Lethal Factor Read online

  ‘Does your sister always send you something for your birthday?’ I asked.

  Digby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. In fact I remember saying to Livvy that as far as I could remember, this was the first time since she was about nine that she’d bothered to buy something for—’ His voice died away.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Digby was looking round the room like a trapped animal, eyes darting all over the place. He jumped to his feet and as he did, I jumped to a sudden conclusion. I pushed my mobile at him.

  ‘Ring your sister,’ I said. ‘Ring her now.’

  Wordlessly, ignoring my offered mobile, he fumbled for the phone on the desk and his fingers trembled as he hit one of the buttons. He turned to me, waiting, and I saw his expression change as someone answered.

  ‘Marcella,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. Tell me. That aftershave you sent me for my birthday. Did you—’

  There was a pause and his face paled even further. ‘No. I can’t explain now. I’ll ring you back. It’s about Livvy’s death.’

  He replaced the handpiece and it was a moment or two before he spoke and I knew exactly what he was going to say. Our eyes met with comprehension. The phone started ringing and Digby picked it up. ‘I told you I’d ring you later,’ he said, hanging up again.

  ‘My sister knows nothing about any aftershave,’ he whispered.

  We stood frozen, staring at each other as the implication fell into place . . .

  ‘Where is it now?’ I said. ‘The aftershave?’

  He was wild-eyed, hands opened out in helplessness. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tried to soothe him.

  Digby’s eyes were frantic, looking around the room, distracted, distressed. ‘How can you say that?’ I saw him calm himself a little. ‘I think she chucked it. It was awful, she said.’

  I was starting to understand how the killer had done it this time. ‘The wrappings that the aftershave came in,’ I said, urgent now. ‘Where would she put them? Does she—did she save wrapping paper?’ I knew Genevieve did this, smoothing it out and putting it away, re-using it.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’

  ‘Would it be in the recycle bin?’

  He knew exactly what I was after. Sometimes, it’s very easy dealing with a peer. ‘Yes. Search that.’

  He followed me like a lamb outside into the bitter cold of the wind.

  ‘Where are your rubbish and recycle bins?’ I asked and Digby pointed to a latticed recess where the bins stood. I hoped that the postal bag was in there but if not, we’d have to turn Canberra waste services upside down. I was determined we were going to find that aftershave and its wrappings. ‘Come on,’ I said.

  ‘I have to take my work,’ he said. ‘I can’t just sit around staring at the walls doing nothing.’ He ran back inside, momentarily agile again, and came back carrying a laptop and the red and orange sports bag. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, disappearing into the henhouse for a few moments, reappearing again with just the laptop. He must have seen the expression on my face. ‘I’m not cracking up,’ he said sheepishly. ‘We store a lot of important things in there.’ He paused, looking back at the half-open door. ‘It’s more solidly built than the house.’

  ‘What about the door?’ I said. ‘Don’t you want to lock it up?’

  Digby shook his head. ‘The chickens will put themselves to bed as soon as the sun starts getting low. I’ll ring Cecil Deacon next door and he can lock them in for the night and let them out again in the morning. He always does it when we’re in town.’

  ‘Do you need to take anything like clothes or a toothbrush?’ I reminded him, knowing how the mind is scrambled at a time like this.

  He shook his head. ‘We’ve got duplicate everything in town,’ he said, faltering after the ‘we’ve’. ‘I don’t think I can drive,’ he suddenly added putting down the laptop and I saw his hands were shaking terribly.

  ‘I’ll take you back into town,’ I said, ‘and someone can pick up your car for you.’

  I stashed Digby’s laptop on the back seat and we climbed into my car. ‘Tell me about the aftershave,’ I said. ‘Everything you can remember.’

  Digby took a deep breath. ‘Livvy was working from home that day, and she rang me to tell me a parcel had arrived. I’d told her I was expecting some medical items from interstate.’ Digby’s voice was barely audible.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So I asked her to open it and see what it was and when she told me what it was, we thought it was a birthday gift from my sister. My birthday was last week—’ He clutched my arm.

  ‘Oh my God! Oh no!’

  ‘What?’ I asked, surprised by his grasp on me.

  ‘I asked her what it was like and—’ He didn’t have to continue.

  In my imagination I saw Livvy do what anyone would do when they’ve just opened a bottle of something fragrant.

  Digby continued, his rich voice gaining strength as he put it all together. ‘I asked her to open it and see what it was like. She said it was revolting.’ There was a long pause. In my imagination, Livvy Worthington opened the bottle of aftershave and inhaled the scent of it.

  ‘She said it was dreadful,’ Digby was saying, ‘and there was no way she was going to let me wear it. She said it reminded her of some dirty old man she used to know. She said she was going to toss it. She even made a joke. That my sister had pretty poor taste.’

  He took his hand away.

  Now we had what looked like a second murder, and both were scientists.

  ‘Jack,’ Digby said, turning to me, eyes huge in a white face. ‘That aftershave was meant for me.’

  Ten

  Back at work, we went through a thorough clean-up, and visited the Australian Federal Police medico who gave Digby the necessary antibiotics in case he’d been contaminated.

