"Don't do this to me," Sam begged, pounding the steering wheel. A sharp rap on the window nearly frightened the life out of her. The bizarre appearance of her sister completed the job. Jacqui's hair was littered with sequins, teased outwards in all directions and frozen in space and time by what could only have been the contents of 23 cans of hairspray. She was wearing a gold mini skirt, a leopard skin singlet, fishnet stockings and very high heels.
Sam struggled out of her seat belt and out of the car. It was eight o'clock in the morning and her sister looked like a tart. Correction. She looked like a drag queen dressed as a tart.
"I'm afraid I have to arrest you," she said. "You cannot go out looking like that."
"I'm not going out, I'm coming home."
"Oh my god! In that case, I'll have to shoot you," Sam stated. "Right after I've emptied a clip into this useless bloody car of mine."
"I'll give you a lift to work if you can resist making further comments about my attire," Jacqui offered, flouncing back to her car which was parked behind Sam's outside their house.
Sam locked her clapped-out Mazda, got into Jacqui's brand new Celica, put her sunglasses on even though it was overcast and tried to pretend she was in a taxi with a total stranger.
"I had the best time last night," Jacqui volunteered after several minutes silence.
"Did you go out with Ben dressed like that?" Sam asked, bracing herself as Jacqui swung out into the traffic on Beaconsfield Parade and headed towards St Kilda.
"Don't be ridiculous," Jacqui declared. "Ben and I have a date on Friday. Last night I went around to Leo's for pasta and got picked up by an absolutely gorgeous American sailor."
"I'm not surprised a sailor picked you up if you trawled Fitzroy Street dressed…"
"I was wearing jeans and a shirt, Sam," Jacqui interrupted.
Sam decided it was too early in the day to be dealing with her sister's habit of providing only half the information necessary to make a conversation understandable. She stared out the window at the dreary sky which was hanging lower than usual, making everything dull and lifeless. In the distance she could see a red super tanker, ploughing towards the Heads, and one determined shaft of sunlight that provided the only light and colour on the flat, grey-green expanse of Port Phillip Bay.
"Reuben, his three friends and I had a few drinks at Leo's…" Jacqui was explaining, while Sam silently questioned the common sense of the four joggers who were pounding along the footpath breathing in toxic peak-hour car fumes. She watched, impressed, as a windsurfer demonstrated perfect control by leaping off his board as he ran it into the sand of St Kilda beach, and astonished as a middle-aged man in an expensive suit lost control of his morning completely by rollerblading face first into a No Standing sign.
"…and then we went to a gay bar in Commercial Rd."
"A gay bar? What on earth for?" Sam asked tuning back in to her sister's story.
"Reuben and his mates wanted to check out the local scene," Jacqui replied, turning left into Fitzroy Street. "That's what gay guys like to do, Sam. There's no need to look so amazed."
"I'm not amazed Jacqui, I'm confused. You said you were 'picked up' by a gorgeous sailor."
"Yeah. We went drinking and dancing, then we met these drag queens and went back to someone's penthouse and put on a fashion parade. Hence the outfit. It was a real hoot."
"No wonder you have trouble finding 'the right man'," Sam remarked, shaking her head.
"Well, not that you'd know Ms Workaholic, but the only men out there these days are married, gay or desperate. And the gay guys are, without doubt, the most fun."
"I think you're looking in the wrong places," Sam remarked.
"Oh yeah? When was the last time you had a date?"
"I'm not looking," Sam stated.
"There you go then," Jacqui pronounced.
"There I go where?"
"To an old policemen's home where you can while away your dotage with other socially-retarded cops, reliving old cases and wondering whatever happened to your sex life."
"Well, at the rate you're going, Jacqui my sweet, you'll end up in charge of the geriatric make-up and karaoke sessions at the old queens disco," Sam retorted.
Ten minutes later Sam stood, with a small crowd, in the foyer of the Anato Building on St Kilda Road waiting for the lift. The lower 12 floors of the 14-storey building accommodated a variety of organisations including law and accounting firms, a psychiatrist or three, a couple of dentists and doctors, a firm of private investigators and a publishing house that produced what Sam called 'woo-woo' publications - books and magazines about crystals, angels, spirit guides, and out-of-body encounters with aliens from the Pleiades. The top two floors belonged to the high security offices of the Australian Crime Bureau - Melbourne branch.
Sam squeezed into the lift, waited while buttons were pushed by the other occupants, then pressed 12A. By the time the doors opened on the 13th floor the lift was empty except for Sam and two detectives she recognised but didn't know. While they waited for the officer on the other side of the bullet proof security door to okay each of them as they swiped their ID cards, Sam wondered whether her companions were also 'socially retarded' or had wives and children to go home to each night.
