Torn Silk Read online

  My father acted as if I'd joined a band of gypsies, which was almost true. "Personal injuries? Not much law there."

  He was right. Personal injuries hearings are usually bare-knuckle brawls over the facts that rarely turn on sophisticated legal arguments.

  I said: "True. But at least my cases are about real people and real money."

  He laughed. "I'm not sure that's a plus."

  On Tuesday morning, instead of going to work and listening to everyone talk about Terry, I phoned my father and asked if he wanted me to visit.

  He sounded surprised. "Today?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure, come up. You can tell me about Terry Riley's death."

  "You've heard about that?"

  "Of course. You know, in my day, barristers didn't get murdered. That was regarded as unspeakably poor form. Times have obviously changed, and not for the better."

  I laughed. "Obviously. I'll fill you in when I get there."

  My father lived in a colonial bungalow with a wide verandah sitting on the brow of a hill. At the bottom of the slope were a small apple orchard and a well-watered paddock with his beloved cattle. A narrow creek marked the far boundary of his farm.

  As I drove up the gravel driveway, he emerged from the house. Once tall and robust, he was now gaunt and slow moving, though his eyes were still steady and clear.

  He shook my hand and slapped me on the back with surprising warmth. "Welcome, welcome. How are you?"

  "A bit shaken up. I knew Terry well. In fact, I was appearing as his junior when he got killed."

  "Really? Sit down and tell me all."

  We sat on a couple of deck chairs overlooking the farm and I told him what little I knew about Terry's death, without mentioning my affair with Doris.

  He said: "You've got no idea who killed him?"

  Why mention the vague suspicions I'd formed? "No, Terry was a pretty harmless guy."

  He crossed his arms and looked rueful. "You know, I only met him a couple of times - and shouldn't speak ill of the dead - but he was probably the last of the actor-barristers. When I joined the Bar, 50 years ago, there were lots of fruity orators. Now they're all gone. Everybody sounds like a clerk. Rather sad, really."

  I giggle. "I think you're right: he was the last of his breed."

  "Anyway, enough of that. Tell me: how's young Robert? When are you going to bring him up here? That boy's got brains. He'll do well at the Bar."

  "Dad, he doesn't want to go to the Bar."

  "You're kidding? What does he want to do?"

  "He's thinking about becoming an engineer."

  "Jesus, no Kennedy has ever had a practical or useful job. He's got to be stopped. Bring him up here and I'll talk him around."

  A frown. "Dad, he doesn't need any pressure from you."

  A cracked smile. "OK, OK. But bring him up, anyway."

  "I will."

  In Bowral, I'd bought a cooked chicken and some salad. We ate at a table on the verandah, waving away flies.

  He refilled my wine-glass. "How's business?" He spoke casually, the way he did when cross-examining a witness, just before he sank his venomous fangs into the poor bastard.

  I wanted to tell him as little as possible about my practice because, with no outlet left for his own ambition, he liked to channel it through me, and I didn't like the pressure. I also sense that, while I'd risen high enough as a barrister to give him few complaints, I hadn't fulfilled his expectations.

  I said: "Oh, I'm fairly busy. Not starving."

  "Good." He leaned forward and I could almost see the words travelling to his tongue: "You going to apply for silk this year?"

  The deadline for submitting applications to the Bar Association for appointment as senior counsel was four weeks away. When I was a baby barrister, I often dreamed about becoming a silk. Now, I was a lot less enthusiastic. That was partly because I'd grown to distrust the whole selection process, which was neither subtle nor just. It involved five senior barristers gathering together and, after carefully considering the merits of each applicant, appointing their friends. Certainly, I knew many silk I wouldn't brief to appear in the Local Court, and plenty of junior counsel I'd brief to defend my liberty.

  I'd also seen lots of barristers turn their quest for silk into an unhealthy obsession, so that, every time they were rejected, bits of their self-respect flaked off. Some became quite unhinged. Why risk that sort of psychic damage? I had a good practice. If I took silk, the quality of the briefs I received would not improve much. I had better things to do with my life.

