“Really, Mrs. Cavendish,  you must remember the terms of our agreement.”

 

The trouble was, Patricia Cavendish did remember them, all too clearly.  She hadn’t liked them then.  She liked them even less now.

 

She looked at the small figure of Jodie Bates seated at the desk opposite her. With her neat little face, eager expression and slightly longer upper lip she reminded Patricia Cavendish of nothing so much as a field mouse.  “I never liked this woman,” Patricia Cavendish thought.  “I can’t think why I’m listening to her.  Why on earth am I here?  I don’t have to put up with this. I think she’s threatening me.”

 

But somehow she didn’t say it.

 

This was her second visit to the office of Bannister, Bates and Noble and she remembered her first visit, more than two months ago.   She could see herself then tottering down Swanston Street on those too high heels, clutching the dog-eared card in her hand.  The card that had been given to her by Vera Curtis, the rather vulgar wife of one of George’s less reputable friends.

 

“Take it, love,” said Vera.  Patricia didn’t like being called love.  “You go and see them. They’ll fix up dear George, see if they don’t.”

 

“But what are they,” asked Patricia, looking at the card in disdain.  It simply read, ‘Bannister, Bates and Noble, Fifth Floor, Nicholas Building, Swanston Street,’ and included a telephone number but no email address.  There was no suggestion of occupation.  “Are they solicitors?”

 

“Not exactly,” said Vera, “though they do seem to know all about the law.  They’re sort of private detectives, as far as I can understand. Only it’s more than that.  They’re sort of fix people.  What happens is, if you have a problem,  and I reckon your George has got one hell of a problem, then, well, you go and see them and they will sort it for you, no questions asked, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Oh, I see,” said Patricia Cavendish, who didn’t have the vaguest idea what Vera meant.  But she was desperate, so she took the precious card and made an appointment to see them.  Which was why she came to be walking down Swanston Street, heading towards Flinders Street Station and looking up at the buildings.

 

She thought with a sudden stab of nostalgia of that day she had waited under the clocks at that station for her first date with George.  She wouldn’t have believed he could have done so well for himself, or fallen so low.  In those days she was just plain Pat Briggs and he was Georgy Cray.  Then Patricia was the name she got called when she was in trouble and Cray had seemed a pretty good sort of surname.  But now she always called herself Patricia, ever since George had gone upmarket and changed their surname to Cavendish, when he became Managing Director of Cavendish Fine Foods.

 

She didn’t have any idea which was the Nicholas Building so she had parked in Melbourne Central and now had to walk all this way.   Swanston Street wasn’t her stamping ground.  She thought it rather seedy with its technical bookshops and ethnic cafes.

 

Then, opposite the cathedral, now shrouded in scaffolding, she found the Nicholas Building, and went across a white tiled arcade to the lifts that must have come out on the first fleet.  Inside was a cheery female attendant who had a thousand photos of her children and pets pinned on the lift wall.  “How quaint,” thought Patricia Cavendish, who had no children and didn’t like pets.  In answer to the attendant’s question she said, “Fifth floor, please,” and received what she considered to be a rather dubious look.

 

Once on the fifth floor, at the end of a dirty cream corridor she found an office marked Bannister, Bates and Noble and went inside.  Behind the counter sat a pert little field mouse of a receptionist.

 

Only she wasn’t the receptionist.  Jodie Bates soon set her right on that score.  She did not look at all like Patricia Cavendish’s idea of a fix person or even a private detective.  Although, had she been actually asked, Patricia would have been hard put to say what one should look like.  Jodie ushered Mrs. Cavendish into her very small, dull and impersonal office and sat down opposite her.

 

“It’s about my husband,” began Mrs. Cavendish nervously, “My husband, George. He’s been arrested, arrested and charged with murder.  And it’s all a terrible mistake.”

 

“Naturally,” said Jodie Bates, and Patricia Cavendish wondered if she was being sarcastic.  But the field mouse face betrayed no emotion.  “Please, before you give me any details, Mrs. Cavendish, may I outline our terms?”  She held up her hand to silence Patricia Cavendish.  “Please don’t interrupt me.  My time is very valuable as I’m sure is yours.  If you are happy to accept our terms then we may proceed.  If not, there is no point in us wasting our time, is there?”

 

Patricia Cavendish nodded in agreement.  She thought, “Terms?”  Vera had said nothing about terms.

