Torn Silk Read online

  "No, I don't. What were you looking for?"

  "Nothing, nothing. Just looking for the book, like I said."

  "Come on Geoff, spill the beans?"

  Geoff edged a little closer to the door. "Anyway, I'd better be going. I'll look later. Terrible about Terry, really terrible. See you."

  He disappeared out the door, leaving me deeply mystified. What the hell was he looking for? Did his search have something to do with Terry's death? Too bad I couldn't torture him for that information. I would have enjoyed doing that.

  The Homicide detectives would probably arrive soon. I pushed the Arnold trolley towards the door and noticed the golf-bag standing in a corner, a poignant reminder of Terry.

  When I entered my room, the rumpled figure of Bob Meredith stood at the window, staring down at Phillip Street. He spun around, face and eyes red, voice white. "Shit, Ben, I can't believe it."

  I parked the trolley. "It's incredible."

  "Unbelievable." Meredith nervously rubbed his temples. "What sort of fucking bastard would murder Terry? He was one of nature's gentlemen. One of the kindest, most decent men I've ever met."

  "He was a good man."

  "We were friends for more than 30 years. Went to Sydney Uni together; admitted as solicitors together. And when he went to the Bar, I sent him his first brief. We were like brothers." He sighed loudly, slumped into a leather armchair and kept massaging his temples. "You know, we played golf together almost every Saturday for twenty years. Even went duck shooting together most seasons." He sighed loudly. "I just can't believe this. It's so crazy. I've been trying to get in touch with Doris. Have you spoken to her?"

  In fact, I spoke to her before and after the murder. Best he didn't know that. "Yes, she's staying with her sister."

  "How's she holding up?"

  "Shattered, of course. But she's pretty tough. She'll survive."

  "According to the TV news, she discovered the body. That true?"

  "Yes."

  "Poor woman." He looked at me. "You got any idea who killed him?"

  Should I mention that, so far, my suspicions had tentatively fallen on Justice Sloan and Geoff Mantel? Why bother? My evidence was gossamer thin and Bob was a friend of the judge. Better keep mum.

  I said: "No. I suppose the logical candidate is a disgruntled client. But they prefer to report barristers to the Legal Services Commissioner. Otherwise, I've got no idea. What about you?"

  "No idea. Like I said, Terry didn't make enemies. He was too easy-going."

  "Hopefully, the cops will catch the culprit." I plopped behind my desk. "But we can't focus on Terry right now. We've still got to finish the Arnold hearing. Have you told our client that Terry's dead?"

  "No. I tried to call him this morning; no answer."

  "So he might not know?"

  "Correct. And if he doesn't, he's in for a fucking rude shock, isn't he?"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thomas Erskine Chambers employed three junior clerks, all young and scrofulous, who ran errands and pushed trolleys to and from court. While I robed, Dan Butterworth, shambled into my room. Though he worked in a hive of ambition, Dan drove through life in first gear, elbow on the window sill. Denise claimed he was the biggest dope-dealer in the building, with clients ranging from eminent silk to baby barristers and support staff. Maybe he was earning more than me. His demeanour suggested he liked sampling his own product.

  He drawled, "Denise said you've got a trolley for court?"

  "Yes, over there. I'm in 13A."

  "OK."

  As he pushed the trolley towards the door, I jammed on my wig and followed him, with Bob Meredith trailing behind.

  When we reached level 13 of the Supreme Court building, we found Mick Arnold, still wearing a Wallabies jersey, sitting on a foam bench outside Court 13A. His parents seemed to have abandoned ship, a pleasure not available to his lawyers.

  Mick looked puzzled. "Umm, where's Mr Riley?"

  His ignorance was clearly genuine. "You mean, you haven't heard?"

  His forehead furrowed. "Heard what?"

  "I'm afraid that Mr Riley's dead."

  An uncertain grin. "Dead? You're kidding, right?"

  "No, I'm not. He's dead."

  "Hah. You're really kidding, right?"

  I shook my head solemnly. "No, I'm very serious."

  Mick's brow wrinkled. "Dead? He was alive on Friday."

  "True. But he's not alive today."

  "OK, OK. How'd he die?"

