Judgement Day, page 10
‘I’ll get it,’ her father said, pushing his chair back and locating a kitchenette hidden behind a cupboard door. ‘You talk.’
‘We’ve always been very close, so close,’ Ama said as her father returned to the table and placed glasses and a jug of water in front of them. ‘Dad moved to Singapore after he and Mum broke up, so it’s been Mum and me since, like, high school. This semester in the UK was going to be the longest we’d ever spent away from each other. She said it would be good for me, but I knew she didn’t really want me to go, didn’t want to be apart from me.’
‘What are you studying?’ Jillian asked.
‘Law. Like Mum. I want to get into politics. Mum was always saying if you want to change the system you need to know the rule book the system uses first. Sorry, I’m babbling, I know.’
‘She must have been extremely proud of you,’ McClintock said gently.
‘She was. She really was. It was embarrassing, actually. Everyone we met, it was like, “This is Ama, she’s going to change the world.”’ Ama sniffed.
Bruce Singh reached for his daughter’s hand. His eyes too looked raw.
Jillian offered condolences on behalf of the police and gave a basic overview of the circumstances in which the judge had been found, what the detectives had done so far and what they still needed to do, and the information they were waiting on. ‘We want to be clear that at this stage there’s no one person we’re particularly pursuing. For the moment we’re casting a very broad net. We’re going to ask you some questions that might seem a bit odd. Please don’t read too much into them. Alright?’
Ama took a deep breath. ‘Alright,’ she promised.
‘Yes,’ Bruce Singh agreed.
Before Jillian could put her first question, McClintock asked Ama, ‘What can you tell us about your mother’s relationship with Chief Judge Meyers?’
Ama made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cry. ‘Well, she didn’t like him, that’s for sure. She thought he was pretty useless, lazy. She told me he didn’t like to do anything inconvenient. I remember her saying that. He definitely stressed her out a lot. She reckoned he came in just before ten every morning and left as soon as court was done, whereas sometimes Mum wouldn’t be home until after midnight.’ She took a sip of water. ‘Also,’ indignation became clear in her voice, ‘he didn’t protect her. I remember last year she was getting some pretty awful emails or something. She was really upset and he basically told her to suck it up. That’s why we moved to the new place, in December. After Smokey went missing, Mum said we were done.’
‘Smokey?’
‘Our cat. It really freaked her out. I mean, it was probably nothing, he was really old and he’d been sick and I remember thinking she was overreacting. I guess I didn’t realise quite how serious it was.’ Ama shivered.
‘So you’re saying you moved here because of the threats your mother was getting? And she thought someone might have hurt your cat?’
‘Yeah. Initially she got CCTV put in at our old place but we were always forgetting to turn it on and off and, yeah, with Smokey gone . . . So we moved to the new apartment. Quieter area, good security, neighbours who are always around, that type of thing.’
‘And your mum had those new windows and locks put in?’
‘Yeah,’ Ama agreed, ‘before we even moved in. It was a big deal, getting those windows, because of the heritage overlay or something. She spent a fortune.’
‘Did she ever say who she thought was responsible for the threats?’ McClintock asked.
‘Not that I can remember, but I’m sure it would have been someone who didn’t like a decision she’d made.’
‘Did she ever mention a man called Brian Shanahan?’ said Jillian.
Ama nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I remember that name. She said if a man called Brian ever called me or, like, added me on Facebook or anything, I had to tell her straightaway.’
Jillian and McClintock exchanged looks.
‘And did that ever happen? Did he ever try to make contact with you?’
‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘And did she mention an incident last year when it was discovered that a litigant had entered the secure area of the court?’
‘No. Not to me.’
‘Was there anyone your mother confided in?’ McClintock asked. ‘Close friends? A psychologist? Family members? Michael?’
‘She told me about that incident,’ Bruce Singh said. ‘Her wallet was stolen, she had to cancel all her cards. We still have a joint account we top up for Ama. I was the one who told her she should move, because he’d know her address from her licence.’
Ama looked aghast. ‘One of you should have told me!’
‘Your mother didn’t want you worrying or deciding not to go to London,’ Bruce said gently.
‘But I could have been here . . .’ Ama began to cry anew.
‘Were her stolen credit cards ever used?’ Jillian asked.
‘Not that I’m aware. And the joint account was never accessed.’
‘What can you tell us about your mother’s relationship with Michael?’ Jillian asked Ama.
‘Oh, he’s nice, bit eccentric but in a fun way. They go to dinner, listen to jazz, that type of thing. They’ve been seeing each other for a year or so, but, like, only when they have time. He travels to Sydney a bit and of course Mum’s hours are crazy.’
‘Did you have the impression they were serious?’
Ama laughed even as fresh tears began to stream down her face. ‘No! I mean, it wasn’t something I talked about with her but he never stayed over here or anything. They would just go to things together, sometimes take a trip. I think it was mainly good companionship.’
Bruce said, ‘I think Michael had been sweet on Kaye for years. She always had her fans. Grant Phillips was really struck with her too, although he’d never leave his wife.’
‘Grant, ew!’ Ama threw her father a disgusted look. ‘Really?’
