their own.’
‘James Wearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he aware of this?’
‘Apparently. But there’s more, sir. I spoke to the family solicitor. Alex Wearing stood to inherit the bulk of the family estate but, with his death, that bequeath now goes to James Wearing. Along with what he would have inherited anyway, a small fortune according to the solicitor.’
Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose.
‘Puts a bit of a different slant on things, doesn’t it, sir.’
‘It does, Betts.’
‘Do you think these photographs and James Wearing’s story are a ploy to deflect our attention away from him?’
Fitzjohn sat and thought. ‘One could make that assumption, yes, but these were taken a couple of years ago and do suggest Louise Wearing was being stalked. No, Betts, I think James Wearing is telling the truth. It was obvious to me he was rattled by Gould’s story. But having said that, we mustn’t forget, he did have a strong motive to kill his brother.’
CHAPTER 15
James arrived at Tullamarine airport early the next morning, and after finding the piece of paper in his wallet with Patrick Spender's address on it, took a taxi to Prahran. Forty minutes later, he paid the driver and turned toward a narrow Victorian terrace house, its drawn curtains and peeling paint lending a feeling of abandonment to the place. The wooden gate squeaked as he pushed it open and made his way through the small neglected garden to the front door. He knocked and waited, aware of movement inside. Eventually, the door opened to reveal a slim middle-aged woman with grey, wavy hair and a large cardigan draped around her shoulders. Her face tense, she looked at James through narrowed eyes.
‘Mrs Spender?’
‘Yes, I’m Muriel Spender, can I help you?’
‘My name’s James Wearing. I’m from Sydney. I spoke to your husband on the telephone yesterday. Did he mention me to you?’
The expression on Muriel Spender's face looked to ease. ‘Yes. Come in, Dr Wearing.’ James stepped inside and followed Muriel Spender through the darkened, stuffy house, the only light coming from a room at the back into which they walked. A slight man in his mid-sixties stood at the kitchen sink looking out onto the blustery day. He ran his hand through his thick white hair and turned as they entered the room. James could see the strain in the man’s eyes, and the skin on his face, translucent against the light from the window behind.
‘Dr Spender.’ James Wearing.’
Patrick Spender extended his hand. ‘Dr Wearing. Thank you so much for coming. May I call you James?’
‘Yes, by all means.’
Patrick Spender gestured for James to sit down. James took off his overcoat and gave it to Muriel Spender, who disappeared from the room. He pulled out a kitchen chair while Patrick sat at the opposite side of the table. Muriel Spender came back into the room, filled the kettle with water, and placed it on the gas stove.
‘When I heard of Alex’s death it saddened me,' said Patrick. 'Your brother and I have been friends and colleagues for many years.’
‘I had no idea. Alex never mentioned you to me.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Well, I can’t say that surprises me. I liked Alex very much. He was a great friend, but I found him an unusual man. In all the years I knew him, he never spoke of his family or friends. I didn’t question it, but now, I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn't a way to ensure that those around him didn't become involved in what was happening to him.’
James frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I’m sorry, James. I should explain. Alex and I met in the early 1980s. I found him hitchhiking just outside Gosford. It was late... or perhaps I should say early, about one in the morning. I picked him up and drove him into Sydney. I didn’t see him again until we met, by chance, at a conference here in Melbourne. By that time,
‘James Wearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he aware of this?’
‘Apparently. But there’s more, sir. I spoke to the family solicitor. Alex Wearing stood to inherit the bulk of the family estate but, with his death, that bequeath now goes to James Wearing. Along with what he would have inherited anyway, a small fortune according to the solicitor.’
Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose.
‘Puts a bit of a different slant on things, doesn’t it, sir.’
‘It does, Betts.’
‘Do you think these photographs and James Wearing’s story are a ploy to deflect our attention away from him?’
Fitzjohn sat and thought. ‘One could make that assumption, yes, but these were taken a couple of years ago and do suggest Louise Wearing was being stalked. No, Betts, I think James Wearing is telling the truth. It was obvious to me he was rattled by Gould’s story. But having said that, we mustn’t forget, he did have a strong motive to kill his brother.’
CHAPTER 15
James arrived at Tullamarine airport early the next morning, and after finding the piece of paper in his wallet with Patrick Spender's address on it, took a taxi to Prahran. Forty minutes later, he paid the driver and turned toward a narrow Victorian terrace house, its drawn curtains and peeling paint lending a feeling of abandonment to the place. The wooden gate squeaked as he pushed it open and made his way through the small neglected garden to the front door. He knocked and waited, aware of movement inside. Eventually, the door opened to reveal a slim middle-aged woman with grey, wavy hair and a large cardigan draped around her shoulders. Her face tense, she looked at James through narrowed eyes.
‘Mrs Spender?’
‘Yes, I’m Muriel Spender, can I help you?’
‘My name’s James Wearing. I’m from Sydney. I spoke to your husband on the telephone yesterday. Did he mention me to you?’
The expression on Muriel Spender's face looked to ease. ‘Yes. Come in, Dr Wearing.’ James stepped inside and followed Muriel Spender through the darkened, stuffy house, the only light coming from a room at the back into which they walked. A slight man in his mid-sixties stood at the kitchen sink looking out onto the blustery day. He ran his hand through his thick white hair and turned as they entered the room. James could see the strain in the man’s eyes, and the skin on his face, translucent against the light from the window behind.
‘Dr Spender.’ James Wearing.’
Patrick Spender extended his hand. ‘Dr Wearing. Thank you so much for coming. May I call you James?’
‘Yes, by all means.’
Patrick Spender gestured for James to sit down. James took off his overcoat and gave it to Muriel Spender, who disappeared from the room. He pulled out a kitchen chair while Patrick sat at the opposite side of the table. Muriel Spender came back into the room, filled the kettle with water, and placed it on the gas stove.
‘When I heard of Alex’s death it saddened me,' said Patrick. 'Your brother and I have been friends and colleagues for many years.’
‘I had no idea. Alex never mentioned you to me.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Well, I can’t say that surprises me. I liked Alex very much. He was a great friend, but I found him an unusual man. In all the years I knew him, he never spoke of his family or friends. I didn’t question it, but now, I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn't a way to ensure that those around him didn't become involved in what was happening to him.’
James frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I’m sorry, James. I should explain. Alex and I met in the early 1980s. I found him hitchhiking just outside Gosford. It was late... or perhaps I should say early, about one in the morning. I picked him up and drove him into Sydney. I didn’t see him again until we met, by chance, at a conference here in Melbourne. By that time,
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