AT THE OFFICE on Sunday, I found Freddie’s home number. A sultry-voiced female answered the phone.
‘Freddie’s asleep,’ she assured me.
‘Who is this?’
‘Danielle.’
‘Can you get Freddie to the phone please. This is important.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Duncan Hamilton.’
Her hand went over the mouthpiece and there was urgent whispering. Clearly Freddie was reluctant to speak, while Danielle seemed to be pushing him. He came on the line.
‘I know what you’re ringing about,’ he said in a defensive voice.
‘What happened last night?’ I said, ‘I saw a body being carried out of that block this morning. Was it Martine?’
‘How do you know?’
‘It was Danielle who found her.’
I felt dizzy.
‘Dead?’
‘Nearly. She had a faint pulse but she gave out in the ambulance and was DOA.’
I fell silent.
‘Duncan?’
‘I’m still here. How did she die?’
‘Overdosed on a drug for her migraine. Champagne and pills. A trusted way out. Danielle found her in the bath, her mouth under water.’
‘Have you been to the police?’
‘Yeah. Made a statement.’
‘I’d better . . .’
‘You? Christ, no! Stay out of it. The papers will have a field day if they learn you were there. With me it’s different. “Ex-teacher at Suicide Scene” will hardly excite Truth. But “Billionaire Drug Industry Boss Spends Night With Suicide Beauty” would turn on every editor in the country.’
‘You didn’t tell the police I was there?’
‘No. As far as they’re concerned it was just me and Martine. We had a screw. I left. She had a bath and knocked herself off.’
‘Just tell me what happened?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Not much.’
‘Yeah, I ’spose you were pissed.’
‘I thought I fell asleep on the sofa.’
‘You did, mate. When it began to flood outside you had to stay. Martine and I went to bed. At about four I woke you and piled you into a taxi.’
I recalled falling into the back seat.
‘Martine ran the bath,’ Freddie added, ‘and I left. I can remember her standing near the bathroom door as the steam billowed out.’
‘Why did she do it? Did you have a fight?’
‘Nar. Never. She was like a mistress to me. You don’t brawl with ’em. Only your wife, right?’
‘But you still haven’t said why she did it.’
Confident Freddie hesitated and the first mild hint of fear crept into his reassuring tone.
‘Look. She was a pretty wild chick. You know? Arguably the best lover I’d ever had. Crazy.’ He laughed, too eagerly, ‘They say you should comb the nut houses for the best screws. She had paranoias about someone in France, who was after her for some reason she never laid out.’
‘You’re saying she was suicidal?’
‘Well, she had to be, didn’t she?’
‘Did she leave a note?’
‘Nar. But not all of ’em do, the cops said.’
The mention of her fears weighed on my mind and I didn’t know why.
‘I think I should see a lawyer,’ I said.
‘It’ll be a waste of time, mate. You’re in the clear. Anyway I’ll bet any lawyer would say keep your nose – particularly your famous snout – out of it.’
For the next couple of days I checked newspapers, watched TV and listened to the radio – even at work – and at night wandered my Edwardian mansion like a restless ghost. I was troubled. I didn’t think Freddie May had told me everything about those forgotten hours.
On Monday night I was sitting alone after the evening meal in front of the fireplace in the downstairs reception room. I used the hours eight until midnight to read and plan Benepharm ventures, and always ended the night with yoga exercises. Others in the house – the kids if they were staying with me, and our Japanese housekeepers, Tomi and Fui Tashesita – knew not to disturb me. This monkish period had become more important than ever because the company was preparing the biggest research and development project in its fifteen-year history.
I had become obsessed with being first to market drugs that would prevent or cure certain major cancers. The best way was to buy up all the research facilities we could in Australia and abroad. It was an operation costing tens of millions and included complicated financial deals involving American low-interest, high-risk bonds and other chancy resources. The calculated gamble was that at worst we would develop marketable spin-off drugs for cancer-related diseases that would eventually cover costs; at best we would find the big cancer drugs that would make Benepharm the most successful pharmaceutical group in the world.
While I was mumbling thoughts and instructions into a small tape recorder for a secretary to type up and act on the next day, Peggy came into the room with a lemon herb tea. She had come to see the kids, who were staying with me while she had a week’s shooting on location in a TV play.
She lingered and I looked up.
‘What’s bothering you?’ she asked.
‘Nothing – well, work.’
‘The kids remarked that you’ve been grumpy at the dinner table for the last few nights.’ Peggy smiled. ‘Sam said you were “reclusive” – she learnt the word yesterday and has been using it every second sentence.’ I laughed. It was the only time I’d smiled all day.
‘C’mon,’ Peggy persisted, ‘what’s on your mighty mind?’
Our eyes locked. I flicked off the tape. Despite the break-up of our marriage I occasionally confided in her. She was the solid, upright, commonsense type. Very hockey sticks.
‘Sit down,’ I said, and told her the story. She insisted on me seeing a lawyer. She had that sort of tidy mind, not to mention the fact that she was the daughter of a Supreme Court judge. I resisted at first because it seemed trivial and embarrassing.
‘I don’t want anyone at Benepharm knowing about mishaps in my private life,’ I said, ‘rumours spread like wildfire.’
‘Then get Ted Bayes,’ Peggy suggested, referring to the family lawyer who’d handled our divorce with discretion and a minimum of fuss, ‘just see him and tell him what happened.’
Ted’s father had been my father’s lawyer and he fixed things like wills and tax and trusts. I knew he had handled some minor matters for other clients/friends like me. He had kept spoilt teenagers out of court and the newspapers over such things as stolen cars and paternity suits. My little incident seemed to warrant that sort of attention, just in case, sensible Peggy said.
The next morning, I dropped into the smart, expensive Collins Street offices of Bayes, Bayes and Burton. Ted, a nice, rather ineffectual man on the surface, had sandy, greying hair, thin, bloodless lips and watery blue eyes. But he was fit – a marathon runner. One wondered whether he kept running to get away from trusts and wills and a hectoring wife.
While I told Ted my tale he looked out the window. When I pulled out a cheroot and offered him one, a secretary had to search for an ashtray at the back of a drinks cupboard, while he opened a window. Cigar smoke seemed to concern him far more than the story. He didn’t ask one question. At the end I said, ‘What should I do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Shouldn’t the police know I was there?’
‘Why?’
‘In case Freddie May tells them I was there.’
‘You said he didn’t.’
‘What if he did?’
‘Then if the police got in touch you’d tell them to see me and I’d tell them your story.’
‘Simple as that.’
‘Simple as that. Nothing to worry about.’
‘It’s not important that I was a witness to her behaviour?’
‘What was her behaviour?’
‘Friendly . . . normal.’
‘Not going to illuminate police investigations much, is it?’
‘I ’spose not.’ Ted dodged some smoke and took a breath.
‘Freddie May was right,’ he said, ‘no point in you opening yourself up to newspaper gossip.’
I left Ted to fumigate his office.