Two hours later the Dukes' property was a sealed crime scene, with the scene of the actual crime taped-off as the focal point. David's cottage - his place of sleep, obsession and death - was being photographed, videotaped, fingerprinted, DNA-swabbed, and generally put through a thorough forensic sleuthing and gathering. The same was being done to his kitchen cottage.
Kit watched, impassively now, from the tree stump she was sharing with Alex and Erin. Having managed, with difficulty, to get David's loyal hounds away from his side she'd encouraged them, and all the others, into their run, which Alex had discovered was behind the cottage next door.
Then, while they were waiting for Marek and his team to turn up, Kit had asked her friends to perform a visual investigation of the 'loony-room' as Erin had called it. She instructed them not to touch anything, not a thing, just to stand, look at everything and take it all in - without speaking.
Kit had done the same in the lounge-bedroom. Computer, modem and printer on an old wooden desk, no drawers, but covered in paper some sheets screwed up, others just thrown down. Three framed photos on the wall over the desk, of a young sweet-faced woman who, without doubt, had to be Bobby Dukes junior. Two large, framed studio portraits, either side of the TV: one of Bobby Dukes senior (probably), David, and Bobby junior aged about four; and the other much older picture of (again probably) Bobby senior, his sister Renny and his, then, teenage son David.
The television was sitting on an open-fronted cabinet that contained a VCR and about thirty tapes. Kit had checked the labels and, except for The Maltese Falcon and Raging Bull, they were all marked with things like: H 2/10 or W 3/12. She'd really wanted to stick one of them in the VCR to see what was on it, but there was no way she was going to compromise this crime scene, not even a little bit. And not because Marek would throttle her if he'd found out.
Kit had then turned to David Dukes himself and from about five feet away - she couldn't get any closer because of the blood on the floor - she shut off everything that matters in life, and tried to work out what kind of weapon had caused his death. A large knife, she decided. Given the depth of the wound on the right - his left - side of the throat, compared to the other side, she guessed that this large knife had been wielded by a right-handed person; or a left-handed person with a strong, deft backhand. David had tried to protect himself; but his hands had been cut to ribbons.
There was also: a mat on the wooden floor; the lumpy couch against which David was leaning; an empty box, on which his head was resting; an open wardrobe with clothes hanging and shoes thrown in the bottom; and a big old brass bed with rumpled bedclothes, beside an open window with a blood-stained sill. That was it, there was nothing else.
When she'd heard the approaching police siren Kit had collected Alex and Erin and gone to wait outside, like good little non-interfering citizens. She'd then handed her henchgirls a piece of paper each and asked them to write down, again without conferring, everything they had seen.
Now, two hours later, after every second cop had stopped bothering them with questions, Kit decided it was time to compare notes.
Alex went first. "There were a few, maybe four photos of Carol," she said. "But she was only pictured with Jack Higgins and others, and mostly in a car park."
"The council car park," Erin confirmed. "Jack, on the other hand, had been snapped all over town - outside the council chambers or his Mr Sportiz shops, in his car with a variety of women including Sandra Fallon, a skinny blonde, a darker-haired woman..."
"Crystal-Bug and Flippy-Paula," Alex chipped in.
"And his wife, Barbara," Erin added. "Photographic proof that he actually takes, took, her out for an airing now and then. And, you'll love this Kit, Councillor Jack coming out of the AusFirst office flanked by Mr and Mrs Walsh."
"What, no Adam Goddard?" Kit asked.
"He was up on that wall a lot but only in one picture with Jack, in the driveway of a house with a for sale sign out the front."
Something rang a far off bell in Kit's memory. "Ooh, incoming," she frowned, holding up her hands. "I hate these thoughts that you can feel coming from so far off you don't know whether you're going to catch them on the fly past or not. Ah, got it."
"Was it worth catching?" Alex asked tentatively.
"Jack and houses for sale," Kit stated. "Sandra Fallon faxed me, on Saturday, a list of the places in which they did the horizontal-hoochy. I haven't given it a thought since. Remind me to call Hector when I get home and ask him to run a check on them for me. Okay, that data is processed; now where were we?"
Alex was shaking her head. "Hector is in Adelaide."
"Oh," Kit said. "Did I know that? Not that he can't go wherever he wants whenever... did I?"
"Um, probably not," Alex apologised. "He asked me, last night, to tell you but I guess I forgot what with everything else we were..."
"And what were you... exactly?" Erin queried politely.
