The House on Hill Street (2 page)

Despite the recent discovery of new evidence, which had allowed the detectives further interrogation of the prisoner, no fresh progress had been made. For two days now, in the interview room assigned them at Risdon Prison, they had taken turns at the Olivetti, painstakingly typing up – in triplicate as required – a further record of interview with Bradley John Jameson, but they remained at a stalemate. It was driving Curry to distraction. Christ alive, he thought, the case was cut and dried. The man was as mad as a hatter. He’d murdered his wife. The evidence was irrefutable. He’d been discovered at the scene of the crime surrounded by bloodied weapons all bearing his fingerprints, and the woman’s blood had been under his fingernails, for God’s sake! So why the hell didn’t he admit to the murder, as advised? Tell them the whole story and engage a lawyer who would obviously plead insanity? But Bradley John Jameson had refused a lawyer and insisted upon sticking to his own ridiculous form of response throughout the seemingly interminable interrogation process.

‘Where are the bones?’ Curry barked for what must surely have been the one hundredth time. ‘Did you bury them? Tell us where they are.’

The professor answered as methodically as he had on each previous occasion. ‘I don’t know, and I didn’t, and I can’t,’ he said. He even smiled an apology at Luke, who was seated nearby, tapping away at the Olivetti. The smile intimated he would be only too happy to help if he possibly could. Curry ached to hit him. But the bastard was mad. You didn’t belt the mad ones, much as you wanted to.

Curry had initially found the mad professor interesting. Following Jameson’s arrest, the interview they’d conducted at the police station had taken a fascinating turn.

‘Why’d you murder your wife?’ Curry had launched into the interrogation with his customary belligerence. Legs astride, fists planted on the table, he’d leaned forward threateningly.

‘I didn’t murder my wife.’

‘Oh, come on, you mad prick. We found you in a fucking bloodbath – she was splattered all over the kitchen. Why’d you do it?’

‘I didn’t. It was not my doing.’

‘Not your doing? Her head was in
your
fucking oven, her flesh was in
your
fucking blender, and her blood was under
your
fucking fingernails.’ Despite his aggression, Curry spoke methodically so that Luke could keep up on the typewriter, although Luke’s censored version was substantially reduced. ‘Stop mucking us around you crazy bastard. Why did you kill her?’

‘I didn’t kill her.’ Unlike many a hardened criminal before him, the professor had refused to be daunted by Curry’s bullying tactics. He’d remained unruffled and obdurate. ‘I am being wrongfully accused.’

Things could have gone on like that for some time, but Curry, realising his antagonism was making no impact, wisely passed the baton to Luke. They might as well try the ‘good cop’ approach.

Curry seated himself at the typewriter while Luke drew up another chair and sat opposite the prisoner, propping gently on his elbows, his body language conveying no menace.

‘Tell me, Professor Jameson …’ He spoke calmly and respectfully and, despite the bizarre circumstances, his suddenly seemed the true voice of reason. ‘If you’re being wrongfully accused, as you say you are, would you have any idea who might have killed your wife?’

The professor’s mild, grey eyes met his, and in them was a look of gratitude for the show of courtesy. ‘Oh yes, Sergeant. Yes, indeed I would.’

‘Ah.’ Luke didn’t turn to Curry but kept his full focus upon Jameson. ‘And who might that be?’

‘Bad Bradley.’ There was an
of course
implicit in the professor’s reply, as if Luke should have been able to come up with the answer himself. ‘It was Bad Bradley who did this terrible thing.’

‘Bad Bradley?’ Luke maintained focus, his eyes locked into Jameson’s.

‘Most certainly. Good Bradley would never commit such a crime. This is the work of Bad Bradley.’

‘I see.’ Finally allowing himself to break eye contact, Luke glanced over to his partner.

Curry nodded congratulations and resumed the reins. ‘So where did Bad Bradley bury the bones?’ he demanded.

‘I would have no idea,’ the professor replied coolly. ‘Bad Bradley would never tell Good Bradley such a thing. They rarely communicate.’

Realising congratulations had been a little premature, Curry signalled Luke to continue and returned his attention to the typewriter.

Luke paused long enough for the previous question and answer to be typed into the report. ‘Professor Jameson,’ he said, ‘do you know why Bad Bradley killed his wife?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant.’ The professor seemed sincere in his apology. ‘Bad Bradley chooses not to share his personal life with others.’