‘You know the Phillipses then?’ McClintock asked Bruce.
‘Sure, Kaye and Grant met soon after she started practising. He was at our wedding if I recall correctly. His wife too.’
‘She’s weird,’ Ama said. ‘She gives me the creeps.’ Ama seemed suddenly to remember something. ‘The account! I meant to tell you straightaway. I have access to Mum’s bank account, like, just in case. I checked it at the airport and there was something strange. Mum transferred forty thousand dollars out of the account the day that she . . . that it happened.’
‘Forty thousand dollars?’ Jillian repeated incredulously.
‘Yes, here, I’ll show you.’
Ama produced her phone and opened an internet banking app. She pushed the phone across the table. ‘There, see,’ she said, pointing at the screen.
Jillian looked at the transfer. There was a long reference number and a BSB. She clicked on the transaction details. ‘FarrugiaPerriam Trust Account.’
‘I should have done that,’ Ama said. ‘But who are they?’
‘They’re a Sydney-based law firm,’ McClintock said, after a moment of searching on his own phone. ‘Specialising in family law and employment law. So your mum never mentioned getting a lawyer?’
‘No.’ Ama shook her head emphatically.
‘Not to me either,’ confirmed Bruce.
‘What if, ’ Ama said suddenly, ‘what if she was trying to get work to do something about her safety? What if she was going to sue the court or something? Can we find out?’
‘We’ll contact them as soon as possible,’ Jillian said. ‘Best that you leave that to us.’ She did not want the grief-stricken family finding out potentially significant information before she did. ‘Back to Harriet Phillips – you say she gave you the creeps, why was that?’
‘Oh, I’m probably being a bit nasty. She’s just always so awkward, won’t make eye contact with me. I think Mum found her hard work too. I never understood what Grant saw in her.’
‘We found a note in your mum’s jacket that indicates she might have been thinking about resigning. Did she ever mention that to either of you?’
‘Mum would never resign!’ Ama insisted, red spots appearing on either cheek. ‘It was her dream to get appointed.’
‘She never said anything about that to me either,’ Bruce agreed.
‘Do the initials JE mean anything to either of you?’ Jillian asked, thinking of the note in the dead judge’s pocket. ‘Or the name Kim?’
They stared at her blankly.
Ama’s phone, sitting in front of her on the table, began to rattle as a call came in. She silenced it before showing the screen to Jillian. ‘That’s me and Mum at my high school graduation,’ she said. The picture showed a smiling Ama of seventeen or so with her mother, both of them dressed elegantly, their arms around each other in a show of deepest pride and affection. Ama began to cry again and Bruce edged his seat closer to his daughter, wrapping her in a one-armed embrace.
Jillian looked away. She found this type of grief the hardest thing to deal with in a murder case. The grief you witnessed immediately following a death was a different beast from the grief at a funeral. At funerals there was a plan, an understanding of roles and responsibilities, an order of proceedings. In relatives who’d just been informed that a loved one had died there was just raw shock and pain, manifested in unpredictable but intimate ways.
She let Ama and her father have a moment, her attention turning back to the picture Ama had shown her. This was the type of love that only existed between children and their parents. Jillian’s whole body ached with envy.
I want that.
Or at least I want to want that.
Chapter 11
The sky was clear and dark when McClintock and Jillian left the hotel. Despite herself, Jillian yawned. ‘Look, I don’t want to piss you off or anything,’ Mick said, ‘but you could head off when we get back to the office. We’re not getting out to see anyone else today so it’s just going to be phone calls and chasing up phone data.’
‘Nah, I’m good.’
They got into the car, their doors slamming in unison.
‘Is your hubby going back to work? Or he going to do the dad duties long-term?’
‘I’m not sure, actually,’ Jillian said. This was true. She and Aaron had not discussed long-term arrangements, or, she was ashamed to admit, what his professional desires might be. He had taken extended leave to assist in caring for Ollie and she had responded by booking in her return to work.
‘You missing him?’
‘No,’ Jillian said, mildly surprised. ‘We’ve been together for a long time. It takes a while to miss him these days.’
‘I meant your baby.’
‘Oh. Sure. I mean, of course.’
But not really.
To avoid further discussion, she phoned the law firm that Judge Bailey had transferred forty thousand dollars to again, even though she knew no one would answer her call at that hour. She left a second voicemail message.
‘Probably won’t get back to us until Monday,’ McClintock said.
‘The timing’s a bit much, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Transferring that type of cash to a law firm the same day you get promoted and killed. Her suing the court does seem like a real possibility. And you can understand why she might engage a firm up in Sydney if she was worried about gossip.’
‘Maybe Meyers got wind that she was going to escalate things?’ McClintock suggested.
The office was quiet by the time they returned. Jillian turned her computer on and conducted a brief search for any unhealthy snacks she may have hidden in her desk in those last days before maternity leave. Nothing. She remembered the box of fundraiser chocolates in the kitchen that she had promised herself she would not buy.
She bought two, put one in her pocket and ate the other as she returned to her desk. Her phone was flashing ominously and she realised when she picked it up that it hadn’t been diverting to her mobile all day. There were seventeen messages.
