Rex."

  "And after they got married, she kept working for you?"

  "Yes."

  "So you got on well with her?"

  "Yes, I think so. I mean, we didn’t fight or anything. We had a harmonious working relationship."

  "What was she like?"

  Grimble laughed. "Ah, intelligent, charming and tough – very tough. She seemed meek and mild. But if you tangled with her, she’d take lumps out of you. Nobody pushed her around."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "Umm, probably on the Friday before she died."

  "You’re not sure?"

  "Not really. I’m a bit vague on that. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time."

  "OK. Now, according to Rex, on the evening she was murdered, he dined at your house in Watson’s Bay?"

  "That’s right."

  Robyn studied Grimble closely to gauge if he was telling the truth. His tone was calm and confident. But she suspected he could slip from truth to falsehood without ever grinding gears. After all, fiction was his great love.

  Brian said: "You live alone?"

  Grimble looked rueful. "Yes. I’ve had three wives. But the last one threw in the towel four years ago. I was disappointed at the time, of course. But, quite frankly, it was a blessing in disguise: bought myself a Harley Davidson and started taking long overseas trips."

  "Sounds like fun. There were no other guests?"

  "Correct. Just us two."

  "Who arranged the dinner?"

  Grimble shrugged. "Well, he phoned and said he was tired of writing his latest novel and desperately wanted company. I could understand that. Writing novels is lonely work. So I invited him to drive up and have dinner with me. I cooked osso bucco, if I recall. Very tasty. We also drank a good deal of red wine."

  "What did you talk about?"

  Another shrug. "Not much. We chatted about books we’d read and exchanged gossip. But, to be honest, I don’t remember many details. I drank quite a lot and never thought I’d have to repeat it in court."

  "When did he leave?"

  "Oh, around eleven. I asked him if he wanted to stay the night. But he said he’d head back to Nowra."

  "OK. Now, since then, have you spoken to Rex about that evening?"

  "You mean, compared notes?"

  "Yes."

  Grimble shook his head. "Of course not. Rex said we shouldn’t talk about it and I agreed."

  Robyn knew that was a lie. It was a universal law of litigation that witnesses in the same camp always talked to each other, then denied it.

  "Good. Now, I assume you’re prepared to get into the witness box and repeating what you’ve just said?"

  "Of course." Grimble picked up his briefcase and put it on his knees, ready to go. "Any more questions?"

  Brian shook his head. "Not right now."

  "Good. So, you’ll get Rex off?"

  Brian shrugged. "There are no guarantees. We’ll do our best."

  Grimble smiled. "If you get him off, sales of his novels will go through the roof."

  "And if I don’t?"

  A wolfish smile. "Probably go into orbit."

  The literary agent stood, shook hands with the two barristers and said goodbye before Bernie escorted him to the lifts.

  When they’d gone, Robyn turned to Brian. "You think he’s telling the truth?"

  "About dining with Rex on the night of the murder?"

  "Yes."

  "No, I think he’s lying his head off. But my opinion doesn’t count. It’s what the jury thinks."

  "And will they believe him?"

  "I doubt it."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for a start, they’ll probably think he’s a bit too slick, especially if he gets into the witness box dressed like Beau Brummell. I mean, he looks like he pisses cologne. That won’t enhance his credibility. But the biggest problem is that he’s a good mate of Rex. The jury will reckon that Rex invoked the Old Mates Act and they cooked up the alibi together." Brian shook his head. "I’m afraid Rex might have outsmarted himself. I’d prefer it if he didn’t have an alibi, so Grimble doesn't have to give evidence."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Because I hate calling witnesses. Hate it. You know why? Because witnesses fuck up. Even when they’re trying to tell the truth, they stuff up: they get nervous and confused, make stupid concessions. Remember, the easiest way to lose a case is to call a witness. Whenever you call one, you’re a hostage to fortune."

  "You don’t trust anybody, do you?"

  "You’ve got that right." He hesitated and smiled. "Oh, yeah, except you."

  "Don’t put yourself out for me."

  Bernie re-entered the room and looked at Brian. "Pretty smooth, huh?"

