Prologue

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A mellow rendition of Gershwin’s ‘It had to be you’ played softly in the background, as waitresses glided discreetly amongst the small groups clustered around the room, offering them an assortment of delectable finger foods. A soft rain continued falling outside. People, still arriving, shook out their umbrellas and set them aside by the front door, as the smell of wet wool intermingled with the smell of expensive French perfumes.

The room was crowded; so much so, that the huge, deep-red paintings which hung on the austere, white walls, were mostly obscured from view. Earlier in the evening, one would have been able to look at each piece in its entirety, but now only glimpses could be caught here and there.

Moreover, the noise level in the room made it difficult to concentrate. But that didn’t bother the crowd; they seemed to be enjoying themselves. As the chattering of people and the clinking of wineglasses reached a crescendo, Berger excused himself from the small group he was talking to. About to head off to the bar for another glass of champagne, he spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a short, auburn haired lovely.

He crossed the room quickly and said, ‘Sophia, is that you? What are you doing here?’

‘I was just asking myself the same question Berger. I’m pleased to see you too.’   
‘Well at least you don’t change,’ he said with a grin. Sophia pretended to be offended but secretly she was delighted. Berger was one of the few people who could make her laugh.

Normally she had a healthy distrust of men that were charming, and at first had felt some reservation about Berger. Charm could be shallow, a cheap trick designed to lull you into believing that you were somehow important to the person. Charm seduced you and when you fell for it, and decided to lean on it, you could fall flat on your face. There was no substance behind it. It was a mirage. Charm, she believed, was not a virtue and had little to do with sincerity, its cousin, nor with kindness, its second-cousin-twice-removed. Like a beard that covers a weak chin and tricks us into believing a man’s face to be strong, so charm could lead us away from recognizing laziness, shallowness or lack of principles. We could so easily be seduced by the outward manifestation of good humour and lighthearted repartee. But fortunately, Berger was not like that. Although he was charming, he was not weak chinned.

Sophia recalled that they hadn’t seen each other for over a year, not since their last case together. Ordinarily, their paths didn’t cross. But, tonight, they were both at an art opening. An unusual event for Berger, as he was not given to partaking in the arts. But a friend of his was having his first solo exhibition. Coincidentally this friend also happened to be married to one of Sophia’s friends. Six degrees of separation, or was it two? Berger considered it for a moment but couldn’t remember. Anyway, mathematics was never his strong suit. Meanwhile, Sophia twirled a piece of hair around her little finger and looked up at Berger, giving him a huge smile, while her other hand held a full glass of champagne. Berger rumpled as always, had an air of someone who had dashed out of the house with little thought for what he wore. He ran his hand through his hair in the habitual way that she remembered. It looked as if he had ut it himself, but despite that, it suited him.

Sophia, on the other hand, looked as though she had made a considerable effort to look good. And she had. She had just finished a fourteen-day diet and had finally lost the three kilos that had plagued her for ages, and her hair, for once, looked great. It was layered just so, and sat perfectly, casual but elegant.

With confidence born of her newly acquired good looks, she said, ‘So what do you think of the exhibition, Berger?’ With her arm she reached across and swept the room, pointing to the large abstracts, which dominated the walls, the colours bright, predominately reds, the shapes obscure.
‘I’m here to support my friend, but frankly, I have no idea what this means. Do you?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s a take on post modernism, with a subtle influence of Salvador Dali thrown in,’ said Sophia as she batted her lashes at Berger.

‘Well, now that you put it like that, I think you could be right.’ Berger was a quick study.

It was time to change tack.

‘Solved any exciting crimes lately?’

‘As a matter of fact things have been a bit dull. A few homicides. The usual routines. Nothing I haven’t been able to handle.’

‘Well so you don’t need my services again? A pity. Look, I’m sorry, Berger, but I have to run, I can see my husband has brought the car out front. It was nice seeing you again. We must catch up some time.’

