‘It could be argued,’ said Challis carefully, as though he didn’t fully agree himself, ‘that you have a motive for murder.’
That roused them out of their sleepy disdain, Hugh Ebeling, Mia Ebeling, their lawyer, Marcus Delarue.
‘Inspector,’ drawled Delarue. ‘Watch your mouth.’
He wore a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, silvery blue tie and highly polished shoes. He was the kind of lawyer who always looks clean and precise, as though groomed by valets before every appointment. He was also bloodless-pale hair, pale skin. He wasn’t the kind of lawyer who sails in the Whitsundays and stands around a racetrack. But his eyes were lawyers’ eyes, sharp and focused.
‘You tell him, Marcus,’ Hugh Ebeling said.
They were in the developer’s Italianate house in Brighton, Ebeling choosing his home over his downtown Melbourne office for this meeting with Challis. Perhaps he’s afraid that tongues will wag, Challis thought. Perhaps he wants to impress or intimidate me. Fat chance: in Challis’s view, seafront Brighton was for drug lords seeking respectability and judges and business tycoons who were losing it. Their wives liked to shop. Their children, abandoned at exclusive boarding schools, rose to take their places.
‘Perhaps you could both start by telling me your movements on Wednesday afternoon and evening,’ Challis said.
He looked at them; he didn’t look at the lawyer. Hugh Ebeling wore casual trousers and a polo shirt, a tall, boyish-looking man with the confidence of a bullying prefect. He’d be a man for sailing and watching the horses run. Mia Ebeling was a leggy blonde, the blondness a little desiccated now that she was in her early forties. She wore tailored jeans, a scoop-necked shirt and an air of regal outrage, as though Challis had neglected to use the tradesmen’s entrance.
‘My clients were here in the city,’ Delarue said.
Challis ignored him. ‘Mr Ebeling?’
‘In my office. Arrived as usual at seven-thirty and left at six.’
‘Did you go straight home after work?’
‘No, I met a client for drinks at the Windsor.’
‘I’ll need to confirm that.’
There was a huge walnut coffee table on the vast Afghan rug between Challis and the others. Delarue plucked a sheet of paper from his briefcase and slid it across the table to Challis. ‘Names and phone numbers.’
Challis nodded his thanks and said, ‘Mrs Ebeling?’
Bored now, she said, ‘I was with my personal trainer all morning.’
Of course you were, thought Challis. He caught a gleam in Delarue’s eyes. The guy knows what I’m thinking, Challis thought, wanting to share a grin with him.
‘And then?’
She said, in a kind of fury, ‘I had lunch with a friend-’ here Delarue slid another name and phone number to Challis ‘-and we spent the afternoon in this very room, preparing for a charity auction on Saturday.’
Her husband leaned his gangly trunk forward, ropy tanned forearms on his knees. ‘And after that my wife took a taxi to my office and we had dinner at a restaurant in Flinders Lane.’
Challis nodded, jotting the details in his notebook.
The lawyer said precisely, ‘In other words, inspector, my clients were not down on the Mornington Peninsula at the time of the murder.’
Yeah, but they could have hired somebody, Challis wanted to say, knowing that Delarue wanted him to say it. He glanced at the husband and said, ‘Who tipped you off?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Inspector, please.’
‘You had a demolition permit for a house called Somerland in Penzance Beach, but-’
‘A perfectly valid permit!’
‘-but the National Trust, the local residents and Mrs-’
‘Morons,’ muttered Ebeling. ‘Anti-progress, the lot of them.’
‘Pathetic little people with pathetic little lives,’ said Mia.
Their lawyer was looking on in interest. Challis said, ‘These same pathetic little people were pursuing an emergency application for heritage protection from the State Government. You knew that. You knew you had to act fast. Apparently you were lucky to find a demolition firm that could do the job on short notice.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘You were tipped off by someone,’ Challis said. ‘You had a day at most in which to act.’
‘Bullshit,’ Ebeling said, glancing irritably at his lawyer.
‘The National Trust classified the house on Tuesday,’ Challis said, ‘and it was flattened in just a few minutes on Wednesday.’
Delarue said, ‘Let us be clear on this. Mr and Mrs Ebeling had a valid permit to demolish the existing structure?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there was no overriding order in place stopping them from doing that? No interim heritage amendment from the planning minister?’
‘No.’
‘Then my clients acted lawfully.’
The clients beamed at Challis. It chilled him a little, the shared emptiness. He decided to needle them. ‘They acted unethically,’ he said. ‘They don’t care about preserving the heritage of Penzance Beach, or forging good relations with the people who live there. They’re not even interested in replacing the house they demolished with a building that might sit harmoniously with the surroundings. All they want is to erect a monstrosity that stands as a monument to their egos.’
The outrage was almost comical. Ebeling’s jaw dropped and he said, ‘Marcus, do we have to listen to this?’ and his wife said, ‘Awful little man,’ spitting the words out.
There was tiny gleam of enjoyment in Delarue’s eyes, but he said, ‘You’re editorialising, Inspector. Tut tut.’
Challis shook his head. ‘The fact is, Mrs Wishart was an impediment to your clients in three ways. One, she was trying to stop the demolition from going ahead. Two, she knew the identity of the shire employee who was bribed by your clients-’
‘Bullshit,’ shouted Ebeling, his veneer slipping, a man who’d turn nasty when crossed.
‘-and three, as a kind of fallback position in case the existing house was demolished, she’d implemented delays to the planning process for the house your clients wish to erect on the site,’ continued Challis. He referred to his notes: ‘A five-bedroom house on three levels, with extensive decking and a reflection pool. Like I said, a monument.’
‘You want to think about your tone, you miserable little pen-pusher,’ said Mia Ebeling. ‘I intend to lodge an official complaint.’
‘That’s your prerogative,’ said Challis.
They all sat and looked at each other. Challis realised that the Ebelings and their lawyer didn’t think his accusation required an answer. He decided to keep pushing. ‘Owing to Mrs Wishart’s actions, you’re not allowed to start building until you meet with the objectors and settle your differences with them. You might find yourselves returning to the Development Assessments Committee for months, even years. You must have been very angry with her.’
‘Meddlesome bitch,’ said Mia Ebeling.
‘Mia, please,’ the lawyer said.
‘Well she was.’
Call him old fashioned, but Challis tended to believe that women were by nature warm, nurturing and conciliatory. If mean, vicious and sly, it was to cope in a mans world. But Mia Ebeling was probably mean, vicious and sly all on her own. ‘So, good riddance?’ he suggested.
‘My clients have solid alibis,’ said the lawyer hastily. ‘They are very distressed about the death of Mrs Wishart, but were not in any way involved and will vigorously challenge any further attempts to implicate them in this awful crime.’
‘Well put,’ said Challis.