The Simple Death (11 page)

WEDNESDAY

Fifteen

L
eila is woken some time after midnight by the keening of a possum. Sometimes one is bailed up in the garden by a cat, and the two face off until the possum starts to wail like a demon baby. It goes on for several minutes until one of them makes a move: there are yelps and the sound of something crashing through the bushes.

Leila lies in the silence and the dark, sweating and only half awake, knowing there is something important. Soon it pounces, her mother's death, the funeral yesterday. After a while she gets out of bed and walks through the hot house for a glass of water. When she gets back to her room she opens another window: they have always been concerned about burglars, but the top-floor windows are safe to open. The roof is so steeply pitched—to keep the snow off—it would require serious abseiling equipment to get down that way.
Come to the window
, she murmurs:
sweet is the night air
. But it isn't, tonight, it's muggy and smells faintly of carbon monoxide. She lies down on top of the bedclothes, hoping for a breeze.

The house needs to be emptied and sold, but at the moment she can't even think of it. She wondered if the funeral might change the way she had been feeling, the intense sadness, but it is still the same. The memory of Elizabeth's last days is worse than those days were at the time, and this doesn't seem fair at all. Leila believes in progress. Today she should get out of the house, go for a walk, do something about getting that other bottle to Stuart. But right now she can't think, turns on the radio. Hears they've found the body of the man who fell off the Manly Ferry last week. Leila wonders if he committed suicide, like the man in Slessor's poem ‘Five Bells', he came off the ferry too. But he jumped, his coat pockets weighed down with bottles of beer. She remembers some of the poem, and shivers in the heat.

Her mind drifts to Lewis and Wendy, to something her mother told her in one of their long conversations as she lay dying. They were discussing the past, and Elizabeth had returned to an old puzzle, why any parents of her generation would have called their daughter Wendy. Moving on, Leila asked, rhetorically, why Wendy had stolen Lewis from her.

‘Silly girl,' her mother said, ‘he was only with you to get to Wendy. Didn't you see that?'

It was fifteen years ago and the thought had never occurred to her. Probably her mother was wrong; she usually was.

‘It sounds rather old-fashioned,' she said doubtfully. ‘Why didn't he just ring her up, if that's what he wanted?'

‘Don't be obtuse, dear. He hardly knew her. You were the connection.'

Leila lies thinking of that time in her life, when she'd been so deeply in love. It's all back, jumpy inside her head.

Wendy and Lewis left Australia soon after they got together, lived in India and Thailand, where Wendy spent a week in jail due to some problem with marijuana. Later they returned, settled down. They know about Leila's own time inside, her past, and the three of them are bound together now by the sense, cultivated especially by Lewis, that they are different to most of the people around them. That they have done things, seen things.

Not long after Elizabeth started talking about assisted suicide, Leila mentioned it at Lewis and Wendy's house in Balmain. Sunday afternoon, post-tennis. She did it without referring to her mother, and artfully enough: the subject was in the news at the time, for some reason. Two of the other people there supported the idea, but Lewis didn't, to Leila's surprise.

‘You have to ask the question: whose suffering is it supposed to end?' he said. ‘In most cases it would be the family's, not the patient's. Once you legalised it, you'd get lots of old people choosing death because they didn't want to be a burden. I can't see any way around that.'

‘You could have safeguards, couldn't you?' she said, irritated at having to be so reasonable, but she didn't want to sound too interested. ‘I mean—'

‘No, no,' he cried. ‘Once it was there, expectations would change. What seems unacceptable now would become conceivable, then acceptable.' Please don't say it, she said to herself, but he did. ‘It would be a slippery slope, Leila.'

She wondered why he was so emphatic, almost emotional. There was a point in what he was saying, but there was a rebuttal too. Oregon had legalised voluntary euthanasia over ten years ago, and most people did not choose death to avoid being a burden. The reports were all there to be read.

She was wondering if she should mention this when he said with a grin, ‘Why, you're not thinking of doing away with yourself?'

The others laughed, but she could see he was looking at her carefully. For all his flaws, he knew her well. Time to talk of other things.

You can look beyond the shit, she told herself as she drove home that day, thinking about Lewis's argument. Shit mattered a lot; the morphine gave Elizabeth constipation and she needed enemas, tubes and things, so she could pass the turds that set inside her like stones. None of this was pleasant, but you got used to it, sometimes you could even laugh. The thing was, you could separate this, the burdensome aspect, from the loss of mobility and the pain. And when you did that, the pain was still there. It was real. That was what people who used Lewis's argument ignored. She grew warm as she thought of how quickly he'd dismissed her. People in her situation did not deserve to be patronised. Maybe they even had a wisdom, or at least a knowledge, that others didn't.