One of the pitfalls of being on the force was that the most suitable partner for a cop was another cop - someone who understood the hours and the unique stress of the job. But the odds were against finding the right someone in such a limited pool. That's why so many cops retreated to the pub after work, to de-brief with mates who shared the same daily crap, so they didn't have to take it home to a civilian husband or wife who could not possibly empathise.
Sam's own experience of the cop/civilian tango had been three times unsuccessful. One guy found he couldn't date a cop; one had offered to support her so she didn't have to be a cop; and the last had given the ultimatum - him or the job. The job was far more interesting. She then tried dating a fellow officer but that ended in disaster when his concern for her safety, because she was a 'woman', jeopardised an assignment.
So Sam decided there was nothing wrong with being single. It made her career choices easier and her social life freer. She was still open to taking a chance should a potential someone enter her world, but she wasn't desperately seeking anyone. Besides, judging by the trouble her sister and half her friends, also in their thirties, were having finding a compatible partner it obviously wasn't her job that was the problem. It was her generation; it was the gains of feminism versus the stagnation of masculinism; it was life at the arse-end of the millennium; it was the hole in the ozone layer; it was…
"Morning Sam. You're in deep shit."
Ben Muldoon - case in point, Sam thought. Thirty-six years old, good prospects, not bad looking (in a scrawny sort of way), never married and prepared to date Jacqui - a lunatic masquerading as a sister - just for something to do.
"Morning Ben. You're looking pretty good yourself," Sam smiled, depositing her gun and holster in her desk drawer.
"I mean it, Sam. You know that cocaine you sent for testing?" Ben pushed his chair back and crossed his arms. "It was icing sugar."
"Damn," Sam said flatly.
"That's not all. That shipment you sent us to examine? Carved penises," he said, as if it was business as usual. "Some were attached to little goblin-type figures, but most of them stood alone. Made all us blokes feel pretty inadequate. Oh, there were also some sticks and stones, ceremonial items I believe, a bunch of huge photographic displays and the ashes of some dead geezer from Persia, but mostly there were penises. The sniffer dogs had a good time with the mummified cat though."
Sam took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair and sat down heavily in her chair. "The Boss is ropable," Ben added, unnecessarily. "And the guy, that Dr Whatsit in charge of the exhibition, he's as mad as hell; although he took it out on his own staff instead of us, which made a nice change."
"Muldoon! Is that ex-partner of yours here yet?" Dan Bailey, the ACB's Chief Inspector, otherwise and universally known as 'the Boss' and who, until probably this very minute, was Sam's mentor in the Bureau, stuck his head over the partition. "You two. My office. Now."
Bailey closed his office door calmly, waved them to the spare chairs, sat down at his desk and smiled benignly at Sam.
"Special Detective Diamond, would you care to explain, precisely, why you sent Muldoon and the squad on a wild willy chase to the airport yesterday, and why you wasted valuable lab time on a substance commonly, and legally, used in the making of fairy cakes."
"I'm sorry Boss but, at the time, the facts I had pointed to the possibility that the exhibition was being used as a cover for drug smuggling. Professor Marsden's murder itself appeared to indicate that he had stumbled on something."
"Which 'facts' were these?"
"I suppose, in retrospect, it was a hunch based on a set of coincidences," Sam admitted.
"It's not often that Sam is wrong Boss," Ben volunteered.
"Granted. But all her other 'miraculous' flashes of intuition put together do not make up for this bloody disaster."
"Despite the outcome Boss, I'm convinced that the Professor's murder has something to do with the exhibition or those involved in it. And just because Ben found nothing yesterday, doesn't mean there wasn't something in the first shipment."
"That's possible," Bailey conceded. "And I can see the headline: 'Drug lord arrested; famous archaeologist charged with operating icing sugar ring."
"Okay, so I jumped to conclusions on the drug thing. I'm sorry, it was a bit far fetched." Sam felt suitably chastened but not convinced her theory was wrong as the prickling sensation in the back of her neck had not dissipated.
"Actually, it's not all that far fetched," Ben stated. "After I had rejected the notion that Sam sent us to check out those 'things' in order to get revenge for the girlie calendar in the lunch room, I figured there must be something to her request, so I did some checking - internationally."
"And?" Bailey demanded impatiently.
"A sudden, and unexplained, influx of cocaine has coincided with a visit of this 'Life and Death' show in Paris, London, Anchorage, San Francisco and now Melbourne."
"I knew it!" Sam exclaimed.
"That doesn't mean diddly," Bailey said.
"We're not going to ignore this are we?" Ben argued.
"No. But what we are going to do, is exercise a little discretion. Do you actually have a suspect Sam, or does your hunch involve everyone at the Museum?"
Sam ignored the patronising tone. "The show's manager, or logistical expert, apparently engages in extra-curricular business in every city they visit. According to the exhibition curator, Enrico Vasquez, Andrew Barstoc is a businessman - and his business is private."
