Judgement Day, page 3
‘Do us a favour and make sure you solve it before Mick gets back from wherever he’s gone,’ Des was saying.
‘Nothing would make me happier.’ She tried and failed to wedge herself into the cupboard, wondering if the killer might have hidden there. ‘Maybe a skinnier person?’ she said aloud.
‘What was that, love?’
‘Nothing.’
Something small and metallic flashed in the bottom right corner of the cupboard. She bent down but the space was deceptively deep and she couldn’t reach it without squeezing her shoulders through the door. ‘Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker phone, just checking something,’ she said. Getting down on hands and knees she tried various positions, finally manoeuvring herself into a yoga pose, backside high in the air and right arm reaching as far into the cupboard as it could go.
‘Anyway,’ Des continued, oblivious to her contortions, ‘there are plenty of nutters with a grudge against family law. That’s basically how Pauline Hanson got back into the senate. You know they only arrested Warwick recently? Fucking crazy.’
She laughed. ‘Well, if it’s another crazy, Mick will be happy. He’ll get his face all over the telly.’ Her finger finally connected with the mystery object.
‘You and I know it. Alright, talk to you later.’
‘Bye.’ The object, whatever it was, was stuck. Jillian reached in with both hands, her body at an even more undignified angle, and grunted as she pulled with all her might.
‘It’s just a loose screw.’
She bumped her head on the side of the cupboard in her hurry to turn around. There was McClintock, all six foot three of him, trying to suppress a laugh. ‘Des mentioned you’d be coming in,’ he said.
Chapter 2
Sergeant John McClintock had a winning smile that cracked slightly at the edges. Referred to as Mick by everyone aside from Des, he had begun the detective training program at the same time as Jillian. In their first encounters he had struck her as a jock, blokey, one of the guys. His plain clothes were always meticulously fitted and emphasised his superior physique and height. He kept his sunglasses tucked into the neck of his white shirt and anyone who spoke to him was greeted by that smile and a hand to his hair. That had been enough to earn Jillian’s ire. She was deeply suspicious of charming men.
It was even worse that he was sporty. Mick was a mad Essendon supporter and would talk about their woeful season with good humour to anyone and everyone. But he knew just as much about every other type of sport and seemed to follow them all with as much intensity – Premier League, rugby, tennis, snooker . . . He cycled every morning, played in a futsal team with a bunch of other cops, and did weights sessions in the gym at the end of each day. The only people who had time to do that were single men, Jillian thought contemptuously.
The other men in the training program gravitated towards him, became a little too loud, a little too boisterous as they vied for his attention. The women noticed him from a more sedate distance, waiting to be acknowledged. In the formal lectures McClintock would answer questions easily, leaning back in his seat with one arm stretched around the back of the chair next to him, occupied or not. ‘Oh to pick the right seat,’ one woman had said to Jillian after a lecture.
Jillian thought that the way McClintock sat was indicative of a flawed personality. He was too comfortable with himself, with his right to occupy space in the world. It reeked of male entitlement. Really, it was just another version of manspreading, but because he was handsome people didn’t mind.
She had picked him for a coaster, someone who had realised early in life that they could rely on their physicality, their presence and their charm to get by, and they were just fine with that. Finding out that he was bright too had come as a nasty shock.
After training, Jillian had moved to Des’s crew at Homicide and McClintock had done a stint in Vice and a secondment at the Australian Federal Police. She thought that would be the last she saw of him – no one ever returned from a secondment to a better equipped, better funded area – and yet there he was, two years later, in the lift, a head taller than everyone else and shaking hands and high-fiving like a celebrity.
He had moved onto her team while she was on maternity leave, backfilling her position as acting senior sergeant, something Des had complained about on a visit to her in hospital. Des was one of the few higher-ups impervious to McClintock’s magnetism. ‘I’m not interested in Mr Hair using us to charm his way up to the big boys,’ Des had snarled. This was one of the things she liked most about Des: his assessment and appreciation of character.
‘How you been, mate?’ McClintock asked now, from the doorway of Judge Bailey’s office. ‘How’s the baby?’
At detective training there had been a joke among the girls that you could tell if you had a shot with Mick by whether or not he called you mate.
Clearly I’m still out of the running.
‘Baby’s good. I’m good too,’ she lied.
Did he hear Des and me bitching about him?
‘You’re looking well rested,’ he said, still smiling down, running a hand through that hair. ‘Wouldn’t guess you’d just had a kid.’ His height loomed over her, making her very aware of her physical vulnerabilities. She instinctively took a step backwards, but she found herself momentarily thawing under his flattery. What she wanted, in her most private thoughts, was for no one to be aware that she’d even had a child.
‘She must be a good sleeper?’ McClintock continued.
‘I had a boy.’
‘Ah. My mistake.’ His face remained impassively polite.
Give me a hint. Did you hear us bitching?
‘Look, about what I –’ she began, but he interrupted quickly.
‘Yeah, I had a poke around in that cupboard too,’ he said, peering into it. ‘I saw that screw, got excited. Don’t know what I thought it was but it seemed interesting.’ He gave a stretch and rotated his shoulders. ‘She was strangled, awful way to go.’ He shook his head in overplayed sadness and any thawing of her attitude towards him disappeared. ‘Anyway, the ambos have finished with the girl who found her. She passed out just when I arrived but apparently she’s good to chat with us now. Shall we?’