"Weren't there other familiar faces on that wall, Erin?" Kit prompted.
"Oh yeah," Erin grinned. "Familiar and unexpected," she stressed. "Like Barry Page."
"Barry Page?" Kit repeated still none the wiser but guessing she probably shouldn't be.
"You know, the one-time honourable now deceased Member of Parliament, Mr Barry Page!"
"Oh right, of course," Kit said. "What was he doing in the pictures?"
"Mostly being photographed around town with Jack either in front of the casino, going into a pub, getting out of Jack's car. There were a couple of him with Virginia Walsh, outside his own electoral office; and a few with two different youngish women."
"Okay," Kit said, "what about the rest of the room?"
"The table was covered with messy piles of newspaper clippings and photos, including one of you and Erin in the driveway out there, no doubt taken during your previous visit," Alex said.
"Now that's creepy," Kit said. "Anyone else you recognise?"
"No, and I did not move the piles to get a better look. There was also a wedge of pizza on a plate, half a can of beer, pens, scissors, a take-away food container with either a sausage or a dog turd inside, and a half-written note, that said," Alex glanced up a passing cloud, 'prepare for the end'. There was nothing to indicate to whom he might have sent that had he not, you know..."
"Carked it," Erin growled, "the poor bastard."
"I realise you two had a little fondness going on for that 'poor bastard' but just remember he was Mercury and there is the possibility that he killed Jack Higgins last night," Alex stated.
"Not likely," Marek said, appearing from the other side of a bushy bush behind them.
"How long have you been eavesdropping on our private affairs?" Kit asked, in mock annoyance.
"Long enough to know you're observant and, more importantly, respectful of my crime scene."
"So why is it not likely?" Kit asked.
Marek weight-tested a large metal box, then sat on it and lit a cigarette. "Given what you told me last night about the then anonymous Mercury, and what Gonzo found out from Mrs Webster and Carter Shitforbrains, in his follow up, we did consider that Mercury, whoever he was, was most likely responsible for the murder of Jack Higgins."
"And now that you know who he is?" Erin asked.
"Now we know, that as probable as it still appears to be, it's not actually possible. Donald Grenville," Marek said, then glanced at Alex and Erin, "he's our forensic pathologist," he explained. "Donald reckons that bloke in there has been dead since sometime late Saturday."
"Oh my god, poor David," Erin wailed. "Bloody hell, how long would it have been before anyone found him if I hadn't come here this morning and been bailed up by his dogs?"
Erin's question had been rhetorical but obviously caught Marek's attention. "Why did you come here this morning?"
"I was going to ask him if he'd like me to do a feature article on Bobby's, on his daughter's disappearance. Maybe see if we could get her to come home or at least find out where she went."
"Honestly, this family has to be one of the unluckiest I've ever heard about," Alex commented. "I mean, even the dogs are orphans now. Who's going to look after them?"
Kit jumped to her feet. "I think I know just the person and how to find her."
"Who?" Marek called after her as she sprinted up the drive to David's kitchen cottage.
Kit bounded on to the veranda and opened the screen door but didn't go in. A uniformed copper wearing plastic gloves and protective booties, and a woman from the forensics team in the full minimal-contaminant outfit turned in surprise, both warning Kit not to enter.
"Don't freak guys, I don't want to come in. Not that it'd matter, seeing I already have."
"You have? When?" the constable demanded. "And who are you?"
Kit raised her eyebrows. "Ah, about two and a half hours ago, and on Saturday afternoon."
"And she's Kit O'Malley, you fool," the forensics woman added. "Hi, I'm Jenny Patton," she said, giving Kit a nod. "I'd shake but I can't. What can we do for you?"
"There is a... oh. There was a pinboard on the wall by the phone. Oh, again. They were both over there," Kit waved to the wall next to the fridge. "Ah, there it is, Jenny. I need one of the cards or, rather, info off one of the cards, please. It's next of kin stuff."
Jenny lifted the seat of one of the broken chairs carefully off the pinboard, which was lying under the table. "What am I looking for? Hey, I found your card; ooh and Barbie's Escorts."
Kit laughed. "It's something like Renny's Kennels?" she suggested.
"Renny's K9 Retreat?" Jenny read out. "You got a pen? Oh, bugger it Kit. If you've already been in here you may as well come and take a look."
"Ta. I'll be careful where I tread, this time," Kit said. She copied the phone number and the address in Dickens St, Elwood into her notebook twice and tore out a copy for Marek.