"Barstoc?" Ben interjected. "He was the one the boss cocky was venting his anger at."
"Dr Bridger was angry with Andrew Barstoc?" Sam asked.
"Yeah."
"Elaborate, Muldoon."
"The Customs guys moved the crates into a small warehouse so we could go over them. This Dr Bridger was irate but, given the circumstances, he was reasonably co-operative. We told him it was a routine search, by the way. So he asked to oversee the unpacking, and insisted on attending to some items himself. He was afraid we'd break his precious phallic symbols. Anyway when the job was nearly done, this Barstoc bloke turns up. I honestly thought the good doctor was going to deck him. He shoved him against a wall and got right in his face about something. I couldn't hear what it was, but he was mighty pissed off."
"And you think Barstoc killed the Professor?" Bailey addressed Sam.
She shrugged. "I honestly don't know, Boss. I had a hunch about the drugs - which may still prove correct. Because if there was cocaine in that first shipment of artefacts, and if Professor Marsden found out about it, then it stands to reason that he was murdered because of it. In that case Andrew Barstoc would be my prime suspect. Jack Rigby, on the other hand, thinks it was the workplace equivalent of a domestic argument."
"Ah, a voice of reason surrounded by conspiracy theories," Bailey remarked.
"You may be right," Sam agreed. "But that wouldn't explain why Marsden's house was searched by someone who didn't care about cleaning up afterwards."
"What was the cause of death?"
"We're waiting for the autopsy results, but Ian Baird thinks he was poisoned. He was also bashed but Baird found puncture marks and traces of a sticky blue residue on the face."
"That's a bit Agatha Christie isn't it?" Bailey shook his head. "Do not let the press get hold of that detail, Sam."
"What do we do now?" Ben asked.
"Now? You can look into this cocaine coincidence Muldoon. You may have two squad members to keep Barstoc, and only Barstoc, under surveillance. There will be no more raids, in fact no contact of any kind with the alleged suspect unless you observe him red-handed with the goods. You got that?"
"Yes Boss."
"And you, Sam, stay away from the drugs angle. You get any more wild hunches, you run them by me first. Understood? Your assignment is to continue the joint murder investigation with Rigby but your priority, as far as Cultural Affairs go, is to contain this incident. Damage control, okay? Keep that Museum boffin happy and off the phone to the Minister. Discourage this delusion about a conspiracy to wreck his conference, or the silly bastard will discover that publicly voicing his own paranoia will have the same effect."
Sam returned to her desk, consulted the business card Ellington had given her and dialled the number for James T. Hudson, of Hudson & Bolt. She was put through immediately but Mr Hudson, citing client confidentiality, asked if he could ring her back - to ensure that he was, in fact, speaking to someone from the ACB. Her phone rang a few minutes later.
"I apologise for the runaround Detective Diamond, but please understand you could have been anybody. The press for instance."
"The press? Are you expecting them to call in regard to Professor Marsden?"
"Not particularly. But you never know what prompts them to do the things they do."
"I guess not," Sam said. "Robert Ellington said the Professor asked him to contact you immediately should anything ever happen to him. Obviously, unless it has a bearing on the case, you're not required to divulge the details of his will but can you explain the urgency?"
"No," Hudson said.
"You are aware this is a murder investigation?"
"Perfectly aware Detective. I am not being difficult, I simply cannot answer your question. This has nothing to do with Lloyd's will, it was a separate matter. He came to see me last Thursday and entrusted me with a package that was to be delivered immediately to a certain person should anything ever happen to him. They were his words, and it seems he used the very same with Mr Ellington, but he did not explain the urgency."
"Do you know what was in the package?"
"No. But I suppose I can tell you that it is currently with a colleague who is waiting to deliver it personally, as per Lloyd's instructions, to a Dr Maggie Tremaine at Sydney University. Perhaps she will be in a position to help - if it is relevant to your investigation."
What's with this Maggie Tremaine popping up all over the place, Sam wondered as she ended the call and sat back in her chair. Her phone rang again, this time it was Rigby.
"You're not going to believe this," he said.
"Jack, I think I'm ready to believe anything."
"The cause of death was poison, but get this, Baird thinks the stuff was injected with one of those poison ring gadgets you see in spy films."
"You're right, I don't believe it."
"It's fair dinkum. The doc says the tiny punctures are too wide and too shallow to have been caused by a syringe; and there was an oval mark around each of the holes in the cheek, the jaw and the jugular vein."
"The Boss just said this was very Agatha Christie."
"That ain't the half of it. The poison was a mean and bizarre little cocktail of curare and peyote. Weird, huh?" Rigby had a knack for understatement.
"Peyote?"
"Yeah, you know mescal, peyote. Indians use it for their vision quest things. "
"I know what it is Jack. It's an hallucinogen. You can remind me about curare though. What does it do exactly?"