‘Sure.’
They both moved towards the door at the same time and Jillian sensed a single beat in which he considered whether or not to let her leave the room first, before chivalrously standing to the side.
As though to compensate, he walked half a step in front of her on their way back up the corridor. They passed Meg who was in close conversation with another member of crime services, her gloved hands orbiting her huge belly. She winked at Jillian.
The doors she had walked past on her way in were now closed – presumably to protect the judge’s employees from the sight of their boss being wheeled out on a stretcher. McClintock raised his hand to knock on the door where the female associate was when the sound of raised voices, two younger and insistent, one older and demanding, began at the internal liftwell further down the corridor. Jillian saw two uniformed officers, one of whom she recognised as the man who had escorted her upstairs, attempting to prevent another man from exiting the lift. ‘I require the officer in charge,’ the older man said, trying to manoeuvre around the police. ‘I want to speak to him this instant. You there,’ he said, catching sight of McClintock behind the police. ‘What is going on? I demand you tell me what’s happening immediately or I’ll phone the attorney-general.’
‘Acting Senior Sergeant John McClintock,’ McClintock began. ‘I’m the officer in charge . . .’
Actually, I think that’s me, mate. Of course, he was acting in her role. Bet he doesn’t want to leave . . .
‘I’ve been trying to get into my chambers for over twenty minutes,’ the man said, not soothed by McClintock’s introduction, his mouth an indignant pout. ‘This is outrageous. We do extremely important work here, people depend on us. I mean, really, have you never heard of communication? I’m the chief judge, you’d think . . .’
‘You’re the chief judge?’ McClintock repeated.
‘Chief Judge Meyers,’ the shorter man spat.
Over the judge’s shoulder Jillian could see the open door of what looked like a conference room. She caught McClintock’s eye and gestured for the judge to be directed into that room. ‘Let’s go in here,’ she suggested with an apologetic smile. ‘So that we can tell you exactly what’s been going on.’
Jillian’s approach to witnesses had always been pragmatic. She was not the type to lean into the toughness that so many of her colleagues preferred – to shake recollections or incriminating information through threats or bullying. She preferred to assess the person she was talking to and assume the role she thought was most likely to produce results with the least verbal and physical resistance, whatever that might require of her. There was no vanity in policing, at least the way she did it.
His Honour Saul Meyers was directed to a table in the vacant room. He sat at its head with an air of stern dignity that was undermined by the boxes of empty wine bottles and bins of leftovers slumped against the kitchenette wall in the corner. It was clear that the room had recently hosted some type of function.
Meyers had a pug-dog face with glorious jowls that Jillian thought might have been exaggerated by tiredness and a tendency to breathe through his mouth. His hands, large and meaty, were clasped before him on the table as though in prayer. She could smell aftershave, a hint of hand soap, and on his breath old wine, coffee and sleep.
Jillian took a seat adjacent to the chief judge and gave him a smile. ‘I’m Jillian,’ she said, but did not offer him her hand or her rank. She sensed McClintock watching her curiously. ‘We appreciate your patience, Your Honour,’ she added, even though it was he who had somehow bluffed his way through the uniformed officers guarding the entrances to the court. ‘Obviously it’s an enormous privilege to be speaking to you.’ She stifled a feeling of sickness at her own obsequiousness – this was a man who needed to believe he owned whichever room he sat in.
‘Yes, well, of course, of course,’ Meyers said, softening immediately and directing his focus to her. ‘But really,’ he added, remembering himself, ‘I must be kept informed of what’s going on. This is my court, you know. There are judges, registrars, other people waiting to come into work. The wheels of justice need to turn.’
‘Kaye Bailey’s been found dead,’ McClintock said brusquely, sitting down with, Jillian thought, a slightly sulky look. ‘She was found early this morning by one of her associates. It appears she passed away several hours ago.’
The chief judge sat back in his seat, his pink cheeks losing some of their sheen. ‘Dead? Kaye? And last night you say? Oh goodness me.’ He unclasped his hands and ran one through his hair, drumming the table with the other. ‘How? What happened exactly?’
‘We’ve only been here slightly longer than you,’ Jillian said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll need to get Angela in, we need to figure out what to do. Without Kaye they’ll probably need me to stay on . . .’
‘Stay on?’ Jillian repeated blankly.
‘Kaye, she was my replacement. Announced it last night at the party.’ Meyers looked as though he might vomit.
‘So the party last night was for her? Is that what all of this was about?’ She gestured towards the celebratory debris around the room.
‘It was my retirement party,’ the judge said, looking slightly offended. ‘Good heavens, dead. I really must get Angela up here.’
‘Judge, if we could just obtain some information from you quickly first,’ said Jillian. ‘We know there are logistics to consider but you’re probably the most knowledgeable person we’ll talk to in this investigation. It would mean a great deal to have you give us some background.’ Jillian again sensed McClintock studying her, perhaps confused or even disgusted by her tone.