She'd seen something in his eyes, and now realised it was fear. He was not just intelligent, he possessed emotional intelligence to a high degree, maybe he'd seen something in her as she'd spoken so artfully, something he wanted no part of.

She has never really liked the way he dwells on the past when the three of them are alone together, there's something strange about it. And possibly this is it, he enjoys it so much because it
is
in the past, a precious part of his identity, his difference, that can be relished because it no longer presents any risks. Look at him now, mid-band in the Senior Executive Service, a possibility for head of the department one day. Like herself. But, unlike herself, taking no more risks.

It comes to her now that she is scared, scared of being caught for what she did for her mother. The fear has always been there, but she didn't allow herself to acknowledge it. Now there is time, there will be lots of time, and the fear is coming in like the tide. A state of confusion she'd left behind years ago is once again part of her.

A few weeks earlier, she came upon some words that helped keep the fear away. At her mother's request they were reading the novels of Elizabeth Gaskell, she'd seen one of the books dramatised on television. These words from
Ruth
slipped past her mother without any comment, but Leila typed them out and put the piece of paper in her bedside drawer. Elaborate, but it is the sort of person she is. She takes the paper out now, in the hot night, switches on the lamp, reads.

The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes—when an inward necessity for independent individual action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities.

She likes these words because they make her feel tough, but it is largely an illusion. Moral strength has something to do with what has happened to her, but only a bit. The main thing that happened was bone cancer, and the hugeness of that, the urgency of it, changed everything. It is brutal and it is unfair, and it is something Lewis has no experience of. She wonders what he would do if it ever happened to someone he loved.

Sixteen

S
t Thomas' chief pharmacist, Andrew Belkessan, had white hair though he was only in his mid-forties. As Troy and Conti introduced themselves, Troy guessed his hair had not gone that colour from tension. Belkessan was the first relaxed person he'd come across in the hospital. As they told him of Pearson's death he nodded sadly.

Troy handed over a copy of the autopsy report, which had arrived that morning. The points of interest were that Pearson had received a blow to the head before death, he'd died from drowning, and there was residual pethidine in his body. Troy had rung the morgue and learned there was no indication that Pearson had been an addict, and the blow could have come from a thick iron bar, a pointed rock, or anything in between.

Belkessan handed the report back and said, ‘The easiest way to think of pethidine is like heroin that's used in hospitals. It's an opiate, and when you take it, it blocks out physical pain and also the pain of existence: you feel incredibly euphoric. That's why addicts take it, although in medical terms it's actually a side effect.'

‘You've had it yourself?'

‘Once, when I fell off my bike and broke my leg in three places. I remember it was the best I'd ever felt, a pure sort of feeling, not connected with anything else in my life. I found that kind of scary, but I suppose it's part of the appeal, for addicts.'

Conti said, ‘What do you mean?'

‘I can see how it could take you away from the rest of your life. Nothing else would be as important, not your family or your job. Anything. Some people are in search of that, aren't they?'

Conti looked at him dubiously.

‘You've thought about this a lot,' said Troy.

Belkessan smiled and pointed at the glass wall between his office and the busy pharmacy area outside. ‘I have a duty to look after all the drugs out there,' he said. ‘I try to understand them.'

‘Pethidine would be attractive to someone under a lot of stress?'

Belkassan nodded. ‘Taking it could be like going on a holiday.'

‘How long does the effect last—for a beginner?'

‘Rule of thumb, an hour of serious euphoria followed by two or three hours of declining bliss.'

‘Other effects?'

‘Drowsiness, you might be unsteady on your feet. Dry mouth. Slurred speech, pinpoint pupils. Nausea. Some people get itchy.'

‘It has to be injected?'

‘Usually, if you're an addict.'

Troy explained the circumstances of Mark Pearson's death and asked how plausible it was that pethidine had been involved.

Belkessan said, ‘You're thinking he shot up on the ferry, maybe in the toilet, couldn't handle it and fell over the side?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't know if he'd take it so close to home. If he lived with anyone, they'd notice.'

‘His wife was away that night.'

Belkessan thought for a while. ‘It's possible,' he said, ‘but more likely he'd have waited till he got home, or else done it here, in his office, before leaving. Injecting yourself requires a certain amount of privacy, especially if you're not used to it. A toilet on a rocking boat wouldn't be ideal. And for the first hour or so you wouldn't want to move around much. Maybe he shot up here, waited for the effect to abate, then began the journey home.'

‘He'd still be drowsy, say, two hours after he shot up?'