The first was confirming that the phone data on Michael O’Neil’s movements the night of the murder would be emailed to her that afternoon. She took the second chocolate bar out of her pocket and began to eat as she listened to the second message, from forensics, a third from Virginia Maiden’s husband saying she was too distressed to talk, and a fourth and fifth from unknown numbers, each offering only silence.
‘Did you just eat two chocolate bars?’ McClintock demanded from his adjacent desk.
‘I was hungry,’ she said defensively, caught off guard.
‘Well, don’t eat that shit. Here.’ He held out two Tupperware containers he’d produced from his drawer. ‘Protein balls and cashews.’
Of course he has fucking protein and nuts.
She took some with a grunted thank you as she continued to note down numbers.
‘Oh fuck off,’ McClintock said to his own phone. ‘That bloody security guy is messing with me.’
‘We can go and see him tomorrow,’ she said.
‘I’ve got the post-mortem first thing.’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘Yeah, I was surprised, they’re squeezing it in as a favour.’
Of course they are.
Attending post-mortems was not strictly necessary. Some detectives considered it a matter of respect, attending to confirm exactly what the victim had experienced, acknowledging both their dreadful passing and their humanity. Jillian took a more practical position – the best way to ensure she gave a victim due respect was to find the person responsible for their death as soon as possible.
‘You expecting any surprises?’ she asked, wondering whether McClintock’s desire to attend was based on respect or an expectation that he would be first to receive some spectacular clue.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Strangled, right. But I want to be there.’
Ah, so this is about putting in face time with the forensic pathologist?
She turned to her emails, one ear still pressed to her phone. Michael O’Neil’s phone data had come in. ‘Emailing you something,’ she told McClintock once she’d read it through. ‘O’Neil pinged near the court at eleven-thirty Wednesday night. I’m pretty sure that’s just the nearest phone tower for his chambers, but still, interesting.’
‘Huh.’ McClintock didn’t sound particularly interested. ‘We should get Shanahan’s too. I’ll do it.’ He got up and stretched, a whole-body stretch that seemed overdone, and came with much exhalation.
‘You right there?’ she couldn’t help saying.
‘Just got a dodgy hammy.’
He returned to his seat where he phoned the cab company, putting the phone on speaker so that hold music assaulted her ears.
Jillian gave up trying to listen to her voicemails, thinking she’d try again when he left. Checking her mobile, she saw that Aaron had sent her five text messages, primarily pictures of Ollie over the course of the day.
Very cute, she replied. Another few hours for me. Don’t wait up. Love you.
‘Right, see you tomorrow,’ McClintock said after another fifteen minutes of waiting on hold. ‘May as well do this from home.’
She returned to her voicemail messages. ‘Hello, this is Lisa Nettle,’ said a woman’s voice, nervous and insistent.
Lisa Nettle!
‘I have some information about the murder of the judge. It’s just, well, I’m sure, one hundred per cent sure, my husband is responsible. He’s a sociopath, he lies, and he hates her. He’s capable of it. I know you probably think I’m crazy but I’m not. You should look into him.’
Jillian dialled the number the woman had called from but it went straight to voicemail.
She thought back to Judge Bailey’s desk, the assortment of documentation, the psychiatric assessments she had read. She thought about the court security, and the likelihood of a celebrity surgeon somehow sneaking into chambers and killing the judge the day before his judgement was to be handed down. Kaye Bailey had been strangled and beaten, the work of someone who must have genuinely hated her, must have had an intensely personal and visceral reaction to her. Would a celebrity doctor risk everything to kill a judge before he even knew the results of his case?
Chapter 12
Jillian woke in the morning to the sounds of Aaron noisily making coffee. ‘Make one for me?’ she called out as she searched for further work clothes.
‘You starting early again?’ Aaron said when she came into the kitchen, tying her hair back. ‘I was going to bring you brekky in bed, Ollie’s still out to it.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said, ‘today’s gonna be big.’ This wasn’t strictly true but the idea of waiting around at home, potentially doing nothing, was intolerable. In the real world she could be productive, could contribute. ‘Can I have that in a keep cup?’
‘It’s Saturday,’ Aaron protested.
‘I know. I’ll try and be home early.’
‘Just remember we’ve got dinner tonight,’ he said as he poured her coffee and kissed her goodbye.
‘I’ll be there,’ she said, trying to remember who they were meant to be seeing.
‘And remember you’ve got Ursula booked in for Monday, tell Des before you forget.’
Ursula was the psychologist Jillian had been meant to engage with. She was a nice enough woman, brisk and maternal and with a deep voice and a no-nonsense insistence on accountability, but Jillian detested what she represented.
‘Alright,’ she said, knowing that she had no intention of following through.
There were very few people in the office. Jillian had asked Ama if she knew her mother’s phone passcode and been provided with two different options. ‘It should either be my full birthday or just the days and months.’ However when she tried one and then the other, neither worked. ‘Damn.’ She put the phone in an envelope, labelled it and shot an advanced warning email to the team who would be responsible for trying to unlock it. ‘Extremely urgent’ was the heading.
