The Ancient Craft

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Detective Sergeant Paul Brooks had scanned the society pages each day, searching for an upcoming event that would meet his requirements. The presence of a few politicians, the eastern suburbs glitterati, art patrons and various hangers-on would be ideal. It was three weeks before an announcement caught his eye, and he made his plans with the precision of an army campaign.

The evening was cool with intermittent showers. As the various taxis, hire-cars and limousines pulled up in the covered driveway of Sydney Opera House, attendees disembarked wearing warm coats and thick stoles over their expensive jewellery and designer gowns. The Queen had opened the iconic building in 1973, and since then it had been the premier location for society events in Sydney. Tonight was the opening performance of Don Giovanni, and the opera had attracted society darlings like moths to a flame. The article that had caught Brooks’ attention had praised Jessica Vandermeer’s fortitude following her husband’s fatal heart attack, and mentioned that her first social outing since his death would be at this performance. Other newspapers had not been so fulsome in their appraisal of the widow.

Thus it was that Brooks and two detective constables had arrived early and positioned themselves in the first-floor foyer where the eager crowd assembled for food, tickets and the cloak room. Entry to the second-floor steps was gained by displaying the relevant ticket, whereupon the patrons climbed to a bar area where smartly dressed staff served an array of sparkling and still wines from a circular bar area. It would have been simple for Brooks to phone Jessica’s lawyer and arrange for his client to attend police headquarters at a suitable time for everyone, where arrest, caution, charging and bail could proceed smoothly, but he was not interested in anyone’s convenience. Who knew what a distressed widow might blurt out in the first flush of anger and embarrassment without her solicitor present? That was certainly Brooks’ earnest wish, and a tip-off to his contact at a major Sydney tabloid newspaper ensured that both a photographer and a crime reporter were also on hand to report news of the arrest to the eager public.

Brooks waited patiently until the first-floor foyer was congested with patrons, and his target was about to climb the steps to the next level before he made his move.

‘Jessica Vandermeer,’ he announced in a commanding voice, ‘I am placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband, Cornelius Vandermeer, and I have to formally caution you that you are not obliged to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you at your trial.’

A stunned silence swept through the crowd, followed immediately by several shrieks of unknown intent from various society matrons. The next day’s paper reported that the accused woman never blinked, but gave a brief smile and shook her head slowly before being escorted down the entrance staircase and into a waiting police vehicle.

Within a few minutes of the arrest, Matthew received a phone call at his flat from a distressed woman who had been with Jessica at the Opera House. It was a measure of Jessica’s astuteness that she had given his name and private phone number to the woman, realising that an arrest was a distinct possibility and that Brooks would not want Matthew around whilst he spun his web involving the good-cop, bad-cop routine. He arrived at police headquarters some thirty minutes or so after his client.

‘My name is Matthew Jameson and I believe that my client, Jessica Vandermeer, has been arrested. I request that I be allowed to speak to her immediately.’

The grizzled station sergeant seemed somewhat taken aback by Matthew’s arrival. He pointed to a wooden bench. ‘Take a seat,’ he grunted.

‘That’s not good enough, Sarge,’ Matthew added with quiet determination. ‘I want to see her now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The time is 7.15 pm. I’m taking a note of that time so that any unfortunate complaint which may need to be made to Internal Affairs is accurate.’ He slid a business card across the desk. ‘That’s so that you are in no doubt as to my bona fides. I’m sure the arresting officer will remember me.’

The sergeant eyed him through narrowed eyelids, then slowly picked up a phone and spoke briefly into the handpiece before hanging up.

‘Someone’s coming out,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Matthew replied with a smile.

Almost immediately, Paul Brooks came bursting through a side door and walked over to confront Matthew.

‘What’s this bullshit about Internal Affairs?’ he said loudly.

‘I’m sure there’s no need for that, Detective,’ Matthew replied. ‘Just let me have a quiet word with my client.’

‘We’re not finished processing her yet. She’s been arrested and is in custody. Bail has not even been thought of yet.’

‘Quite so, but if you refuse my very reasonable request for a few minutes with her, the matter will go further,’ Matthew said. ‘All the way to the top. More importantly, it’ll be on the front pages of tomorrow’s papers with all sorts of unpleasant allegations. We don’t want that now, do we?’

Matthew could see that Brooks was torn between the opportunity to gain some damning admission versus a media storm if he stonewalled Matthew. Brooks may have had some contacts in the media, but his powers of influence only stretched so far, and he knew they’d turn against him in a heartbeat for a good story. After a moment of indecision, he grunted a reply.

‘Two minutes, no more.’

‘It’s been a pleasure, detective.’

Brooks opened the door that he came through earlier, and then motioned for Matthew to follow him. If Matthew had feared that his client would be sobbing in a crumpled heap somewhere, the thought disappeared when he saw her. Jessica Vandermeer was sitting leisurely at an interview table, cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee nestled in the other.

‘That’s what I call prompt service, Matthew,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve been here for less than an hour. The sergeant has been a perfect gentleman, but apparently I’m to be refused bail unless I co-operate with a record of interview.’

Brooks had left them alone, apart from a uniformed single-striper standing guard, doing his best to impersonate a marble statue.

‘That’s not something Brooks will ever admit in court, but it’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Probably the bail sergeant will refuse you bail on some pretext, such as he fears you might be a suicide risk. But we’ve got a good chance of bail tomorrow in front of the stipendiary magistrate. If not, then we’ll make a bail application to the Supreme Court, and as it’s a purely circumstantial case, I’m confident we’ll get you out. There may be a need for a surety, however. Any friends or relatives that you can rely on?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Depends on what we’re talking about. What does a surety have to do?’

‘Sometimes deposit cash, sometimes pledge property as a guarantee of your appearance, and make sure that you report to the police and stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘How much cash?’

‘Hard to say. Depends on whether the prosecution oppose bail, how strong their case is, and what the bench thinks of you. What we have in our favour is that you really aren’t a suicide or flight risk and the chances of any serious offences must be miniscule. These are matters the magistrate must consider.’

‘Can two persons go surety, half each?’

‘Sure. No problem.’

She gave him a steady gaze.

‘How strong is their case? What are my chances?’

‘It’s much too early to say. At court tomorrow, there’ll be a brief fact sheet setting out the main points, but we won’t get statements of witnesses for a few months. Only then can we know what we face.’ Matthew gave a slight smile. ‘At least there isn’t a smoking gun for us to worry about.’

Jessica did not reply, but raised her eyebrows. Matthew had merely been referring to the obvious point that a gun did not shoot her husband dead, but his client’s reaction unsettled him. The only thing that Matthew could be certain of was that representing Jessica Vandermeer would not be simple. The more he spoke to her, the more intriguing she appeared.