"Thanks Jenny," she said, retreating to the veranda.
"My pleasure," Jenny said; while the constable demanded, "Who the hell is Kit O'Malley?"
So, Kit thought, as she strolled slowly back down the drive. David Dukes, alias Mercury - the much-more-than-disgruntled whatever it was he was - had a serious vendetta against Jack, Carter, Adam and, the new bloke on the list, Barry Page. He did not, however, appear to have anything against Carol Webster. So why had he been including her in his hate campaign?
Kit sighed. Work out what Mercury had on the others, why he had them in his sights, and that might explain Carol's inclusion. Belated inclusion, she noted. Carol was the last to be targeted by Mercury, who'd been harassing Jack and Carter for at least two weeks, but Carol for only six days.
And what about Barry Page? He'd been dead for weeks, so unless Erin knew whether Mercury had been hassling the disgraced MP, Kit would have to check out his relationship to all this as well.
Yoo-hoo. Why do you have to do that, O'Malley? Kit asked herself. This is a homicide case now. The person who was harassing your client is no more. Your case for Carol is effectively over.
But what is the connection? she wondered, ignoring herself as usual. Did Barry Page commit suicide because of the scandal in which he'd been involved, or because of what Mercury had on him? Were they one and the same? If so, was it the money laundering, the tawdry sex or both?
How the hell did Mercury's aggravating but, comparatively speaking, harmless little excrement campaign end in his murder. Whoa! Did Page really kill himself? Did he jump or was he pushed?
And where and how did Carter Walsh fit into this jigsaw? Were he and Jack involved in Page's illicit activities? Kit didn't know about Carter, but Jack and tawdry sex, now that was likely. Mercury hated Jack, for some reason, but couldn't have killed him because he was himself already dead. The flipside of that coin, however, was that maybe Jack found out who Mercury was.
No, that's not it. Wrong approach completely. Kit leant against the rusty, roofless remains of a horse float. Stop calling him Mercury when you know who he is now; and don't pretend that you didn't find the deceased version of that nice guy you had coffee with on Saturday.
Make it personal, Katherine O'Malley. Figure out what David Dukes had on those men.
Hang on, just one second! she thought. Detective-Sergeant Jon Marek had actually used the word murder, as in 'the murder of Jack Higgins'. That makes three victims.
"Alex just brought up a really important point," Erin said as Kit jogged back to the tree stump.
"Of course," Kit smiled, handing Marek the slip of paper. "Next of kin, David's Aunt Renny."
"If David died on Saturday," Alex said, "who dumped the manure outside AusFirst yesterday?"
"That is a very interesting question," Kit acknowledged. "But I've got a curly one for you Jonno, unless my friends here have already tackled you on it."
"And what would that be, Kitty?" Marek queried, knowingly.
"How precisely was Jack Higgins murdered?"
"Precisely with a long sharp knife thrust into his heart."
"You're kidding!" Alex exclaimed.
"My great uncle's big..." Erin faltered. "Bloody hell, and shit!"
"What about the road rage theory?" Kit asked.
"The caddie's front end was wrapped around a light pole and there was a big ding in the back so it's likely that someone did run him off the road," Marek explained. "We think the same someone, then finished him off with a knife. And yes, O'Malley, possibly the same one that took out your mate in there. We've also had conflicting witness reports about a white sports car and a big..."
"Green 4WD?" Kit finished.
"Yeah. How did you know what colour it was?" Marek asked.
Kit filled him in on Crystal Blake and her side of the story, then said, "Are you sure Jack didn't do himself in, like that other idiot a few years back?"
"Which particular idiot are you talking about?"
"The idiot who got so aggro with another driver that he pursued him through the streets at high speed, while holding a large knife that he planned to stab the guy with when he caught him."
"I remember him," Erin laughed. "He lost control on a tight corner, crashed into a parked car and whammo," she punched her fist into her palm, "he stuck the knife into his own throat."
"Oh, that idiot," Marek nodded.
Kit laughed. "Yeah. I often wonder whether his last thought was, 'now look what you've done to me, you bastard,' or 'jeez, I'm a fuckwit'."
"Well, Higgins may well have been doing the chasing, rather than the other way around," Marek noted, "but he did not fall on his own knife. And he would have seen, up close and personal, just who it was who stabbed him to death."
"You should probably talk to Paula again then, O'Malley," Alex suggested.
