Anwyn’s arm was still around the younger woman’s shoulders. ‘Yes, of course. And once you’ve written it all down, it will be like a crushing weight has been lifted from your shoulders.’
Philomela nodded, and Carolus wagged his tail hopefully. He was still in Philomela’s lap and wasn’t going anywhere. Philomela pulled the laptop towards her, tapped a little more, frowned, and shook her head in frustration. Finally she typed:
ASK ME.
Professor Monk waved me over to the table and I sat down next to Philomela. The computer was open in front of us. I pressed the caps lock button and the little green light faded. Then I stared at the screen. It was very hard to think up appropriately precise questions. It would have been so much easier if she had been able to type it all herself, but the trauma had gone deeper than the merely physical.
I began: ‘So this happened at home? Were you in the house, or outside?’
Outside.
‘And you were there with your sister when it happened?’
Yes.
‘Did you see them?’
Yes.
‘How many of them were there?’
???
‘More than one?’
???
‘So you didn’t really see them?’
No.
I had a long think about this. Clearly I wasn’t asking the right questions yet. I looked at Dion Monk and the others, but they merely shrugged. I presume the idea was that it would be better with only one person asking. What was I missing? She’d seen them, only not really.
‘Did they shoot her?’
No.
‘Was it a knife?’
No.
‘Did they kill her from far away?’
No.
‘Up close then?’
Yes.
‘But you didn’t see them properly? Were you out the front of your house, or out the back?’
Front.
What could have happened? I risked a quick look at her. She was very pale, and her thin lips were trembling. Perspiration beaded on her face. ‘Do you want to stop now?’
No.
No, she really didn’t. Her deep brown eyes shone with absolute determination to see this through. So. We needed a murder weapon that killed up close, yet didn’t let you see the assailants properly. What could do that? Then illumination dawned.
‘Was it a car?’
Yes!!!
At last. Now it would be easier. ‘Were you in the driveway?’
Yes.
‘Do you have a garage that locks with a sliding door?’
Yes.
‘And they rammed into you both against the garage door?’
Yes.
‘And your sister died immediately?’
Yes.
I was expecting tears, but her delicate oval face had now set in a frozen mask. ‘And you were badly hurt. Was anyone else home?’
Yes.
‘Did they see the car?’
Drove away.
‘Is there any chance you could describe it?’
Yes.
‘A big car?’
Yes.
‘What colour?’
Black.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Professor Monk was writing busily. I was glad he was taking notes. We would need them for Letty White. While I was not abdicating my rights to independent action, we would have to let her know about this.
‘A big, black car. Tinted windows?’
Yes.
‘Have you seen it before?’
Yes.
‘Is it local? You’ve seen it parked in your neighbourhood?’
Yes.
‘An SUV?’
Yes.
‘Do you know the people whose car it is?’
No.
‘You think this was a case of mistaken identity?’
Yes.
It seemed only too likely. Gangsters being in most respects utter morons, their victims are frequently innocent bystanders. ‘They may have dumped the car by now. Then again, they may not have. Would you know it again?’
Yes.
I wondered how to proceed now. I didn’t want to have to take Philomela with us, but we had to be certain of the address if we were going to stake them out. I now suspected that Philomela’s assailants were mixed up in at least one of our mysteries. Maybe more? It was too early to tell; but perhaps our cases might not be as separate as they seemed. We needed to go and see for ourselves, preferably without taking a traumatised and wheelchair-bound victim to revisit the scene of her sister’s death. I wasn’t sure of myself, but I now suspected that her sister’s killers and the dognappers might be the same people. Or maybe the ninja burglars instead. Why? I didn’t have anything concrete yet. But my best guess was that they were also the dognappers. Maybe it was all about drugs and they thought Geordie could smell them out. Philomela and her sister were the victims of mistaken identity. Melbourne’s criminal classes had developed a cavalier disregard for innocent bystanders in recent years. But there was more here than coincidence. There had to be.
‘Can you write down your address?’
A vestige of a smile touched the corners of her lips. She reached into a small handbag then handed me her driver’s licence. From this I learnt that Philomela Venizelos lived at 34 Anzac Drive, Kilmarnock. I hadn’t even considered the idea that she might have a driver’s licence. I handed it to Dion Monk, who wrote down the address and handed it back to her.
‘Would you prefer not to go there? Because, thanks to you, we’ve got a lead now.’
Not yet.
‘You can stay here for a while. You’re not going anywhere if you don’t want to.’
Thank you.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’
Yes.
‘About who it might be? Do you think they might be gangsters?’
Yes.
‘You say you’ve seen the car. Was it outside a big house?’
Yes.
‘Did it look fortified? Like a motorbike gang clubhouse?’ I was thinking of some TV footage I had seen, with iron gates, barbed wire and sentry towers during a police raid on one notorious gang. I had been struck at the time how much the fortress looked like a prison, which, in essentials, it was.
No. Normal big house. Rich people.
I paused. This was the biggie, and I really didn’t want to ask it. But I had to. Even though Letty White would be asking it herself in due course, anyway, she wouldn’t necessarily let me know the answer. ‘All right, Philomela, I know you said you think this was a case of mistaken identity, but are you sure? While you and your sister mightn’t have done anything wrong, it’s possible someone else in your house has got mixed up in bad company.’
She shook her head, frowned, and began to type again. She had several tries at it, but eventually came up with the following:
No. Mum housewife. Dad teaches school. Brother George is good boy. Works hard at school. No trouble ever.
I mused. Mistaken identity it was, then. ‘Philomela, is there another house that looks like yours where criminals might live?’
Yes. Four, five houses away. Other side of road. Bad people go there late at night. We stay away from them.
‘Have you heard them speaking?
Yes. Only once.
‘Was it a language you knew?’
No.
‘Did it sound like Russian?’
No. More like Turkish, but not.
I had no means of knowing what her guess was worth. I must find out about Azeri and what it sounded like. But … I remembered that the dognappers couldn’t be Muslims. Did we have two rival gangs of different ethnicities? It looked like it.