 

The super efficient little field mouse continued,  “The  company of Bannister, Bates and Noble has a very simple policy on the matter of terms.   It is adopted by some of the more commercial, shall we say, public companies of lawyers.  Quite simply, Mrs. Cavendish, our policy is no win, no fee.  If we are successful,  we make a charge. It is a flat fee.  If we are not successful, there will be absolutely no charge.”

 

“Oh,” said Patricia Cavendish, “well, that seems to be very fair.  Now, about George,  ...........”

 

“Absolutely fair, I assure you,” interrupted Jodie,  “but I must be more specific.  As I said, if we are successful we charge a flat fee.  We do not present you with a detailed account or a list of expenses.  We expect you to pay that fee without question or comment.  Is that understood?”

 

Patricia Cavendish was silent.  This was not at all what she had expected.  This was worse than going to see the solicitor.

 

“Furthermore, I must define success in your case.  That is to say, your husband’s case.  Your husband has been charged with murder.  Is that so?”

 

“Yes, yes he has, but, of course it’s all a terrible mistake.”

 

“Just so.” Jodie continued,  “Mr. George Cavendish, of 17 Nightingale Road, Templestowe, has been charged with the murder, by strangulation, of a certain Chloe Waters, a prostitute of no fixed address on or about June 18th.   Mr. Cavendish is currently being held at the Melbourne Correctional Centre in Spencer Street.”

 

Patricia Cavendish nodded.  “It’s a dreadful place.”

 

“So I have been told,” continued Jodie curtly.  “Mrs. Cavendish, I will define success in this case as the release from custody of Mr. George Cavendish,  with no charges pending against him.  Is that clear?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“I wish to stress, Mrs. Cavendish, that the manner of, or reason for, his release, will not be in question.  It may be that he is brought to trial and acquitted.  It may be that the police decide not to proceed with the case.  That will not affect our agreement.  I may be sounding pedantic, Mrs. Cavendish, but experience has taught me the necessity of being precise in these matters.  I’m sure that all that matters to you is the safe return of your husband, Mr. George Cavendish,  to the bosom of his family and without a stain on his character.”

 

“Oh yes. I’d do anything to have George back at home.”

 

“Remember those words, Mrs. Cavendish.  Think carefully when I tell you our fee for this case will be one million dollars.”

 

“But that’s ridiculous.”

 

“Is it? Is it ridiculous?” The field mouse became fierce.  “Really, Mrs. Cavendish, you have just told me you would do anything to have your husband released.  Now you call it ridiculous.  You know, Mrs. Cavendish, that is not the word I would have used in these circumstances. Do you find it ridiculous that your husband is currently held behind bars?  Do you think it’s the word he would use to describe his current situation?  Do you think he finds it ridiculous?   Rest assured, Mrs. Cavendish, there is absolutely nothing ridiculous about the current situation.”  The field mouse had become a fox terrier.

 

Patricia Cavendish felt quite overwhelmed.  She said weakly, “It’s an awful lot of money.” 

 

“Indeed it is, but then, justice does not come cheaply.  Besides, your husband is not a poor man, is he?  Right now, I’m sure he wouldn’t consider a million dollars too much when it comes to his personal freedom.”

 

Patricia Cavendish was silent.  She felt confused, bemused, out of her depth.  She didn’t like this woman.  She didn’t trust her, and she didn’t know what to do.  And all the while Jodie Bates’s eyes were on her.

 

Patricia Cavendish was thinking.  Well, not so much thinking.  Her mind was racing so much that constructive thought was impossible.  She said, “I don’t know.  Poor George.  I don’t know what to do for the best.  It seems a lot of money.  But then, it’s such a ghastly place.  Oh, I don’t know.  I think I’d better talk about it with George.”

 

She looked up at the impassive face of Jodie Bates.  Those eyes were very cold. There was no help there.  Jodie said, “Of course you could do that, Mrs. Cavendish, but it will take time.  And time may be of the essence to all of us in this case.  Besides, I think we both know what he will say.”

 

“Yes, yes I suppose we do.”  Patricia waited for an inspirational thought.  It didn’t come. “Okay, alright, yes.”  She looked beseechingly at Jodie.  There was not a flicker of emotion on that face.  Patricia Cavendish said,  “Well, what do I do now?  What do I pay?  What do you want?”

 

“Remember, Mrs. Cavendish, we expect payment by results.  We want nothing now.  Except, of course, your answer.  So, let us be quite clear about this.  Do you want this company to undertake the case?  And, I must stress that if you say yes, you will, in return, undertake to pay this company a cheque for one million dollars if we are successful. You will ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I understand,” gasped Patricia Cavendish.

