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  ‘Yeah,’ said Brian. A neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts, East Boston was close to the harbor and an easy drive to the airport. ‘And now you’re watching TV.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I was hoping it would help me unwind.’

  Brian smiled. ‘Of course. These old historical romances have always helped you relax. Quite odd.’

  ‘Beats smoking.’ Michelle attempted a smile but the ache in her temples was too strong. ‘It’s not working this time, though. I’ll have to go and lie down. I’ll log on, in the morning, and transfer to another flight.’

  She headed for the bedroom.

  Brian fixed himself a scotch and dry and sat down in front of the television.

  The movie was interrupted by a station news flash. The familiar face of the newsreader appeared on the screen. ‘News just to hand,’ he began, ‘A major disaster at Boston Logan International Airport has claimed the lives of all those on board the delayed 7.30 flight to New York. TPL’s Flight 475 caught fire on take-off and crashed on the main runway …’

  The glass slipped from Brian’s hand and he sat, open-mouthed, gazing at the scenes of carnage on the small screen.

  The chance to commit the perfect murder dawned on him quickly.

  He reached for Michelle’s handbag on the coffee table and checked the contents. The seat allocation docket was there: 27E.

  He was the only person in the world who knew for certain that Michelle Redding hadn’t taken her seat on the flight. He could see from the charred remnants of the disaster that an accurate body count could be ruled inconclusive.

  Brian looked in on Michelle. She was already asleep. A wisp of red hair trailed her cheekbone, shifting slowly to the rhythm of her breathing. He could try smothering her with a pillow, but there was a chance she’d wake and struggle.

  The steely blade of the carving knife was the swiftest, surest way.

  • • •

  Later, he wrapped the body in large, plastic garbage bags and dragged it across the backyard. The incinerator was a large, old-fashioned structure that had been on the property when they’d bought it.

  He remembered Anna’s words from earlier. ‘Never throw a body into the ocean. They get washed up. And don’t bury it. It can be dug up. Burn it. Then scatter the remains out in the country.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful person,’ he’d said in mock tones. ‘That takes care of the body. But we still have the problem of the police. They’ll turn the place upside down for clues. Her parents would never believe she just upped and left me.’

  ‘Perhaps we need to invent some plausible story,’ Anna said.

  Well, fate had delivered that, Brian thought to himself. The incinerator flames licked at the night sky. He would go inside soon, to clean up the bedroom. He was staring up at the moon when his neighbor, chatty soccer mom Ellie Stanton, poked her head over the old timber fence.

  ‘Funny time of night to burning off, Brian,’ she said, ‘Lovely night, though.’

  ‘Yes. Just had an urge to burn off some excess rubbish. Maybe those scenes of Atlanta burning in tonight’s movie gave me the idea.’

  His neighbor grinned. ‘Oh, yes. I love “Gone With The Wind”. Must have seen it a dozen times. Michelle invited me in to watch her recording of it just a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Recording?’ queried Brian.

  ‘That’s right. The one she recorded off the telly last time it was shown. About a year and a half ago I think she said it was.’

  The color drained from Brian’s face. ‘Does that recording have a news flash … about a plane crash …?’ His voice wavered.

  Ellie nodded. ‘Now that you mention it – yes, terrible business.’ She waved and began to head back inside. ‘I guess that’s the trouble with recording movies direct to the hard drive on these digital things, isn’t it? No tapes, no discs. It’s all in the one unit. I’d never know if I was watching something ‘live’ or something stored on the drive. And you get all the old news reports as well.’

  A SEED OF DOUBT

  One

  It was the second week of the howling winds. Sweeping across the green pastoral landscape of the valley, they had turned the usually moderate Autumn into something darker: a preview of a grim winter.

  Three or four days of southerly gusts was not unusual, thought Jillian Ashworth, but this was the ninth day and the winds, which sometimes bayed like a pack of hounds, had become the talk of the town. The headlights of Jillian’s crimson Toyota pierced the darkness of the winding road, illuminating the wind-swept branches of the roadside beechwoods as they danced like ghostly wraiths.

