No More Secrets No More Lies Page 4

  William walked out of his office an hour after the police had left. He’d been working on the Bellamy case before the police arrived and as he gathered the loose papers on his desk, he suddenly felt older than he was supposed to feel. He shoved the file and his phone into his leather briefcase and didn’t say a word to anyone as he locked the door to his office and walked down the corridor towards the lifts. The call button lit up. Anita was sitting at her work station with her back to him and he was glad that she had the good sense not to speak to him. Anita Lewis knew William Phillips and knew his moods. His head was throbbing and he hoped that when the lift door eventually opened, it would be empty. He wasn't in any frame of mind to speak to anyone. A high pitched ding announced the lift’s arrival. It startled him at first, but when he realised it was on the way down, he sighed with relief. He stepped into the lift and stared past his black Florsheims to the swirling dusty-green circles in the carpet, anything to take his mind off his mother.

  ‘Sorry to hear the bad news, Mr Phillips.’

  William turned his head towards the voice. Gavin McLeod, a first year graduate, looked at him from the corner of the lift with heavy-lidded eyes and acne pocked skin. He was holding an armful of documents against his chest and was on his way down to the twenty-eighth floor. It was lunchtime and William thought as he looked at him, that there was probably a soggy homemade sandwich in a paper bag waiting for him back at his desk. ‘What was that Gavin?’

  ‘Your mother, Mr Phillips.’ Gavin was suddenly embarrassed, his face turned crimson and relief washed over him as the lift door suddenly opened at the twenty-eighth floor and he stepped out into the carpeted hall.

  ‘Thanks,’ was the only word William Phillips had thought to say to him.

  When the lift door opened at the ground floor, William walked briskly across the terrazzo-tiled foyer, conscious of the click-clacking of his leather soled shoes as he made his way towards the entrance of the building. The rotating glass doors spun him out onto the footpath. Jostled by the busy rush of the lunchtime crowd, he looked around in an emotional daze at the busyness of the city. Dark suited men and women with phones pressed hard against their ears, young female office workers in short skirts and high heels, carrying shopping bags, giggling, calling out to each other, a group of tourists holding city maps upside down.

  ‘I’ll go to the morgue later,’ he thought to himself. Identifying his mother’s body wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He dodged a FedEx delivery van as he crossed Elizabeth Street against the traffic lights and headed towards the Botanical Gardens. The Gardens were usually packed at this time of day with crowds of office workers vying for the pick of the timber seats under the fig trees or else working up a sweat as they took to the bitumen paths and jogged around the Gardens’ perimeter. A red, miniature tourist train packed with elderly tourists and parents with young children passed in front of him as he crossed the narrow path towards a grassy knoll near the Oriental Gardens. He found a semi-secluded spot under the canopy of a large Port Jackson fig and stood for a moment surveying the scene in front of him before he sat down on the cool grass and loosened the knot of his tie. He removed his jacket, folded it and placed it down beside him. With his legs sprawled out in front of him and his elbows supporting his weight, he gazed out across at the harbour and focused his attention on a container ship heading towards The Heads.

  The Gardens were William’s favourite place, especially at a time like this, at a time when he needed to think.

  Chapter Six

  Jill Brennan’s business card sat in the middle of William Phillips’s desk. He dialed her direct line and was surprised when a gravelly male voice answered. ‘Could I speak with Senior Constable Brennan?’

  William didn’t have to wait long before her voice came onto the line.

  ‘Brennan speaking.’

  ‘Hello Senior Constable, this is William Phillips. You were in my office earlier today. I’m phoning about my mother, Rose Phillips.’

  ‘Yes, of course. How can I help Mr Phillips?’

  ‘I've just come from the morgue. The autopsy is scheduled for Monday and I’m keen to know when the results will be available. I know I should have asked them the details when I was there, maybe they even told me, but to be honest, I’m not really thinking very clearly at the moment.’

  ‘The Coroner usually takes about two or three days to make a determination. I’ll let you know the results when we receive the report, and Mr Phillips, I want to offer my personal condolences. I know it must have been a terrible shock for you this morning. You may want to contact the counselling service, they’ll be able to give you any information you might need. I’ve got their phone number here somewhere. If you want to hold on, I’ll get it for you.’ She flicked through the files on her desk and found the number she was looking for. When she was shown into William Phillips's office earlier that day, Jill Brennan had been overwhelmed by his good looks and the plush office environment in which she had found herself. When she spotted the Miró original hanging on the wall behind his desk, she was blown away. Brennan had enough art books to stock a small library in the small flat she rented in a trendy part of the city, everything from Cezanne to Picasso.

  The young Senior Constable was an intelligent thirty year old and her wide, infectious smile matched her outgoing personality. She toyed with the idea of becoming an art curator after she finished a Master’s Degree, majoring in Art History, at Sydney University, but spent two years working and travelling in Europe instead until she returned to Sydney, jobless. Disillusioned with the art world and looking for a complete change, a friend suggested the armed forces. She chose the police force instead because she was naive enough to think she could make a difference. At the top of her graduating year at the academy, her superiors were quick to notice her abilities and now after five years of general policing, she was ready to make a move into Criminal Investigations now that she had completed her training.

