Judgement day, p.18
Judgement Day, page 18
‘Of course he does! Why do you think I’m half deaf? If you get on the wrong side of him he won’t stop until he’s destroyed you. He really hated that judge, she was just the type to get under his skin – talked over him, didn’t give a shit that he was famous. Here!’ She got to her feet and disappeared briefly, returning with a thick document secured with a bulldog clip. ‘Here! Read it. Read it!’
Jillian took the bundle of papers. She recognised the front page: it was the report she had looked at in Judge Bailey’s chambers, the psychological assessment of the two parties.
‘It’s on the last page,’ Lisa said, immediately taking the report back and turning the pages with her raw fingertips. ‘Here, this one.’
Noting that the parties have completely differing accounts of their relationship, and further noting that the evidence has not been tested, I am unable to make formal psychiatric diagnoses of either party. In the event that Ms Nettle’s account is accepted by the court then it may be that the husband’s behaviour, including presumably lying during this consultation, is indicative of a narcissistic personality disorder. In the event that it is the wife who has misrepresented events to me, I am inclined to think this likely relates to her previous diagnoses of borderline personality disorder and difficulty in regulating her emotions. It is also entirely possible that each party holds the diagnosis I have previously indicated. In any case, it is clear that the prognosis for both Dr Sharma and Ms Nettle is likely to be grim.
Jillian handed it to McClintock when she’d finished reading.
‘Did you read it all?’ Lisa demanded. ‘It says he’s a narcissistic psychopath.’
Well, not exactly.
‘Did the court accept your version of events?’ McClintock asked.
‘They haven’t given us the judgement. But the new judge the other day, he said maybe in the next few weeks. My lawyer reckons we’re gonna win. The independent children’s lawyer, she was a bitch too, but my lawyer says she liked me better.’
‘Who’s the new judge?’ Jillian asked.
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Last week we had a hearing about what was to be done with the judge dead and the final judgement missing, and my lawyer sent me a copy of the orders the other day and it’s him – the one whose wife’s gone. So the first judge gets killed the day before we’re meant to hear her decision, then another judge has a hearing with us and then his wife disappears. Come on, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?’
Jillian and McClintock looked at each other.
‘Sorry,’ Jillian said when Lisa looked as though she was about to begin again. ‘You said the judgement had gone missing?’
Lisa nodded vigorously. ‘That will have been Rahul. When he went and killed her he would have found it and taken it, just to mess things up for me.’
‘But there’s an electronic copy,’ McClintock said. ‘We’ve seen it on her laptop.’
‘Yes,’ said Lisa, ‘but they don’t know whether or not she made any more changes to it on the hard copy. That was what the new judge told us the other day. Unless it turns up or we reach some agreement he said he might have to listen to the court transcripts and rewrite the judgement. He sounded almost as angry as I felt, actually.’
How did we miss this?
‘But Rahul will appeal anyway,’ Lisa continued. ‘So really, it doesn’t even matter what the new judge decides. Rahul will just appeal and appeal. Go to the Supreme Court or the High Court, whatever.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You know, the court hasn’t returned any of my jewellery. Rahul made a big fuss about a few of the rings he’d given me – an engagement ring, anniversary ring – demanded I hand them over as exhibits, said they were evidence of something or other, but he knows as well as I do he was talking shit. I’m never going to see them again and that’s deliberate. They’re worth a heap. It’s basically theft, isn’t it? Apparently it happens all the time. I read about this guy online, his whole file, with these really personal photos, just got stolen in the middle of a trial. Maybe you can investigate that?’ she added hopefully. ‘Or ask the court? I really need that jewellery.’
‘We can’t intervene in the court’s process,’ McClintock said, still so patiently.
How is he doing that?
Jillian was keen to end the interview. She needed to consider what they had just been told, do some checking. ‘Alright,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could give us your husband’s contact details, tell us where he’s likely to be?’