‘Sure,’ replied Berger, thinking that they wouldn’t. Not because he didn’t like the delicious Sophia, but they were both married, and it was better not to get too close. He watched her retreating back with some regret. She was both the most attractive and yet most infuriating woman he knew. He fetched the drink he had been on his way to get, and rejoined his group. Chatting and laughing, he forgot all about her.

At the other end of the room, Dr James Farrell surveyed the pictures critically before turning back to Alexander. ‘It’s quite a wonderful show, Alex. I must say I am tempted by one or two things.’

‘Well, Dr Farrell, this work is highly original and the artist has just been given a rave review by the Age art critic. She said, and I quote ‘these works examine psycho-social issues, particularly as they affect women. They range from a simple exploration of the sensuous to those that consider the nature of romantic ideals.’

As you can see, they are rich in content and feeling, at times darkly moody, with several levels of meaning emerging as you approach the work. I think she has a tremendous future, and you know that if you get in on the ground floor, the sky’s the limit.’

Dr Farrell was interested. Alexander’s dissertation had amplified his own reactions to the paintings. He fancied himself a connoisseur, and there was nothing quite like both enjoying and profiting from one’s investment.

‘What did you say the discount was that you were offering repeat customers, Alexander?’Before Alexander could reply, Dr Farrell’s beeper went off. He pulled it out and tried to read it, but was jostled by someone carrying one drink too many, and besides he couldn’t read without his glasses. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of fine rimless glasses and perched them on his nose. The message read, ‘Cardiac failure. Mr. Hoffberg.’ He quickly pulled his glasses off, and stuffing them into his suit, murmured his apologies to Alexander and dashed out. Luckily his hospital was located next door to the gallery.

Rushing into Mr. Hoffberg’s room, where two nurses were standing by, awaiting instructions, he immediately said, ‘Nurse Gabriel, get 200 mg Lasix, intravenous, now. Where is the chart? Why isn’t it here? What have you been doing?’

The head nurse administered the injection while the junior went to look for the missing file. They waited. No response. By now Mr. Hoffberg was convulsing, trying to get enough air into his collapsing lungs. Dr Farrell ordered an oxygen mask, then a moment later, he barked an order for an increase in Lasix. This time, after some minutes, Mr. Hoffberg’s breathing seemed to calm down and his chest stopped its frantic heaving. Half an hour later they relaxed. He was going to make it.

Dr Farrell had just saved another patient’s life. Entering the nurses’ station, he placed the patient’s file on the desk and sat down to write up his notes. Some of the nurses, who happened to be standing around chatting, looked at him admiringly. What a noble man. Came in at all hours. Worked hard and never complained. A fine human being.

It took Mr. Hoffberg another three weeks to completely recover before his daughter, Lisa, could take him back to his hostel. No-one thought to wonder why the old man had experienced heart failure in the first place. Everyone just assumed it was because he was old and had a bad heart.

Chapter 1 The accident

Storm clouds gathered and fat droplets of rain came beating down as Dr Farrell hurried along the Elm lined avenue, head hunched down. The sky, a strange mix of gunmetal grey and purple, produced an eerie light. Mist descended and momentarily obscured the street. In the distance, the yellow flashing of school crossing lights cast a gloomy, ochre glow on the wet road. Headlights bounced on the pavement, reflecting highlights in the early, misty morning, as a pale sun tried to push its way through the clouds. In the distance he heard the plaintive, mourning notes of a foghorn. What should have been a romantic streetscape, in the early morning fog, for some unknown reason, made him uneasy.

Standing outside the school grounds, Dr Farrell shivered. For a minute he’d experienced a curious sense of doom. He shook himself free. Having just escorted his grandson to school, he’d left him in the school foyer, and had stopped to say hello to one of the teachers in the corridor. With a few minutes to spare he’d then popped around and called in on the headmaster, who was a portly, jolly man.

‘And how’s my young grandson doing?’ he’d asked.

‘David is a good pupil. Very eager to please and good at sports. A terrific fellow.’
‘Yes, well that’s my boy. I’ll have to get going. Patients to see…’
‘Thanks for dropping in. Always a pleasure to see you, Doctor.’