  However, the main reason I was ambivalent about applying for silk was the delight my father would experience if I succeeded. I was loath to reward him for all the pressure he'd put me under over the years. While our relationship had improved a lot over recent times, we had yet to sign a final truce.

  I said: "Why do you ask?"

  He shrugged. "You've got a good reputation, a big practice. Maybe it's time you applied."

  I shrugged. "Maybe. But I've only been at the Bar for 15 years. It's a bit early."

  "Rubbish. Plenty have got it earlier than that."

  "True. And plenty haven't. In fact, plenty haven't got it at all."

  "Surely, you're not worried about being rejected. If you are, I've still got good contacts. I can make a few calls."

  Now he'd really gone too far. I frowned and spoke sharply. "No. Don't get involved."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "OK," he said reluctantly. ""When you work out it's a dirty world, let me know."

  "I've already worked that out. I just don't want to make it worse."

  He smiled ruefully. "I've annoyed you, haven't I?"

  "A little."

  "Sorry, I shouldn't interfere. I know that. But you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

  His hint of self-awareness surprised me. I smiled and shrugged. "Forget about it."

  A shrug. "You know, it's hard to let go. Some nights, I dream that I'm back in Court, cross-examining witnesses - quite brilliantly, in fact. Then I wake up and realise that I've got to go and feed the cattle."

  "So you miss it?"

  "Of course. But I had a good run - a great run. When you're in the thick of the action, you think the system can't survive without you. Then you retire and it rolls on, remorselessly, without even the slightest hiccup, and all the words you've spouted in Court dissolve into nothing. I can't even say I really helped my clients, because most were faceless corporations run by faceless executives."

  It's certainly true that barristers don't get to drive past a place and say: 'I built that'. But maybe living on his own gave him too much time for gloomy reflection. I said: "You know, you could move back to the city and be closer to your kids."

  "No, I enjoy it out here - I really do. It's serene and close to nature."

  We spent the rest of lunch gossiping about my two sisters - both school teachers - and their families, and various friends. He also recounted some of his biggest court victories and rated, with surprising generosity, some of the well-known barristers he appeared again. I'd heard him traversed this ground many times before, so I turned my brain down to half-power.

  After lunch, we strolled down through the vineyard to the paddock where large hoofed animals ambled about.

  I said: "Nice cattle. Bet they'd make juicy steaks."

  A scowl. "These cows aren't going anywhere near an abattoir. They've retired, like me." He slapped one on the rump. "Isn't that right, Aristotle." The cow barely waved its tail.

  "Is there any chance they might stampede and trample us."

  He laughed. "Only if I give the command."

  "Then I'll behave myself."

  We strolled along the creek. "You can stay tonight, if you want."

  "Can't, I'm afraid. But I'll be back on the weekend."

  "With Robert?"

  "Do my best."

  "Great. I look forward to it."

  Just after four o'clock, I headed back to Sydney
, reflecting that every time I saw my father, our relationship improved. Yet, we still had issues to resolve and were running out of time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I reached my desk the next morning, I spread out the Sydney Morning Herald and read the news pages. Nothing about Terry. I quickly turned to the sports pages and had just started reading them when Barbara Carmichael bustled into my room. "Got a moment?"

  Oh, hell. "What do you want?"

  She plopped into an armchair, daring me to eject her. "I've got stuff to tell you."

  My pulse quickened. "What?"

  She leaned forward eagerly. "You told me to keep my eyes and ears open, right?"

  "Yes."

  "I've learnt some interesting things."

  "Such as?"

  "For a start, I was chatting to Dan, the junior clerk - you know, the one with all the pimples ..."

  "They've all got pimples. But yes, I know him. What did he tell you?"

  "That last week - last Thursday - he was strolling past Terry's room and, guess what?"

  Her habit of punctuating narratives with questions was truly annoying. "What?"