‘Possibly. Predictability is an issue. If he was a neophyte, he wouldn't know how it was going to affect him. But if he was capable of getting from here to Circular Quay, it's unlikely he'd have fallen off the ferry.'

‘What if someone injected him against his will?'

‘Tricky. You need a tourniquet and the needle has to go into a vein—very hard if someone's resisting.'

‘But if he was already unconscious?'

Belkessan looked at the autopsy report in Troy's hand and nodded. ‘But still not easy. They'd have to know what they were doing. Maybe an addict.'

‘Or a medical person?'

‘Well . . . yes.'

Conti said, ‘How easy would it be to get pethidine here?'

She described the number of ampoules that had been found in the Pearsons' flat and in his bag.

‘It goes missing a bit,' Belkessan said. ‘We did an audit a few years ago—'

‘We've talked with Paula Williams.'

‘As she'd tell you, usually it goes in dribs and drabs. The audit found no security problems here'—he pointed at the glass wall again—‘or in delivery to the wards. The problems occur later on.' He sighed. ‘On the wards, it has to be signed out of a locked cabinet by two professionals. The head nurse has a key, they sign the S8 drug register. You'd almost never remove more than one ampoule at a time, two max. You don't always use the whole amount and you're supposed to throw the rest down the sink, but sometimes a nurse might keep it. The worst case I've seen was an anaesthetist who was getting it signed out for patients with post-op pain and then injecting them with water. He kept the pethidine for himself. After a few months, one of the NUMs realised this guy's patients were in more pain than they should have been.'

‘A NUM?'

‘Nursing unit manager. Sorry.' He smiled. ‘I guess there's a lot for you to learn about this place.'

‘We've found a total of ten ampoules in Pearson's possession,' said Conti. ‘That seems like a lot to go missing?' Belkessan nodded. ‘Theoretically, what's the most likely way someone could steal such a quantity?'

‘It's a sealed system. Stuff is delivered here, kept secure until it goes to the wards. The head nurse reconciles the S8 with what's in the cupboard at the start of each shift. She orders new supplies as necessary, sends back anything that's reached its use-by date.'

‘What happens then? It's destroyed?'

‘That's right. We keep it here in a locked canister until it's collected by someone from the health department.'

‘The use-by date on the ampoules found in Pearson's possession was six months ago.'

‘As I told you on the phone,' he said to Conti, ‘I checked. There's nothing missing.' He shrugged. ‘Sorry I can't help.'

‘Which part of the hospital uses it most?'

‘Everyone probably has some in the cupboard, but the big users are Emergency and the labour ward.'

Troy was out of questions. He thanked Belkessan and stood up.

Conti said, ‘If you fell off the ferry while on this stuff, would it be so bad? Would you know you were drowning?'

‘My guess is you'd know. But you might not care.'

McIver wanted to meet, so Troy and Conti walked through the hospital to the administration area where the police had been given two rooms. The largest was number 233. It was full of the detectives interviewing complainants who might have had a grudge against the ombudsman.

‘What about Valdez?' Troy said, when Mac turned up and Rostov took them into the smaller room next door.

‘We got knocked back on the search warrant.' Rostov rubbed the back of his head, spoke quickly. ‘Neighbours say he keeps to himself, one thinks she saw him loading his ute a few days before Pearson died. Thinks it was a sleeping bag, esky. Says the ute is often away, as though he goes on trips. The joys of unemployment.'

‘I thought you had to sign in, do job interviews,' said Conti.

‘We're looking at that. All we've got, so far. His flat's on the second floor, door locked. We have no record of a mobile.'

McIver reported on the work of the team of detectives over at Manly. Pearson's family had been interviewed, followed by almost half the people who'd been at the party at the flat the Wednesday before he died. The others would be interviewed today. He stood up, looked at Troy. ‘Feel like lunch?'

Conti was surprised and said, ‘So that's it? So what have we got?'

McIver exhaled loudly. ‘Nothing. Happy marriage, on the whole. Happy family—brother with a mild mental disability, nothing else unusual. Happy career.'

He pointed at the wall dividing them from Room 233. ‘The nets are in the water. Now we wait.'

‘And have lunch?'

McIver looked away from her, at Troy. ‘You ready?'

Out front of the hospital, alone with Troy, McIver explained they were going to a restaurant a friend had told him about. This is new, Troy thought; Mac had never been a fine diner.

‘Ruth says I should pay more attention to food and less to drink,' McIver said. ‘What do you think?'

Troy answered at some length, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. McIver put on his sunglasses and looked around.

‘Thanks for those thoughts,' he said. ‘We go this way.'