 

“And your answer is?”

 

“Yes. Oh yes.  Just get George out of that dreadful place.”

 

“You wish us to undertake you husband’s case, Mrs. Cavendish, and you promise to pay us a cheque for one million dollars in the event of his release from custody without charge?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You are quite sure about your side of the bargain?  One million dollars, Mrs. Cavendish.”

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”  Jodie gave a faint smile.  “Now, Mrs. Cavendish, I have already prepared some notes on your husband’s case.  Perhaps we can go through them together?”

 

“Oh yes. Certainly.”  Patricia Cavendish felt herself to be on firmer ground.  This was what she had expected to happen.  “It’s completely false, you know.  I mean the charge.  Quite apart from anything else, George has never visited a prostitute in his life.”  She sniffed slightly.  “I mean, we do have a very happy marriage.”

 

“Quite so,” was Jodie’s no comment reply.  She flicked open her notebook.  “Your husband has been charged with the murder of Chloe Waters.  Now, I understand that according to the evidence of her friend and co-worker, Samantha Lynch, Chloe Waters was last seen in Grey Street, St. Kilda, soon after 8.00 p.m. on June 18th.  Ms. Lynch has stated she saw her friend getting into a car which she has described as a white Bentley.”

 

“It’s absurd.”

 

Jodie continued as if Patricia Cavendish had not spoken.  “Ms. Lynch was certain  the car was a white Bentley, which you must agree is not the most common make of car on our roads.  Furthermore she noted the number plate as CAV-FF.  And she said it was being driven by a man who resembled your husband.”  Jodie paused to study Patricia Cavendish’s face.  There was no doubt the woman was frightened.  After a suitable pause she continued,  “I believe your husband has a company car, Mrs. Cavendish, a white Bentley with a number plate CAV-FF, which I presume stands for Cavendish Fine Foods.”

 

“It’s all a terrible mistake.”

 

“Indeed it is, but this is the evidence we must refute, Mrs. Cavendish.  We cannot just ignore it.”  She paused again, but Patricia Cavendish made no comment.  “To continue.  The body of Chloe Waters was found on the foreshore at Elwood at about 6.30a.m. the following morning by a Mr. John Durham who was out walking with his dog.”

 

“Well, that sounds suspicious to me,” Patricia Cavendish grabbed at the nearest lifeline.

 

“And he is being fully investigated, I assure you.  The police are always most interested in the person who discovers a body. But I have been told that so far they have failed to come up with anything of relevance concerning Mr. Durham.  It is always possible that he is just a man walking his dog. It appears to be a regular activity of his.  In fact,  I understand it was the dog who initially made the unfortunate discovery.”  She paused once more, and, turning the page of her notebook, appeared to read it carefully before continuing.  “Now, let us come to the second fact of particular relevance to your husband.  Ms. Waters had been strangled by a tie which was still tied round her neck.  The tie was of an interesting design, maroon in colour with a thin white diagonal line and a white elephant, the distinctive emblem of Cavendish Fine Foods.”

 

“Anyone could have a tie like that.”

 

“I think not, Mrs. Cavendish.  This particular tie is manufactured in America, and, I have been informed, exclusively for Cavendish Fine Foods Company.  I understand  they are an American owned company and your husband is the Australian Managing Director.”

 

“Yes, he is. He’s done very well for himself, has George.  You know he left school at fifteen.  He’s got to the top by hard work.”

 

“Very admirable, I’m sure.  The tie is manufactured specifically for the company and is not for sale.  It is given to trusted employees as a mark of respect.  I understand that one was given to your husband on his last visit to the States.  I also understand that he was unable to produce his own tie when asked for it by the police.”

 

“He’s lost it.  That’s all.  Anyone can lose a tie.  It doesn’t prove it was his tie round that girl’s neck, does it.”

 

“No.  Indeed.”

 

“Look, he was working late that night with his secretary.  That’s what he said.  And I believe him.  And somebody borrowed his car, and ........, and, well, they must have borrowed his tie too.  Yes, that’s what happened.  It must be that.  Oh, poor George.  To have these dreadful suggestions made about him.”

 

“He certainly said he was working late, but unfortunately alone.  The security guard saw him, at about 7.15p.m. and 10.35p.m.”

 

“Well, there you are, then.”

 

“But on the security guard’s visit at 8.50p.m. there was no sign of Mr. Cavendish.”

 

“Well, he was probably in the loo.  Even Managing Directors have to spend a penny, you know.”