  "Someone killed him: he was murdered at home - stabbed to death."

  Mick's eyebrows rose, eyes widened and jaw dropped like a cartoon character. "Shit. Wow. Fuck. Have they caught who did it?"

  "No."

  I expected more questions about the circumstances of Terry's death. Instead, his eyes narrowed unsympathetically. "If he's dead, what's gonna happen to my case? Who's gonna take over?"

  Usually, hearings are only abandoned if the judge or a party drops dead. Lawyers are replaceable. In other words, the show must go on. I said: "Don't worry, the hearing will continue."

  He relaxed slightly. "Good. Who's gonna do all the talking?"

  "If you want, I can ask for an adjournment and try to find a new silk to lead me; if you don't want that, I can finish the case on my own."

  Mick looked worried. "Can you find another silk?"

  "Unlikely."

  He looked unhappy. "How come?"

  If I asked a silk to take over, on a contingency basis, I'd have to reveal that Wild Bill's cross-examination sent our client spinning to the canvas. The silk would turn me down flat. No, I'd have to put out my own garbage.

  I said: "It's hard to persuade a silk to take over half-way through a hearing."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes. In fact, if you want one, you'll have to pay him up front."

  Mick looked shocked. "Really?"

  "Yup. Cash on the nose gets you most things in life."

  "You mean, you can't get a silk to take over on a - what is it? - contingency basis?"

  "Afraid not."

  "So you'll have to run my case?"

  "Yes."

  He looked at me with fresh eyes. "Can you do it?"

  He'd just had a stroke of luck, because I'd do a better job than Terry. But why speak ill of the dead? "Of course. I've got plenty of experience; I've run dozens of cases bigger than this one."

  Bob Meredith interjected. "Don't worry Mick, Ben will do an excellent job."

  Our client still looked unhappy that his silk had got himself murdered and he had to trust me. But reaching into his pocket was not an option. He nodded reluctantly. "OK then, I guess you're the boss."

  "Good."

  "What's gonna happen to the hearing today? It going ahead?"

  "I don't know. That's up to the judge. Let's go inside."

  I led them into the courtroom where the two Bills sat at the Bar table with their instructing solicitor and clients just behind them.

  As I sat, Wild Bill leaned over, looking upset. "Jesus, Ben, I saw it on the news this morning, about Terry - couldn't bloody believe it."

  "Join the club."

  Wild Bill shook his head sorrowfully. "You know, he was a good guy. I liked him. I really did. A very honourable opponent."

  Wild Bill often harassed and humiliated Terry in court, once even telling a judge that Terry obviously hadn't read his brief. The accusation was probably true. But it drove Terry into a paroxysm of rage. I can still remember his trembling words: "Your honour, never, in thirty years at the Bar, have I been treated with such discourtesy".

  Yet now the two were soul-mates. Terry's death would obviously trigger a serious outbreak of hypocrisy at the Bar.

  An unseen hand rapped three times on the door behind the bench. The door opened and the judge led his small retinue into the courtroom. The Court Officer yelled: "All rise".

  Justice Sloan dropped into his high-backed black-leather chair, ashen. He'd obviously heard the news.

  The Cou
rt Officer yelled for everyone to be seated.

  The judge stared at me and rasped, "Mr Kennedy, I've heard what's happened to Mr Riley. This is tragic news, truly tragic. I'm absolutely shocked."

  I returned to my feet. "We all are, your Honour."

  "I knew Terry Riley for a long time. He was a close colleague at the Bar and often appeared before me. He was a fine lawyer and a fine man."

  I bowed slightly. "He was, your Honour. I'll convey your sentiments to Mrs Riley."

  "Thank you Mr Kennedy, I'd appreciate that." The judge leaned forward and sighed loudly. "Tell me, Mr Kennedy, does the plaintiff intend to replace Mr Riley or will you take over?"

  "I've informed the plaintiff about Mr Riley's death, and my present instructions are to continue on my own."

  The judge nodded. "Alright. I suppose the big question is whether we should continue today or adjourn for a while. Mr Riley's death has obviously distressed us all. So maybe I should adjourn and give everybody a chance to regroup. I'm also concerned that resuming today might look rather, umm, callous. What do you say, Mr Kennedy?"

