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  He leaned forward and nailed me with his gaze. "Any company?"

  The question I'd dreaded. I could tell him the truth, that I was in bed with Doris, or lie that I was alone. I didn't want to lie, but had no choice, because Doris had already told the cops she spent the afternoon with her sister. Our versions had to match. I looked him in the eye. "No, I was on my own."

  His left eyebrow flickered. "Really? You sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure." I crossed my arms and leaned back, trying to look relaxed, but probably looked defensive.

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  I expected further interrogation. Instead, he scribbled something in his notebook and stood up. "Alright then, thanks for your time. I'd better go and poke around in Mr Riley's room. If I've got any more questions, I'll be in touch."

  My breathing steadied. "You sure? That's all?"

  A cool stare. "Yes. Unless there's something you want to tell me?"

  I shrugged. "Oh no, nothing at all."

  "Good. I'll be off."

  He headed for the door. I'd just started to relax when he suddenly turned and looked amused. "Oh, by the way, do you know any good criminal barristers?"

  He caught me off-balance, as planned. "Ah, yeah, a few."

  "Good, because you might need one."

  On that theatrical note, he disappeared out the door, leaving me with a thumping heart and sweaty palms. His heavy-handed attempt to frighten me went over a treat. If I wasn't already the prime suspect in his murder investigation, I was a strong contender in a slender field.

  It's never smart to lie to the cops - unless you're guilty - because one lie leads to another and, before you know it, you're entangled in falsehoods and look guilty as hell. I'd already taken my first step in that direction and prayed I wouldn't have to take any more. However, I suspected I wouldn't have much choice.

  My heart was still fluttering when Barbara Carmichael, a junior barrister on the floor, slipped into my room, looking excited. "Got a moment."

  I normally enjoyed talking to her, but needed quiet time and frowned. "For what?"

  "A chat."

  I leaned back in my chair. "What about?"

  She jiggled around as if the floor was electrified. "Don't be obtuse: Terry, of course. It's terrible news, isn't it?" She sounded excited rather than upset.

  "Yes, terrible."

  I stared down at a brief on my desk, hinting that I was busy. She pretended not to notice and dropped into an empty armchair.

  She was in her early thirties, with an angular face and wiry frame that came from competing regularly in triathlons with her merchant-banker boyfriend. She recently disparaged my high-fat, high-calorie, low-protein, low-fibre diet and opined that a run around the block wouldn't kill me. I said that attempts to shame me never worked.

  Most baby barristers have a wolfish gaze and toadying manner. She, though, had an open face and at least the afterglow of innocence. Indeed, she once told me she came to the Bar because she got tired of the brown-nosing and back-stabbing at the big law firm where she worked.

  I laughed. "You think the Bar's a meritocracy?"

  "Of course."

  "Then you're delusional. You've got to do even more brown-nosing at the Bar. Know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because at least, at a law firm, there's a chain of command, so you know whose arse to kiss. The Bar is chaotic, so you might have to kiss a dozen arses before you kiss the right one."

  "I was told you're cynical."

  "You were told right."

  "Well, I won't kiss any."

  "Good for you. I'm sure your example will discourage the others."

  So far she'd been true to her word, though she tended to sound a bit girlish when talking to a top silk. That explained why her career as a building & construction barrister had not blossomed. If she really wanted to get ahead, she had to start networking and stop wasting her time chatting to me.

  She said: "What do you know about his death?"

  "Why would I know anything?"

  "You and Terry were good mates, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So what's going on?"

  Jesus, the cop had just interrogated me. Now it was her turn. I raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty busy right now."

  She waved dismissively. She loved gossip and this was the mother lode. "So am I. But this is the most exciting thing that's happened on this floor since I've arrived. It's amazing. What's happening?"

  "You know as much as I do."

  "No I don't. The guy who just left your room: he was a Homicide detective, right?"

  "No, he was a traffic cop."