They obtained a rough understanding of Rahul Sharma’s schedule, including slights and criticisms with every salient detail. ‘First thing he goes to the gym, that’s where he met the new girlfriend, she was his PT of course. Twenty-two if you can believe it. Poor thing. Part of me wants to warn her. Another part thinks it’ll be better for her to find out for herself. Then Monday to Wednesday he shoots Please Fix Me, from five until five. Thursdays he says he’s in his rooms but I had a private investigator on him at one stage and he didn’t see him go in there at all. And Fridays he’s at home, I think. Again, that’s what he says, but who knows really. He told the court he would need to see extra patients on that day, to be able to cover the cost of spousal maintenance and child support, but he was too depressed – bullshit – yet somehow I’m hiding in this place and the kids have to take a bus home from school if I’m at the gym, or if I have to go pee in a cup whenever some Legal Aid lawyer who’s meant to be representing the kids tells me to.’
The detectives managed to extract themselves at last and bid goodbye to Lisa Nettle at the front door.
‘Well,’ Jillian said once they were in the car. ‘Seems like we fucked up!’
Chapter 21
‘What, you think Rahul Sharma went up to chambers, stole the judgement and killed the judge?’ Des boomed into the phone, sounding incredulous. ‘And then pinched the wife of the next judge at a wake? A celebrity whose mug is known to all and sundry. How would he have even got near her?’
‘I agree it’s pretty out there but we do have a missing judgement, Des. Presumably the only people who would benefit from that would be Lisa Nettle or Dr Sharma. She had her mother staying with her on the night Bailey was killed and the mother’s confirmed it already. That leaves Sharma. He could have been staking Bailey out for a while, waiting for his opportunity. This might have been in the works for ages.’
‘It’s due diligence,’ McClintock said too loudly in the direction of Jillian’s phone as he turned onto North Road, towards Brighton where Rahul Sharma lived in the former matrimonial home, a renovated Georgian mansion mere metres from the foreshore. ‘Unlikely as it is, we need to check. Famous people do insane things too.’
So you don’t think Harriet Phillips is a suicide now?
‘Yeah yeah,’ Des said. ‘I’m not saying don’t check, I’m just saying don’t waste too much time.’
‘Okay,’ Jillian said, ‘we’re all in agreement then.’
‘What do you make of it all?’ McClintock asked when Des had signed off.
‘I really don’t know. It does seem pretty far-fetched, but doctors have murdered before now.’
‘Do you ever watch his show?’
‘Nah, you?’
‘Sometimes. My mum’s into it, but it’s not the type of thing I’d go out of my way to look at alone. He comes across as a nice enough bloke, but then people can have different sides. Don’t think I’ll be able to watch it again after meeting her, though. I reckon she’s a classic battered wife.’
‘Really?’ Jillian was surprised by his generous assessment. ‘I had her pegged as a spoiled drunk.’
‘Maybe she’s both?’
He stopped the car outside yet another extremely high brick wall. It was nearing six already and the street was taking on the long shadows of its many multi-storeyed homes. A sharp ocean breeze slapped at their faces as McClintock searched for and located an intercom.
There was no answer.
McClintock tried again, and again they were met with resounding silence.
‘How long do you reckon it takes him to get home from shooting?’ McClintock asked thoughtfully.
‘The city to Brighton, driving like a doctor, in peak hour, maybe forty minutes? We might need to try him at work. There any cosmetic surgery you’re in the market for?’
‘The only doctor I need is a good shrink.’ He laughed as he said it but Jillian felt immediately paranoid. Was he hinting that something was wrong with her? Did he somehow know about her discussion with Ursula?
You sound really crazy.
They returned to the car. ‘I’m hungry,’ Jillian said aloud to herself as McClintock negotiated the peak-hour traffic.
‘You need to prioritise eating more, you just snack. Don’t you think in the morning about what you’re going to eat for the day?’
‘Mick, I have a small child, I can hardly think about anything,’ she snapped. ‘And having you criticise my eating habits isn’t helpful.’