 

“Of course.” Jodie smiled without humour.  “Well, I think that covers the main points of the case, Mrs.  Cavendish.”  Jodie Bates stood up.  “So, let us shake hands on the deal.  And, may I say how much I am looking forward to seeing you again in this office, in the not too far distant future, with that cheque in your hand.”  Jodie walked to the door.

 

“But don’t you want anymore details?”  Patricia Cavendish was also standing.  She didn’t want to but she felt she had no choice.

 

“ Oh, I read the newspapers, Mrs. Cavendish, and I have my contacts. I doubt there is anything about this case I don’t already know.  If I want any information I will contact you, but don’t sit at home waiting for the phone to ring.”

 

Patricia Cavendish felt she was being dismissed.   Which wasn’t fair.  After all she had just promised to pay out one million dollars.  She believed she was entitled to state her case, to set out in detail the injustices to which dear George had been subjected. She thought Jodie Bates should sit and listen to her.  She didn’t like Jodie Bates.  She didn’t like her one little bit.    She said, with as much dignity as she could muster, “I wish to assure you, Ms. Bates, that my husband, George Cavendish, has never visited a prostitute in his life.”

 

“In that case, Mrs. Cavendish, it is quite impossible that he has murdered one, as we shall doubtless prove.”  Jodie Bates tried hard to suppress a smile but was not quite successful as Patricia Cavendish observed.  “May I suggest you take the lift with the attendant, Mrs. Cavendish.  I know the cheery manner and the photos are a bit much, but believe me, if you get in the automatic lift it takes prayer to get you safely to the ground floor.”  She smiled fully at Patricia Cavendish for the first time.  “I am speaking from experience.”

 

Patricia Cavendish took her advice.  She was glad to reach the ground floor, glad to get out into the fresh air.

 

Back in her office Jodie found Larry Noble in the chair just vacated by Patricia Cavendish.  He was even smaller than Jodie herself and reminded her of a jockey who had fallen off his horse once too often.  He had already got his feet on the table and a lighted fag hanging from his mouth.  Jodie said, “You heard everything?”

 

“Sure thing. And recorded it.  I’d like a dollar for every woman who swears her husband has never visited a prostitute.”

 

“We are not here to make moral judgements.”  She grinned at him.  Patricia Cavendish would not have believed Jodie capable of such a grin.  “What have you got then?  What can you tell me about the death of Chloe Waters?”

 

“In a word, our George done it.”

 

“I rather gathered that.  Go on.”

 

“I think you’ve just about summed up the case.  In your little chat with Mrs. C.”

 

“Nothing else then?  No DNA?

 

Larry shook his head.

 

“Very interesting.  So, if we can explain the Bentley and the tie, dear George is in the clear.”

 

“I reckon.”

 

“Right, you take the Bentley and I’ll deal with the tie.”

 

“And Bannister?”

 

“Will do the rest.”

 

Larry laughed.  It was not a pleasant sound. He’d never met Bannister.  Didn’t want to, either.  Dealing with Jodie was bad enough for him.

 

That was more than two months ago.  It was now a very different Patricia Cavendish who entered the office of Bannister, Bates and Noble.  There was a spring in her step, a smile on her face, a note of authority in her voice.  The elegant coiffure was, if anything, just a fraction blonder.  She was quite gracious to little Jodie Bates.

 

Jodie wasn’t surprised at all.  They were always like that.  Really, clients were so predictable.

 

“It’s wonderful,” sighed Patricia Cavendish joyously, “So, so wonderful, to have my dear George back at home.  It’s such a relief, believe me.”

 

“I do.”

 

“And all a terrible mistake.  I knew it.  I knew he couldn’t have done it.”

 

“Of course not.  You always said that.”  Jodie smiled.

 

“And I was right, wasn’t I?  That nasty serial killer. I do hope they catch him soon.  They must, surely.  After all, you said yourself, white Bentleys aren’t that common, are they?”

 

“Nor Cavendish company ties,” replied Jodie.

 

“No, no. They come from America, you know,” Patricia Cavendish informed her in a somewhat patronising manner.

 

“Do they indeed.  Very difficult to get hold of, I believe.  Not exactly a mail order item.”

 

Patricia Cavendish smiled, “So, now it’s all cleared up I’ve come to pay the fee.”

 

“A million dollars, Mrs. Cavendish.”