"Why? I doubt she'd want to kill Jack," Kit said. "I mean actually kill him, rather than probably just feel like it or say she might like to, just because... Oh dear."
"Who's Paula?" Marek asked politely.
Alex shrugged, still engaged on Kit's wavelength. "If she is nutty enough to think RJ fancied him and now, thanks to us, she knows about Crystal too, then she might just..."
"Excuse me, police man here with question," Marek stated. "Who is Paula?"
"She's a possible suspect in another case I'm on," Kit said. She was trying to be circumspect but then remembered Marek knew already. "She might be Rebecca's stalker."
"And that has what to do with Higgins? Or this?" he waved at David's cottage.
"Paula, an old school friend of Rebecca's, was bonking Jack Higgins, mostly in a room at the Sofitel - where Rebecca is also staying."
Marek thought for a second and then said, "not quite enough info there, Kitty. I still don't get it."
"Paula is, allegedly, slightly unstable and may have thought because of their shared history that RJ was also having it off with Jack. We postulate that she went from slightly to extremely unstable and, tormented by dumb jealousy, she began sending Rebecca nasty notes, bloody hearts and little bags of sperm."
Marek looked suitably disgusted. "By shared history, I assume you mean Rebecca and Paula. But this is really an episode from a soap opera, right?"
"Just about," Alex nodded. "But Kit also meant Rebecca and Jack's history."
Kit smiled; she loved it when Marek looked confused. "Jack used to be married, eons ago, to another old school friend of Rebecca's. And Paula's."
"Is she a suspect too?" Marek asked, getting to his feet and shaking the kinks out of his legs.
"No," Kit said.
"In a nutshell, Kitty, are you telling me that your cases are connected?" Marek asked.
"No," Kit replied, and then added, "yes," and threw up her hands. "Yes, no and maybe. It's a huge coincidence that Jack Higgins features in both my otherwise unrelated cases."
Marek narrowed his eyes and considered Kit, or all that she'd said. "You know my opinion of the word 'otherwise', O'Malley."
Kit laughed. "Yeah well, apart from a fleeting suspicion that Paula may have actually been Mercury, the two cases only have Jack in common."
"And you," Marek said, strolling away. "They have you in common, and that's a real worry."
Half an hour later Kit climbed back into her car and handed Alex, who was talking to someone on the phone, a variety box of wicked custard slices, chocolate cakes and fruit tarts that she'd just bought from an Acland Street cake shop.
"I'll ask her, just a sec," Alex said and then turned to Kit. "It's Rebecca and she wants to know if we could meet them at your place so you can help sort something out."
"Sure," Kit smiled, wondering if it was a new thing or the same old thing. "Give her my address and tell her we have cake. Oh, ask her if she knows what colour and kind of car Paula owns."
Alex passed on the information and the question; then, with raised brows, passed the interesting and very suggestive answer back to Kit. "Apparently Paula drives a white Mercedes sports car."
"Yeah? Is she sure?"
"Are you sure Rebecca?" Alex asked. "Oh, I guess you are then. See you in about fifteen minutes." She hung up and gave Kit a look. "RJ is quite sure about the car. She and Sally are squashed into it."
Kit stood with her legs apart, her forehead on a drink coaster and her arms stretched out along her kitchen bench. She was in this position partly as a gesture of extreme frustration but mostly because Alex was running her hand up her thigh and she didn't want to move.
Sally was sitting on a stool on the other side of the bench, her back to them; and Rebecca was still being verbally assaulted by Paula Bracken who was venting her spleen as if there was no tomorrow.
"Okay, that's enough!" Kit declared, emerging from the safety of the kitchen.
"You stay out of this you lying cow," Paula snapped.
"Nope, I've had more than enough of you and your ranting Paula. Sit down, please, and shut up. Now," Kit growled, "or I will make you."
I don't know how, Kit thought, but I'll give it a go.
Paula threw herself on the couch, in a superior huff; Rebecca breathed a visible sigh of relief; Sally was heard to mutter, 'thank god'; and Alex offered everyone coffee.
"Seeing you refuse to let RJ even speak, let alone defend herself, I will explain the situation to you. Ah," Kit said raising a shushing finger. "If you interrupt me Paula, I will have no hesitation in handing you over to the cops on a suspicion of murder platter - just for fun.
"This is the bottom line: RJ did not think you were sending her nasty letters. You were top of my likely suspect list not hers. And no matter what else you might say, you cannot maintain you didn't think Rebecca was screwing your bastard Jack, when that was in fact the conclusion you leapt to when I used their names in the same sentence to you yesterday. So, dipso-wipso, our assumption about you, and your likely motive, was proven; and until a better candidate comes along Paula, I'm afraid you're it."