  In one sense, I didn't need an adjournment, because the case was hardwired into my brain. Indeed, I knew a lot more about it than Terry did. But I was still in shock and would have trouble focusing. I'd also be very busy for several days consoling Doris, helping to organise the funeral and dealing with the police.

  I said: "Obviously, your Honour, I'm ready to continue today, if necessary. But I certainly would appreciate some time to regather my thoughts."

  The judge stared at Wild Bill. "Mr Anderson, what do you say?"

  Wild Bill saw the writing on the wall and was, for once, emollient. "Your Honour, I fully understand your concerns. Obviously, I'm ready to continue, if necessary. But I'm in your hands on that."

  "Thank you. Well, all things considered, I don't think it would be appropriate to resume the hearing today. I'll adjourn for one week. We'll resume next Monday, if that's alright with you two gentlemen?"

  Wild Bill and I both said: "Yes".

  The judge was already rising. "Good, I adjourn until next Monday."

  The judge had seemed genuinely shocked about Terry's death. Yet, as he departed I recalled his argument with Terry at the Bench & Bar Dinner. What was that about? Just a minor squabble between friends? Or a catalyst for murder? If it was, I hoped that information never came my way.

  I farewelled the two Bills and left the building with Bob Meredith and Mick Arnold. Once outside, we had nothing further to discuss and broke up.

  I crossed the road and caught a lift up to Thomas Erskine Chambers where five bulky men stood in the reception area, talking to the Floor Clerk, Philip Milliken. They all had number-one haircuts and wore number-two suits. Obviously detectives. Their leader was easy to identify. He was in his mid-forties - at least ten years older than the others - with greying hair and a meat-and-potatoes face.

  Philip looked at me nervously. "Ah, Ben, glad you're back. This is Detective Sergeant Molloy, from the Homicide Squad. He's here about Mr Riley."

  The detective's handshake almost put me on my knees. Like many cops, he was powerful without being fit. "Actually, it's 'Malloy', with an 'a'".

  "Hello, I'm Ben Kennedy."

  Malloy frowned. He probably hated barristers more than criminals. "Mr Kennedy, you're one of the people I want to interview."

  Despite a writhing stomach, I shrugged casually. "No problem. Happy to oblige. When's convenient?"

  "What about now?"

  What about next year? "Fine. Come into my room."

  Malloy turned to his subordinates. "While I'm talking to Mr Kennedy, search the deceased's room. I'm sure Mr Milliken will show you where it is."

  I was dying to ask what they'd be searching for, but restrained myself.

  Philip nodded subserviently. "No problem."

  "Good."

  Philip led the junior detectives towards Terry's room and I turned back to the Detective Sergeant. "Please, follow me."

  I led him past a wide-eyed Denise into my room, where I tossed my wig and gown onto my desk and pointed to an armchair. "Take a seat."

  "Thanks."

  It was a robust armchair that barely survived impact.

  I sat behind my desk and finally let my knees tremble. "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

  "No, I'm fine thanks. Trying to cut back." He studied me intently. Despite his rough appearance, he was obviously no fool. I'd take him lightly at my peril.

  I said: "OK. What do you want to know?"

  "You knew the deceased well?"

  "For about fifteen years - since I arrived on this floor."

  "Were you close?"

  "Reasonably close. I mean, we weren't bosom buddies. But we often saw each other around chambers and appeared together in court."

  "Did you see each other socially?"

  "Sometimes we had lunch together or sank a few beers in a pub, after work. That was all." I couldn't contain my curiosity. "So tell me, you got any idea who killed him?"

  "No. All we know is that his wife arrived home on Sunday afternoon and found him dead."

  "According to the TV news, he was stabbed?"

  He wriggled and the armchair creaked. "That's right. Killer used a big knife of some sort. We haven't recovered it. Must have taken it with him when he left." The detective took a small notebook from inside his jacket and put it on his thigh. "Tell me, you got any idea who killed him?" His eyes bored into me.

  A casual shrug. "None."

  "Did he have any enemies?"