"Used medicinally, it's a muscle relaxant. As a poison it attacks the motor nerves and causes muscular paralysis. The South American Indians use it on their arrows."
"Arrows, poison rings, peyote. Great," Sam moaned. "Consider our possible suspects, Jack. We've got one certifiable South American, Señor Vasquez the Colombian, plus a whole swag of archaeologists and their ilk, who have probably all traipsed round that part of the world at some time in their careers."
Rigby grunted. "Let's start with Barstoc and Douglas," he suggested. "They're at the Exhibition Building waiting for the rest of their stuff. What happened with your cocaine theory, by the way?"
"Don't ask," Sam pleaded. "I have to talk to Prescott again, if you want to join me later. And we still haven't interviewed Haddon Gould, the other curator."
"We can't talk to Gould till later this afternoon. He was rushed to hospital yesterday for an appendectomy. Rivers can sit in on your chat with Prescott. We'll meet you at the Exhibition Building in half an hour."
Rigby hung up before Sam could object to being nurse-maided by 'Constable' Hercules Rivers. She snapped her gun and holster in place on the belt of her slacks, dropped her phone into the pocket of her black jacket and then slipped that on over her white shirt.
When Sam exited the Anato building, into brilliant sunshine, she stared in amazement at the clear blue sky and wondered where on earth, literally, the rain clouds had gone. She hopped on a tram and relaxed while it trundled its way beneath the canopy of plane trees on St Kilda Road towards the city centre. It made only two stops, at the Art Gallery and the Concert Hall, before crossing the Yarra River where it got stuck in a snarl of traffic caused by motorists slowing to check out the film crew under the clocks of Flinders Street Station.
Sam left the tram outside the State Library, strolled up LaTrobe Street, across Victoria Parade and into the comparative peace of the Carlton Gardens. Beyond the splendid domed edifice of the 118-year-old Royal Exhibition Building Sam could see the modern structure, still a work in progress, of the site's latest addition. The last time she'd been here, over a year ago, that construction had been nothing but a huge hole in the ground, into which the bowels of the new Melbourne Museum would be buried. Now the futuristic lines of the new building rose in stark contrast to the squares, domes and arches of its historic neighbour.
Sam decided her imagination was not up to translating the seemingly odd angles of the new Museum's framework into a finished product that didn't seem incongruous to the location. She cast her mind back to the scale model, complete with landscaping, that she'd seen outside Prescott's office, and overlaid that image on the view before her. Now she could see how the old and new, the past and the future, would complement each other.
"It's a sight to behold; the old and the bold."
"Yes," Sam acknowledged automatically, before glancing to her right to find a middle-aged man, dressed in a three-piece suit and carrying a hockey stick, nodding at her.
"Do you like my hair?" he asked. "I've just had it replanted. Can you tell it's not real?"
"Ah, no. It looks great," Sam lied.
"My son says I look like a cockatoo, and that I'm too old to be so vain."
"Yeah? Well let's hope the hair loss is hereditary," Sam said.
"Yes indeedy!" the man cackled, as he walked away. "Then he'll know what's what."
Sam shook her head and decided to take cover before anyone else accosted her. She found, or rather heard, Rigby in the main hall, where temporary walls and a false ceiling, of different levels and shapes, had been erected to enclose most of the huge exhibition space. Access to the 'Rites of Life and Death' was via a ramp and through the central and monstrous fibreglass jaws of Cerberus. The second and third mechanical heads of the watchdog of the infernal gates snapped and snarled every few seconds.
A workman, inspecting an electrical panel inside, handed Sam a token and pointed to the gnarled, outstretched hand of the skeletal, cloaked Ferryman. Once the price was paid to enter the Realm of the Dead, a panel in the wall behind slid back. Sam headed into The Catacombs - a maze of 'rock'-walled tunnels, complete with niches for skeletons, and intersected with vaults containing coffins, and alcoves with life-size dioramas of human sacrifices and bodies on funeral pyres. She had to duck her head to pass into the replica of a pharaoh's tomb, where artificial torches flickered eerily over a stone sarcophagus and the hieroglyphs on the walls.
Sam began to wonder if her imagination was working overtime or whether Dr Bridger and his team had managed to infuse the claustrophobic tunnels and tombs with the distinctive odour of must and decay. Whatever the cause, she was glad after passing the zombies and weird fetishes in the Voodoo exhibit to emerge into the light and fresh air of the main exhibition area. This was partitioned into areas of fertility and life, death and the afterlife, by walls of fibreglass rock, fake marble pillars or panels of thatch. Much of the space was still empty, awaiting the relics and photographic displays that would, as Prescott described, 'explore the fertility symbols and funerary rites of cultures and societies from around the world and across time'.
