I SPENT a nervous afternoon doing nothing productive at the office except for a thorough scan of the papers. Martine’s death hadn’t even made the classified ad section. If her death was a suspected murder, the police were playing their cards very close. Hewitt arrived before seven and had a Scotch with me in the reception area as we waited for the police. He asked me who was coming.
‘Benns? I know him,’ Hewitt said, ‘bit of a gorilla. One of his hobbies is pumping iron. Don’t be fooled by his softly softly approach. Don’t let your guard down. He can be tough.’ He sniggered. ‘He’s got another hobby. Crime hooks, fact and fiction. Always got his face buried in one. Reckons it helps him solve cases.’
‘Even those involving drunks who can’t remember what they did?’
‘Take it easy, Duncan,’ Hewitt said, ‘he’s a fair man. He’s been working with a woman cop lately. The only one I know who’s worked on homicide. Name’s Pru O’Dare.’
‘Useful name for a policewoman,’ I said, trying to sound calm.
‘Yeah,’ Hewitt said, ‘she’s kinda cute, if you like elephants.’
‘You mean she never forgets?’
Hewitt laughed. He was nervous too.
‘I remember her father,’ he said, ‘he was in Homicide. Think her grandfather was a cop too.’
He sipped his Scotch.
‘One thing I’ve picked up over the years,’ he said, ‘is Homicide cops’ drinking habits. If they have a drink with you they’re not out to arrest you. If they don’t, they could be.’
‘And if they take tea?’
‘Don’t know what that means.’
The police arrived about an hour late, without apology. Benns looked about fifty, and had a receding hairline, and a jaw and chin to match. He sported one of those drooping black moustaches that detectives seem to favour, possibly because they make the face seem more severe. He was broad and just shorter than me at about 183 cm and so pumped up that he loped rather than walked. He wore an uncomfortably tight grey suit and a striped tie that had to be loosened at his bull neck.
O’Dare was a surprise; I would have called her Amazonian rather than elephantine. She too was just shorter than me. She wore a brown businesswoman’s suit and had made a valiant attempt to hide a huge bust. She kept her hair short and this accentuated the angular push of her masculine jaw. I would have placed her anywhere between thirty and forty. Unlike Benns, whose long jowls and lugubrious eyes seemed weighed down by too many sights of dead bodies, Detective Sergeant O’Dare was cheerful. She could have been captain of the policewomen’s netball team.
When they were ushered into the reception room and introduced, I offered them a drink. After a second or two’s pause they both declined. I caught Hewitt’s eye.
‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked. Benns declined but O’Dare said she’d like tea. Milk, no sugar. I wondered where that left me.
Hewitt and I sat on a sofa in front of the fire and the police opposite in leather chairs. Benns pulled out a notepad and a tape recorder, the latter being standard procedure. He cleared his throat.
‘We would like to ask a few questions,’ he said, politely enough.
‘Before you do,’ Hewitt intervened, ‘my client is willing to answer anything, but we reserve the right not to reply.’
Both detectives nodded. They had nothing to lose. If I failed to answer questions it could be revealing in itself.
Benns was doing the probing.
‘A Rolls Royce registered in your name was given a parking ticket on Saturday morning, August 23, at ten a.m. for an infringement.’
‘Yes.’
‘Witnesses said they noticed the car there from at least seven a.m.’
No use denying that.
‘It was there from midnight,’ I volunteered.
‘Could you explain what you were doing from midnight in that area.’
I looked at Hewitt and then went through the tale I was getting thoroughly sick of.
‘Why didn’t you come forward?’ O’Dare said, intervening for the first time.
‘I didn’t know Martine had died until I rang Freddie May.’
‘You should have come forward then,’ O’Dare said.
‘My client in fact did want to come forward,’ Hewitt said.
The detective kept looking up to see if the tape was running.
I sensed something ominous as the Tashesitas brought O’Dare a tea. She looked suspicious of the china pot and cup, almost as if she would be corrupted if she touched them. I could tell O’Dare was used to dunking bags. Fui poured it for her and received no thanks.
‘Are you treating this case as a murder?’ I said.
‘Not yet,’ Benns said, ‘all the tests from the forensic science laboratories aren’t in. Which reminds me, would you submit to a blood test?’