By the time he left the school grounds, all the parents had left.

Doctor James Farrell was in his late fifties. Unlike many people of his age, his hair had not receded, and he had a high forehead with a patrician nose, which lent him an air of distinction. His hair, a silvery grey brushed off his forehead, added to his dignified demeanor. His body solid, not overweight.

He liked to dress carefully and impeccably, preferring monogrammed shirts and light wool suits set off with muted ties. His manner was grave, accompanied by an air of concerned affability.

~

Approaching the school crossing, he was busy contemplating his rosy future, and thus paid only vague attention to his surrounds. He was absorbed in visualizing Marika, her vivacity and laughing face, filled with happiness, before him. A raindrop landed on his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Still daydreaming, he cursorily checked for oncoming cars, and satisfied that he was in the clear, he proceeded to cross.

What happened next felt as though it was taking place underwater. He was half way across the road, when suddenly, out of nowhere, a car came barreling down on him. Time seemed to slow as his eyes widened in shock. Unable to move, he felt rooted to the spot. It seemed to take forever, but in what was only a matter of seconds, he saw the car getting nearer, closer and closer. Please let them stop or swerve. Don’t let me die, he prayed hoping against hope. But they didn’t. The car just kept coming towards him.

The fear built up in him, sweat started pouring from every pore, his legs trembled uncontrollably and his throat constricted. He watched, mesmerized, as the car came zooming towards him. Twenty seconds later he saw the driver and his mouth opened in absolute terror, but although he thought he screamed, no words came out. No. The word reverberated in his head. He let out a strangled cry. The rain drowned it out.

No one noticed at first. There was no squeal of brakes, just a small thud as the vehicle hit his body and rolled over it. A man walking his dog some distance away thought he saw something untoward, but was momentarily distracted by his dog when his animal pulled on the lead, wanting to do its business. He thus failed to see the doctor’s fall. When he came parallel with the doctor, he glanced across and was horrified. He rushed over, dragging the pup on its chain.

The doctor lay awkwardly, knees drawn up, head lolling to the side, features crushed. Blood flowed freely, intermingling with the rain and dirt, turning it crusty brown. The man felt ill, the gory sight making him nauseous. Taking deep breaths he tired to control his urge to vomit, all the while pulling his hound tightly on his chain, restraining it from getting too close to the doctor.

A group of passerby’s suddenly collected. Cars stopped and people emptied out of vehicles, slamming doors, rushing across to the scene. A voice cried, ‘Somebody get an ambulance.’ The crowd was noticeably disturbed. A woman reacted by weeping quietly while another shook uncontrollably. Across the road, a man took his jacket off and draped it around the shoulders of another woman who was sobbing.

Moments later, the siren call of an ambulance could be heard in the distance. The rain continued falling softly and steadily. The sound got louder and the ambulance arrived. More sirens could be heard in the early morning quiet. A police car arrived followed by a fire truck a minute later and then another two police vehicles. Doors slammed. Voices were raised. Bedlam rained. The police attempted to cordon off the scene of the crime and divert traffic, while the paramedics checked the body. They felt for a pulse. No. They shook their heads. There was nothing to be done. By that stage Dr Farrell was dead.

Berger arrived last and braking abruptly, he dashed out of his car and surveyed the scene. He was tired and ran his hand wearily through his hair, which by now looked thoroughly disheveled. The paramedics who were busy, ignored him. Walking over to them, he chatted with them and then went across to the police and talked with them. He then proceeded to walk up and down, as he looked for something on the roadway, concentrating hard and bending down occasionally to have a closer look at the wet road. After a few minutes, he picked up his mobile and rang forensics.

‘You’d better haul your sorry assess over here.’
‘Why? I heard it was a hit and run.’
‘Yeah, but still I want you guys here, now.’
‘Ok, Berger, don’t get your nuts in a knot. We’re coming.’