Sam felt like she'd just traversed Indiana Jones territory. The concept was fun, but she could see why Marsden and Vasquez questioned its merits as a serious exhibition.
"You get lost in the Underworld?" Rigby asked, as he strode towards her.
Sam curled her lip at him, but then did a double take as she realised the guy in the suit keeping pace with Rigby was the plain-clothed Hercules Rivers.
"You scrub up well," she said to him. The constable just grinned.
"Miz Douglas is waiting for us over there," Rigby said, ushering Sam ahead of him. "And Herc here tells me Mister Barstoc refused to give him a statement because he knew he'd only have to give another one to us."
"Really," Sam commented wryly. "It's been a productive morning so far then."
Adrienne Douglas, blonde-haired and fresh-faced, was sitting, coffee cup in hand, on a stool in front of a partly-constructed shrine. She stood when Rivers made the introductions, looked up at Rigby, as if this was the most tedious experience of her life so far, then smiled warmly at Sam and offered her hand.
"How can I help you detectives?" Although she included Rigby and Rivers in the question it was addressed to Sam.
"We understand you saw Professor Marsden on Wednesday, Ms Douglas," Sam began.
"Adrienne, please," she interrupted. "And the answer is Professor Marsden was here, I was here, we had a few conversations. That's about the extent of it."
"You're American," Rigby remarked. When Adrienne gave him a 'you don't say' look he added, "Conversations about what?"
Adrienne waved her right hand at the space around her. "The exhibition, what else. To be precise we were consulting each other rather than conversing."
"Did he seem preoccupied or worried about anything?" Sam queried.
"I hardly know, knew, the man," Adrienne corrected herself, gave Sam a long searching look and then shrugged. "I really don't know. I met him for the first time less than a week ago. I could say, in my experience, he was no more preoccupied than usual. But it's my guess that if you ask someone who knew him, they'd say that's just the way he was. Whether it was a recent occurrence that made him irritable or some lifelong problem that gnawed constantly at his temperament I couldn't say. I quite liked him, but he was a testy old gent."
"And you last saw him, when?" Rigby asked.
Adrienne shrugged again. "Enrico and I were here till about six on Wednesday. The Professor left some time before that; maybe 4.30."
"There you are!" The owner of the interjecting voice, who now had his back to Sam, had pushed his way unceremoniously into the space between her and Adrienne. "Do you know…"
"Marcus," Adrienne snapped, as if she was talking to a child. "Can't you see I am otherwise occupied?"
"What?" The man's tone was short but a little vague, and as he turned around it was obvious he hadn't even noticed that Adrienne had company.
The 'Life and Death' catalogue photo she'd seen, had definitely not done justice to the blue-eyed, tall, dark and 'to-die-for' handsome Dr Marcus Bridger. Sam suffered a complete Mills and Boon epiphany, weak knees and all, for a good three seconds before she gathered her wits and convinced herself the sensation had been unadulterated lust not love at first sight.
She'd managed to realign her hormones by the time Rigby's formal introductions got around to her, but then had to make a few secondary adjustments as Marcus Bridger gave her the once over, and then smiled approvingly as he onced her over again.
Sam acknowledged the introduction with a nod, told Adrienne they were finished for now anyway, excused herself and Rigby and led him away. Rivers followed.
"What's up? You okay?"
"I'm fine Jack. Just fine," Sam declared. "Though I could do with a caffeine fix." And a good lie down, she thought.
"They've got an urn and stuff over there, I'll get you a coffee," Rivers offered.
"My hero," Sam smiled. "Black with no sugar, and the same for Jack."
"That bird did not like me," Jack stated, as if he couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't take to him immediately.
Sam squinted at him. "She probably knew you were the sort of man who'd call her a bird, Jack." Sam looked back at Adrienne and the disarming Dr Bridger, figuring she was safe from half a room away. Wrong! She had to shake herself mentally to get rid of an adolescent desire to be standing as close to the man as Adrienne now was: their heads together as they referred to a piece of paper.
Good grief, she thought, deciding to give Rigby her undivided attention. "On the other hand, she might just have a thing against cops."
"Oh I don't know, she took quite a shine to you," Rigby noted.
"It takes some people a long time to process the fact that I am a cop," Sam said. "But if she makes you uncomfortable, I'll deal with her in future, on the condition that you take care of the equally judgemental Señor Vasquez."
"I think that's a Latin thing," Rigby suggested. "All that macho blood in his veins, he probably thinks you should be home with the bambinos."
"Speak of the devil," Sam muttered under her breath as Vasquez, who had just emerged from the Voodoo exhibit, made a beeline for them. Correction: a beeline for Rigby; he ignored Sam completely.
"Detective Rigby," he pronounced. "I was wondering whether you were aware that Professor Marsden was planning to fly to Peru tomorrow?"
