17.

Penny throttled her Corolla, while Oliver rode shotgun. He wished he was driving because he wanted to get there faster. After the call, Penny had grabbed her car keys and rushed out the door, Oliver following behind, unquestioning, grateful. Until now. Why hadn’t they just taken the Jag? Penny was only a little over the speed limit, a busted muffler offering the illusion that they were travelling faster. The night was dark and the moon was gibbous, veiled by clouds, and the thought of Everson touching his things made him twitch.

‘I’m sorry to drag you into this.’

Penny exhaled. ‘Look at us, rushing to your vineyard because the police have a search warrant. Murders. What the fuck is going on?’

‘And Gabe. Bullet through the shoulder.’

‘I thought it only grazed him?’

‘I think it’s more serious than that, from what I saw at hospital.’

‘What happened?’

Oliver checked the road. They were only a few minutes from the vineyard. ‘Gambling. Money borrowed, money owed. I think he and Murray are in a little bit of debt.’

‘Shit timing. Is Murray all right?’

‘It’s touch and go. Apparently, the men who attacked them were leaving after delivering the beating, and Murray pulled a shotgun from the back of the Cruiser. When one of the men tried to wrestle it off him, the gun went off and hit Gabe. Then they beat the shit out of them both again.’

‘For fuck’s sake. Murray’s such a typical second-generation winemaker.’

Oliver’s gaze flicked to Penny. ‘What does that mean?’ He realised how much he had missed her. Her unpredictability. The nuance she brought to each conversation.

‘There’s kind of an old doctrine. The first generation builds it, the second fucks it, the third fixes it.’

Oliver was surprised to find himself laughing. ‘Wait, who’s the third generation?’

‘Murray’s sister, Haley. Her sons.’

‘True,’ Oliver said. ‘Forgot that. Probably my Alzheimer’s kicking in after inhaling all of the Vernons’ nasty pesticides.’

Penny shot Oliver a sly smile. ‘Maybe if you tried to get on, you might realise you have more in common than you think.’

‘Sorry,’ Oliver said, ‘but I could never be friends with anyone whose signature wine is a moscato. In Mudgee.’

Penny spat as she laughed a little, shaking her head. ‘You’re funny. And not wrong.’

***

The gate had been left open, and as the Corolla turned into the driveway Oliver saw that there were bugs everywhere. They circled around the car’s headlights before being consumed by the bonnet.

Oliver couldn’t stop swallowing. His Adam’s apple felt like it was going to dislodge itself and topple down his throat. There was nothing for Everson to find, but he hated the idea of the police trawling through his things.

Two police cars sat in the dark beside his cottage, which had the lights on in every room. The sight made Oliver squirm. As soon as Penny parked the car he rushed into the house, but it was empty, the overbrightness of the place making it look cloaked in the tones of a nightmare.

They were all down at the wine shed.

Oliver and Penny walked together, almost breaking into a run. There were police congregating near the door, some peering around the barrels.

‘Don’t open them. There’s only wine inside,’ Oliver said.

Everson came from the piano room. She had a bottle of wine in her hands. ‘Nice of you to join us. What’s outside near the vines?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What have you buried out there?’

Shit. He knew how it would sound. A barrel buried in the ground. Just before Theo had arrived they’d dug another hole, and it was there, empty.

‘A wine barrel,’ he said.

Everson raised her eyebrows, placing the bottle beside the door. ‘Why have you buried a wine barrel?’

‘It’s a biodynamic procedure,’ Penny interjected. ‘If you knew about winemaking, you’d know it was pretty normal. It keeps the temperature of the wine stable.’

‘Funny you say that,’ Everson retorted, stepping closer. ‘No one seems to think anything out here is particularly normal.’

‘Yeah, well, no one else around here can make wine like Oliver.’

‘So, they’re jealous?’

‘What does this have to do with your search?’ Oliver asked. Everson made eye contact, held it, and waited for him to break it. Oliver wondered exactly how old she was; where she lived in Sydney; whether she was married. He realised she’d nearly traipsed through his entire life and he knew nothing about her save for her name and what sunglasses she wore.

Before she could answer, a noise came from the piano room. Everson turned and walked towards it. Oliver and Penny followed. Sergeant Mulaney was standing over the piano, wearing gloves, looking inside. Everson was doing the same.

‘What’s that you’re hiding down there, Mr Wingfield?’

‘A bottle of water,’ Oliver said. ‘Half full. It stops the wood from cracking.’

Everson leaned in, and when she came up, she was holding a handgun. Different to the one he’d dropped in Rocky’s mailbox, but it wasn’t fake. It was real. Before Everson said anything, he knew that it was the same gun the man had used to shoot Clare.

‘I’d be saying half empty if I was you,’ Everson countered. ‘Is this registered?’

‘It’s not mine.’ Oliver looked at Penny, whose face was all panic. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’

Mulaney took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘Oliver Wingfield. You’re under arrest for the possession of a prohibited firearm.’

