Judgement Day, page 23
‘We need those DNA results from the envelope ASAP,’ Jillian said to McClintock once seated at their own desks. ‘How’s this for a plan: you take them over yourself and work your charm with the lab, then check how Hastie’s going with Sharma’s phone records and the CCTV. I’ll do the paperwork to organise the DNA sample for Shanahan. Then I’ll have another chat to Christianne, just to be sure she isn’t a closet psychopath, and we’ll regroup in a few hours.’
McClintock nodded. ‘I’m on it.’
Jillian completed the Shanahan paperwork quickly then called Christianne, who didn’t pick up. After leaving a voicemail she searched for her social media pages. Like most people in her age range, the associate seemed to have given up on Facebook but maintained Instagram enthusiastically. A photo of her university graduation showed her with the young man who had accompanied her to Kaye Bailey’s funeral, standing hand in hand in front of the University of Melbourne’s Wilson Hall. The Christianne of old had fuller cheeks and vibrant skin, a pretty face. In other photos, too, taken at weddings, birthday parties, a baby’s christening, she looked much healthier. She had not posted anything new since a week before Judge Bailey died. Jillian looked at her list of followers. Most of Christianne’s friends seemed to be people of her own age, although she also recognised a few colleagues from the courts including Angela, Tomir and Matthew. Finding nothing interesting or surprising, Jillian sighed and closed the search window.
She then phoned Angela Hui, who sounded flustered when she answered.
‘I was wondering whether Christianne was in? I’m keen to have a quick chat to her.’
‘She’s back tomorrow but Grant’s put her on light duties,’ Angela said. ‘Honestly, I don’t think she should come back, she’s a nervous wreck. But at the moment he’s lent her out to Saul Meyers. She’ll be over at his house tomorrow to pack up an awful lot of files he’d taken home. She’ll bring them back to the court. I think this is Grant’s way of keeping her distracted without the stress.’
Jillian took down Meyers’ address and rang off.
The following morning, Jillian pulled up outside Saul Meyers’ home.
The recently retired chief judge lived in a single-storey, double-fronted Victorian red brick in Kew, exactly the type of house Jillian expected. Unlike Kaye Bailey and Grant Phillips, Saul Meyers apparently did not hold concerns for his personal safety: his front fence was low and there was no security gate with intercom. The house was proudly visible from the footpath and Jillian could see a baby grand piano through a window unencumbered by blinds.
She wondered whether Saul Meyers might come to regret his casual approach in the event that Brian Shanahan was the culprit, as surely Meyers, ‘the human bagpipe’, was next on the list.
It was his wife, Pamela Meyers, who answered the door, her blank face notable for a total lack of curiosity. ‘Saul and the girl are just in the garage,’ she said, unperturbed by the presence of a detective. ‘They should be back any minute. You’re welcome to wait if you want to.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Jillian said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m just sitting in here,’ Pamela said, ushering Jillian through to the room with the baby grand piano. They sat together at a round table on which a number of brochures for cruises and a notebook and pen were placed.
‘Sorry about the clutter,’ said Pamela, but making no effort to move it. ‘Just sorting out Saul’s retirement present while he’s busy.’ Jillian looked at the brochures. The cruise packages had titles like ‘Caribbean Dreams’ and ‘Island Paradise’. ‘Starting at $30,000 pp’ boasted a brochure for something called ‘Tropicana Sunset’.
How could a man like this possibly make judgements about ordinary people?
‘Where are you thinking of going?’ Jillian asked, to make small talk.
‘This one comes recommended,’ Pamela said, taking up a brochure. ‘Fiji, Vanuatu, New Caledonia. We’ve never really done an island holiday before. Saul always wants to go to Europe.’ She tenderly replaced the brochure on the table.
‘Ah,’ Jillian said lamely.
Where are those two?
‘Do you play?’ she asked, looking at the piano.
‘I did, years ago,’ Pamela said, not particularly interested in Jillian’s presence. ‘But not for a long time. Our granddaughter has just started, which is why we bought this.’
Best to be prepared, in case she becomes a concert pianist.
Jillian noted that Pamela Meyers had the strange practice of completing a sentence and falling silent. In Jillian’s experience, most people, regardless of whether they were suspects, victims, witnesses or altogether unrelated to an investigation, assumed a certain jitteriness in the presence of police. They became nervous or shifty or overly accommodating or even hysterical, depending on the circumstances, but they rarely remained wholly unmoved.
Is she really that disinterested? Is that why Saul Meyers married her?
‘Did you know Judge Bailey at all?’ she asked. And to her surprise, Pamela Meyers’ face immediately darkened.
‘That woman,’ she said, leaning forward slightly, ‘was a bully.’
‘In what way a bully?’
‘She was always on at Saul about something or other, trying to get him to change this or that, make this a policy, fire that person. At one stage she actually threatened to report him to the attorney-general, can you believe that? She was one of those nasty fighting women, you know the type? Always busy interfering, and whenever something doesn’t work out they say it’s because of gender, that men don’t take women seriously. She said that about Saul.’ Pamela straightened in her chair. ‘Saul doesn’t have a sexist bone in his body.’