  "Hah, hah. He was here about Terry?"

  "Well, he didn't mention any other murders."

  "Don't be a wise guy. What did he say?"

  "About what?"

  She scowled. "About Terry of course. Does he know who killed him?"

  "If he does, he didn't tell me."

  "He must have some theories."

  "He didn't mention any."

  A pout. "Jesus, you're a useless source of information."

  "Sorry."

  "I hope they catch the killer. Doris must be devastated."

  "You've met her?"

  "Yes, a few times, a floor functions. You know her well, right?"

  "Reasonably well."

  A raised eyebrow. "Really, I've heard you two were very close."

  A jolt of panic. She'd obviously heard some gossip about me and Doris being an item. Would that gossip waft into the cop's ear? My tongue went furry and hands resumed trembling. I couldn't ignore this issue. "What are you talking about?"

  She blushed. "I've heard you two went out together, before she married Terry."

  Before. Thank Christ. I almost sighed with relief. "Really?"

  "Yes. Did you?"

  "Well, umm, yes."

  She raised the other eyebrow. "And you stayed friends afterwards?" It didn't take her long to start connecting dots.

  "We bumped into each other - that's all." Definitely time to change the topic. "Tell me, what are people saying about Terry's death?"

  "In these chambers?"

  "Yes."

  "I haven't had a chance to ask them."

  "But you will?"

  "Of course."

  "And if you hear anything interesting, you'll let me know?"

  A smile. "You mean, you want me to play detective?"

  "No, I want you to be your usual nosey self. That's all. Don't go overboard. Just find out what people are saying."

  "Why don't you ask yourself?"

  "Because you're friendlier than me."

  "That's true." She smiled. "And what am I supposed to do with this gossip?"

  "Convey it directly to me, of course."

  She got to her feet. "OK."

  "The cops will probably be poking around for a while: keep an eye on them too."

  "Why?"

  "If they find out anything interesting, I'd love to know."

  She smirked. "Sure. You know, if I'm going to be your spy, I should have a codename."

  I grinned. "OK. Your codename is 'Barbara'?"

  She frowned. "Ha, ha." Instead of leaving, she looked concerned. "Will you be OK?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "You don't look your usual self."

  "Really?"

  She blushed. "Yes. You usually look pleased with yourself; now you look rather stressed and snappy."

  A low-watt smile. "Don't worry. I've had a difficult 24 hours. I'll soon be looking self-satisfied again."

  "Good. But if you want to chat, let me know."

  "Thanks."

  She left and I tried to call Doris at her sister's house. The line was engaged.

  I forced myself to start reading a brief I'd just received. However, my room was now a thoroughfare: within minutes, Joan Mantel - wife of Geoff - strode through the door. She had big hair, big shoulders, big teeth and a jungle-cat expression. Her great ambition, she told me, was to become a
judge. She would probably achieve that goal because judgeships were no longer reserved for talentless white males with connections. Now, they also went to talentless females with connections.

  A few hours ago, I caught her hubbie rifling through Terry's desk. Surely, her visit was related in some way.

  She shrouded my desk in a heavy fog of sickly perfume and plastered on a coquettish smile. "Umm, what happened to Terry was just terrible, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, shocking."

  "You talked to one of the Homicide detectives, didn't you?"

  "That's right: Malloy, the guy in charge."

  "Did he, umm, tell you anything about his investigation?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like who the cops suspect? Where the investigation's going?"

  Why was she pumping me for this information? Idle curiosity? Or because her husband, who I found rifling through Terry's desk, had something to do with his death?

  I said: "No, I'm afraid not."

  She looked disappointed. "Really? That's too bad."

  "Yes."

  Her eyes dimmed and she climbed off my desk. I was now as useful as a used condom. "Thanks. Just curious. See you at the meeting this evening."

  "Yup."