  "Too smooth. In fact, ask him to ditch the suspenders and bowtie before he gives evidence. Jurors don’t like witnesses - particularly alibi witnesses - who wear artsy-fartsy accoutrements." He almost pronounced the last word right. "Ask him to dress more middle-class."

  Bernie sighed. "I’ll try. But he’ll probably say no. I get the impression he sleeps in that bowtie."

  "Well, try."

  "OK. So do you think Rex has got a chance?"

  Brian rolled his eyes. "Let me see: our client had a punch-up with his wife just weeks before she was murdered, he told a huge pork pie to the cops concerning his whereabouts, and his alibi witness is an old buddy who dresses like Oscar Wilde. In other words, he’s in bad shape - very bad shape."

  Bernie sighed. "I was worried you might say that."

  When Robyn got back to her room, she had to forget about the Markham case and prepare for a sentencing hearing the next morning.

  She’d just started re-reading the brief when someone entered her room. She looked up at a floor colleague, Gary Monahan. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin, with lank dark hair and incredibly normal features.

  She’d only chatted to him a few times, at floor gatherings, and knew little about him, except that he specialized in tax law, which was about as foreign to her as alchemy. She quickly decided he was nice, but very dull. Of course, she was biased against him because he was a tax lawyer. But who could blame her? All the ones she'd met were photocopies of real people.

  Now, he shifted on his feet, looking nervous. "Sorry to bother you. Got a moment?"

  She leaned back, reluctantly. "Yeah, of course."

  He shuffled forward. "I’ve got a friend who’s been charged with drink driving and he wants to know what the magistrate might do. But it’s not my field; I don’t have a clue."

  "You want me to speak to him?"

  "Oh, no. Just give me some idea and I’ll pass that on."

  She shrugged. "Sure. What was his blood-alcohol reading?"

  Gary explained that his friend, while driving home from a dinner party, was pulled over and scored a 0.12 reading.

  Robyn had represented lots of drink drivers in a similar predicament. "Does he accept the reading?"

  "Yeah, I think so. He was pissed. He admits that."

&
nbsp; "Then he’s got to plead guilty and I’m afraid he’ll lose his licence. The only question is: for how long? If he’s a clean-skin, the beak will probably take it away for about a year."

  "Ouch. You sure?"

  "Yup. When’s he got to appear in court?"

  "A few weeks’ time."

  "Well, if he wants me to represent him, let me know."

  "Don't worry. I’ll probably do it myself."

  "OK."

  "Thanks." He looked like he was about to say some more, but shrugged and shuffled out.

  Robyn wondered why he didn’t consult someone on the floor he knew better. Maybe he didn’t know many of the criminal barristers. Anyway, no point speculating. She dove back into the brief on her desk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Robyn’s best friend at the Bar, Silvia Tyler, occupied a room a few doors away. Silvia had been a barrister for twenty years, specializing in land & environment law. That meant she handled disputes about building approvals, home extensions, backyard fences, obstructed views and property zonings. Since these were major concerns for most Sydneysiders, business was always good.

  She had spiky gray hair and a leathery face. Her only concession to femininity was an ironic dab of lipstick. In court, she was blunt and acerbic. Outside, she was even harsher, particularly with male colleagues, who often feared her. "You know," she once told Robyn, "there aren’t any real men on this floor. We should tell them to stop using the male loo."

  Robyn thought she was a lesbian until she learnt she had a husband and three kids. She’d never met the husband, but if only ten per cent of Silvia’s complaints were true, he was a truly pathetic specimen.

  That afternoon, Robyn wandered into Silvia’s room and found her at her desk, reading a brief and smoking a hand-made cigarette.

  Silvia looked startled and instinctively waved away the incriminating smoke. "Robyn. Fuck. Thank God you’re not the building supervisor. He’s on the prowl right now. What’s cooking in crime?"

  Robyn was reluctant to mention getting the Markham brief, because she’d have to reveal Brian Davis was her benefactor. But Silvia would eventually find out. "Oh, I just got a junior brief in a big case."

  "Really? Who’s the punter?"

  "Rex Markham."