  ‘You need to take the lot,’ he told Digby, writing out a script. ‘Don’t miss any doses.’

  Then I checked to make sure the Worthingtons’ town house had been bleached and steam-cleaned.

  Sarah was going to bring Digby’s car back for him and I was keen to examine our records to see if there were any cases that had both Digby’s and Tony Bonning’s names signed on them. This sometimes happened when an analyst found ambiguous or conflicting results. I checked with the postal authorities that the sorting areas had been decontaminated and then I dropped Sarah off out at Seven Oaks and headed for town again.

  I was annoyed about the appalling lack of communication between the police and myself and I drove to Heronvale Police Station, wanting a piece of whoever was responsible.

  At the counter, I asked for Brian Kruger and, in a minute, the young detective appeared, looking even more surprised. When he saw it was me, the eyebrows dropped just a little . . .

  ‘I’ve just been out at the convent,’ I said, ‘and was told there’d been an earlier intruder at the convent, on Good Friday. Why wasn’t I informed about this?’

  Kruger looked blankly at me. ‘First I’ve heard about it,’ he said.

  The quick, even careless response made me feel even more pissed off. ‘Don’t give me that crap. You guys went out there, for God’s sake,’ I said.

  The surprised expression on his face was increasing with every second.

  ‘A big fair man with a yellow beard,’ I recited, ‘was seen arguing with the deceased woman on Good Friday. There is the suggestion of some violence being used against her. According to a witness, she broke away from him and ran back into the convent. The gardener told me that the police went out there the next day.’

  A senior sergeant, alerted by my raised voice, appeared. ‘What’s the problem, mate?’

 
I showed him my ID and told him. ‘Check your records,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to the officers who went out that day. I want to see their notes. I want to know why I didn’t get briefed about this.’

  In the sergeant’s office we checked the computer records, Kruger following us in a few moments later with his diary contents for that day. ‘No one from the convent rang me,’ he said, looking up. This was odd, I thought. The screen flashed the records for Good Friday and I scrolled down until I saw what I was looking for.

  ‘There it is,’ I said. ‘11.23 am, incident at the Convent of the Assumption involving one of the sisters. Follow-up required. So who did it?’

  ‘That explains it,’ said Brian, tucking his notebook away. ‘That’s from Kenilworth division. That’s not us.’

  ‘How come they got the job?’ I asked. ‘You’re the closest.’ Kenilworth is fifteen kilometres away at least.

  ‘Who’s this Toby Speed?’ I asked, noting down the name of the person who’d contacted the Kenilworth police. ‘Will someone please ring Kenilworth,’ I said, ‘and get onto whoever took that call?’

  Brian went to his phone, dialled and spoke for a moment. Then he called out to me, offering the phone. ‘Jeff Beale,’ he said, passing the phone to me.

  I identified myself, and said, ‘That incident at the Convent of the Assumption. You’re the one who took the call about the incident at Easter?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ I said, keen to gather as much detail as he could give me. Sister Gertrude, he said, had been very upset about the intruder but had not been able to give much of a description except to say that the man was very big and powerful and had jumped out of the hedges that ran along the inside of the convent wall along the north while she was walking towards the chapel.

  ‘No mention of a blond beard?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said the constable. ‘She didn’t mention that.’

  ‘Who called you from the convent?’ I asked, again wondering why Sister Gertrude had kept this secret from her community.

  ‘No one,’ said Jeff. ‘No one rang from the convent.’

  ‘Then how in hell did you know about it? And who’s this Toby Speed?’

  ‘He’s the guy who notified us about the incident. He wanted to talk to Superintendent Lomax. But I told him Mr Lomax took early retirement at the beginning of the year.’ Jeff Beale paused. ‘He said there’d been an incident at the Convent of the Assumption. And that he wanted it followed up. I asked him what his interest was and he got quite shirty. Told me to just get on with it. That was it,’ he said finally. ‘Then he hung up. We made a phone call to the convent. Nobody answered so we diverted a car to check it out.’

  I thanked him and handed the phone back while my mind did gear changes, point shifts and backflips. Something about this entire incident just didn’t add up.

  •

  On my way back to work I put these mysteries aside to ring Charlie’s. ‘It’s Dad,’ I said, when my daughter answered . . .

  ‘Chuck a party,’ she replied. ‘I was hoping for better.’

  ‘How are things going?’

  ‘Okay. I got a really good mark for my English essay.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said.

  ‘But only forty-nine per cent for Modern History.’

  ‘You’re safe?’

  ‘Of course. Old Uncle Bob has been dropping round all the time, and Charlie’s like a mother hen.’

  ‘What time should I pick you up from Charlie’s when I come home?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a lift with my computer studies friend.’

  ‘Has he got a name?’ I asked.

  ‘Andy,’ she said.

  ‘Andy who?’ I asked.

  ‘Kelly,’ she replied. ‘See, if I had my own car, I wouldn’t have to bludge off friends and put myself in potentially immoral situations with men.’

  ‘Tell me more about Andy Kelly,’ I said.

  ‘I know him from school.’