  She strode from my room, shoulder pads swaying, big calves bulging, leaving an odour of rotting fruit. For once, I felt some sympathy for Geoff.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I rarely attended chambers general meetings because most barristers believe that talking is doing and their eloquence can change the world, and won't listen to anyone who tells them otherwise. As a result, the meetings often became endless talk-fests. I'd been to meetings where we argued for hours about the arrangement of chairs in the reception area, whether to buy a new fridge for the kitchen or where to hold the Christmas party. Battle-lines were drawn, old feuds bubbled to the surface, factions coalesced and votes were traded. Then everyone deferred the issue to the next meeting.

  However, nothing could stop me attending that afternoon's meeting about Terry. Just after five o'clock, I filed into the oak-panelled room of our Floor Secretary, Gary Eslick SC, and found almost 30 barristers seated or slouched against walls and bookshelves.

  God rarely shows much care when assembling tax lawyers, and Gary was no exception. He had lank blond hair, non-descript features and a pear-shaped physique. On the few occasions I'd been trapped in conversation with him, I felt as if someone was slowly injecting a paralysing agent into my brain. He only seemed to be interested in two topics: tax avoidance schemes and his wine collection. However, his blandness didn't deceive me. His personality was like a broad landscape of rolling hills and placid glens with a large unmarked minefield in the middle.

  He now stood in front of a wall festooned with certificates and spoke with the Oxford accent he acquired a few years ago when he attended a legal conference at that university. "Gentlemen, I'm sure I speak for us all when I say how shocked and distressed I am about Terry's death. He was a great man and a great barrister. He'll be sadly missed."

  Everyone said: "Hear, hear."

  "As you know, Homicide detectives were here today. They searched Terry's room and talked to various people. I spoke to the detective heading the investigation. He confirmed that Terry was murdered - stabbed to death in his home. At present, there are no strong leads. So we'll probably have more visits from the police. Obviously, we should give our full co-operation. But it's important we minimise any damage to the reputation of these chambers."

  Gerald Robins, a tax barrister with the standard beige personality interjected. "The police put crime scene tape across Terry's door. That doesn't look good to clients - not good at all."

  Mumbled assents.

  "I take your point. It certainly doesn't. I'll speak to the police and see what can be done."

  Guy Vandervort, an insolvency barrister, said: "Yes, and Terry's name's still on the board in our reception area. Maybe, when appropriate, it should be removed. After all, he's no longer a floor member."

  Someone else piped up: "That's right, not a member."

  Wayne Chisholm was independently wealthy, gay and rarely busy. All three factors made him prone to cause mischief. "I think you're all being too sensitive. The floor's reputation will only be damaged if one of us murdered Terry."

  Gasps detonated around the room and I almost fell in love with Wayne.

  Eslick looked shocked. "I'm sure that's not the case."

  Wayne stroked his dyed blond beard. "You never know. After all, we worked closely with him. We're logical suspects."

  Eslick's neck reddened and he actually showed some temperament. "That's an outrageous suggestion."

  "Maybe, but I think we should all keep an eye on each other and report any suspicious behaviour to the police."

  My guffaw attracting several hard stares.

  Eslick scowled. "That won't be necessary, because nobody here had anything to do with Terry's death."

  Wayne shrugged innocently. "I'm not accusing anyone. I've got no idea who killed him." He scanned the room. "I just think we should be realistic."

  Eslick gave him a death-ray stare. "Wayne, thanks for your contribution. I think we should move on."

  Wayne shrugged. "Just trying to help."

  "On a more practical note, I spoke to the Floor Clerk this afternoon. He indicated that Terry was five months behind with his floor fees."

  More gasps. I wondered if Terry was in serious financial trouble when he died, or just hopeless at organising his finances, like many barristers. The later seemed more likely.

  Someone blurted out: "Five months?"

  "Yes. The Floor Clerk said he was chasing Terry for the money and Terry promised to pay, but he died in arrears."

  Someone to my right said: "Terry's room will have to be sold. The floor committee shouldn't approve a purchaser joining the floor until the fees have been paid."