‘Ah. Right.’ Luke nodded slowly as if he quite understood, then, choosing his words with care, he continued, ‘I have a favour to ask, Professor. I wonder if it might be at all possible for you to put a question or two to Bad Bradley on our behalf.’

‘Oh, good heavens above no – I couldn’t do that.’ Jameson’s blanket dismissal was so peremptory that Luke, sensing his partner’s annoyance, dived in before Curry could explode.

‘May I ask why?’

‘You certainly may, Sergeant.’ The professor seemed to be rather enjoying his exchange with the polite young policeman. ‘I avoid Bad Bradley. I don’t like him one bit. Bad Bradley and Good Bradley have nothing at all in common.’

‘Why is that?’

An expression something akin to pity crept into the professor’s eyes, as though he suspected Luke might be slightly retarded. ‘Bad Bradley is evil,’ he said,
of course
once again implicit in his tone. ‘Surely you must have gathered that fact. Bad Bradley is in league with the devil.’

Having spelled out the problem, Jameson sat back in his chair, indicating the conversation was over. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Sergeant.’

The conversation was certainly not over as far as Curry was concerned. He stood, signalling another change in the interview. As Luke took over the typewriter, he launched into a further attack, this time choosing a different angle.

‘Listen, you smug prick, we know bloody well why you did it. Your mother-in-law’s been interviewed and she couldn’t wait to talk. We know the whole fucking story.’ Fists on the table, he leaned over Jameson and spat the words into his face. ‘Your wife was pissing off with the kids, wasn’t she? She shifted in with her mother a month ago and was planning to take the kids back to Queensland. So you asked her around for a chat, didn’t you? And then you fucking well killed her, right?’

Curry’s bullying tactics finally produced a reaction, although it was hardly the one he’d hoped for. Jameson displayed neither fear nor guilt that his motive was known to them. He just looked extremely annoyed.

The only sound was the clatter of typewriter keys as Luke recorded the shorthand version of Curry’s question.

‘Come on, you bastard, admit it,’ Curry growled. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?’

‘I have killed no-one,’ the professor said icily. ‘Good Bradley is innocent. He has no further comment to make.’

And that was it. The stalemate had been reached. Jameson had refused to budge and, unable to detain him any longer without charges, the detectives had been forced to conclude their interrogation. Bradley John Jameson had been charged with the murder of his wife and taken to Risdon Prison where he’d been examined independently by two psychiatrists. Their reports had immediately confirmed that the man was insane and that he suffered a dual personality disorder. The news had come as little surprise to the detectives.

Then, three days later, Eileen Jameson’s red Austen Kimberley was found abandoned on the outskirts of town. Upon examination, the boot was discovered to be heavily bloodstained. And tucked into one corner, neatly stripped of all meat, was a shinbone.

‘New evidence,’ Curry had triumphantly announced to Luke. ‘We can have another go at him. We’ll nail him to the wall this time.’

They’d visited the prison and resumed their interrogation with new vigour, but Jameson had remained intransigent, despite Curry’s bullying and Luke’s cajoling. The two continued to practise their ‘good cop, bad cop’ strategy, but no longer for purely tactical reasons. Each now firmly believed that his own particular approach would bring about the breakthrough.

‘We know you transported the bones in your wife’s car, you mad bastard, so tell us where you buried them.’

Curry refused to acknowledge Jameson’s ‘Good Bradley’ alter ego. He was convinced he could wear the man down, that eventually Jameson would snap and ‘Bad Bradley’ would be goaded into existence.

Luke continued to practise patience. He avoided confrontational questions and drew the man into conversation in the hope that ‘Good Bradley’ might inadvertently let drop some vital information, or even agree to help them with their enquiries.

There was a moment when he felt on the verge of discovery.

‘Tell me about Bad Bradley, Professor. You say he’s evil …’

‘Or insane, Sergeant – there’s always that possibility, isn’t there?’ Having weathered the inspector’s aggression, Jameson appeared in the mood for a pleasant chat with the respectful young sergeant. ‘Surely, for a man to do the things Bad Bradley has done he would have to be insane, wouldn’t he?’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose he would.’ Luke didn’t dare glance at Curry. Despite the clack of the Olivetti, the professor seemed to have forgotten that his aggressor was still in the room. Wondering whether this might be the moment of breakthrough, Luke nodded encouragingly. But no encouragement was necessary.