"Yes, we were aware of that."
"Ah, good," Vasquez ducked his head. "It's just that I recalled, last evening, overhearing the Professor tell Adrienne, on Wednesday, that he was off to Peru this weekend."
"Thank you Mr Vasquez," Rigby said.
"I am trying to be helpful, as best I can." Vasquez gave a crisp nod and headed off to a group of workmen who were fitting in place the last metre-square section of a giant photograph of a Hindu ceremony.
"I do not trust that man," Sam stressed. "What do you suppose is motivating him to cast so many aspersions on his colleagues?"
"That information wasn't particularly aspersive," Rigby disagreed.
"The info about Marsden going to Peru, no, but did we need to know the Professor had told Adrienne on Wednesday, which just happens to be the day he died? Are we suppose to read something into that? It's like letting us know, in no uncertain terms, that Andrew Barstoc carries out business, unrelated to the exhibition, wherever he goes."
"He's trying to be helpful," Rigby repeated in a bad impersonation of Vasquez's accent. "But, it's hardly his fault if your wild cocaine theory didn't pan out."
"It's not that wild, Jack." Sam was about to explain when she noticed that Rivers, carrying three cups of coffee, was escorting Andrew Barstoc in their direction.
"Will this take long?" Barstoc asked impatiently. "I am rather busy."
Rigby gave a deep shrug and took his coffee from Rivers. "You could have given your statement to my Constable half an hour ago, Mr Barstoc."
Barstoc gave a supercilious smile. "I would rather speak to the superior officer from the outset. It saves time - ultimately."
"When did you last see Professor Marsden?" Sam asked, getting right to the point so she didn't have to spend too much time in the same room as Barstoc.
"Wednesday afternoon, at about 3.30."
"Ms Douglas said the Professor was here until 4.30."
"He may have been. But I left at about 3.30."
"Where did you go?" Rigby asked.
Barstoc looked taken aback. "I don't see how that is relevant to your inquiry."
"Everything is relevant Mr Barstoc," Jack enunciated cheerfully. "We have to account for everyone's whereabouts on Wednesday. The Professor was last seen, alive, just after five. As he wasn't found here, we need to know exactly where you went when you left here."
Barstoc made no attempt to hide his irritation. "I met with some colleagues, after which we went to a Thai restaurant for dinner. I returned to my hotel room at about midnight."
"Were these colleagues from the exhibition?" Sam asked.
"No. They were business associates."
"Is this your first visit to Melbourne?" Sam queried.
"Yes." Barstoc straightened his suit jacket.
Sam nodded. "Yet you have associates who are not connected with this exhibition."
"I have business interests quite separate from my position here."
"And what would they be exactly?" Rigby prompted.
"Importing, exporting. I have a passion for precious stones, the older and rarer the better."
"Were you meeting with these same associates yesterday as well?" Sam asked.
"No, not the same, but I was in meetings for most of the day. I wasn't needed here."
"You were expected at the airport, though, for the arrival or your second shipment." Sam hesitated just long enough for Barstoc to frown. "I imagine your being so late for that duty would explain why Dr Bridger was, reportedly, so…ah, 'displeased' with you."
Barstoc ran his hand through his wavy black hair, as his eyes widened in surprise. "I was under the impression that was a random, routine inspection."
"Oh, it was Mr Barstoc. The ACB carries them out quite randomly and routinely. One of my colleagues mentioned the inspection when he heard I was working on this investigation. But you haven't answered my question about Dr Bridger."
Barstoc took a settling breath. "I was very late," he explained. "And Marcus does not cope well, at all in fact, with bureaucratic red tape, particularly the kind he was subjected to yesterday. He was not displeased; he was angry with me for not being there to deal with it."
Sam nodded understandingly but said nothing more, so Rigby wrapped up the interview by asking Barstoc to give the names of his business associates to Rivers.
"Jumped-up Pommy git," Rigby said as he led Sam away.
She tried not to laugh. "I agree, except that I don't think he's as 'terribly British' as he makes out. And Jack, you have to do something about your appalling ethnic stereotypes; not to mention the fact that you're still a sexist bastard. In half an hour you've insulted half the known universe with your references to Latin machos, Pommy gits and birds."
"Hey, if the shoe fits," he protested. "And you know I'd never call you a bird."
"That's because you know exactly where I'd shoot you if you did."
"Speaking of types, stereo or otherwise," Rigby said, standing with his arms akimbo, as he surveyed the room. "Have you noticed the size of all these egos?"
Sam noted that Barstoc was still giving details to Rivers, Adrienne Douglas was talking on a mobile phone, and Dr Bridger was haranguing Enrico Vasquez about a missing something. She found herself studying Bridger's body language and recalling Ben's report about how the good doctor had shoved Barstoc up against a wall at the airport. She realised the characteristic reserve of the English gentleman was probably as mythical as the notion of the tall bronzed Aussie, for there was no sign of formality in Bridger's manner, at least not at the moment. His expansive hand gestures said as much about his annoyance as his words probably did.