Honestly, why not just offer him a massage too?
Meyers seemed mollified. ‘What do you need to know?’ he asked.
‘We need a list of everyone who was at the party,’ Jillian said, producing her daybook. ‘Can you write the attendees down for us please? Full names.’
The chief judge took the pen she offered and began making notes in an elegant cursive that did not match his physical presence. When he was done he squinted as he perused his list before handing the book back to Jillian. There were twenty-two names. ‘That’s everyone, as far as I can recall, at least. We were expecting more but a number of judges were on circuit. I said to Ginny we should make it next week but she said –’
‘And what time did the party start?’ McClintock interrupted.
‘Oh, about five-thirty. I think everyone was there by sixish. We stuck around until . . .’ He paused, scratched his cheek. ‘Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure I remember exactly when we left. Before midnight, but, ah, well, anyway, it was a lovely night. Just tragic that it’s ended up like this. Everyone’s going to be so shocked. And of course, her family. I’ll –’
‘What can you tell us about her family?’ McClintock asked. Again, he sounded irritable, even aggressive.
Just annoyed that I’m taking the lead.
‘She has a daughter, not sure how old. Ange will know.’ He looked intently at his hands before returning Jillian’s gaze. ‘I think the ex-husband lives overseas somewhere but I’m not certain.’
‘Did she have a partner?’
‘Screwy – Michael O’Neil. He’s a barrister. Thought he might have turned up last night, actually. He was invited. But he didn’t show.’
‘Michael O’Neil?’ McClintock leaned forward. ‘Didn’t he do Archbishop Carrigan’s defence?’
Meyers nodded. ‘That would be him, although he doesn’t do crim anymore. He’s mainly family now, I believe. Carrigan’s what he’s famous for though, no doubt about it. They all said he wasn’t the same after that case, although Screwy’s whole life is a succession of tragedies. The man just attracts misery.’ He sighed. ‘I’d met Carrigan a few times over the years, sort of ran in similar circles, you know. Lovely bloke when I met him.’
A lovely, child-molesting bloke?
‘So this Screwy, he’s Kaye’s partner, and he didn’t attend the party even though he was expected?’ Jillian clarified.
‘That’s right. Probably wanted to avoid Ginny. Fair enough, I would too if I was him.’
‘Ginny?’
‘Judge Virginia Maiden. She and Screwy aren’t on the best of terms.’
‘How did Kaye seem at the party? Did you get the impression she was worried about anything? That anything was bothering her?’
‘She was her usual self,’ Meyers said with a small shrug. ‘Professional. Kaye’s not one to let her guard down – wasn’t one, I suppose I should say.’ Jillian sensed that the chief judge had more to say, but that it might require gentle encouragement.
‘Your Honour,’ she said carefully, ‘if there was anything about Judge Bailey’s character or personality that might lead her to, say, offend or upset people . . .’
Meyers gave an appreciative grunt, as though Jillian had grasped a fundamental truth. ‘Kaye was very hardworking, but she fell into a trap that a lot of lady judges seem to – professional martyrdom. They lose their sense of fun. Although in all honesty I think even at the bar she was a bit like that – so I heard, anyway. People said she was difficult, wouldn’t settle. You know, it’s these younger women who don’t want to settle, want to prove themselves. Have to make things hard for everyone.’
Yep, how right I was.
‘So you’ve known her a while?’
‘I suppose I have. Kaye was appointed, what, around seven years ago perhaps. Maybe less, but she was at the bar for a good ten before that. Reputation preceded her. When she was appointed I tried to be supportive, told her she didn’t need to take everything so seriously, she was allowed to enjoy herself. Well,’ he shook his head, ‘that conversation did not go very well. She called me sexist. Can you believe it? Sexist! I have two daughters!’
‘Were people expecting you to announce your successor at the party?’
‘I doubt it. Not really the done thing, is it? Grant forced my hand. He loves stirring the pot.’
‘Grant is?’
‘Judge Grant Phillips. Good friend of Kaye’s, actually. Goaded me into it. All in good fun, though.’
‘And how was the news of her appointment taken generally?’ Jillian asked.
Meyers considered his hands a moment. ‘Well, she was very honoured, of course. She told me she thought she had very big shoes to fill. I assured her she’d be fine. Told her I was only ever a phone call away if she needed anything.’ He smiled, looking pleased with himself.
This is the same woman who you just told us called you sexist? Right.
‘But what about the other guests?’ Jillian prompted. ‘Was everyone happy with her appointment?’
Meyers laughed.
‘They weren’t, then?’
He licked his lips. ‘It wouldn’t have been a huge surprise. She would have been regarded as a strong contender amongst her colleagues. But she’s put noses out of shape over the years, that’s for sure.’
‘Did anyone seem particularly upset?’
‘Not particularly. No.’
‘And just for our records,’ McClintock said, ‘can you tell us what your movements were at the party?’
Again Meyers contemplated his hands. ‘We had speeches at I think around seven-thirty or so, and then I sat down to eat with Ginny.’ He gestured towards a corner of the room. ‘Over there. I sat there most of the night; people came to pay their respects. We went on to the Danish Club for a nightcap. I went home.’