‘Jesus,’ McClintock said, momentarily lifting both hands off the steering wheel. ‘I can’t do anything right, can I?’
He drove on in silence and did not directly address her again until the team were congregated in the meeting room to report on their progress. ‘You taking the lead?’
‘Yup.’
She informed the rest of the team about their meeting with Lisa Nettle. ‘Obviously we have reason to be sceptical but we also have reason to pursue it. We’ll see where the next few days take us. Now, how did everyone else go?’
The disappearance of Harriet Phillips, with all its ambiguities and peculiarities, was a source of vigorous debate amongst the members of the team. The older detectives who had doorknocked the tram routes had come up empty-handed. They had also contacted every crisis service they could think of. She had not appeared at any hospital, halfway home or other outreach program. The wine bar that had hosted the wake had three possible entrances through which Harriet, or someone taking her, could have left.
‘The CCTV I’ve managed to get so far doesn’t seem to show her walking anywhere along High Street, which suggests she left or was taken from the back entrance which is closer to the toilets, but which backs onto a mostly residential street,’ Donoghue said. ‘I’ve done a doorknock but not many people were home and it doesn’t look like a security camera–heavy area. No joy from the divers yet either.’
Hastie’s update was slightly more optimistic. ‘The threats to Judge Bailey from the burner email addresses – we’re almost one hundred per cent sure a bunch of them are from Shanahan. The most recent one was sent about a month ago. We’re waiting for confirmation but should have it soon.’
‘That’s good.’
‘The dick pics, though,’ he continued with a slight smile, ‘aren’t from the same ISP, which is weird. I mean, it’s probably still him. I’ve been reading through one of Kaye Bailey’s old judgements and the bloke’s pretty bloody shameless, and a freak to boot. He sent a frozen rat to one of the barristers who represented his wife at a hearing, and he got caught pinching documents from the court file and sticking them to the underside of the bar table. The lawyer acting for the wife saw him under the seat with Blu-Tack when he thought he had the room to himself. Still no sign of him either in New South Wales or at his place, though. I’ve traumatised two of his exes by calling to see if they know where he is. Neither of them wanted a bar of him.’
‘I’m working through what the court was able to give me straightaway,’ Mossman said, ‘but it’s slow progress. It will take a few days.’
‘That’s fine. Des, anything you want to say?’
Her boss touched his stomach lightly. ‘Spoke to Legal about this business with the law firm – whether or not we can subpoena like you suggested and whether or not we’re likely to be successful. They aren’t optimistic but they’re working on other options as quickly as they can.’
Jillian left the office an hour later, feeling groggy and with her sense of time askew. The streets were dark and quiet as she drove and she called Aaron, aching for his voice. ‘I’m on the way back,’ she told him. ‘Big day. How are you?’
‘Have you stopped taking your meds?’
‘Aaron . . .’
‘I found them in the bin. We agreed you’d try them for the full year and see. You promised you’d try.’
‘I don’t like taking them – they make me sweat and yawn and they screw with my sleep. And they remind me . . .’
‘You promised,’ he said again.
Something inside her snapped. ‘We aren’t children, you know! Just because I promised something when I was depressed doesn’t mean I’m bound to it for the rest of my life. We agreed I’d go back to work and that’s helped more than anything else.’
‘It isn’t just about you, it’s about the whole family. I feel like you’re withdrawing.’
‘Withdrawing?’
‘We’ll talk about it when you get home,’ he said with an air of finality before hanging up.
Withdrawing from the family!
She found that comment particularly irksome. Did he not realise how large an adjustment it had been for her to make the family, to become a mother? How dehumanising it had felt to just be referred to as ‘mum’ by midwives in the hospital? How intrusive it had been to have strangers reach out and touch her, or warn her or comfort her or worst of all, ignore her and focus all their attention on Ollie? Aaron had not had to contend with the judgemental looks of the psychologists and psychiatrists when she told them what she was really thinking. His identity had not been subsumed by a minute bundle of flesh. Was it not understandable that she would want time away from that? Want time to just be her?