  William looked at the leather pen holder on his desk and picked out a black pen. ‘Thanks for the number, I'll give them a call.’ He scribbled the sequence of numbers on the back of her card and tried not to sound like a victim. William wasn't a criminal barrister and was way out of his comfort zone on this one. He’d been doodling absentmindedly on his writing pad, a messy habit he had when he was up against a difficult problem and had to find a solution, and quickly. He replaced the phone in its cradle and threw Jill Brennan’s card into the top drawer of his desk. The writing pad he had been scribbling on was stained with coffee mug rings and ink-smudged scribble. ‘Jill’ in light flowery letters stood out from the page. He lent back and balanced on his office chair with his hands behind his head. It was time to go home. It was a waste of time sitting at his desk expecting to do some work. The Bellamy case would have to wait.

  William drove his black S Class Mercedes into the basement of the Panorama Apartments and parked next to Suellyn’s Porsche in the second of the car spaces marked sixteen. The fluorescent lighting in the garage bounced off the concrete walls and before opening the driver’s door he reached into the backseat and grabbed his jacket and briefcase. The high pitched blip of the car alarm echoed through the car park and he noticed a small, white van which belonged to the building superintendent, parked near the entrance as he walked towards the lifts.

  It was late afternoon but early enough that most people were still at work. It was unusual for him to be home at this hour and as he checked his Rolex he wondered if Suellyn had gone for a walk as she usually did at this time of day or if she was at home now, pouring over some women’s magazine, thinking about what she would prepare for dinner or what restaurant they would eat out at if she was too tired to cook. William wasn’t looking forward to telling Suellyn about his mother. He knew she was emotionally unstable when he married her, ‘flighty’ was the word his friends had used to describe her, but she had her good points, though he couldn't quite remember what they were now after twelve years of marriage. He usually tr
ied to avoid situations that would have her flying into a fit of hysterics, but he didn’t have a choice now, he would have to tell her before she found out from someone else. The lift was taking its time and as he stood with his back against the wall with his hands in his pockets, he realised it wasn’t the first time that day, that he had wondered how his mother had died. He still couldn’t believe it. His body began to shake, his palms were hot and sweaty, beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip. Delayed shock, he guessed. It wasn’t surprising, it had been a shock, one hell of a shock, the news of his mother’s death was one thing, but having to identify her body, well that was something else altogether. Her decomposed body was concealed by a crisp white shroud and only her face was on show. He now understood why a dead person’s pallor was often described as ghostly. His mother’s face was ghostly all right, ghostly grey with a greenish tinge added for good measure, like powdery embers in a cold fireplace and with her saggy skin taking on the signs of decay, she had not been a pretty sight. The experience of observing a decomposed body had been one which he hoped he would never have to repeat.

  William’s thoughts turned to when he and his mother lived together at Dora Valentine’s boarding house, the days before Eden Street. His mother was an attractive, outgoing type of woman then, full of fun and brimming with life. She was the type of woman who never asked for help but was always there, ready to help others.

  She had always been in good health, at least she was the last time he saw her. But that was ten years ago. A lot can happen in a person’s life in ten years and Rose probably wouldn’t have told him if there was a problem with her health or if she had any other issues for that matter. Rose walked everywhere out of necessity because she had never learned to drive. With a bus at the front door and a train station a few blocks away, there had never been any need when she lived at Dora’s boarding house in the city. He knew from Suellyn that she walked to the shopping centre at least once a week to buy groceries, so he had assumed she must have been in reasonably good health.

  William regretted that he’d not gone to see her and resolve the business regarding his father. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes as he realised it was too late now for any explanations from his mother or forgiveness on his part. Pride and stubbornness had got in the way, as it always did in people’s lives. He wondered what she did to fill her days, wondered what her life had become without him. The glass paneled lift door opened abruptly onto the eighth floor. He inserted the key in the lock until it turned and clicked. Jumping Jack Flash from one of Suellyn’s Rolling Stones albums was pumping loudly and he realised, not for the first time, that Suellyn's taste in music was quite different from his own.

  The sliding doors to the terrace were wide open and a chilly but gentle sea breeze whistled around the apartment. The smell of coffee brewing tainted the air and the ocean shimmered like cut glass. A mob of surfers in wet suits bobbed up and down on their boards, waiting for the next set. They floated like champagne corks as they drifted towards the shore and William knew he would be joining them after he broke the news of Rose’s death to Suellyn.

  ‘Suellyn,’ he called out above the loud music.

  His wife walked out of the kitchen dressed in a pair of navy designer jeans and a white linen blouse tied up in a knot. Her honey coloured midriff was showing and her feet were cloaked in thick blue socks. A look of surprise swept across her face when she saw William standing in the lounge-room. Before he had a chance to say anything, she took a bite from the thick wholemeal sandwich she was holding in her hand. The sight of Dijon mustard on her cheek would have made him laugh under normal circumstances.

  ‘What are you doing home so early? Someone die?’ she asked with a full mouth.