‘Do you know why Judge Bailey told your husband she was going to report him to the attorney-general?’
‘I can’t remember exactly, but it was to do with some policy she wanted to see adopted that Saul didn’t agree with. She was just a killjoy. She didn’t like any of them relaxing, having a drink, making a joke. It was so silly, she pretended she wanted to make things at the court better for the staff, but really she just wanted him gone, that was what it was about.’
‘Do you know if the attorney-general ever got involved?’
‘I don’t know for sure. You’d have to ask Saul. All I know is he was very upset, said she was trying to make things awkward for him.’
‘So you’re not –’ Jillian began, but Pamela Meyers was on a roll.
‘She did it to Ginny too, you know?’ Her voice had become higher and more urgent. ‘Had a go at her, accused her of having a conflict of interest. I remember we had dinner with her and her husband that weekend, the one before Saul’s party, and Saul and Ginny were both beside themselves about the trouble she was causing. Saul said it was all ridiculous.’
‘What was the conflict of interest, do you know?’
‘I just can’t remember. But Ginny was very upset.’
‘And you don’t remember what Judge Bailey might have been trying to get your husband to agree to?’
‘No, I can’t, it wasn’t very interesting. But she was nasty. She started rumours about people, wanted to bring down those who might have wanted to be chief judge, didn’t care about anyone else’s reputation or family.’
‘You weren’t at the retirement party, were you?’
‘No, our youngest is pregnant and sick so I was helping her. Lucky too. If I’d been there I’d have had a thing or two to say . . .’
Jillian heard the front door opening and Saul Meyers’ rich baritone.
‘Someone’s parked right out the front!’ he boomed to his wife from the hallway. ‘Don’t recognise the car, it’s no one on the street. I’m going to write to the council, it should be permits only.’
Meyers poked his head around the door to seek his wife’s agreement, and saw Jillian.
‘What are you doing here?’ He looked from Jillian to his wife, whose face had regained its blank composure.
‘I needed to have a quick chat to Christianne,’ Jillian said lightly. ‘Thought it might be easier to grab her here.’ She smiled at the associate. ‘Can we have a word out the front?’
‘Has something else happened?’ Christianne asked anxiously once they were away from the house.
‘No, I just wanted to check a few things with you. To do with the security breaches last year. Can you tell me how the theft of Kaye’s wallet happened?’
Christianne blushed deeply. ‘It was so embarrassing. We had an interim defended hearing in court, but the parties had gone away to see if they could settle it between themselves. I usually wait in court and work from the courtroom computer when that’s happening. Kaye asked me to go and see how things were going while she went to the bathroom and I knew that the barristers had gone down to the registry to look at the subpoenas so I went there. I was only gone for a few minutes, but I’d taken my lanyard off and that must be when he came in. Once we discovered that Kaye’s wallet had been stolen I offered to resign, but she wouldn’t let me.’
She looked as distressed as if it had happened that very morning.
No duplicity here, I’d say.
‘What about the other security breach?’
‘Mastromonica – she was scary. We were in the duty list. There were lots of people in court. I got out of my seat for a minute because a barrister wanted to hand me something and they’re not allowed to approach the bench. She just threw herself forwards. We adjourned, called Tomir. It was over quickly at least. Kaye was furious afterwards. Not with me,’ she added quickly, ‘with him.’ Christianne nodded towards the house. ‘And Tomir. She told me she’d asked for security to sit in for that list because Mastromonica had made trouble before and the CJ and Tomir told her just to use the panic button.’
As if on cue, Saul Meyers came out of the house. He placed a large cardboard box in the back of the silver SUV parked in the driveway. ‘When you’re ready, Christianne,’ he called pointedly.
‘I’d actually like a quick word with you too,’ Jillian said, turning to him.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘just not right now. You can see I’m busy.’
‘I’d like to talk to you about the conflict of interest involving Virginia Maiden,’ Jillian said loudly.
Christianne looked from the detective to the judge, clearly surprised. ‘Conflict of interest?’ she repeated quietly.
Saul Meyers had turned deep red and looked as though he wanted to hit Jillian. She was aware that she was about to land Pamela Meyers in trouble.
‘Really?’ said the former judge, drawing himself up. ‘Well, I’d like you to fuck off.’
When Jillian arrived at St Kilda Road, Des immediately beckoned her into his office with a single raised finger. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, ‘and tell me what the fuck happened between you and the chief judge.’
‘Nothing happened, he just got stroppy when I challenged him. He and Judge Maiden are hiding something that I think is significant. I don’t know what it is, but I asked him about it.’
‘Well unluckily for you, he and the Chief Commissioner went to school together. Guess who just rang me up spitting chips.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Why didn’t you take McClintock with you?’
This caught her off guard. She would have thought that of anyone, Des would understand why she might have chosen to go alone. ‘I was just chasing something up. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I wasn’t even intending to talk to Meyers, the associate just happened to be with him so that’s where I went.’
Des frowned. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘You seem a bit more wired than usual. This isn’t the Jilly I know. You’re the people whisperer. McClintock’s the one who pisses people off.’
