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Authors: Claire McNab
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about six this morning. As soon as we realized who it was, you were contacted.”
Carol walked over to the white-faced boy, who was staring with sick fascination at the activity around the body. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him away towards the sea. “Tell me how you found him,” she said.
The boy swallowed. “I came down to fish,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “Climbed down from up there. I was almost at the bottom when I saw him. Just lying like that. I came up close. Told myself he was asleep, but knew he wasn’t, really. I could see the blood. I watched for ages to see if he was breathing.” He looked up at Carol. “You know, I was frightened he might be alive . . . that he might turn over and his face would be all smashed. . .”
Carol asked a few more quiet questions, then sent the boy off with the constable to make a written statement. The tide was licking closer, but the water would only wash within a few feet of the outstretched broken hands. High water was at 8:48 AM and it was 8:30 now. “Turn him over,” she said.
The photographer, chewing gum relentlessly, clicked away with bored competence, unaffected by the smashed face and congealed blood that once had been the handsome Tony Quade. He shifted the gum to his other cheek. “These jumpers,” he muttered.
“This one had a lot to live for,” said Carol, thinking of Sybil’s red hair—and of her mouth. “And not much to die for. I don’t think it’s suicide. I want everything on this, fast.”
Carol went straight into the office without changing from her jeans. She caught Bourke’s slight confirming nod that he thought Sybil had been isolated from the news of her husband’s death.
Sybil was sitting tautly, an untouched cup of coffee on the table beside her. “What’s happened? Why am I being kept here?”
Carol didn’t answer immediately, but walked deliberately around Mrs. Farrell’s polished desk to sit with the light behind her. Did Sybil already know what was about to be said because she had pushed her husband to his death? A vivid picture, clear as a movie, danced in her imagination: Tony Quade meeting his estranged wife, arguing with her, turning his back in contempt, and then, the impulsive shove, the body turning, the scream blending with the shrieks of wheeling seagulls.
“Did you see or speak to anyone last night?” asked Bourke mildly.
“Why?” She sighed. “You won’t answer, will you? All right. Inspector Ashton saw me late yesterday afternoon. After she’d gone I drank about half a bottle of whiskey, all alone. I rang a friend who’s moved up the coast and told her what had happened. Then I cried myself to sleep. Okay? Is that what you want? Now, why?”
Carol said with brutal directness, “I’ve just come from examining a body. We believe it is your husband. He fell, or was pushed, to his death.”
Sybil said nothing, merely covering her eyes with one hand. Carol wondered if it was to hide grief, fear, or exultation. Bourke raised his eyebrows to Carol in an unspoken question. At her silent assent he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Sybil.
“I know what a shock this must have been,” he said sympathetically. “Would you like a glass of water or a fresh cup of coffee?”
She takes shock so well, thought Carol, or is it arrogance that gives her that iron control? Carol didn’t interrupt Bourke as he was by turns solicitous, concerned, and cajoling in an effort to get Sybil to react, to talk, even to cry. She seemed remote, answering his questions politely, but asking none of her own.
Finally Bourke said, “You don’t seem very interested in the details, Mrs. Quade.”
“You mean that under the circumstances I don’t seem to be acting appropriately?” said Sybil bitterly.
“There are many different reactions,” said Bourke soothingly.
“Oh? Perhaps I’d better start playing my role more effectively, or else you’ll be sure I’m guilty, won’t
Carol walked over to the white-faced boy, who was staring with sick fascination at the activity around the body. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him away towards the sea. “Tell me how you found him,” she said.
The boy swallowed. “I came down to fish,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “Climbed down from up there. I was almost at the bottom when I saw him. Just lying like that. I came up close. Told myself he was asleep, but knew he wasn’t, really. I could see the blood. I watched for ages to see if he was breathing.” He looked up at Carol. “You know, I was frightened he might be alive . . . that he might turn over and his face would be all smashed. . .”
Carol asked a few more quiet questions, then sent the boy off with the constable to make a written statement. The tide was licking closer, but the water would only wash within a few feet of the outstretched broken hands. High water was at 8:48 AM and it was 8:30 now. “Turn him over,” she said.
The photographer, chewing gum relentlessly, clicked away with bored competence, unaffected by the smashed face and congealed blood that once had been the handsome Tony Quade. He shifted the gum to his other cheek. “These jumpers,” he muttered.
“This one had a lot to live for,” said Carol, thinking of Sybil’s red hair—and of her mouth. “And not much to die for. I don’t think it’s suicide. I want everything on this, fast.”
Carol went straight into the office without changing from her jeans. She caught Bourke’s slight confirming nod that he thought Sybil had been isolated from the news of her husband’s death.
Sybil was sitting tautly, an untouched cup of coffee on the table beside her. “What’s happened? Why am I being kept here?”
Carol didn’t answer immediately, but walked deliberately around Mrs. Farrell’s polished desk to sit with the light behind her. Did Sybil already know what was about to be said because she had pushed her husband to his death? A vivid picture, clear as a movie, danced in her imagination: Tony Quade meeting his estranged wife, arguing with her, turning his back in contempt, and then, the impulsive shove, the body turning, the scream blending with the shrieks of wheeling seagulls.
“Did you see or speak to anyone last night?” asked Bourke mildly.
“Why?” She sighed. “You won’t answer, will you? All right. Inspector Ashton saw me late yesterday afternoon. After she’d gone I drank about half a bottle of whiskey, all alone. I rang a friend who’s moved up the coast and told her what had happened. Then I cried myself to sleep. Okay? Is that what you want? Now, why?”
Carol said with brutal directness, “I’ve just come from examining a body. We believe it is your husband. He fell, or was pushed, to his death.”
Sybil said nothing, merely covering her eyes with one hand. Carol wondered if it was to hide grief, fear, or exultation. Bourke raised his eyebrows to Carol in an unspoken question. At her silent assent he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Sybil.
“I know what a shock this must have been,” he said sympathetically. “Would you like a glass of water or a fresh cup of coffee?”
She takes shock so well, thought Carol, or is it arrogance that gives her that iron control? Carol didn’t interrupt Bourke as he was by turns solicitous, concerned, and cajoling in an effort to get Sybil to react, to talk, even to cry. She seemed remote, answering his questions politely, but asking none of her own.
Finally Bourke said, “You don’t seem very interested in the details, Mrs. Quade.”
“You mean that under the circumstances I don’t seem to be acting appropriately?” said Sybil bitterly.
“There are many different reactions,” said Bourke soothingly.
“Oh? Perhaps I’d better start playing my role more effectively, or else you’ll be sure I’m guilty, won’t
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