‘Evil and insanity can become so easily confused, can’t they,’ the professor blithely continued. ‘Perhaps it’s simply a matter of perception, or perhaps the interstice between the two is so minimal that people really can’t tell the difference.’

Luke remained silent. He didn’t dare move. The normally mild, grey eyes now gleamed with a steely and fierce intelligence. Surely Jameson was trying to tell him something, but what?

‘Sometimes they can’t see what’s staring them right in the face. But then that’s typical of human nature, isn’t it? People are blind to so much. It’s little wonder that occasionally they can’t recognise the infinitesimal difference between evil and insanity.’

The infinitesimal difference between evil and insanity, Luke wondered, or the infinitesimal difference between Bad Bradley and Good Bradley? Was that what Jameson was trying to tell him?

‘Who am I talking to?’ he asked. The steely eyes didn’t leave his, but they looked a query. ‘Am I talking to Bad Bradley?’

There was a moment’s pause. Then the professor leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and laughed, as if Luke had just come up with the most wonderful joke.

‘Oh dear me, Sergeant, how very fanciful of you. I was merely making an observation.’

No you weren’t
, Luke thought.
You were teasing me, you lunatic bastard, you were playing a bloody cat and mouse game.
He felt a surge of anger and for a moment, like Curry, he wished they could just belt the prick’s lights out. Then a thought occurred to him, a chilling thought. He studied the professor, who’d lost interest now and was gazing distractedly into the distance. It wasn’t possible, surely. It couldn’t be. He looked over to Curry, who met his glance with a comical roll of the eyeballs that said, ‘serves you right for trying to converse with a loony.’
He’ll howl me down,
Luke thought.
He’ll probably even laugh at the notion but, what the hell, I can’t keep it to myself.

‘What if there’s no Bad Bradley?’

Back at the station, over polystyrene cups of coffee, he brought up the subject.

‘Come again?’

‘What if there’s no Bad Bradley?’

Curry gazed at him blankly. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve lost me.’

‘What if the whole “Good Bradley versus Bad Bradley” scenario’s a set-up? What if there’s no split personality?’

‘What the fuck would it matter?’ Curry remained puzzled. ‘Of course he’s schizo, but even if he isn’t, who gives a shit? He murdered his wife, that’s all that counts.’

‘No, you’re missing my point. What if the man’s
sane
?’

There was a second or so of incredulous silence before Curry let out a hoot of laughter. ‘Jesus, Luke, give us a break. You reckon a sane bloke’d bone out his wife and flush her down the bog?’

It was the reaction Luke had expected, but he refused to be daunted. ‘That’s more or less what Jameson said.’

‘Eh?’

‘You were the one at the typewriter, don’t you remember? “For a man to do the things Bad Bradley has done he would have to be insane, wouldn’t he?” That’s what Jameson said.’

‘Well, he’s bloody right there, isn’t he? I mean what
sane
person would commit a murder as grotesque as that in the first place? And what
sane
person would hang around at the scene of the crime surrounded by murder weapons and bits of his wife?’

‘Perhaps a
sane
person who wants to be considered
in
sane,’ Luke replied dogmatically.

Curry dropped the scornful tone but remained dismissive. ‘No way, mate,’ he said. ‘I can’t buy that, not for one second. Besides, you’re forgetting – the shrinks said he’s schizo.’

‘Yes, but they couldn’t come up with Bad Bradley, could they?’

During his psychiatric examinations, Jameson had regularly referred to himself in the third person, just as he had with the police, but neither psychiatrist had been able to make direct contact with the alter ego known as ‘Bad Bradley’.

How typical of Luke, Curry thought, to over-analyse something that was basically simple. And now, like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t let it go. But you had to give him points for trying. He was a bloody good cop who cared about his job. You had to respect him for that.

‘I’ll grant you Jameson’s a smart bastard, Luke, but the truly whacko ones often are. I’ve come across criminally insane killers with massive IQs.’ Curry downed the dregs of his coffee before clinching the argument. ‘But I tell you what, even if Jameson
is
playing a game with us – and you might well be right – it doesn’t mean he’s sane. A crime like his isn’t the act of a sane person. It couldn’t be.’