MURDER BRIEF Page 6

  It sounded like Brian was jealously trying to ward off a potential rival. Shit. She prayed he kept his distance, at least until the trial was over. After that, she would tell him to take a hike.

  She said: "Don’t worry. I’m keeping my distance."

  "Good."

  Brian drove out of the cul de sac and headed towards the city.

  She said: "OK then, let’s assume he’s guilty. How’re you going to get him off?"

  "The traditional way: I’ll point the finger of blame at someone else."

  "You mean, like a burglar?"

  "Yeah. Though most burglars are gutless cockroaches who couldn’t kill anyone. Juries know that. I’d prefer someone else."

  "Rex thinks Alice had a lover. What about that guy?"

  "Yeah. He’ll be perfect if he exists and if he had a motive to kill her. They’re pretty big ifs."

  Bernie Roberts had employed a private detective to investigate Alice Markham’s past, but the guy didn’t identify the lover or anyone with a motive to kill her.

  Robyn said: "There’s still a lot about Alice we don’t know, isn’t there?"

  "Yep, definitely a woman of mystery."

  The sun had almost disappeared and the street lights started to glow. They were cruising down Oxford Street between restaurants and nightclubs.

  He peered at her over his Raybans. "I’m hungry. We could have a bite to eat, if you want?"

  Finally, he’d made a move. A small one. But so obvious.

  She looked straight ahead. "No. Got to get back to chambers, I’m afraid: things to do."

  "OK," he grunted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Brian Davis had told Robyn that her main job, as his junior counsel, was to make him look good. He spoke in a jocular fashion, but was obviously serious. Certainly, he looked satisfied when she nodded dutifully and promised to do her best.

  However, she had no intention of buffing up his reputation. The Markham case was a fantastic opportunity to build her own, and she wasn’t going to squander it. So it was vital two things happen: Rex got acquitted and she grabbed a big share of the credit.

  To that end, she spent many hours reading and re-reading her brief, especially the prosecution materials, looking for flaws in the Crown case. But she ended up conceding the case against Rex was very strong. In fact, he probably should plead guilty and hope for a lenient sentence.

  Yet, she was troubled by how little they knew about the victim, Alice Markham. Who was she? Who were her friends and enemies? Was she, as Rex suspected, having an affair? And, if so, did her lover have something to do with her death?

  After some hesitation, Robyn decided to make a few inquiries of her own. Maybe a woman would find it easier to extract information from Alice’s friends.

  The Bar Association frowned on barristers investigating crimes. Their job was to appear in court, not gather evidence and risk becoming witnesses. Snooping around could get Robyn into trouble.

  But this was no ordinary case. It just might just launch her career. She was prepared to push the envelope. Anyway, if she found evidence that cleared Rex, her sins would be forgiven. And if she didn’t, well, hopefully nobody would notice her snooping.

  She considered telling Brian about her plan, but soon scotched that idea. He’d just spout the official line and assume she was trying to grab a big slice of glory for herself, which was true.

  The literary agent, Hugh Grimble, had been close to both Rex and Alice, and was Rex’s main alibi witness. Robyn wanted to talk to him again: maybe he knew something important they’d overlooked and she was keen to see exactly where Alice worked.

  She picked up the phone to call Grimble and hesitated, afraid she might get into trouble. But she told herself "no guts, no glory" and punched the numbers.

  A receptionist answered and put her call through to Grimble. Robyn told him she had a few more questions and hoped he could find time for a chat.

  He sounded a little annoyed. "We’ve already talked."

  "Yes. But there are a few more things I want to cover."

  "Oh, alright," he said unhappily. "I’m very busy, but can probably fit you in some time this afternoon. That alright?"

  "Oh yes. What about four o’clock?"

  "OK. See you then."

  The literary agency, Grimble & Co, occupied a large suite on the seventh floor of a red-brick office building on the fringe of Chinatown. Robyn stepped from a lift into a large, sparsely furnished reception area. A receptionist - in her early twenties, with a pale, acne-sprinkled face - was reading a dog-eared Ludlum thriller. She put it down and smiled sweetly. "Hi. How can I help?"

