Priors. Stuart Jackson E.
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you kept or ignored.
Or he’d sit and listen to his music. Five hundred records, ninety percent of which were classical, and a growing number of compact discs. There was still something about the tone that made it hard to throw any of the records out. He had five versions of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons - each different in their own way, but if he had to pick one it would be the one by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra. A link, he thought. Association, but then so much of life was. Don’t fiddle around. Violin. Zukerman and the Bach violin concertos. Association.
Who you associate with. Fay. Met her at the club one night. She’d gone with a friend, but he’d lost a lot of money and stormed out without her. She played alongside him for a while, turning fifty dollars into two hundred and enjoying herself, while he’d lost another three hundred. But he’d bought her a drink and one thing had led to another.
Or, on rare occasions, he would merely sit in front of the television and let it rule him. Effortless entertainment that numbed the mind. But, too often, he’d drink too much and he’d awake in the early morning, the television screen a glare of hissing light, cold wrapping around his shoulders, an empty glass at his feet.
In the day work was everything, all consuming, occupying.
And today he felt fresh, as he should. He hadn’t wanted to see Gloria Doyle yesterday, because he needed to be alert. Careful of what he said and alert to her comments, her mood, her reactions.
The Doyle’s house was in Burwood and he turned the car north off Toorak Road before it crossed Warrigal Road. It was a house that Barry and Gloria Doyle had lived in since they first bought it. Barry was prone to repeat the story to whoever would listen to it, about how a rich uncle of Gloria’s had returned from Africa and lived long enough to re-write his will and leave the pretty Gloria one thousand pounds. And with that money they’d bought the house and raised three daughters in it. They’d named the first child after the uncle’s wife - Hortense - that Barry came to regret. Hortense, Barry would say, is not an easy name for a girl to carry around with her.
The original condition of the house had changed over recent years with the addition of an extra bedroom and a sunroom and then a large garage and workshop for Barry. The front garden looked neat and tidy, as if the lawns had only just been cut and the flowerbeds cleared of weeds. The front of the house, Barron knew, had been painted just before Barry’s death and that had only been seven months ago.
Barron rang the front door bell and waited patiently. He saw the shape move behind the mottled glass and then the door was opened.
“David,” she said. She sounded surprised. But she repeated his name and it sounded warmer. “David, it’s been so long. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And you?”
She merely smiled and nodded her head and then said, “Oh, you know,” and stood back to let him into the house. “Come through to the kitchen, I was just doing some cooking. Biscuits.”
The house was quiet and cool. The kitchen was brighter. One wall was glass and overlooked the back yard beyond a timber deck. A large Labrador dog got to its feet as Barron came into the kitchen and cocked his head to one side, unsure of who he was. He barked three times and then sat down, staring into the house.
“How have you been?” Barron asked again.
“Oh, I get by, you know, David. And as each day passes that ‘getting by’ gets easier. I still think he’s in the room with me every now and again. And I’ll turn round quickly, but he’ll be gone.”
“Where are the kids?”
“All working now. Julie got a job with a hairdresser about two months ago. She’s happy.”
“You’re looking well.”
“You’re a liar,” she said and tried to laugh. “What do you want, David?”
“I came to see how you were.”
“And what else?”
He smiled and said, “I need to ask you some questions.”
“What about? About Barry?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her voice was tired.
“Another case that we’re working on.”
“What has that got to do ...?”
“Probably nothing. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing, but the boss wants it all checked out thoroughly. You know what we’re like.”
“Bastards,” she said softly.
“That too,” Barron admitted. “This case is a murder ...”
She looked at him.
“And one of the people involved mentioned Barry’s name. We’ve got a suspect and have just about wrapped up all the evidence we need. I’m just tying up the loose ends. And ... and I thought that if the loose ends had to be tied up by talking to you, that it was best that I did the talking.”
“A murder? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it covers Federal law.”
She watched him, in silence, for a full minute and then said, “Okay, what do you need to know?”
“Barry was working on a case...”
“In Tasmania?”
“Yes.”
“Did he talk about it much?”
“No more than any other case he was on.”
Barron pulled a small notebook from his pocket and said, “Let me make some notes as we go.”
*******
Barron left an hour later. There was enough in the pages of his notebook to tie things up on any connection with Christie and Doyle and Tasmania. Part of the priors for Christie.
Priors.
Part of Lefroy’s culture. Lefroy had started with the Melbourne office just as they were starting to wrap-up the Cornelius case. An American connection into Thailand, through Singapore and it had been a joint exercise, nicely co-ordinated by the AFP. Lefroy had called the task force together, an hour before they were due to leave for an assault on premises in Albert Park.
“With any case we work on,” he’d said, “there are three components. The first is the incident - or incidents. The scene of the crime, the crime itself, forensic, witnesses. The third is the wrap-up - the way we bring it all together, fitting all the pieces in place, the presentation for the prosecutor.” He’d paused.
Barron remembered that he had everyone’s attention. That was no mean feat in itself, prior to a bust, when tensions were high, and everybody was keyed-up. Tight. Impatient. And he had their attention for two reasons - one, because he was new and they were still trying to suss him out. The second, because he hadn’t yet got to the second component.
“And the second part is the priors. This is the background, the motive, everything that occurred prior to the incident and which contributed to the incident. You don’t have a crime without the priors. The priors are the reasons. With the priors, everything else comes together. The priors explain why it happened and they give the body to the wrap-up. Priors will be a major part - the major part - of your reports. A jury is interested in the priors, because it’s human nature to know the ‘why’.”
Another pause.
“Get the priors right,” Lefroy had said simply.
Priors, Barron thought.
He’d started on Christie’s priors. And with them he could make sure that Christie was nailed.
*******
“The Feds have got