  "The door was closed, but he heard Terry arguing with Phil Milliken. They were yelling at each other."

  That quickened my pulse. "He's sure it was them?"

  "Yes, he recognised their voices and afterwards Milliken left the room looking upset."

  "What did they argue about?"

  "Dunno. Dan said he couldn't understand what they were saying."

  I was surprised, because Milliken's nose had always hovered around Terry's arse. Why had he, all of a sudden, taken exception to the smell?

  I said: "That's all Dan knows?"

  "Yes."

  "You sure? Maybe I should chat with him?"

  She looked offended. "Don't worry, that's all he knows."

  "OK."

  "Interesting info, huh?"

  "Yes, very. It's too bad we don't know what they were arguing about. Have you spoken to Rosemary about this?" Rosemary Clarke was Terry's secretary.

  "No, she's off today - taken a sickie - which is hardly surprising."

  "Though you'll speak to her, won't you, when she turns up?"

  "Of course."

  "Good."

  Barbara bounced excitedly in the armchair and drummed her feet on the floor. "That's not all I've got to report: you told me to keep an eye on the cops ..."

  "Yes."

  "Well, I chatted with one of them."

  "Oh? How did that occur?"

  "When he came out of Terry's room, I sort of bumped into him and asked if he wanted a cup of coffee."

  "Good work, Agent Barbara. What did you learn?"

  "Not much. I asked if they had any leads and he said they're stumbling around in the dark."

  "I already know that. That's all you talked about?"

  She batted her eyelashes. "No. We had a nice chat about his job and stuff like that. You know, he was very sweet. Quite cute, actually."

  I smiled. "You mean, you flirted with him?"

  She blushed. "Maybe a little. In fact, he invited me out to dinner."

  "Oh, and what did you say?"

  "I said I was pretty busy, but if I get a chance, I'll give him a call." A faux-innocent smile. "What do you think? Should I call him?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "You've already got a boyfriend."

  A grin. "So what? I wasn't planning to invite him along."

  None of my business. "Up to you."

  "I've done well, haven't I?"

  "You mean, as a detective?"

  "Yes."

  I shrugged. "Actually, I'm a little disappointed. I thought you'd have wrapped the case up by now. When you do, let me know."

  She frowned and strolled towards the door. "In the light of your attitude, you'll be lucky if I tell you anything from now on."

  When she'd gone, I pondered the argument between Terry and Philip Milliken. I didn't know what sparked it. But one thing was sure: Philip must have been sorely vexed to throw off his usual obsequiousness and argue with Terry. Vexed enough to kill him? Until I had more facts, it was best to keep an open mind.

  I spent the rest of the day reading through my backlog of briefs, which were a surprisingly welcome respite from the turmoil around me. At about five o'clock I telephoned Doris at her sister's house.

  "Doris here," she said in a bleary voice.

  "It's Ben. How do you feel?"

  She sighed. "OK, I suppose. Getting better."

  "Want me to drop over this evening?"

  Her voice brightened. "Yeah, I'd like that. In fact, there are a few things - some important things - I want to tell you."

  "OK, be there in an hour."

  Almost right on time, I pushed the front buzzer of the bungalow.

  Doris opened the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, face drawn, hair dishevelled. She managed a wan smile. "Oh Ben, I'm so glad you've come."

  I put my hands on her shoulders. "I'm here to help, you know that."

  She got teary. "Thanks."

  She led me to the living room. "Beth's gone out for the evening, so we're alone."

  We sat on the couch, holding hands.

  I said: "How're you feeling?"

  "Not too bad. My GP gave me some tranquilisers, which help."

  "Good. Have you spoken to the police again?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. I gave them a formal statement."

  "And told them you were with Beth when Terry died?"

  "Yes. I mean, I had to, didn't I? I couldn't change my story about that?"

  At least our lies dovetailed. "Of course not."

  Her face darkened. "But that's not what I wanted to talk about. Something else has happened, something really terrible."

  "What?"