***

Having never been arrested before, Oliver realised he knew very little about the judicial system. He had no idea how to apply for bail, and a few facts were illuminated almost immediately: if a senior officer objected, you had to wait to see a magistrate. If you were arrested late on a Friday, you weren’t getting a call until Monday morning. Oliver had been taken to a cell, but after a couple of hours a cop he didn’t recognise came in and took him to the room he’d been interviewed in twice before, where he sat and stewed. Eventually, Everson and Mulaney entered and sat down.

‘I’m in here all weekend?’

‘I don’t make the rules,’ Everson said, flicking through her small notepad and finding the page she was looking for. ‘And it appears you don’t follow them. A firearm stashed inside your piano, a murder linked to your winery, a business associate presently missing. Might be time you started following said rules. And time to get used to a cell.’

‘Can I speak to a lawyer?’

‘Sure,’ Everson said offhandedly. ‘You can make a call for one right now, before I drill some questions into you. It’s worth noting that as far as I’m aware, your lawyer can’t get you a bail hearing until Monday regardless, so I’d get cosy in that cell.’

‘Maybe Gabe could help, I don’t—’

‘You don’t even have a lawyer, do you, mate?’ Mulaney chided. ‘You come across to me as someone who has the kind of ego to represent themselves. This is all pretty serious stuff.’

‘It’s not my gun,’ Oliver said. ‘I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what—’

‘See,’ Everson said, moving close to Oliver. ‘This is what I don’t understand. Everyone told me that you’re some kind of recluse, a snob who makes fancy wine and doesn’t talk to anyone. That you mind your own business and stay in your own little world. Burying your barrels, summoning the moon or whatever weird shit it is that you do. But you know what? Ever since I’ve been here, you’ve been nothing but a pain in the arse.’

Everson paused, then closed her notepad. She started counting on her fingers as she spoke: ‘You’ve withheld information, openly lied to me, and have been so suspiciously close to everything that you’re making it almost impossible for me to look anywhere else. I really tried to trust you, Oliver.’

‘You can.’

‘You can’t keep everything to yourself without suffering any consequences.’

When Oliver didn’t reply, Everson hit a button on her device and began spouting the same platitudes about recordings and inducements as she had in their first ever interview.

‘And you’re refusing a solicitor, Mr Wingfield?’

‘I don’t wish to say anything at this point in time.’

‘Just for the record, Mr Wingfield has refused to make a call for legal representation and is electing to represent himself.’

‘Could I at least have a glass of water?’

Mulaney grunted, stood up and left the room. Was gone less than a minute and came back with a styrofoam cup half filled with cold water that tasted like it’d been scooped from a chlorinated pool.

‘So, tell me about your business partners,’ Everson said. ‘In this technology company.’

‘No comment.’

‘I called Orson Denver a few days ago. Just to acquire some kind of character witness statement for you. Considering you’re a bit quiet in Mudgee, I thought he’d be a good place to start. So when I called Orson’s mobile, I was surprised when his wife answered. Do you know what she told me?’

Oliver knew exactly, but didn’t offer a response. He could feel sweat sticking to his palms.

‘Just for the benefit of the recording, Mr Wingfield is refusing to comment. Valerie, lovely lady, told me that shortly before he died, her husband had been drinking wine. Not just any wine, but specifically the samples you sent over a few weeks ago.’

‘Orson had a heart attack,’ Oliver interjected.

‘One that was induced by the same poison we found in your brother’s whisky glass,’ Mulaney said, sliding what Oliver presumed were Theo’s autopsy findings halfway across the table. He glanced down but couldn’t make sense of anything.

‘Exactly,’ Everson added, pointing to the piece of paper. ‘Some interesting results there. I’m guessing when Orson’s autopsy arrives from the US, we’ll see much of the same. Can you tell me, Oliver, why people close to you and your wine are winding up dead?’

‘No comment.’

Everson leaned back in her chair. ‘Oliver, where’s Clare Jacklin?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If she’s alive, and you know her whereabouts, it’s not too late for us to come to some kind of agreement. Her welfare is paramount at this point.’

‘I don’t know where Clare is.’

‘Tell me what happened. Did you and Clare plan to take over Orson’s share of the company once you’d poisoned him? Did Theo stumble upon it by accident, and you had to kill him to keep him quiet?’

‘You have a vivid imagination,’ Oliver said.

‘I don’t think you could write a book about this. So, when Clare has grown frightened and she’s told you that things have gotten out of hand, you’ve had to shoot her to keep her quiet? To stop her from coming to us?’

‘I have never shot anyone.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Mulaney said. ‘Ballistics are running tests on the weapon as we speak. Silencer and all. I reckon Theo must’ve brought the gun. Is that why he came to Mudgee?’

‘No.’

‘Ballistics are pretty good these days. We’ll be able to tell when the weapon was last fired. Do you reckon there’s a chance that was a couple of nights ago? The same time Clare Jacklin was last seen?’