  "Not really. I mean, I'm sure that, like most barristers, he annoyed some people. But I can't think of anyone who wanted to kill him. That's pretty drastic."

  "I understand you were appearing with him, in a hearing, when he died?"

  "Yes, as his junior."

  "What sort of case?"

  "Just a garden-variety personal injuries action. We were appearing for a plaintiff before Justice Sloan in the Supreme Court."

  "What's the case about?"

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Mick Arnold's claim.

  He looked unimpressed with how I earned a living. "When did it start?"

  "Last Friday."

  "Going to win?"

  "Highly unlikely."

  "Why not?"

  I described how Wild Bill Anderson demolished our client in the witness box. "I'm afraid he lost a lot of blood."

  "He's got no chance?"

  "I wouldn't say that. Anything can happen in litigation. But I'll need heart massage if we win."

  "What stage has the hearing reached?"

  "Our - my - client's still in the witness box. And this morning, because of Terry's death, the judge adjourned for a week."

  "And when it resumes, you'll step into Mr Riley's shoes?"

  "Yes."

  "So tell me, what sort of barrister was he? Any good?"

  I smiled ruefully. "That's a tough question. I mean, there are no objective standards; there's no league table of wins and losses."

  The detective half-smiled. "I understand that. But if you were forced to rate his ability, what score would you give him?"

  I shrugged. "OK. For appearance and presentation, I'd give him ten out of ten - absolutely; for legal ability and judgement, maybe two or three."

  Malloy grinned. "Ouch. You mean he was a bullshit artist?"

  "Yes, but I'm probably being more complimentary than you think. The ability to spout bullshit is an essential quality that every barrister must have."

  The detective threw a relaxed arm over the shoulder of the armchair and spoke casually. "You know his wife, Doris, don't you?"

  Bloody hell. I gulped hard and forced words up my gullet. "Yes, of course."

  His eyes dimmed and narrowed. "Indeed, I looked through her telephone records and saw you've called her a lot."

  I'm paid to stay calm in a crisis and talk my way out of tight corners. But my lungs seemed to collapse. I only trusted myself to say a few words. "Umm, they do?"
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  He leaned forward, now in charge. "Yes, and I wondered why."

  "We're good friends."

  A faint smile that didn't expand. "Really? How good?"

  "Oh, we've known each other for a long time. When she worked as a solicitor, she briefed me and Terry. In fact, that's how she met him."

  "Really? When did they get married?"

  "About five years ago."

  "And after that, you continued your, er, friendship with her?"

  I didn't like his look, expression or tone - not one little bit - but dared not complain. "Yes, I did."

  "Is that why she telephoned you soon after she discovered her husband's body?"

  Fucking hell. He knew that already. I mumbled, "She did?"

  "You mean you've forgotten?"

  "Of course not. Umm, yes, you're right, she did call me."

  "Why?"

  "She was upset. Wanted to talk to someone she knew."

  He leaned forward. "You mean a close friend?"

  Nasty bastard. My mouth was drier than the first time I appeared in the High Court. "I suppose so. But you'll have to ask her that, won't you?"

  "Don't worry, I will. And after you spoke to her on the phone, did you talk again?"

  I was tempted to say no, but didn't want to lie unless absolutely necessary. "Yes, I went over to her sister's house and saw her there, last night."

  "What did you talk about?"

  I shrugged. "Nothing really. I just tried to console her. She was very distraught, as you can imagine."

  The detective leaned back in the armchair, wearing a half-grin dripping with foreboding. "Just out of casual interest, where were you yesterday afternoon?"

  "You mean, when Terry was killed?"

  "Yes."

  Rising panic grabbed my throat and tried to throttle me. Why did he want to know? Did he think I murdered Terry? Christ, maybe I was already his prime suspect. Was I about to be arrested? Would I be handcuffed and led away, a jacket over my head? Status anxiety almost crippled me. Somehow, I produced enough saliva to talk. "Why do you want to know that? How's that relevant to your investigation?"

  His tone grew harsh. "Because until I find the murderer everything is relevant, understand? So answer my question."

  "Alright. I was at home."

  "Doing what?"

  I shrugged. "Laying on the couch, reading a book and watching TV."