  William collapsed onto the white leather lounge. He struggled with his tie for a moment then decided to remove his shoes instead. He threw his feet up on the leather ottoman with his black cotton socked feet spread out in front of him. ‘Get us both a drink will you,’ he said, ‘and turn that music off.’

  Suellyn put her sandwich down on the glass coffee table sensing that William had something important to tell her. She saw the tension etched across his face. He looked exhausted and she thought, not for the first time, that he was beginning to look his age. Suellyn poured them both a strong whisky and dropped in a few ice cubes from the bar fridge. She handed him a tumbler of the golden liquid and waited for him to speak.

  ‘It’s Rose,’ he paused then gulped down the Scotch until only a mouthful remained. ‘She’s dead.’

  Suellyn looked at him. A perfect ‘O’ suddenly formed on her lips. ‘Oh my God. What happened?’ She put the tumbler down on the coffee table next to her half-eaten sandwich and stared at William waiting for him to speak again.

  ‘They don’t know, she’s at the Glebe Morgue. I had to go and identify her body. She’s been dead for at least three days. Suellyn, she died all alone.’ Suellyn placed her hand over her mouth and for once, couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘The autopsy is scheduled for first thing Monday morning.’ William’s voice faltered.

  Suellyn swirled her whisky around in her glass with her finger and looked at William. His body slumped and disappeared into itself as he sat motionless, his head in his hands, elbows on his thighs.

  ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it did you, William?’

  William looked up at Suellyn, surprised and confused by her accusation. He rubbed his eyes with his fists.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

  Chapter Seven

  Kevin Taggart lived in a brick bungalow between his two neighbours, Ashleigh Taylor who led a busy life and Rose Phillips who led no life at all. A redundancy package offered by his employer had seduced the former insurance assessor into accepting an early retirement which allowed him to devote what was to be the remainder of his life to his passion, landscape painting. He painted watercolors mostly, because he liked the soft hews of peaceful landscapes - mountains, seashores and small boats lying on their sides, cast adrift on remote beaches somewhere in his imagination. He thought of himself as a talented artist even though he had never had an exhibition. When he didn’t win a prize at the local community art show earlier in the year, he was disappointed; disappointed that he’d not at least received a highly commended award. However, he was convinced that it was only a matter of time, before someone, somewhere, would recognise his talent.

  When Ashleigh Taylor moved into the neighbourhood, he was second in line behind the Blake sisters to introduce himself and welcome her to Eden Street. Kevin wasn’t sure what she did for a living, but he knew she worked long hours. When she left the house at odd hours of the night, he would listen to the moan of the garage door and the roar of the diesel engine of her Landcruiser as it turned over and reversed up the driveway. He waited for her to return. Sometimes it wasn’t until the early hours of the following morning when the sound of the roller door drifted across the side fence into his open bedroom window. Kevin didn’t mind the disruption, he didn’t sleep much anyway, he thought sleep was a waste of time, especially when he had so much on his mind and so much he had to achieve.

  He had looked at her with an artist’s eye. Ashleigh was not beautiful in the true sense of the word, but she was well proportioned, had an open face, long limbs and a trim, toned body. She had the milky white complexion of someone who spent too much time indoors. Her thick, wavy hair framed her face and was the colour of chestnuts. He liked the way she tucked it behind her ears, and the way it bobbed against her shoulders when she walked. But what struck Kevin mostly about Ashleigh Taylor, were her steely blue eyes. When he first looked into them, he recognised that they were the eyes of someone who had seen too much or had seen things, most people would not want to admit to seeing. With her expensive and conservative clothes and her confident manner, Kevin was puzzled by the fact that she was living alone in a modest house next to his. He wondered if she was a sex worker.

  *****

/>   Kevin had an excellent memory. He was not a religious man although he recited biblical verses to himself as he painted, when his mind was lucid and his body relaxed. He made a point when visiting the Blake sisters, to recite a verse to them and they appeared to enjoy his ‘pearls of wisdom’ as they called them. He had warned the Blake sisters and Rose Phillips many times, that their stubbornness and pride would lead to trouble one day.

  Kevin felt a strong sense of responsibility towards his elderly neighbours. He felt sorry for them, especially as they led such lonely and insignificant lives. With no family to speak of, he felt it was his duty to keep a watchful eye on them; he wanted to make sure they were coping with their lives and did his best to make them comfortable, just as he had done with Nora, his elderly mother.

  Kevin Taggart had not known his father, he was absent from his life from its very beginning. His mother was a proud woman who strongly believed in the will of God. A religious woman, her flat, cold, eyes looked out onto the world with a great deal of displeasure. She wore a perpetual scowl on her face. Hers was a life filled with disappointments, the biggest disappointment being her son, Kevin, and she had never missed an opportunity to tell him so.

  A personality disorder was suggested in hushed tones to Kevin by well-meaning people who tried to help him deal with his difficult mother. Kevin was with her, when in her eighty-first year, she suddenly died. He hoped for her sake that if there was such a place as the next life, that it would be a great deal more satisfactory to her than the one she had lived with him in Eden Street.