Professor Bettina Crisp’s living room had the usual number of walls, but could have done with a few more, Leah thought, as she perched on the edge of the antique sofa and sipped at the nasty herbal tea which was the closest thing her friend could offer to a decent cup of coffee.
There simply wasn’t enough room to contain all this art.
Bettina could never say no to a new acquisition, particularly one from a female Australian artist. Landscapes by Clarice Beckett, Sybil Craig and the women of the Heidelberg School clustered thick as luminous rectangular moths on the walls of an Alpine cave.
The one startling anomaly was a vast reclining female nude in acid colours, which proved, on close examination, to be none other than Professor Crisp herself.
Sitting opposite the host’s naked alter ego produced exactly the sort of discomfiture that Bettina – scholarly demeanour, demi-lune spectacles, grey hair in a tight bun – liked to inflict on innocent visitors.
There was a good deal more to her friend than met the eye, thought Leah. Although what met the eye right now was rather a lot.
‘It seems indelicate,’ worried the Professor. ‘An approach at this time might be construed as insensitive, do more harm than good, don’t you think?’
‘Ordinarily I’d say yes,’ said Leah, ‘but in Tina’s case, I don’t think so. I went to see her, to offer my condolences.’
‘Oh? So you know the Kapanadzes?’
‘Not well. We’ve met at various functions over the years. But I’ve always liked her. She’s not brash like Dima can be – could be. A very impressive woman, actually, in all kinds of ways.’
‘Well, we can never have too many of those.’
‘I get a sense that she might be keen for the company to take a different tack, a course that’s more … sympathetic … to community views about your gardens. She’s not the majority shareholder, but she has influence.’
‘What if someone did him in because of the redevelopment plan, Leah? What then? Surely she would hold a grudge? I would.’
‘Oh. But it was accidental? Just a tragic coincidence?’
‘You think?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘It doesn’t strike you as odd, that Mr Kapanadze died at the Plot, under circumstances that haven’t yet quite been clarified?’
‘I thought they had. He was taking a look around, for whatever reason, and a branch from the tree fell and crushed him.’
‘The police have been rather careful with their language,’ observed Bettina, draining her tea. ‘The case isn’t closed. Not at all.’
‘Who would do such an awful thing?’
‘It would be irresponsible to speculate, of course …’
‘Of course.’
‘But there are certain people who have a shaky grasp of the law, and a tendency to bend reality to fit their fanciful notions of personal liberty.’
‘Oh, him?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment, dear. Would you like a refill?’
‘Morning, Gabi. In early today.’
‘Morning, Sarge,’ replied her constable, not quite as bright and breezy as usual, but a gleam of triumph in her tired eyes. ‘I did some digging online last night. Came up with this.’
DS Mel Hanrahan skimmed the long post, clicked on the link to the video.
‘Shit.’
‘Quite.’
‘Looks like no-glow trailcam footage. Get it analysed by Tech Support. Check it’s not a deepfake.’
‘Already on to it.’
‘Good. So who’s the bloke with the lump of wood?’
‘No ID on him yet. Not enough of his face showing. But if this is the murder weapon, at least we know what we’re looking for.’
‘And who posted it? Who’s this suchislife?’
‘We’re in touch with Discord to see if we can get them to release the name …’
‘Yeah, good luck with that.’
‘… but I’m sure it’s Ray Hughes.’
‘Because?’
‘I dropped by the Plot on my way in, this morning.’
‘Bloody hell, Constable. Don’t you sleep?’
The young DC flushed all the way from her neck to her ears.
‘I think I’ve located the position from which the video footage was taken. See this cute little windmill thingy here with the chook bobbing up and down?’
‘Yes?’
‘Looks like a home-made job, doesn’t it? Can’t be another quite like it. Well, here’s the same little chooky in my photos this morning, and I reckon this from the video is this trellis here, even though the plants have gone.’
‘And the camera belongs to our mate Ray?’
‘No sign of the trailcam now, he’s taken it down I guess, but I asked an older guy who seemed to know his way around – and he confirmed that it’s Ray’s patch.’
Mel took another look at the web page.
‘Libercity Melbourne. What’s this?’
‘Discord server for libertarian groups across the metro area, Sarge. Mostly law-abiding, but a few of the crazies post there, fishing for a wider audience than they get on Telegram, where they’re preaching to themselves.’
‘And you’re a member?’
‘Ah, yes. I take an interest in what’s going on across the political spectrum, so to speak.’
‘Why’d he post it here? Reading this screed, he wants to show us up. I’ll give the little fucker “dullard plods”. So why do it in an obscure chatroom? Why not send it to the press, or stick it on TikTok?’
‘Guess he wants to show off to his mates, thinks he can do it on Discord without revealing his identity to us. Maybe he’s hoping someone else will leak it.’
‘What a dill … So, we need a little heart-to-heart with Ray Hughes.’
‘Do you think he’ll co-operate, Sarge?’
‘If we play him right. Stroke his ego and he’ll roll over on his back to have his tummy tickled.’
‘Eww. Want me to bring him in for questioning?’
‘Yes … and I want you to lead the interview, Gabi.’
‘Yes, Sarge!’
If there was one thing that would get a man like Ray to preen and strut, it would be the wide-eyed, fresh-faced innocence of Gabi Papadakis, thought Mel.
Innocence and freshness which hid the intelligence and focus of an apex predator.
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 18: Truth or Dare
Certain people get certain matters off their chests.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.
By the way, I like the tea time art
Always fun to read you my literary friend