  "I’ve got an appointment to see Hugh Grimble."

  "And your name is?"

  "Robyn Parker."

  The receptionist picked up a phone and said Robyn had arrived. After listening for a few seconds, she put it down. "Mr Grimble’s running a bit late. Be out as soon as possible. Please take a seat."

  Robyn sat on a long leather couch. The receptionist picked up her novel and resumes reading.

  Robyn said: "Good book?"

  "Not really. You know, with thrillers, I can never follow the plot: everything happens so fast and nothing fits together."

  "I know what you mean. I suppose you must be very upset."

  The receptionist wore a blank expression, which suited her. "Upset? About what?"

  "Alice Markham getting murdered."

  The receptionist’s eyes widened. "Oh, yes, Alice. Terrible, terrible. She was such a lovely woman. Oh, yes, terrible. Did you know her?"

  "No. I’m one of the barristers representing Rex Markham at his murder trial."

  "Oh, Mr Markham. It’s horrible they charged him with murder, isn’t it? I’m sure he didn’t kill her, I really am."

  "Do you know him well?"

  "Not really. But he sometimes drops in here. He’s very sweet."

  "Hopefully we’ll get him off."

  "That would be wonderful."

  "Did you know Alice for long?"

  "About a year."

  "And when did you last see her?"

  The receptionist still looked vague. "You know, I can’t really remember. I suppose it was the day before she was murdered."

  "You mean, the Friday?"

  "Yes."

  The receptionist buried her head back in the novel and Robyn flicked through a literary magazine for a couple of minutes, until Hugh Grimble appeared. His polka-dot bowtie and green suspenders were a very conventional way of looking unconventional. Her eyes were tired of them already.

  Grimble said: "Ah, Ms Parker. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come into my office."

  He led her down a narrow corridor, past a couple of open doorways, into a large office with a wide mahogany desk and two red-leather couches. A whole wall was festooned with photographs of Grimble with various celebrity authors, including Patrick White, Salman Rushdie and Martin Amis.

  Grimble got Robyn to sit on a couch and dropped down next to her. He crossed his legs. "You said on the phone you’ve got a few more questions. How can I help?"

  Robyn took a pad from her bag and put it on her lap. "I’m really trying to find out more about Alice Markham: dig around in her past, see if anyone else had a motive to kill her. I thought I should talk to you first, because you knew her so well."

  "Yes, I did. I employed her for about ten years. We grew very close."

  "You must have been shocked when she was murdered?"

  "Absolutely stunned. And when I heard Rex was charged, it just took my breath away. Unbelievable."

  "What exactly did Alice do for you?"

  "Well, I started this business on my own. But as it expanded, I employed assistants. Alice was the first. Then, about four years ago, I employed another woman, Beverley Nolan. She’s still with me."

  "Really? When we visited the murder scene, Rex brought a friend called Tim Nolan. Any relation?"

  "Yes. They’re married. You see, Alice and Bev worked very closely to
gether and became good friends. Then their husbands - Rex and Tim - got to know each other."

  "OK. So Alice and Beverley were your assistants. But what, exactly, did they do?"

  "Basically looked after any clients I didn’t have time to handle."

  "Looked after? How?"

  "Oh, stroked their egos, edited their manuscripts, negotiated with publishers, handled their PR, passed on royalty cheques…"

  "After deducting your commission?"

  "Of course. This isn’t a charity."

  "How many writers did Alice handle?"

  "About twenty or so."

  "Big names?"

  "A few. But I handled most of them."

  "Like Rex?"

  "Yes."

  "He didn’t want his wife to act for him?"

  "They wanted to keep their professional and private lives separate. Understandable, I think."

  "So who looks after her writers now?"

  "I do, except for one."

  "Who?"

  "A novelist called Richard Olsen."

  "Why not him?"

  Grimble smiled ruefully. "Because I’ve got absolutely no goddamn idea who he is."