  Despite the late hour – it was 12.45am – she had driven rapidly along the dark country roads. Now she turned onto the steep rise of the Bellwood Villa driveway. The tall iron gate, set in the stone fence that surrounded the property, was already open. Just ahead, Jillian saw the police car pull up on the paved courtyard.

  She parked and stepped from the Toyota. There were several lights on inside the house but no sign of movement. Alighting from the police car, two officers approached her – a young man, tall, lean, sandy-haired, and a woman with reddish colouring. Senior Constable Don Christie hurriedly introduced himself and Constable Anne Wright. ‘There are no outward signs of disturbance,’ he commented. ‘You stay by your car, Miss Ashworth. Constable Wright and I will investigate the premises.’

  ‘Mrs. Bellwood was very distraught when she phoned me. She was certain there was an intruder in the house.’

  Don Christie nodded his understanding. He’d never met Jillian before, but he knew her by reputation. She was the owner of the trendy new boutique in the nearby township of Oakvale. She had a slender figure that would have looked good in any of the clothes she sold; medium-length chestnut brown hair, dark eyes and a smattering of freckles across her elfin nose. He gave her a brief, reassuring nod, then turned towards the house.

  While his partner skirted around the side to check the rear, he headed up the long flight of front steps. The door was wide and heavy, an attractive embossed oak. It was slightly ajar and Don eased through into the central hallway. The light from the adjoining formal lounge filtered through an arched doorway. The house was quiet.

  The open front door was a clear signal something was wrong. Senses alert, Don moved through the formal lounge and into the dining room. He’d never been inside Bellwood Villa before, but he knew it had been built in the Nineteenth century. It was one of the most famous colonial-era houses in the district. The open fireplaces, cedar mantlepieces and high, timber cross-beamed ceilings suggested the English architecture of the period.

  From the dining room he entered the spacious galley kitchen. The body of Georgina Bellwood was sprawled on the tile floor, a bullet wound in her forehead. A thin stream of blood ran from the wound into a large, spreading red pool.

  Just beyond the blood, near her outstretched arm, was a half-eaten apple.

  Don swallowed hard, forcing back the bile that was rising inside. During his five years on the force, he’d seen a number of corpses. This was the first time, however, he’d been first on the scene of a homicide.

  Anne Wright appeared in the opposite doorway to the kitchen. ‘Oh my God…’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ Don said. ‘You go and radio the station. We’ll need homicide and forensics out here.’

  Heading out to the car, Anne crossed paths with Jillian.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jillian asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ms. Ashworth, but Georgina Bellwood has been murdered. I’ll have to ask you to stay out here. We’ll be roping off the entire house as a crime scene.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Jillian’s voice was hoarse. ‘God, no. Poor Marcus.’

  Jillian’s fiancé, Marcus, was Georgina Bellwood’s nephew. He lived with his aunt in the stately home.

  Jillian sat on the front steps, arms folded against the icy blasts, and waited. Marcus was due home before too long and she wanted to be there when he arrived. She tried calling him on his cell
but there was no answer.

  An hour and ten minutes later, she embraced him as he stepped from his blue Honda. He listened, distraught and confused, as Jillian told him what had happened. By now there were several police cars in the courtyard.

  Disbelief is often the first reaction by one family member to the death of another. ‘No, this can’t be…’ Marcus went to the front door but the officer stationed there gently deterred him. He sat down on the front steps. Tears filled his eyes and lines of grief aged him before Jillian’s gaze.

  He bunched his knees up towards his chin and held his head in his hands. ‘Who could do something like this?’ His voice was a croak. ‘Why Aunt Georgie?’

  Obvious questions, thought Jillian, and yet they seemed insignificant alongside the crushing reality of the death. It seemed to Jillian that his words, once uttered, were whisked away with a careless indifference by the icy draughts of night air.