  "I got a call from Terry's accountant this afternoon. A guy called Fred Beaton, in Crows Nest."

  "Yes."

  Her face trembled. "He said that when Terry died he was broke - flat broke."

  I'd never seen her so upset.

  "You serious? No money at all?"

  "Not a penny. According to Beaton, even if Terry had sold all his assets he would have still been about $2 million in debt. He even owed $1.8 million to the Tax Office. Can you believe that: $1.8 million?"

  "Christ. That's a lot of dosh. He couldn't pay any of it?"

  "Not a cent."

  "What about your house in Woollahra? Your beach-house? The farm? They must be worth plenty."

  She shook her head. "All mortgaged to the hilt. The banks will take them."

  I'd planned to ask her why Terry hadn't paid his floor fees for five months. Now I knew. "Where'd all the money go?"

  "The accountant said he's still trying to work that out. But he said Terry made some bad investments - really bad investments. Terry also lived well and was paying money to Maureen and their son." She looked a touch embarrassed. "And, umm, I guess I spent a lot. I've always liked shopping."

  Terry must have cleared well over a million dollars a year at the Bar. So, even with assistance, it took a big effort to go broke. Still, his financial strife didn't surprise me. Barristers are notoriously spend-thrift. Indeed, there's an old adage that they spend their income three times over: first when they're briefed; then when they send out a bill, and lastly when they get paid.

  Terry was also a sucker for get-rich-quick schemes. A few years ago, he wanted me to invest in a scheme to re-open a disused gold mine in western NSW, and a year ago he begged me to invest in a tourist resort that was going to be built in Northern Queensland. In both cases, he promised a fat profit and big tax deduction. Both projects sounded too good to be true, and I politely declined. Those decisions now looked very wise, because Terry must have lost a packet.

  No wonder he looked so depressed at the Bench & Bar Dinner: he was heading for financial oblivion.

  I said: "Just before Terry died, he looked very worried. Now I know why. But you had no idea he was broke?"


  "No. He didn't breathe a word. I mean, sometimes he said I was spending too much on clothes and stuff like that - claimed I had a black-belt in shopping. But husbands always say that sort of thing, don't they? I never thought he was in financial trouble, and didn't really listen."

  Terry often complained to me that Doris was a shopaholic, obviously with some justification. Still, I couldn't blame her. Being married to him wasn't easy. She deserved some retail therapy.

  Her forehead creased and lips trembled. "God, I feel so guilty."

  "Why?"

  "My shopping."

  "Forget it. I'm sure it was just a drop in the ocean. You didn't ruin him: he did that himself."

  Her eyes brightened. "You sure?"

  "Yes. And none of that matters now anyway: he's dead and has no debts at all. But I suppose this means you're broke too?"

  "Not quite. Terry had a life insurance policy."

  "Oh? For how much?"

  "About one million. The accountant isn't sure whether he kept paying the premiums. I mean, if he was short of money, he might have stopped. The accountant's looking into that right now."

  "Did Terry try to negotiate with the Tax Office?"

  "Yes. According to the accountant, he tried to cut a deal, but the Tax Office wasn't interested. It wanted 100 cents in the dollar. So Terry was about to declare himself bankrupt."

  For Terry, bankruptcy would have had many horrible consequences. The worst would have been the cancellation of his practising certificate. Until recently, barristers could ignore their tax liabilities, go bankrupt and keep working. Then the media revealed some prominent barristers hadn't paid tax for years. The subsequent public uproar forced the Bar Association to start rubbing out offenders.

  So after more than 30 years as a barrister - including 15 as a silk - Terry was about to get the boot. That would have devastated him, because he loved being a silk and loved the swig of attention he got when appearing in court.

  Maybe, getting murdered was a blessing in disguise.

  I said: "You know, because Terry couldn't pay his tax, the Bar Association would have rubbed him out."

  Her eyes widened. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose you're right."

  "I am. He must have been desperate to get the Tax Office off his back."