Paula scowled, like she did it professionally. "Okay, I take your point about RJ, I suppose. But, for the record, I haven't sent her anything. And I'll thank you to stop threatening to sick the cops on me, Missy. I did not run Jack off the road so you can't score imaginary points off me on that. Oh yes, I know about the cars; it's been all over the news about the 4WD and the white sports number. But think about it, why the hell would I want to kill Jack?"
"Let's see," Kit said, counting off on her fingers as she spoke. "You did think he was sharing his equipment with RJ; you had just found out about the Crystal bimbo and, what else? Oh, that's right, you suddenly realised that the woman he returns to, occasionally, was his wife."
"On top of which, and I don't know whether you've noticed," Sally chimed in, "but none us here believe you're quite balanced, in an emotional sense."
"Sally," Rebecca moaned.
"What?" Sally asked. "Come on guys, we've all met the Donker man. Who the hell wouldn't want to kill him? And, apart from being highly excitable, Paula's got a bloody good reason or two."
"Well I didn't," Paula actually laughed, "but I'm starting to wish I had. Speaking of his wife though," she spat, returning to attack mode, "I assume that you are aware she drives a cream MG?"
"Yeah, of course," Kit lied, worried that she might be getting good at it. But, oh please, not the 'wife out for a drive in the old car-of-revenge' theory.
"And, that Adam drives a green land cruiser?" Paula dangled.
Kit nearly choked on that one, but managed to maintain a semblance of professional order on her face. She managed to say, nonchalantly, "You know Adam Goddard?"
Paula gave a 'we go way back' shrug, but said, "met him a few times; didn't like him."
"Oh god, neither did I," Alex exclaimed, as she sauntered down the stairs. "My uncle and I bumped into him at media dinner about two months ago. He was with whatshername."
Way to go, girlfriend! Kit thought, throwing Alex a winning look.
"Don't know any whatshername. Ha!" Paula laughed. "But Adam, now there's a manipulating arsehole."
Oh at last, Kit thought. Paula appeared to be calming down again. Although this was the third time in an hour, so Kit wasn't going to stake anything on her not firing up the anger boosters again.
"He really creeped me out," Paula was saying, "so after a while I refused to have drinks with him and Jack. They only talked business anyway and I did not want to waste my valuable sack time listening to them argue."
"Well," Alex said, propping on the arm of the other couch, "I had to endure twenty minutes of him debating prime offshore investment strategies with my uncle and his, admittedly, boring as batshit mate Horrie. I always thought my uncle had a clue, but neither of them realised Adam was trying to sell them something."
"Adam and Jack were usually fighting not debating," Paula chatted, "and usually over their poxy little real estate empire. Jack was slow on the uptake, I gather; or maybe it was vice versa, I usually tuned right out."
Strange tales but true, Kit thought. "Um," she began.
"Hey!" Paula said suddenly, getting to her feet. "You're coddling me. You are leading my conversation, patronising me and coddling me. I fucking hate that. I'm going home."
Everyone, except Sally, sat in stunned silence as Paula's mood spasm flounced her to the door.
"You are completely paranoid, but you know that, don't you Paula."
"Yes, Sally Shaw, I know that. But, as you yourself said, I've got a few bloody good reasons for it; not the least of which is that you lot keep picking on me!" she shouted, snatching the front door open. Oddly, it did not slam behind her.
"RJ?"
"Yes Paula?"
"Do you think you could not tell Grace about me and Jack? Please."
"I wouldn't dream of it Paula."
"Thank you."
Even though they heard the door close, there was silence until Sally gave the all clear.
"I'm awfully glad we don't have to go back to the hotel in her car," Rebecca said thoughtfully, "or anywhere at all with her, for that matter."
"That woman is definitely flippy," Kit declared.
"Without a doubt," Alex agreed.
"That woman," said Sally, "is mad enough to have had a personality in each of the cars that allegedly ran Jack Higgins off the road."
"And another to stab him to death with a long sharp knife," Kit added.
"What?" Rebecca and Sally exclaimed in unison.
"Oh yes," Kit nodded, as the doorbell chimed and the phone rang. She headed for the phone; and
Sally offered to get the door, but suggested they all pretend to be invisible if it was Paula again.