It must be the Heathcliff factor, Sam decided, remembering her initial reaction on seeing his photo in the catalogue. In person, the man oozed a brooding and exotic sensuality, which was overlaid by the impression that he stood confidently and powerfully at the centre of his own private universe. Sam fancied that in another time and place he'd have been the leader of a band of Gypsies or pirates. Good grief! she thought and shook her head.
"You can sort of understand it with Prescott and maybe Bridger and those other over-educated Museum types…" Rigby was saying. He dropped his shoulders when he saw the look on Sam's face. "All right already. But," he continued, "even that financial assistant and the PR woman yesterday had seriously over-inflated opinions of themselves. It's like they've all got this throbbing aura of conceit around them."
"Oh my god, you do exaggerate Jack," Sam declared. "Anyone would think they refused to let you into university the way you carry on."
"Well, I wish they had; I hated it. But that's not the point. These Museum people have all got their own not-so-hidden agendas. Prescott told me this morning, for instance, that Haddon Gould was always pissed off with Marsden because the late Professor usually got funding for his pet projects while Gould was usually overlooked."
"I bet Prescott did not say 'pissed off'," Sam stated. "What's your real point, Jack?"
"I think it's time to stop looking for grand conspiracies amongst these…these tourists," he said waving his arm at the room. "They don't have any history with Professor Marsden…"
"That we know of," Sam interrupted.
"That we know of," Rigby acknowledged. "But they've been here less than a week. Marsden couldn't have been be so obnoxious that one of them was provoked into knocking him off."
"You still think it was a 'domestic', don't you? A flash of anger with no premeditation?"
"Yes I do. The man was beaten up, Sam."
"Yeah," she laughed derisively. "And then he was poisoned. And it's not like his attacker reached out for a handy pack of Ratsak. This has to be premeditated, Jack. A curare and peyote cocktail is a pretty bizarre thing to use on the spur of the moment."
"Granted, but in my opinion we should be concentrating on Marsden's own colleagues."
"Okay. What about the other conspiracy - the one to sabotage the ICOM Conference?"
"That's way out there with all those sightings of Elvis at the 7-Eleven."
"What about the portentous limerick?" Sam asked.
"Believe it not, we matched the dropped capital T to an antique typewriter in a room that any member of staff in that head office could access. The only fingerprints on the note were Prescott's, and it was posted in the city. There were no other distinguishing features except a trace of a strange fungus which turned out to be something that had been growing in my pocket."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Where are you going next?"
"Back to the Library to talk to the security blokes again. I want to know why no one wondered why Marsden hadn't signed out of the building. What about you?"
"Prescott," Sam answered. "I gather you're with me, Rivers."
"Detective Diamond," Rivers began, as he and Sam followed the exit signs through a section of maze and around an Apache burial ground, "you might be interested to know that Dr Bridger did not take his eyes off us the whole time you were interviewing Barstoc."
"Really? Was he watching us or Barstoc?"
"Well, mostly Barstoc, but also you in particular."
Sam raised an eyebrow and hoped like hell she wasn't looking as embarrassed as she felt. It was time to change the subject. "You said yesterday that you're on the Internet."
"Yeah. I'm a bit obsessed by it at the moment."
"It's possible to access foreign newspapers or news services, isn't it?"
"Of course."
"Great. I've got a favour to ask. Could you cross reference the international tour dates for this show with any odd, even vaguely-related incidents that happened to coincide with the Exhibition's time in those other cities."
"Like Professor Marsden in the Library with the poison ring," Rivers grinned.
"Exactly," Sam laughed. "I like the way you think, Rivers. And please, call me Sam."
"Curare and peyote? Good god. Poor Lloyd," Daley Prescott slumped into his desk chair.
"Not a nice way to go," Sam agreed, as she and Rivers sat down. "There's no telling what the poor man was seeing while he lay there paralysed and dying."
Sam picked up the coffee that Anton had just delivered and studied Prescott who, for the first time, displayed genuine sympathy for Marsden rather than worry over how his death would impact on the Museum and the Conference. It didn't last long.
"This is worse than we thought. Imagine the to-do if this should get out."
To-do? Sam thought, raising an eyebrow. Suspecting Prescott was his own worst enemy, she said, "You haven't told anyone about the poison, I hope."
"Only Jim," Prescott admitted, as if it was a perfectly logical thing to do. "Jim Pilger."
"Mr Prescott, the Minister does not need to know the finer points of this investigation. That's why I'm here, as his delegate. And unless you informed Mr Pilger that we had asked you not to mention the cause of death to anyone, then he's not to know that withholding that information is one of our strategies for keeping this off the front pages."