  My daughter’s voice changed. ‘Mum rang again,’ she added. ‘Asking me really weird questions. About you. I don’t know what she’s on about but I don’t like it.’

  I wanted to know more about this, but it didn’t feel right to put my daughter in the role of telltale. We said goodbye.

  Back in the bio-hazard lab, I checked the incubator to see how the colonies from Tony Bonning’s tissue samples were growing. Sure enough, there was the red alert light so I took the usual safety precautions and carefully removed the glassware. I took it to the microscope bench and there they were: the same ‘ground glass’ colonies, the same Medusa head stickiness at the end of a loop. From chocolate valentine to Tony Bonning’s intestine, Bacillus anthracis going all the way.

  I washed and cleaned up, and was bringing my notes up to date in the office when a loud knock on the door interrupted me. ‘Come in,’ I called, wondering if I was about to have to deal with more staff grizzles. I opened the door, and the figures who filled the doorway were none of my colleagues. They could only have been NSW detectives.

  ‘Jack McCain?’ the taller one said.

  ‘May we come in?’ asked the shorter one, showing his warrant card. I was so surprised, I didn’t register their names, but just as I’d thought, the badges were NSW police. They strode in, looking around, eyes everywhere. It was exactly what I do and I saw how unsettling it was to be on the receiving end of this behaviour.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, ready to pull out the thoroughly convincing denial concerning a certain two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. ‘What squad are you from?’

  I indicated they should take a seat and they both plonked down on the settee that ran along the wall under the photographic trophies of Livvy and Digby’s thespian triumphs. I didn’t know whether to sit or stand, so I came round and leaned against the front of the desk, ready for anything.

  ‘Your ex-wife, Genevieve McCain, has come to us and made some very serious allegations,’ said the taller one. He had a frowning, concentrated face, with heavy eyebrows. His partner stood up and started wandering around, in a way that I found unsettling.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I said. ‘It has not been an easy divorce. What’s she saying now?’

  ‘Your daughter Jacinta is—’ he flipped open a notebook, ‘eighteen?’

  My heart suddenly froze. ‘Is she okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’ asked the shorter one from somewhere behind me. ‘Any reason why she shouldn’t be?’

  I swung round and stood up to face him. I had taken an instant dislike to this one, with his sandy eyelashes and pale eyes darting everywhere. ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, my voice harsher than I’d intended. ‘Tell me why you’re here or get the hell out!’

  The tall detective lifted a carry bag onto the table, unzipped it and pulled out a PC notebook and printer. ‘We’ve taken a statement from your ex-wife, Genevieve McCain of 63 Aspinall Close, Lane Cove,’ he said, switching on the notebook, ‘alleging that on three separate occasions, thirteen years ago, she witnessed what she now believes were incidents of sexual abuse involving you with your daughter Jacinta Georgina McCain. And to answer your earlier question, we’re from Child Protection.’

  I felt as if the breath had been whacked out of my body.

  ‘What?’ I didn’t recognise the choked voice as mine. For a second, I thought I’d fall as shock and outrage, fury and dismay hit like a Scud missile.

  The tall detective read off the plasma screen, angling it to get the best clarity. ‘That on the morning of or about 20 September 1989—’

  ‘1989!’ I was shouting in anger.

  ‘September 1989,’ he continued reading, ‘she went into her daughter’s room and found you in bed, almost naked, with Jacinta
crying, sitting on the side of the bed. That Jacinta refused to tell her what was the matter and that on two other occasions, in early October of the same year, she found you in your daughter’s room—on one occasion in the bed, on the other occasion—passed out on the floor. And each time, your daughter was distressed but refused to say anything to her mother about why she was crying.’ He looked up at me from the screen.

  I couldn’t speak. My head spun and my body reeled. I felt I was in the middle of an earthquake and there was a roaring in my ears that didn’t seem to have a source in the room.

  ‘What have you got to say about this, Mr McCain?’

  I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice under control. ‘Utter garbage,’ I said finally. ‘This is completely untrue. I have never touched my daughter in any way that was not respectful and appropriate.’

  They were both staring at me.

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ I said. ‘This is just another revenge tactic from my wife.’

  ‘Revenge for what?’ asked the short one.

  ‘Genevieve is furious because both of my children elected to live with me rather than her when we separated.’ I looked from one to the other. ‘These allegations are completely false.’

  ‘We’ll need to get a statement from your daughter,’ said the tall one, looking around. ‘Does she live in Canberra with you?’

  ‘I don’t live here,’ I said. ‘I live in Sydney.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We tried to find you at the address your wife gave, but you had left those premises.’ He made it sound like an accusation, as if I was on the run.

  ‘I often stay in Canberra during the week,’ I said, keeping a firm grip on the anger that was building.

  ‘But you do live with your daughter, don’t you?’ asked the sandy-lashed snooper, his tone suggestive.

  I nearly lost it at that. I took a deep breath, trying to remember everything I’d ever learned about maintaining my poise from years in the witness stand.

  ‘Officers,’ I said. ‘You want a statement from me? Here it is. Start writing it down.’