  "How come?"

  "‘Richard Olsen’ is his pseudonym; I don’t know his real name."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Alice somehow discovered him and brought him to this firm. She promised him she wouldn’t divulge his identity to anyone, including me. And now she’s taken that secret to her grave."

  "You’re kidding?"

  A tight smile. "I wish I was."

  "And he hasn’t contacted your firm since she died?"

  "Correct."

  "Forgive my ignorance: what’s he written?"

  "Only one novel, called Waiting for Rain. It’s about a small country town in the grip of a drought. Everybody goes crazy and someone starts strangling little old ladies. Eventually, the cops find the culprit is the local priest, who’s lost his faith. The book came out a few years ago. Won several awards. It’s brilliant. Just brilliant. Richard Olsen - whoever the hell he is - is a major talent."

  Robyn knew this was a big detour, but was intrigued. "If he’s so good, why doesn’t he want anyone to know his real name?"

  Grimble shrugged. "How would I know? I’ve never met him."

  "It seems rather strange."

  "Of course it does. But novelists are strange people. They spend years writing manuscripts that rarely get published and, when they are, often get mauled by critics and dumped into remainder bins. Anyone who’ll go through that wringer must have some very big screws loose."

  "Including Rex Markham?"

  Grimble laughed. "He’s saner than most, but I wouldn’t give him a clean bill of health."

  "Did Alice Markham give you any clues about who Richard Olsen might be?"

  "Not really. I mean, at first, I suspected he was one of her existing novelists. Then I realized he couldn’t be. None was good enough to write something like Waiting for Rain. Nor did they have Olsen’s style." Grimble shrugged. "Of course, I could be wrong on both counts: judging novels is a very subjective art."

  "Did you ever ask to meet this guy?"

  "Of course. But Alice said he wouldn’t see me. She said I should be glad, because he was difficult to deal with."

  "Difficult? In what way?"

  "For a start, she claimed he lusted after her."

  "Really? And how did she respond?"

  "According to her, she brushed him off."

  "Has he written anything else, since Waiting for Rain?"

  "Yes, but I haven’t seen it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I kept pestering Alice about when he’d produce another novel and she kept saying he was hard at work, but she didn’t know when he’d finish it. So I started to assume he was a one-novel wonder, when …"

  Robyn was completely hooked. "When what?"

  "A couple of weeks before Alice died, she said he’d sent her another manuscript."

  "Wow. Did you read it?"

  "No. But Alice did and was very disappointed; said it needed a lot more work before it could be published."

  "Did she explain what was wrong?"

  "No, and I didn’t ask. She said Olsen was very upset when she gave him her verdict."

  "Does that surprise you?"

  "No. Novelists are very touchy people. They think everything they’ve scribbled deserves a Nobel Prize."

  "And what happened to the manuscript? Where is it now?"

  Grimble frowned. "I don’t know. After Alice died, I searched her office and didn’t find it."

  "Got any idea where it might be?"

  "Nope. Maybe she sent it back to Richard Olsen with her comments. I don’t know."

  Robyn slowly exhaled. "That’s quite a story. So maybe Richard Olsen killed Alice?"

  Grimble looked surprised. "You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why would he kill her?"

  "I don’t know: to protect his identity; because he was infatuated with her; because she said his second novel was crap. There are lots of possible reasons."

  A hard stare. "I think you’re grasping at straws."

  Robyn knew he was right. Richard Olsen, whoever he was, probably had nothing to do with Alice’s death. But she had no other leads and was quite curious to know his real identity. "Maybe. But Rex doesn’t have to prove that someone else murdered Alice. He just has to create a reasonable doubt."

  Grimble nodded. "True."

  Robyn got to her feet. "Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Do you mind if I speak to Beverley Nolan?"

  Grimble frowned and nodded reluctantly. "No. It’s a free country. Let me introduce you."