"Jim wouldn't tell the media." Prescott was indignant.
"Of course he wouldn't. But he might mention it to a colleague, then it's out there isn't it."
"I'll ring him immediately and ask him to keep it to himself."
"No, Mr Prescott." Sam gripped the side of her chair in frustration. "That's my point. We don't want you to contact him. That is my job, if and when it's necessary."
Prescott resettled himself in his chair. "Is there any progress on the threatening note?"
"Yes and no," Sam replied. "We know only that it was sent by someone who has access to these premises. Personally I think the note and Professor Marsden's death are unrelated."
"Oh, I pray you're right Detective Diamond, but I am nonetheless fearful that there is a saboteur at large bent on ruining our Conference. Lloyd's death alone is proof of that."
"The Professor's death is proof of nothing Mr Prescott, except that there is a murderer out there. He or she may have no connection to, or beef with, your Conference. Detective Rigby believes it's a case of anger gone too far, maybe arising out of professional jealousy or some personal issue. It may have nothing to do with the Museum at all."
"Detective Rigby thinks that. What do you think?"
"I think that until we find out who is responsible we can only guess at the motive. Regarding a plot to ruin the Conference I will ask you this: would you be so concerned about the ramifications of this murder if Professor Marsden had not been on the ICOM '98 committee?"
"Of course," Prescott asserted. "That fact just makes it worse. Let me try to explain. Lloyd's death reduces years of hard work preparing for this prestigious event to a base level, and makes a mockery of our promotion of this city as a beautiful, liveable and peaceful place to visit."
Sam wanted to tell him that was a pessimistic overreaction to one man's death but Prescott was on a roll.
"You have to understand that, for the museum community, being selected as the Host Institution for the ICOM Conference and General Assembly is akin to being chosen to host the Olympics. We had to compete against two other countries so this is an honour not only for the Museum of Victoria and Melbourne, but for Australia as well. It is the first time the triennial conference has been held in the Asia-Pacific region and only the second time in the Southern Hemisphere."
"I understand that, Mr Prescott, but…" was as far as Sam got.
"We'll be on show, Detective. The theme of ICOM '98 is 'Museums and Cultural Diversity, Ancient Cultures, New Worlds'. And the world is coming here, to us, to see how we stack up, how we care for our culture and heritage. The Museum of Victoria is a leader in many fields and the success of the Conference will have an effect on the country's esteem and reputation."
Yes, but what does this have to do with Marsden's murder, Sam wondered desperately.
"Our Conference," Prescott continued excitedly, "will be addressing the resolution of international issues such as the repatriation of cultural material, and will focus on the latest uses of technology in museums, unique collections in Australia, and World's Best Practice, as exhibited by Australian institutions. Some 2000 delegates from 138 countries, including some of the most influential members of the museum community, will be meeting to debate these issues in a host of specialist meetings, and then vote in General Assembly on the resolutions that come from those meetings."
"I don't see how the Professor's death could affect any of that," Rivers said hesitantly. He glanced at Sam, who gave him a reassuring and relieved smile.
Prescott took a breath. "When our successful bid to host ICOM '98 was announced three years ago, the ICOM Board in Paris said Australia had the chance to do something very special and very different. I don't think a murder was what they had in mind."
"One would hope not," Sam stated. "Mr Prescott, I can only repeat that we will do all we can to contain this incident, to keep it out of the media and limit its impact on the Conference. But you have yet to convince me that this murder is part of a greater plot of sabotage, mostly because I don't understand what purpose it would serve. Why would someone want to sabotage the Conference and, more to the point, why wait till now? Wouldn't it have been more damaging at the time your proposal was being considered by the ICOM Board?"
"You mean to stop us being chosen in the first place?"
"Yes."
Prescott rubbed his forehead. "The perpetrator may have had no reason three or four years ago; or maybe he is completely perverse and thinks that more obvious and lasting damage can be done now. Lloyd's murder may well be just the start in a campaign…"
"Mr Prescott," Sam interrupted, "bizarre poisons aside, I don't think we are entangled in an Agatha Christie plot where all the main characters get bumped off one by one, do you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Then let's concentrate on what we do know and on the things that have happened. I am not dismissing your concerns but in order to investigate your theory I will need a list of anyone and everyone you can think of who may want to disrupt the Conference."
"I'll get Anton right on it," Prescott said, reaching for his phone.
"This is not a task you can delegate, Mr Prescott. You will have to consider present employees who may have an axe to grind, including any with you personally, and past employees who may have a grudge against the Museum because they are past employees."
"I see, a confidential list."
Sam nodded. "Confidential and comprehensive. I also need to know more about Marsden. I believe a Dr Maggie…excuse me," she said, pulling the ringing phone from her pocket.