‘Why?’
Benns’ moustache twitched. He drew a light breath.
‘Someone had intercourse with Miss Villon that night. Tests can show who it was.’
Hewitt stood up.
‘Will you excuse us a moment?’ he asked. ‘I want to discuss this with my client in private.’
Both detectives stood up.
‘No,’ Hewitt said, ‘we’ll leave you here.’
They sat down again. I frowned and shook my head.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide, Terry,’ I said.
‘I just want to discuss it with you,’ he said. I could tell from the intent look in his eye that I should be cautious. I followed him out to the foyer between the front door and the sweeping wooden staircase.
‘I didn’t sleep with the woman!’ I said.
‘You were bombed out of your brain!’ Hewitt said, using the infamous corner of his mouth.
‘They’d only find Freddie’s sperm,’ I whispered. Hewitt shook his head.
‘What if you’d both had a go?’
‘There’s no way . . .’
‘You can’t account for three hours, Duncan. One hundred and eighty minutes. May said she was pretty wild. Just think on that. You fancied her, didn’t you?’
‘I’d have to be a pillow-biter not to.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But she was with Freddie. Anyway, I’m not into one-night stands.’
‘You were pissed! Just imagine if they had put you on the bed and for fun – just for a joke – had started a three-way scene.’
‘Forget it!’
I was vehement but also confused. I couldn’t remember a moment of that lost time, which had now become fateful. It left me vulnerable.
‘Just avoid the tests for now, OK?’ Hewitt said.
Was I getting poor advice again? Unlike Ted Bayes, Hewitt had all the answers and arguments and never hesitated. I liked that sort of approach. Yet he could have been dead wrong.
We returned to the detectives and I refused the tests, saying I might submit to them later, but not now. This didn’t seem to faze Benns, who, if anything, relaxed. Perhaps he was pleased to have a suspect.
‘We’ve had information that told me you had intercourse with her,’ Benns said.
‘That’s not true.’
‘Are you sure you were “asleep” on the sofa?’ I wanted to explode, but contained myself.
Benns glanced at O’Dare who produced a plastic bag from her brown leather briefcase.
‘Have you seen this before?’ he said, pulling out a small capsule container. It was labelled with a prescription for Martine Villon. I shook my head. ‘Do you know the pharmacy from which this was purchased?’
I examined the label. It was one of the ‘Benepharmacy’ group controlled by Benepharm. There were ten such pharmacies in and around Melbourne and the one in question was an all-nighter in Bourke Street.
‘It’s owned by my corporation.’
‘By your corporation,’ Benns repeated with satisfaction as he squinted at the tape.
‘You did pharmacy,’ he said flipping over pages of the notepad, ‘did you not? Graduated with honours in . . .’
‘No,’ I said.
Benns looked peeved as I corrected him: ‘Graduated with honours in a two-year Harvard Business Administration course.’
‘You never did pharmacy?’
‘I dropped out after second year.’
Benns rubbed his face with his hand as if to stimulate thought and this flushed his bad skin.
‘I was led to believe you topped every year,’ he said flicking pages.
‘No. I came fourth in first year and third in second year.’
‘Never top?’
Benns was obsessed with my academic accomplishment.
‘I topped second year in one subject only.’
‘What subject?’
‘Pharmacology.’
‘The study of drugs,’ he said with pleasure as he glanced at the passive Detective O’Dare. She took it as a cue to come in.
‘And why did you give away the course?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to get into drug manufacturing.’
‘Which you did at age . . .’ Benns began as he took over once more.
‘Nineteen,’ I said.
I could see Hewitt knew where this was going. He wanted to stop me but I was riding on instinct.
‘I read somewhere . . .’ Benns began as he searched for the right note, ‘something about you being one of the most knowledgeable directors in the industry.’
I didn’t react. He found a piece from the Sydney Morning Herald and read it out.
‘What do you say to that?’ he said.
‘I’ve been studying drugs for more than twenty years – ever since I worked in my grandfather’s pharmacy during school holidays.’
Benns nodded and even looked as if he was going to smile, but the expression ended in a wince.
‘Now, with your expertise you can tell us about this drug,’ he said, taking back the container.
