Lessons in Murder by Claire McNab

giving an exclusive interview. You’d be paid, of course.”
    “By whom?”
    Lynne radiated enthusiasm as she said, “Behind the News is the highest rated program in its time slot and Pierre Brand must be one of the most skilled interviewers—”
    Mrs. Farrell rose. “Definitely not. And please don’t tout this offer round to other staff members. It could do nothing but harm for Bellwhether to be associated with the kind of sensationalism that Pierre Brand peddles every night of the week.”
    Lynne left Mrs. Farrell a whiff of her expensive perfume and a feeling of outrage. That a member of her staff should stoop to soliciting for Pierre Brand was almost as disgraceful as any expectation that she, Mrs. Farrell, would deign to be interviewed for a program she had always regarded as unreliable, exaggerated and of very poor taste.

Chapter Six
     
    “Carol,” said the Police Commissioner, “I want you to spend this weekend concentrating on the Quade woman. Yes, I know you’re going to say you’ve got a lot of other work to clear up, but I’ll deal with that. The point is, Sybil Quade could be the key to the whole thing. Obviously she’s being less than frank about her relationships, both with her husband and with Sir Richard’s son. I want you to win her trust, and fast, Carol—that bastard Pierre Brand is after the story and Sir Richard’s getting restless, okay.”
    When Carol had rung with the offer of a day puttering around the harbor in a little cabin cruiser, Sybil’s immediate impulse had been to refuse, although she was tempted, not only by the chance to escape Terry’s suffocating presence and the telephone calls from curious acquaintances, but also by the thought of spending more time with Carol.
    “I have to ask you some further questions,” said Carol, “and I rather selfishly hoped you’d agree to come out on the harbor, especially as I haven’t had the time to use my boat for months. It would be an opportunity to combine some work with an amount of pleasure.”
    “It sounds great,” Sybil heard herself saying.
     
     
    So far there had been no questions. Carol had picked her up at seven and had driven her to her home. “My father built this house—he was an architect,” said Carol as Sybil looked around. Clinging to the steep slope, the calm waters of Middle Harbour reflecting through the wide windows, the gum trees pressing in from every side, the house was private, beautiful and filled with light and an atmosphere of serenity. They hardly spoke.
    Standing at the railing of the huge wooden deck looking out to water, sky, and bushland, Sybil felt herself relax, smile, stretch. “What a beautiful position,” she said.
    A kookaburra tried a preliminary chuckle, then launched into his full repertoire of raucous laughter. The air was still as wine; below them the water lay green in the early light, disturbed only by wind ripples and the oars of a rowing shell that looked rather like a beetle sculling on an elastic surface. Sybil turned back to the house, which rose in levels behind her up the hillside, its huge plate glass windows staring at the view. “You live alone?” she asked.
    Alone? thought Carol. Do you want to fill my lonely bed? Aloud, she said: “I have a fat, lazy cat for company at night and the birds in the morning.” She gestured at a gum tree whose top overhung the deck on which they stood. In patient rows sat several kookaburras and magpies. “They’ve become monsters,” she said, putting chopped meat on the railing at one end and stepping back beside Sybil. “After nesting they bring their babies along for a free feed too, so I have a constantly rising population to supply. See the smaller magpies more grey-brown than black and white? They’re the young ones. They travel in little packs and behave like delinquent children.”
    Watching the birds swoop to snatch the meat, Sybil said, “Do you ever get lonely?” She turned her head to find Carol’s cool green