 

Patricia Cavendish  got out a small notebook from her handbag and put on her glasses, as she always did when she had business to discuss.  “Ms. Bates, I have discussed the matter with my solicitor, and really, we both feel your fee is quite outrageous.  Of course, I appreciate you’ve taken some trouble in this matter, but you know my husband was always innocent.  He has been released because there is a serial killer attacking the prostitutes in Grey Street.”

 

“Serial killers are quite the in thing these days.  Why, they seem to pop up in every television crime program,” said Jodie lightly.

 

“I don’t know about that,” said Patricia Cavendish shortly.

 

“A serial killer,” continued Jodie,  “Who drives a white Bentley and wears a Cavendish Fine Foods Company tie, which he conveniently leaves round the neck of his victims.”

 

“Yes,” snapped Patricia Cavendish.  “That’s right. So, you see, Ms. Bates, I think your fee is quite ridiculous, and, what’s more, I refuse to pay it.  So there,” she finished like a girl in the schoolyard.

 

“Really, Mrs. Cavendish, you must remember the terms of our agreement.”

 

Patricia Cavendish gave a little laugh.  It didn’t sound quite as self assured as she would have liked.  “I will, of course, pay you a reasonable amount for the expenses you have incurred, if you give me an account of them.”

 

“Mrs. Cavendish,” said Jodie Bates, and Patricia Cavendish did not like the look on Jodie’s face.  It no longer reminded her of a field mouse, or even a terrier.  Now she saw the fox ready for the kill.   “I have a tape of our previous conversation which I will play to you, as you seem so conveniently to have forgotten those terms.”

 

“You don’t need to do that,” said Patricia, slightly abashed.  “I can remember them.”

 

“Then you will remember my conditions.  Payment if, and only if, your husband’s name is cleared.   I think you must agree that has happened.  We have fulfilled our side of the bargain.  Now you must do the same.”

 

“But what have you done?” cried Patricia.

 

“What have I done?” repeated Jodie, who was now on her feet.  “Believe me, Mrs. Cavendish, you don’t want to know what I have done.  There are some things in this world it is better not to know.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Patricia Cavendish.  It was clearly one of her favourite words.  “Just give me a list of your expenses and I’ll pay them.  I’m not a mean women, I promise you.  I can be very generous.”

 

Jodie Bates placed her hands on the desk and leaned towards Patricia Cavendish. “Generous,” she shouted, “I don’t want you to be generous.  I want, no, I demand that you honour the terms of our agreement.”

 

“No!” said Patricia Cavendish.  It came out as a squeak.  “I won’t.  I won’t pay a thing unless you tell me what you’ve done, unless you detail your costs.”

 

“Costs,” shrieked Jodie, and her voice was very terrible to Patricia Cavendish’s ears.  “You have no idea of my costs. You could not even begin to imagine the trouble this case has given me.  What do you think it costs to get hold of a white Bentley, not to mention that bloody number plate? How on earth do you think we acquired half a dozen of those wretched Cavendish Fine Foods Company ties?  I told you they weren’t a mail order item.  I had to go to the States for those ties.”

 

Patricia Cavendish gasped.  “Three prostitutes have died .....”

 

“No, Mrs. Cavendish,” retorted Jodie, and her voice was like ice.  “Four prostitutes have died, and you know your husband killed one of them.”

 

Patricia Cavendish’s mouth fell open.  “That’s horrible.”

 

“It’s murder, Mrs. Cavendish, cold blooded murder.”

 

“But you’ve ........”

 

“I told you, Mrs. Cavendish.  Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

 

Jodie Bates looked straight at Patricia Cavendish, and Patricia lowered her eyes.  She muttered, “You can’t make me.  I’ll tell them about you.  I’ll tell everyone.”

 

“And what would that do for dear George?  Put him straight back inside the Melbourne Correctional Centre, I should think. And you’d be there too.    So don’t threaten me.”  She looked down at the shattered woman before her.  “Really, Mrs. Cavendish, do you honestly believe there is any limit to what I can make you do?  Please don’t underestimate me.”

 

Patricia Cavendish looked up into Jodie’s face.  She didn’t like what she could see there.

 

“Just write that cheque, Mrs. Cavendish, and give it to me, please.”

 

Patricia Cavendish got out her cheque book and wrote a cheque.  Without looking up she handed it to Jodie Bates.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Cavendish.  It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.  Now, may I make a suggestion.  Just get up, turn around and walk straight down that corridor.  And don’t look back.  Don’t ever look back.”

 

Patricia Cavendish did as she was told.  Jodie Bates was quite right.  There are some things in life it is better not to know.

 

 

 

 

 

Sylvia Loader

August 2003