‘I think he only pisses you and me off.’
‘Back to my question though, are you okay? Do you need to take a step back for a bit longer, spend some more time at home?’
‘No!’ Her reaction was too loud.
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And how’s Aaron?’
‘Fine.’
‘The little one?’
‘Also fine.’
‘Well good,’ he said, although she could tell he didn’t believe her. ‘Look, can you take the rest of the day, just so I can tell the big boss I’ve done something about the situation. I’ve told him you’re a bloody good officer but I need to make a token gesture.’
‘Fine.’
‘That’s the way.’
Chapter 29
Jillian was halfway through a very old and particularly expensive bottle of grenache that she and Aaron had received as a wedding present when her phone rang. She leapt from the couch and tipsily ransacked various surfaces. She had sent Aaron five messages during the course of the day, none of which he’d responded to.
But when she located the phone it was not Aaron, but her mother.
Ugh.
‘You good, honey?’ Marion Basset asked in her familiar, slightly high-pitched warbling voice.
Immediately, Jillian’s mind turned to excuses for ending the call. She would say she was tired, she’d call back tomorrow. But even as she thought this, she found herself saying, ‘Fine. How are you?’
‘I’m good, darl. Although my hip’s playing up again and I’ve been a bit flat. Alice reckons I might have seasonal affective disorder.’
Alice was her mother’s best friend and enabler-in-chief. The two of them would sit together on Marion’s front porch day-drinking, smoking joints and encouraging each other in elaborate conspiracy theories, far-fetched health diagnoses and fits of hysteria. Every time Jillian visited her mother, she wondered how the neighbours coped with the sound of two drunk, dope-smoking old hippies bitching and whining from midday to long after midnight. As far as Jillian could make out, they did this at least four times a week.
‘That’s no good.’ She returned to the couch and her bottle of wine, and began flicking between television stations for something to distract her from her mother’s voice, which had a Pavlovian effect on Jillian’s central nervous system. Her mother had always had that skill. No matter what might have been happening in Jillian’s life, a telephone call with Marion was guaranteed to push all other sources of stress to the periphery. It wasn’t the conversations in themselves that pained her so much as the way they reminded Jillian of the things she liked least about herself.
It’s her fault you’re a bad mum. You didn’t have anyone to learn from.
On the one hand, the thought was comforting. It absolved her of any responsibility, placed the blame squarely at the feet of a woman who had often waxed lyrical about her hatred of parenthood. But the thought also depressed her. Was it really the case that Jillian’s experience of being mothered destined her for failure as a mother? The optimist in her wanted to believe that this was not so, that with each generation there was an opportunity to right the wrongs of the previous. The pessimist in her thought that while generational change might be possible, she herself was probably not the right woman to prove the theory.
After all, you’ve already blown it, haven’t you?
Marion had just begun an anecdote about volunteering for a local community organisation, and the ‘unreasonable’ and ‘stuck-up’ manager she’d clashed with there, when Jillian’s phone beeped with a message from Aaron.
‘Mum, I’ve got to go, sorry. Something urgent has just come through from work.’
‘It’s always urgent with your work,’ Marion said reproachfully, but she did not protest as Jillian ended the conversation.
I’m basically just free therapy for her anyway.
She opened the text message.
Sorry, not ignoring you, phone buggered. Will sort it out first thing. Talk tomorrow.
A second later there was another beep.
Ollie’s fine, by the way.
Jillian sighed. She felt exhausted and confused. She emailed her psychologist, not with the intention of actually booking a new appointment, but so that she could tell Aaron she had made some effort.
Have emailed psych, she texted.
And when he did not immediately respond she wrote, I’m glad Ollie is okay.
To force away thoughts of Aaron and Ollie and their imminent family breakdown, she flicked onto a reality TV show and turned the volume up. A young man with a substantial facial injury was talking earnestly into the camera while his mother sat next to him, her arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders. ‘It would just be nice to be able to go out and not have the first thing people ask me be “What happened?”’ the boy was saying, tears welling. ‘It would be nice to have a girlfriend one day.’
His mother began to cry too. ‘That’s why we’re so grateful,’ she said to whoever was interviewing her off screen, ‘to get this type of treatment done. The waiting list was astronomical and we don’t have private health insurance or any savings, so we feel so thankful to Dr Sharma.’
Sharma!
Jillian sat up, all her attention on the program. Rahul Sharma was now freshly shaven and had a thick layer of stage make-up on. He spoke in a calming voice to the young patient and his mother about the risks of the surgery and the exact process the operation would follow. His bedside manner was indeed remarkable, a gentle soothing that instilled absolute confidence.
The scene changed to the young man being wheeled into an operating theatre, and an anaesthetic being administered. Then Dr Sharma began the surgery.
Jillian watched intently. The procedure was being done not, as she had assumed, at one of the large Melbourne hospitals, but at the Australasian Centre for Cosmetic and Restorative Medicine, whose branding featured prominently in several shots. Googling the centre, Jillian learned that it was Rahul’s own business, and that it had thirteen hospitals in Australia and South-East Asia. The company had recently made an initial public offering.