  He led Robyn down the short corridor and stepped into a small, cluttered office. At a desk, reading a galley proof, was a thin woman in her mid-thirties with a blonde page-boy haircut, pert features and turbulent eyes. She gave Robyn a probing stare.

  Grimble said: "Bev, this is Robyn Parker, one of Rex Markham’s barristers. She wants to chat with you, if you’ve got time."

  Beverley Nolan folded a wary gaze into a tense smile. "Sure. No problem."

  Grimble hesitated and shrugged. "Alright then, I’ll leave you two alone."

  As he disappeared, Beverley Nolan took some books off the only other chair and asked Robyn to sit.

  Once seated, Robyn nodded towards the galley proof. "Interesting book?"

  "Hardly. It’s a gardening manual."

  "So you don’t only work with novelists?"

  Beverley grimaced. "No. In fact, I usually handle our non-fiction writers. They write cookbooks, gardening manuals, self-help books, travel guides, biographies and stuff like that. Hugh and Alice usually handled the novelists."

  "You're busy?"

  "Not really."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the book industry ain’t what it used to be: publishers are disappearing; book shops are closing; everybody is publishing on-line and digital piracy is rife. It’s a bold new world in which literary agents probably won’t even have bit parts."

  Robyn noticed a framed photograph of Tim Nolan on the desk. "You know, I’ve met your husband, Tim."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. He was with Rex when we all visited the murder scene."

  Beverley nodded. "Oh, yes, that’s right. Tim went along to support Rex. They’re good friends."

  "How’d that come about?"

  "Because Alice and I were close, Tim and Rex kept bumping into each other, and eventually became good mates."

  "Are you close to Rex?"

  Beverley shook her head. "Not really. We’ve never hit it off."

  "Why not?"

  A shrug. "I’ve always found him a bit arrogant, I suppose. And he used to bully Alice and criticize her in public, which I couldn’t stand." Beverley smiled. "In fact, I don’t even like his novels."

  "Why not?"

  Beverley smiled. "I think he tries too hard to imitate Le Carre, but only proves he’s nowhere near as good as
The Master."

  "Ouch."

  Beverley smiled. "You asked."

  "Yes, I did. But your opinion of him didn’t affect your friendship with Alice?"

  "Oh, no. We were very close. Told each other everything."

  Robyn felt a hint of excitement. Beverley was just the sort of person who might have vital information. "You talked about her marriage?"

  "Oh, yes, and I had a ring-side seat when it fell apart. They agreed to divorce. Did you know that? They even started talking - or rather, arguing - about dividing up their assets. Alice thought he was trying to hide his money and rip her off."

  "And she wanted to stop that?"

  "Of course."

  "Rex thinks she was having an affair. That true?"

  Beverley bit her lip and looked out the window at the patchy grey sky. "I’d rather not comment."

  Robyn interpreted that as a big "yes". She edged forward on her chair. "I’m afraid you must. Rex has been charged with murder. So if you’ve got any information - any at all - that might save him, you should tell me. I know you don't like him. But you wouldn’t want that on your conscience."

  Beverley hesitated. "OK. But if I tell you what I know, it’s off the record, right? You won’t tell anyone - including Rex - that I told you?"

  Robyn couldn’t honestly promise that, but was desperate for the information. "Yes, of course."

  "Alright. But if you try to involve me, I’ll deny telling you anything. Understand?"

  Robyn didn’t even blink. "Of course."

  Beverley leaned forward and said quietly: "Well, yes, Alice had an affair. Like I said, we talked about everything. For a few years before she died, she saw a guy."

  Eureka. Robyn tried to slow her heart and control her breathing. "Who?"

  "One of the writers she handled."

  "Who?"

  "Guy called Terry Torkhill?"

  Robyn regarded herself as well read, but didn’t know the name. "OK. And were they serious?"

  Beverley shrugged. "I don’t think so. I got the impression it was just nice and uncomplicated, which is what they both wanted."

  "And how was the affair going when she died?"

  Beverley shrugged. "OK, I think. I mean, she never complained about it."

  "Have you met Torkhill?"