Am I a bad person? Am I selfish? Why can’t things be how they used to be?
She and Aaron hugged and apologised when she arrived home but she sensed that this was not a fight that had quite blown over. He spent the night dealing with Ollie and when she woke in the morning, he was still fast asleep. As she was walking out the door her phone rang and a put-upon administrator from the Royal Melbourne Hospital introduced himself.
‘We’ve got a Michael O’Neil here,’ he explained. ‘We got told to call you if he turned up.’
Chapter 22
The Royal Melbourne Hospital precinct was an area busy with conflicting purposes. Grattan Street, which ran from the old slums of North Melbourne past the hospital in Parkville, the brutalist School of Veterinary Sciences at the university and on to the genteel restaurants of Carlton, was at present closed to the public and inhabited by a series of large construction vehicles. These vehicles, part of the crew for the Metro Tunnel, moaned and roared at each other while pedestrians negotiated footpaths diminished to accommodate the mighty machines.
The lobby of the hospital itself was a microcosm of the broader Australian population. Every race, every profession, every age and gender was represented within its walls. There were scrubs and turbans, hijabs and miniskirts, a plethora of languages. Jillian found it soothing after the sterile whiteness of the Melbourne she had spent the past weeks immersed in. This was more like her city. The heterogeneous entity she proudly called home.
At the reception, McClintock applied his usual charm to obtain direction to the ward onto which Michael O’Neil, barrister, had been admitted. He had had a fall at the train station, the administrator had told her on the phone. ‘He’d just got off a Sydney train according to the people at Southern Cross. Possible concussion, but also dehydrated and malnourished.’
What on earth has he been up to?
The uniformed police officer sitting next to O’Neil’s bed got up eagerly as the detectives approached.
‘There you go,’ O’Neil said to the young constable, ‘you’re relieved from being further lectured about the relationship between the police force and systemic racism.’
The constable gave a nervous smile before leaving the detectives with his charge.
The Michael O’Neil lying in the hospital bed was a vastly changed creature from the one Jillian had researched online. His face was sunken, his arms were thin and he was looking contemptuously at the detectives. Jillian could not get an immediate read on him. He didn’t appear to be a man who would require the massaging of ego, but nor did he have the easy friendliness of Grant Phillips. Before she could talk, McClintock began. Too aggressively, Jillian thought.
‘We’ve been looking for you for over two weeks. You don’t answer your phone, your clerk doesn’t know where you’ve got to. Bit suss, wouldn’t you say?’
Not sure this is going to warm him up . . .
‘I’ve been up near the Blue Mountains,’ the barrister said calmly, ‘doing a silent retreat. You don’t take your phone and you’re uncontactable. That’s the point.’
Jillian recalled Aaron going on such a retreat when he had developed an interest in transcendental meditation some years earlier. Typically a man of few words, he had returned from his two-week course filled to the brim with pent-up conversation.
‘You got any evidence that you were away by yourself, being quiet?’ McClintock demanded, still unnecessarily aggressive.
‘’Course I bloody do,’ O’Neil snapped, frowning at him. ‘You ask the organisers – they picked me up from Town Hall Station Thursday morning and dropped me back there last night. I only found out what happened on the train,’ he said, his face becoming pained. ‘Someone had left a newspaper, I saw Kaye’s picture. Look,’ he addressed Jillian in a way that suggested he found her the more sensible of the two detectives, ‘I didn’t kill her, so how’s this for a plan – tell me what you need and I’ll tell you what I know.’
Jillian ran through the preliminaries with him, verifying his movements on the night Kaye Bailey was killed.
‘I had a conference for a trial – mess of a matter – thought that I’d be done by nine but things just kept popping up. My instructor was there until quite late so I walked her to her car, went back to chambers and then went straight to the station.’
