Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Read Free Book Online

He’d taken a fancy to Lavinia, who teased him. Lavinia was twenty-three, a woofer from Estonia, a pretty blonde with an earthy directness. She and three agonizingly polite Japanese bunked in the former farmhouse of the former neighbour, Margaret Blake, just behind the apple orchard.
    They found Lavinia carrying pails of feed for the cow and goats. She set them down, examined Nick critically. “You cute guy. How old you?”
    â€œAlmost fifteen.”
    That was varnish, he was born in July.
    She squeezed his biceps. “We make you bigger muscles. Come. After, we will fixing fence.”
    Nick grabbed the heavy pails. Clearly, he preferred her company to that of old gramps. Arthur was grateful to leave him in her charge while he dealt with the headache of Cudworth Brown, who was clogging Arthur’s answering machine. Brian Pomeroy was not returning calls, and no one, even his partners, seemed to know where he was.
    Arthur had been too rash in flipping Cud off to Pomeroy. He wasn’t Arthur’s first choice, involved as he was in the aftermath of a devastating divorce, but several of the best had been unavailable, and he didn’t dare deliver up Cud to an incompetent. Pomeroy had free time, and the case intrigued him. Arthur rationalized: there was nothing like a juicy murder to help a lawyer escape his marital troubles. He’d learned that during his own soul-destroying first marriage.
    Brian had seemed fine the last time Arthur phoned, a few weeks ago. “I’m on top of it, maestro. Looks like a duck shoot.”
    Arthur went into the house to shower, shave, and put on a suit, pausing to try Brian’s cell number again. This time he answered. “You have reached the Speech Defect Centre. Please garble your message after the tone.”
    â€œWhy are you being impossible to reach, Brian?”
    â€œI got into the worst shitstorm of my life last night. They just gave my Nokia back.” A tired voice, hoarse, as if from shouting.
    â€œDare I ask where you are?”
    â€œUnder RCMP escort. I’m just out of the tank. I’m waiting for court.”
    Finally, here was the proof Arthur hadn’t wanted to hear, proof that Brian wasn’t holding it together. “What’s the charge?”
    â€œCausing a disturbance. Caroline wouldn’t answer the door. I woke up the neighbours. Don’t tell my partners, I’ll deal with it. As to other matters of moment, yes, I did explore the matter of manslaughter with the loudmouth you foisted on me. If he hadn’t made a theatrical show of indignation by stalking from my office, he might have learned that Astrid Leich, former stage performer, honourary patron of several worthy charities, and current chair of the North Shore Arts Council, having been awakened by a noise, slipped out to her balcony in time to see the accused pitch Justice Whynet-Moir onto the rocks of doom.”
    â€œYou are not making this up?”
    â€œIf you chance upon Cuddles, tell him he might want to come back and grovel. Tell him I’m off the case if he acts up again. The only reason I’m taking this on is to show the world what a complete prick Whynet-Moir was. Got to go, my name is being called.”
    Arthur headed for the shower. This was another ticklish matter, Pomeroy’s antipathy to Judge Whynet-Moir. Overeager to offload the file, Arthur hadn’t borne in mind that Whynet-Moir had presided over the Pomeroy divorce. Pomeroy had run around afterwards calling curses down on the judge’s head, alleging he’d been making eyes at Caroline all through the trial, that she was flirting back.
    But despite last night’s bizarre lapse, despite a doubtless majestic hangover, the fellow seemed sufficiently on his game. Arthur truly wanted to believe that.
    Astrid Leich…he’d seen her a few times on stage. A touch overexpressive, some ham in her. There had been nothing in thepress about her role as witness.