Kit stabbed a finger at the answering machine, which flashed three, three, three messages, and picked up the receiver. "O'Malley."
"Kit, you're there at last. It's Carol. Carol Webster."
"Hi Carol," Kit said, sticking her finger in her left ear to block out the hullabaloo up the stairs and into the kitchen, that heralded the arrival of Del and Brigit. The latter was waving an Express Post bag at Kit, until she got sidetracked by...cake.
"I gather you've heard about Jack, then," Kit said to Carol.
"Yes, what a terrible, um, occurrence. Do you have any details on what really happened, Kit? I know this probably sounds selfish, or self-something, but was it Mercury who rammed him and made him run into that pole? It's been implied on the radio news all day."
Shit, Kit thought. Carol was next her agenda but it hadn't actually occurred to her that she would be worried. You idiot, O'Malley, why wouldn't she be? "I am so sorry I haven't spoken to you sooner, Carol, but I've been tied up all day so far with..." she hesitated.
"This morning I discovered and identified the body of someone that we believe to be Mercury. He has been dead too long to have been anywhere near Jack last night. So no, Mercury did not kill Jack, but it does look like your troubles are over."
"Really? Thank god," Carol laughed the humourless laugh of sheer relief. "Who was he?"
"Mercury?" Kit began and then had second, sensible, thoughts. "I can't tell you that until his next of kin have been notified, and the police are sure he really is Mercury. But if you're going to be home around ten in the morning I'll drop in and tell you what I can then."
"Okay, I understand, Kit. But we are, as far as you know, Andrew and I are..."
"You're quite safe Carol. In fact I suspect you may never have been in any real danger at all."
"That's the best news I've had all week," Carol sighed. "We'll see you tomorrow then."
"Fine. Oh, hey Carol wait. Um, who referred you to Alex in the first place?"
"A friend of the family, why?"
"A friend called Irene Sutton?" Kit verified; then thought Irene? as a little jigsaw piece pre-empted Carol's response and tried to squeeze itself into an empty spot in the bigger puzzle.
Nope, Kit thought, it's an odd shape; it won't fit there. Irene Sutton isn't a clue, O'Malley, she's simply an extraneous bit of info.
"Yes, Irene is Max's wife. Um, Max is our vet," Carol was saying.
Of course she is, Kit pouted.
"What Andrew? Oh yeah," Carol said. "You and Erin met Max on Saturday, Kit. Remember?"
"I remember the effect that Max the vet had on Max the cat. And that he was a charming fellow."
"He is that," Carol agreed. "And Irene is delightful. They're both magic with animals. We always leave Max and Ali at their kennels in Elwood whenever we go away."
"At their kennels?" Kit closed her eyes. "In Elwood?" Okay, the jigsaw piece might just have found its rightful place.
Don't be ridiculous, O'Malley. It's just another bloody coincidence.
"Carol, that wouldn't be Renny's K9 Retreat by any chance?" she asked.
"Yes. Do you know it?"
"Only by reputation. Ah, I have to go now. I'll see you in the morning."
Kit hung up and remained where she was, tapping the edge of her desk until there was silence in her space and everyone was looking at her.
"Kit? You okay?" Alex asked.
Kit spoke slowly and carefully, processing as she went. "Carol Webster's vet, Max Sutton, is married to a 'delightful' woman called Irene who makes cakes.
"I am thinking, maybe, that Irene Sutton, in some kind of convoluted way, might have organised for me - through you, Alex - to be hired to investigate the incongruous and, comparatively speaking, belated attacks on her friend Carol by the mysterious disgruntled person known as Mercury."
"Is she speaking in tongues, or do we understand this?" Brigit asked.
"We understand," Alex stated. "But Kit, we knew about Carol's referral through Irene Sutton this morning. Oh, wait, I get it. You said 'organised'. Are you saying we are part of a plot? That this Irene woman orchestrated our involvement?"
Kit grinned broadly at Alex in admiration. She was quick, and she didn't even have all the facts.
"I don't know whether I'd actually label it a plot," Kit said, still working through the details. "But I might be saying something along those lines. And, although I still have to verify what I'm about to say, this conclusion is so within reach I can stumble over it.
"I think that before the delightful Irene married Max Sutton she was Irene, or rather Renny Dukes - sister of Bobby Dukes the elder; great-aunt of the missing Bobby Dukes junior; and only aunt of David Dukes who, as we now know, was Mercury.
"And," Kit announced with a flourish, "I think I might even know what this is all about."