Berger looked for witnesses to the accident, and took down the details of the only known witness. Another police officer went to fetch the headmaster, a tall, somewhat overweight man of ruddy complexion, to the scene of the accident. Running slowly across the road, he stopped in shock when he recognized Dr Farrell by his clothing. Dr Farrell had suffered massive head injuries, but was not so disfigured as to be unidentifiable.

Visibly upset and shaking, the headmaster was able to identify the victim to the police, as the kindly man who‘d just delivered his grandson to school and with whom he’d just chatted. However, his main concern was for the children. He didn’t want then to see the accident and be traumatized. He discussed a strategy for keeping the children away, with the police.

Forensics, who’d arrived as promised, were working efficiently, purposefully setting up their equipment, photographing the body and the road. They searched the surrounding scrub for clues, and after a while Berger left them to it, returning back to the station.

Meanwhile, the flashing light of the ambulance cast blue shadows on the faces of the crowd, as they strained to watch the paramedics lift Dr Farrell’s body, now in a body bag into the ambulance. The doors closed, and it took off in a blur of sound and light.

 

Chapter 2 News of the Accident

 

Later that morning, as the soft drizzle continued, two lanky policemen from the local police station, knocked on Mrs. Farrell’s door. Marika, the housekeeper, answered, asking them to wait while she fetched Mrs. Farrell. Waiting nervously, they tapped their toes and looked vaguely about them, until they heard footsteps approaching.

‘What seems to be the trouble, officers? ‘
The older policeman introduced himself and his partner. Mrs. Farrell, after seeing their ID, invited them in. One of the police suggested she take a seat. She declined.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a hit and run today near Wesley Grammar this morning,’ they began.
‘Yes?’
‘I am afraid that your husband was involved.'
'Involved?'
'Yes. I’m afraid that your husband was killed.’

Mrs. Farrell looked as if she were going to faint. Her eyes widened and she stared, disbelieving. She staggered and had to be helped to a chair. She sat down and gazed up at the two men in disbelief. No, it can’t be true. But who would play such a joke on her? She glanced at he ring and began playing with it, twisting it round and round. This was a nightmare.

Marika, standing close by, heard the news and gasped. No one paid any attention to her, because at this stage Mrs. Farrell had started babbling incoherently. Marika felt numb. It must be a mistake, surely? But no, she heard from a great distance, Mrs. Farrell carrying on. Even though the shock was enormous, she didn’t have the luxury of being able to express her feelings. She straightened her back and pulled back her shoulders. For the moment she knew that she had to carry on.

‘This is unbelievable. Why only this morning we talked at breakfast about taking a trip to Adelaide in the holidays,’ Mrs. Farrell babbled to the policeman, as people in shock sometimes do. ‘How could this have happened? He was always so careful. I don’t understand.’

The two police officers looked uncomfortable as they gallantly tried to comfort her till the relatives could be summoned. They rang the doctor’s son, Michael, at the hospital.

Michael too went into shock. ‘There must be some mistake. My father’s a very careful man,’ he kept insisting.

Eventually they convinced him, and he rang his wife, Danielle, as he rushed out of the hospital to go to his mother’s house. Danielle managed to find someone to look after their son, arriving at almost the same time as Michael. Michael, white-faced, wearing a fragile, hurt expression, looked like a little boy. She hugged him for a few minutes and they went inside.

A flickering fire was burning in the marble fireplace. Logs, in the small hearth crackled, as Emma sat, staring at the flames, feeling cold air seeping into her bones. The scent of pine cones filled the room. When Michael and Danielle entered, she was sitting with head bowed, carefully shredding a tissue. She turned when she heard Michael’s voice.

‘Mother……’ Michael said.
She looked up. ‘Darling, I am so glad you’ve arrived. It’s been dreadful.’

Michael rushed to her side, and hugged her, while Danielle came over and kissed her cheek and took her hand and held it. Eventually she let go of it, and went and sat down on the couch. Michael came and sat next to her. For a moment they were all speechless, and while they sat there, stunned and shocked, Marika entered with a trolley on which stood a large pot of tea, delicate cups and saucers and a plate of cucumber sandwiches, which she’d thoughtfully ordered from the local French bakery.