  Eslick said: "I'm sure it won't."

  Vince Turner, a criminal barrister piped up. "Does anybody know what's going to happen to his law reports? Is Doris going to sell them?"

  Even Eslick looked slightly aghast, partly because he had no interest in acquiring Terry's law reports. "I don't know. I'm sure you'll find out in due course." He shifted slightly on his feet. "Umm, I'm now the most senior silk on the floor, so I suppose I should become Head of Chambers, unless anyone objects."

  Eslick was entitled to the position and obviously wanted it. Nobody demurred.

  "Right then, I suppose that concludes our business. Thank you all very much."

  As everyone trooped out, I sidled up to Wayne Chisholm. "The killer's in our midst, is he?"

  A hooded stare. "I didn't say that - just raised the possibility."

  "Really? And who's on your list of suspects?"

  A gape-toothed grin. "Several people."

  "Who?"

  "You for one."

  "Thanks - thanks a lot."

  "Take it as a compliment. Most of these buggers wouldn't have the balls. Anyway, I'll keep you posted."

  "Do that."

  That evening, when I got home, I telephoned Doris. Her sister, Beth, answered and said Doris was asleep.

  "How's she going?"

  "OK. She spent most of this afternoon talking to the police. That left her exhausted. Afterwards, she just climbed into bed."

  "OK. Tell her I called. I'll call again tomorrow."

  "Sure."

  I usually sleep well, even before a major hearing. But that night I tossed and turned for several hours, wondering if Detective Sergeant Malloy really suspected me. Too bad I had a perfectly good alibi that I couldn't use. Except for when I was married, I'd always kept the world at an arm's length. Now it was much too close.

  CHAPTER TEN

  During his prime - which lasted more than three decades - my father was widely regarded as the best commercial barrister in Australia. Big law firms briefed him to advise major corporations on how to slip out of contracts, slide through legislative loop-holes or sue
their competitors. Big-wig chairmen and high-flying chief executives trooped into his chambers to receive his pearls of legal wisdom.

  He also appeared in massive commercial hearings which ran for months and involved platoons of lawyers and squads of witnesses. Photocopiers worked day and night producing the exhibit folders. However, despite the complexity of those hearings, he never lost his bearings. He had a genius for isolating the key facts and legal arguments that would win the case, and bravely focusing on them. His oral submissions were concise and logical; his cross-examinations calm and deadly - witnesses were gently led up to the edge of a cliff and then pushed off.

  Because he was generally regarded as the best barrister in his field, he was able to charge huge sums which, in turn, reinforced the general belief he was the best in his field.

  During the second half of his career, he was offered many high judicial appointments, but declined them all, loving his status at the Bar and the cut-and-thrust of advocacy too much. But at seventy, still in peak form, he had a heart attack while cross-examining a forensic accountant in the Federal Court. He groaned, sat down and calmly told the judge that he needed an ambulance.

  The surgeons kept him alive and did lots of re-plumbing, but he knew his glory days were over. My mother had died ten years earlier. So he retired alone to his small farm near Bowral, where a part-time farm-hand helped him look after an orchard and about a dozen cattle that were really pets. It was a sleepy existence for a man who once made heads turn as he paraded along Phillip Street into the Supreme Court Building. But he seemed content.

  During my childhood, he was a tough and demanding father, rarely bestowing praise or affection. But I admired him greatly and hungered for his approval. That was why I became a barrister and spent my first few years orbiting around him. He recommended me to solicitors and insisted they briefed me as his junior. I often appeared with him in Court, passing him documents or making sure his water glass was full, getting paid a lot for doing very little.

  However, I grew tired of living in his shadow and wanted to voyage out on my own. I drifted into personal injuries litigation, where he had never practiced and his name meant little. To my surprise, I quickly developed a big practice and confidence in myself. I was soon typecast and couldn't go back.