  Two

  On his drive out to Bellwood Villa, Detective Inspector Graeme MacLaine’s head had ached: a sharp, stabbing pain in the right temple, the result of too little sleep. He’d stayed up late, watching a movie with wife Meg, and he’d been asleep only a short time when the shrill ring of the telephone snapped him cruelly back to the waking world.

  He thought he’d left that sort of thing behind three months ago when he accepted the transfer from Sydney to the Hunter Valley. The 1.05 am call was a rude reminder that no matter the location, crime never keeps regular hours.

  The wind’s bite was cold. He’d pulled the collar of his coat tighter as he’d entered the house. The police photographer, a young fellow, was just leaving. How had he got here so quickly? Probably came straight from a party, MacLaine thought with uncharacteristic cynicism. He wasn’t in a good mood.

  The pain in his temple, and his cynicism, vanished the moment he was confronted by the crime scene. Instantly, he was on the alert, his focus on the murder crystal clear. He’d always prided himself on his attention to detail. As he watched the chief forensic officer, Dr. Robyn St Clair, dust the house for fingerprints, he weighed up the details that didn’t fit together.

  Why would Georgina Bellwood, fearing an intruder and having called Jillian on the phone from the hallway, then decide to go to the kitchen to eat an apple?

  There was no sign of a forced entry, or a struggle. Had Georgina let her killer into the house?

  ‘I can almost hear the gears clicking over,’ Robyn St. Clair said, referring to MacLaine’s expression. She was tiny and reed thin, thirtysomething, a bundle of energy and the complete physical opposite of MacLaine. He was a large bear of a man with a deep voice and gruff manner to suit. One of the local constables once referred to them, thinking he was an out earshot, as a good duo for a comedy act. Maclaine grinned every time he remembered that.

  He voiced his initial observations.

  ‘There’s no evidence of robbery, either,’ Robyn added. ‘Appears the victim may have known her assailant and let them in, unaware of any threat.’

  ‘And yet she phoned Miss Ashworth to say she feared there was an intruder in the house,’ MacLaine reminded her. ‘The facts are at loggerheads with one another.’

  Robyn nodded, removing her gloves. ‘I’m finished here. I’ll get the body to the mortuary for the coroner’s post mortem.’

  ‘Estimates?’

  ‘Time of death around 12.30. Caused by a single bullet wound to the head. Ballistics will confirm the type of gun used, but I’d say you’re looking for a .22 pistol.’

  Anne Wright entered the room. ‘There’s a .22 pistol in the bedroom cabinet upstairs,’ she advised, ‘and it’s still warm. Marcus Bellwood alerted us to its existence. It belonged to his aunt.’

  ‘Not what I wanted to hear,’ said MacLaine.

  • • •

  The following morning his fear was confirmed: a search for the murder weapon wasn’t going to lead to the killer.

  The bullet that ended Georgina Bellwood’s life had come from her own pistol. Robyn reported the only fresh fingerprints found at the house were those of the two people who lived there: Georgina and her nephew, Marcus.

  That suggested the killer, wearing gloves, had shot Georgina with her own firearm, and then placed it back in its cabinet.

  MacLaine pictured the portrait of Georgina he’d seen the night before on the wall of the central hallway. A woman in her late 50’s with strong features, still attractive, dark hair drawn up in a chignon, eyes that showed an innate strength of character. A woman in her prime with so much more to give her family, her business and the community.

  MacLaine hated murderers with a passion. They were the most selfish, callous and cowardly of all criminals. He felt a quickening of his pulse, an inner fire he knew well. He was determined to bring this killer to justice.

  He was certain the murderer knew the gun was in the house; knew where to find it; and knew Georgina would be in the house on her own. Find out who knew those three things–add motive – and he expected he’d close in swiftly on his target.

  • • •

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Ashworth,’ MacLaine said, guiding the young woman to the interview room at the police station. He sat opposite her, bleary eyed from lack of sleep. The pain in the temple was back.

  ‘No problem at all. I want to help any way I can.’