She had put aside her feelings of despair, and pretended that she was all right. The shock helped her keep her feelings at bay. She felt nothing, but she knew that sooner or later the horror of it would break through. She doubted that she could maintain this charade for much longer. Luckily everyone was so preoccupied with their own feelings, that they failed to pay attention to hers.

Feeling very alone and vulnerable, she wished that she would just wake from this terrible dream. Still good breeding won out, and she said, ‘I thought you might like some tea.’

‘Thanks Marika, just leave the trolley there and we will help ourselves,’ said Emma.

But sitting there, no one had been able to eat, instead Emma and Danielle just drank endless cups of Darjeeling tea, while Michael fixed himself a scotch and soda from the bar.

Harsh, afternoon sunlight lit the west windows, bouncing onto the floor, highlighting the polished wood and drawing intricate patterns. Nobody noticed. Emma’s eyes were red rimmed, as though she‘d been crying for hours, and Danielle appeared to be mesmerized by her shoes. Michael paced back and forth, hands folded behind his back. Some colour had returned to his face. He stopped his pacing and looking at his mother, said,

‘How could this have happened? I just can’t believe it. Father was such a wonderful man.’

‘Do sit down Michael, Your making me nervous,’ said Danielle, looking up suddenly.

Emma ignored her and said to Michael, ‘Yes, your Father was a great man. What will we do without him now? I can’t imagine my life without him. We had been together for thirty years now.’

The conversation continued in a desultory manner. Michael came and sat beside Danielle, and put his arm around her shoulder. She shrugged it off, and got up to get herself another drink. Danielle for some reason felt very rritable, and though she knew that Michael and his mother needed support right now, she was simply too wound up to give it to them.

~

So they sat with eyes downcast, inwardly focused, with no one having much to say. After some time passed, Michael, sick of feeling helpless, leant over and whispered to Danielle, ’I think I may have to give mother an injection to get her through this ordeal.’
She nodded agreement.

He turned to his mother and said, ‘Mother you look ghastly, I think I’ll give you something to help, maybe a sedative to see you through the night. I’ll just go and get my bag from the study.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, and went to fetch his doctor’s bag from the study. On his return, Emma, feeling docile, agreed. He gave her an injection, and than he and Danielle escorted her to her bedroom.

Later that evening, Michael noticed a movement behind him. He turned. Marika had knocked lightly on the door, and entered. One look at her told him that he already knew what she had to tell him.
‘Dr Farrell, I am awfully sorry but I feel very unwell this evening, and I was wondering if I might be excused.’
‘Of course Marika. I can see that you look pale. By all means go and rest.’

The effort of trying to pretend to be sane had nearly tipped Marika over the edge. Close to hysteria, she needed to go to her cottage. Pushing open her front door, she headed for the drinks cupboard and poured herself a brandy and coke, and drank it down quickly. She put the glass down on the counter, and went through to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed. Touching the pillow, she lay her face on it and inhaled. His scent lingered on the pillow. James.

Several hours later, after she sobbed herself out, she got up and entered the lounge and sat down. Head bowed, she sat staring at the wooden floor, tears shimmering on her cheeks shaking her head slowly in disbelief. She massaged her forehead, as the beginnings of a headache took hold, and contemplated her future. My, how things change in one day. I can’t believe it. I’ve gone from being the happiest woman alive to total being absolutely shattered. Suddenly she pictured her father’s face and felt overcome by homesickness. I want to go home.

A few minutes later she picked up the cordless and rang her father in Holland, feeling a great sense of relief on hearing his voice. ‘Are you all-right, princess?’ he asked.

‘I need to come home, Daddy. There’s been a terrible accident. Dr. Farrell has died.’

‘Well come home at once, poppet.’

‘I will Daddy, as soon as Mrs. Farrell is stable.’

She felt better. She would go home as soon as possible.