They walked in silence. Mac had changed, but Troy didn't know what to say. He was still intimidated by the older man's experience and knowledge, the quickness of his mind.

It was a pleasant Italian place in a courtyard behind a pub. There was an ornamental grapevine overhead, but otherwise the decor was under control. McIver started with beer and moved on to white wine, Troy not even trying to keep up, despite Mac's encouragement. The drinking worried him, a lot. The first wine bottle emptied, and Mac ordered a second.

As they started their main course, Mac described a Western series he'd been watching on DVD, almost knocking over a carafe of water as he gestured with enthusiasm. He was smiling a lot now, and it was a different smile to his sober one, more happy. He'd once told Troy this was his natural state: the rest of life was just waiting to get drunk, a boring desert between oases of alcohol. Maybe this was an exaggeration, Troy thought, but the guy sure liked a drink. Usually, though, he kept it out of hours. Troy wondered what was wrong. With a new girlfriend and the performing, he ought to be happy. Or at least no less happy than before. But there was a new sadness to him.

Mac's phone rang. When he'd finished the call, he said, ‘Valdez used his Mastercard in Bourke twice in the past week. Booze and ammo.'

‘Bugger. Dates?'

‘Not the day Pearson died, or the next. He could have made it back but it's not likely. I'm thinking he's out on some property blasting away at the ferals.' He swallowed some more wine. ‘We've found two people who work at St Thomas' with the initials LS. Both have alibis, neither was in a relationship with Mark Pearson. This investigation is turning to shit.'

He went on talking, going over everything they knew. It was a long monologue but Troy didn't mind. That was how investigations worked, by going over things. Especially when they'd lost their way. McIver liked to think aloud, and Troy figured that was why they were having lunch. But it was more rambling than usual, and there were several things he'd forgotten to mention at the meeting with Rostov and Conti. He brought one up now: ‘Emily's alibi for the time of the death is good. She was on the other side of the city.'

‘Maybe too good?'

‘I trust her,' McIver said. ‘You've got to trust your instincts. Also, she was in a restaurant in Fairfield with a dozen other people.'

Putting down his knife, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a few pieces of A4 paper stapled together.

‘I want you to think about the Pearsons,' he said. Troy took the paper and saw it was a printout of a feature story about the couple. ‘The facts aren't getting us very far, let's try and get a sense of who they were.' Who gives you why, sometimes.

‘Some of their art is pretty good. It made me think.'

‘What about?' said Troy.

‘About art.'

‘Not about the Pearsons?'

‘No.'

‘Why do you want art that makes you think about art?'

‘Well, what do you want art to do?'

Troy hadn't thought about it. But he didn't want to seem stupid. ‘I like to know what's going on.'

‘Every picture needs to tell a story?'

‘I guess.'

Mac pulled a piece of meat from between two teeth. ‘Pearson's pictures do tell a story,' he said. ‘You just don't know what it is.'

‘What, like a private joke?'

Mac said nothing.

Troy knew he was being patronised, although he couldn't quite see how. This was McIver at his worst, the price you had to pay. Mac waved a hand at the article and said, ‘That's from
Boss
last year.' Smiled, an apology of sorts.

‘I thought Boss made suits,' said Troy, accepting it. He'd seen some in the department stores, wondered who could afford to buy them.

‘Hugo Boss.' McIver explained that
Boss
was also a magazine in the
Financial Review
. ‘Emily and Mark, the golden couple,' he said. ‘Young high-fliers, inter-racial marriage. She did the orphanage. He was the son of a judge, collected art
and
played the world sport. What more could you want?'

Troy scanned the first page, saw the article had been written just after Mark's appointment as ombudsman. It was one of those stories where they dress the subjects up in expensive clothes, which are listed with their prices in an accompanying box. The Pearsons' life together seemed to have struck the journalist as wonderful. Possibly it had been.

‘Keep it,' said Mac. ‘I want you to go see her this afternoon, keep her up to date.' Troy looked surprised. ‘Peters wants it. I'm giving the judge the same treatment.'

‘I take Conti?'

Mac shook his head. ‘Spend some time with Emily, alone. Whatever Pearson was into, she probably knows. Maybe she doesn't know she knows, but it's in there somewhere.' He scratched his chin. ‘Someone has to know something, that's our working hypothesis.'

Troy had been glancing at the article some more. Emily had gone to James Ruse Agricultural High, a selective school and the most academically successful in the state. That meant she would have spent much of her free time from the age of six studying and being coached. Her involvement with the orphanage in Vietnam had been as a fundraiser while at university. That was time-efficient: she'd had nothing to do with setting it up or running the thing. She'd come top of her final year at the University of Sydney, gone straight into a big law firm.