‘Serophrine is a migraine drug,’ I shrugged, ‘and just to excite you further it’s manufactured by Benepharm.’
‘Your company?’ O’Dare asked.
‘Yes.’
I could almost see the dials in Benns’ brain turning on this new piece of data.
‘Just tell me er . . . Mr Hamilton,’ Benns said, pulling down on the ends of his moustache, ‘what happens when someone gets a migraine attack? It has something to do with the constriction and swelling of the blood vessels, doesn’t it?’
Before I could answer, O’Dare chipped in, ‘It’s also psychosomatic, I believe.’
‘They’ve been theories for fifty years and they’re both incorrect,’ I said. ‘Migraine is caused by a lack of serotonin, a nerve-cell messenger. The problem is neurological. The drug Serophrine stimulates production of the nerve-cell messenger.’
‘If someone was to take too much . . .’ Benns asked.
‘An overdose? It would lead to a blackout and quickly to death. That’s the way Martine died isn’t it?’
‘How did you know?’ Benns said.
‘Freddie May told me.’
O’Dare succumbed to the tea. Benns scribbled.
‘Did she die that way?’ I asked.
‘Possibly,’ Benns said. ‘Either that or she drowned.’
‘You’ve done tests,’ I said, ‘you should know if she had more than the prescribed dose.’
‘We’re not going to disclose that,’ O’Dare said.
‘Can I get back to your lapse of memory,’ Benns said with traces of the sardonic, ‘does this happen often?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘How occasionally?’
‘Perhaps three or four times a year.’
‘How would you describe your drinking?’
‘Moderate. I rarely drink at lunch. If I do, no more than two glasses.’
‘Of what?’
‘Not metho,’ I said. The police were not amused.
‘C’mon Mr Hamilton,’ Benns said.
‘Two glasses of wine normally,’ I said.
‘And at night?’
‘I like a Scotch with the evening meal.’
‘Just one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when you’re at a social function?’
‘It depends. A private party is different from a business function.’
‘Could you differentiate?’
‘Business functions are business. I don’t get pissed on principle. Nor do any of my people.’
O’Dare blinked when I said ‘pissed’. She must have thought me too genteel to swear. But not to have committed murder.
‘And at a private party?’
‘I might sink a few more than normal,’ I said, again fixing Benns’ gaze. ‘Anyway I really don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink.’
‘That’s old-fashioned,’ O’Dare chimed in.
‘Doesn’t make it a wrong instinct, Detective-Sergeant,’ I said and turned to Benns again. ‘Do you drink?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t,’ he replied. The tension in the conversation was now palpable. Benns juggled the container in his hand.
‘How long did you know Martine Villon?’ he said.
‘I met her for the first time last Friday night.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Positive.’
‘You never set eyes on her before?’
‘I had seen her at a screening of a Benepharm advertisement.’
‘So she had links with your corporation?’
The speed of this last question indicated that Benns knew this in advance.
‘Insofar as she did ads for us, which is a bit tenuous.’
‘Did you know she was on a retainer with Benepharm?’
‘For what?’
‘Modelling in ads for your “healthy life” health food range.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘That’s strange. Miss Martine Villon has your number in her diary.’
‘What number?’
‘699 9669.’
‘That’s the number to the executive office switchboard.’
‘But nevertheless your number?’
Hewitt tried to intervene but I stopped him again. I was steamed up.
‘I have a private number at work. If I was involved with this woman in any way she would have that.’
‘With your name next to it?’
‘Her diary has my name in it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘If that’s true, then it’s a plant. I’ve never had any relationship with Martine Villon.’
I stood up. The others did too.
‘You say you’ve never seen this bottle before?’ Benns said.
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Funny,’ he said with a mock frown, ‘but it was found in this plastic bag stuffed under the rear seat of your Rolls.’
‘Then I’m definitely being set up.’
I began to walk the two detectives to the door.
‘You don’t plan on going anywhere in the next few days, Mr Hamilton?’ Benns said.
‘No, why?’
‘We’re sure to want to speak with you again.’
I showed them the door while Hewitt lingered, his face twitching with embarrassment, in the background.
Benns hesitated outside the door.
‘See you at the funeral tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Whose funeral?’
‘Martine Villon’s.’