  ‘You were in bed and still awake when Mrs Bellwood phoned,’ he said, scanning the statement she’d given the night before.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Something about that call is bothering me.’ MacLaine stroked his close-cropped, steel grey beard. ‘Why would Mrs Bellwood phone you, instead of her nephew or her niece, Cathy? Or the police emergency line, for that matter?’

  Jillian shrugged. ‘I wondered that myself, but I really don’t know. Of course, it would’ve been difficult for her to contact Marcus quickly at the Sports Club. His band plays there Friday nights and he could’ve been anywhere on stage or anywhere on the premises. Georgina’s niece shares an apartment with friends over at Pokolbin. They didn’t get on, so Georgina may have felt better about phoning me. But I really don’t k now why she didn’t call the police station directly.’

  ‘How long had you known her?’

  ‘Since I started dating Marcus. Eighteen months.’

  ‘We have very little to go on, Miss Ashworth, so any help you could give us, even the most seemingly insignificant detail, could be vital. Do you know of anyone who held a grudge against Mrs Bellwood?’

  ‘No-one. She was a popular woman. Looked after her staff at the vineyard. Lots of friends, no enemies.’

  ‘You’re aware, of course, that Marcus and his sister now stand to inherit the entire family estate?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, but neither had any reason to want their aunt out of the way. Both had large living allowances. And they wouldn’t commit such an act under any circumstances, anyway.’

  Jillian had come to the station with her fiancé. Now she waited outside the interview room while Marcus went in to speak to the detective inspector.

  MacLaine had done his homework on the Bellwoods. Georgina’s husband, William, was one of two brothers who were the third generation to own and operate the family vineyard. William, his brother Tom and Tom’s wife, Barbara, had been killed in a car accident ten years earlier. Tom’s children, Marcus and Cathy, had gone to live with their widowed aunt, Georgina.

  Marcus had boyish good looks and oozed more charm than MacLaine thought natural. He was a supremely self-assured young man, lounging languidly in a black polo-necked skivvy and brown suede jacket. ‘I want all the stops pulled out to find Aunt Georgie’s killer,’ he said with an arrogance belying his 22 years. ‘Have you any leads, Inspector?’

  ‘Not at this time,’ MacLaine replied, suppressing his contempt for the young man’s attitude. ‘But you may be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘You have my statement.’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like to ask you now about the pistol your aunt kep
t. Do you know why she had it?’

  ‘Why?’ Marcus stared back at the detective as though he’s just asked the most stupid question imaginable

  Marcus didn’t consider the question for very long. ‘She was a wealthy, well-known woman and she was often on her own in that big house. She had a fear of intruders, that’s why.’

  ‘Did your sister know of the pistol?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Anyone else?”

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘No-one I can think of.’

  ‘What about your fiancé?’

  ‘I suppose she would’ve been aware of it. What’s this all about? You don’t suspect Jillian?’

  ‘Ruling out as many suspects as possible is the first step in getting an investigation underway, Mr. Bellwood.’

  ‘Well, you can rule out Jillian. Waste of time. Why would she want Aunt Georgie dead?’

  ‘They were close?’

  ‘No, not close. They didn’t see that much of each other. I spend a lot of my time over at Jillian’s place.’

  ‘And yet your aunt phoned Miss Ashworth the moment she feared she was in danger. How do you explain that?’

  A shadow fell across Marcus Bellwood’s eyes. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he said, becoming agitated. ‘That’s your job, Inspector, and running off on wild goose chases like this isn’t going to help.’

  This asshole’s a piece of work. ‘Let’s stay calm,’ MacLaine said quietly. ‘These are just simple, routine questions, a part of procedure, please remember that. Now what about your sister, Cathy? She doesn’t live at Bellwood Villa?’

  ‘It’s no secret that my sister and my aunt didn’t get along. Aunt Georgie had very high moral standards and my sister…well, she’s 18, rebellious, runs with a rough crowd. That doesn’t make her a murderer. Fact is, behind that aggro she’s really a gentle soul.’