‘This is all bullshit.’

‘Is it, though?’ Mulaney said.

‘No comment.’

‘No comment is still a comment, especially in court,’ Everson said, frowning as she looked at her bare watch-tanned wrist. ‘Friday night. Still haven’t had a beer. Supposed to be in Sydney tomorrow for my daughter’s birthday, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

I don’t want to be here any more than you do.

‘I thought you were being set up at the beginning,’ Everson said, settling back in to her interrogation. ‘But your brother, both of your business partners. Not going to tell me about your father? Or worried I’d realise you were following in his footsteps?’

Oliver froze. How did she know?

‘See, initially, I may have taken your surprise as innocence. But now I see it as hubris. You thought that you were just too clever for me. That there was no way I could have known about it already.’

‘Hubris is a big word.’

‘That’s why I don’t like you, mate. I’ve met a lot of bullies and idiots in my day, but you know what? I’ve never met a dumb detective.’

‘I didn’t suggest that.’

‘Sure,’ Everson said. ‘Although, I did one stupid thing. I believed you when you said both of your parents were dead. But why would someone lie about that? I suppose they would if they had something to hide. I found out that your grandmother tried to protect you from your father by changing your name through the courts.’

‘No comment, no comment, no comment.’

‘Are you working with your father, Oliver? How’s he involved?’

‘The three no comments were for the next two ludicrous questions I knew you’d ask.’

‘I’ve been running some scenarios in my head based on the evidence. Tell me if I’m close. Last week, Theo comes home and you go to Penny’s for the evening. You drive back to your vineyard in the middle of the night to make sure he’s succumbed to the poison you put in the whisky. Things get messy, so you’re forced to slit his throat. A week or two earlier, you sent a poisoned case of wine across the world to your mentor in California, who – allegedly, for now – dies by ingesting the same poison you gave Theo. You go to Orange to talk through the plan of attack for the company with your remaining business partner, but something goes wrong, so you end up shooting Clare and moving her body. No other witnesses, only people who saw a bottle-green Jaguar in Orange on the night of the murder. Then hidden in your piano we find a gun that’s looking like it’s definitely involved in this whole debacle. For someone who’s pretty stupid, mate, even I can join the dots …’

‘I didn’t fucking kill anyone!’ Oliver yelled.

Everson moved close. ‘You weren’t on the coast when I called you this morning, were you? You beat Murray Vernon to a pulp last night. Let’s wait until he wakes up and can tell us what’s going on. A good question is, though, Oliver … why is Gabe still protecting you? Is he in on all of this, too?’

‘I’m not saying another fucking word without a lawyer.’

Everson slid a folded piece of paper across the table. It was a printout of a newspaper article.

‘Interview terminated at ten-o-two pm,’ she said, before pressing a button on the recorder. The sergeant stood up first, and the detective followed.

‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ said Everson, a sudden iciness to her tone. ‘I’m going to triple-check I’ve got enough evidence together so you’ll never have to bury another body or barrel ever again. You sick fuck.’

Central Coast murderer receives 32-year sentence for killing well-known artist wife and assaulting local gallerist

A man who killed his wife – who had been diagnosed with cancer – and later assaulted her manager, was sentenced on Wednesday morning to twenty-nine years. The judge ruled the Terrigal pharmacy owner won’t be eligible for parole until at least 2025.

Miles Raymond Jones, forty-six, was on Tuesday sentenced to a maximum of twenty-nine years in prison for the murder that Justice Catherine Nott called ‘callous and clumsy’.

Jones was found guilty of killing Julia Crespo by a NSW Supreme Court jury earlier this week. He is also being charged for assaulting Crespo’s manager and gallerist, Harold Keller, who was only recently discharged from Gosford Hospital, where he remained for weeks in a critical but stable condition.

Crespo was an award-winning and celebrated artist, known on the Central Coast and all over the world for her abstract paintings of coastal landscapes.

Jones allegedly struck his wife over the head and killed her on the afternoon of 6 October. He disposed of the body in the ocean before returning home, where he lived with Crespo and his teenage twin sons.

Despite the verdict, Jones maintains his innocence. He took to the stand, emotionally telling a jury that he discovered his wife, who had been battling lymphoma, dead on the floor; he claims he only moved her so that his sons would not discover their mother’s body. Jones then angrily sought answers about his wife’s death from Crespo’s manager, Harold Keller, who he claimed had been at the house earlier in the day. The court was told an argument ensued, leading to Keller’s hospitalisation.

‘We will certainly appeal. My client maintains his innocence in the death of Julia Crespo, and has shown an unbelievable degree of remorse for the assault of Harold Keller,’ Jones’s lawyer, Edward Bridgers, told reporters.

Whoever informed police of key evidence that led to the search of the accused’s vehicle, eventually leading to the conviction of Jones, has not been identified.