Priors: Every Crime Is Reflected In Prior Events

By Stuart Jackson

The poppy.

Opium. Morphine. Heroin.

The Sumerians â thousands of years before the birth of Christ â knew of the powers of the wild poppy plant. Today 40% of the world's production is grown in Tasmania.

The Poppy fields of this island state are the most secure in the world. Or are they?

David Barron of the Federal Police is sent to check security and uncovers a seemingly simple plan to steal from the protected fields. Soon the simple plan becomes complex â murders, suicides, bribery â and a trail that leads into the ranks of the Federal Police itself.

James Christie â captured by the police at the scene of a brutal killing â holds the key to ensuring that Barron can bring the case to a speedy conclusion. But Christie is whisked away in a daring gun battle outside Melbourne.

Barron must work feverishly if he is to stop his work coming unravelled.

First he has to find Christie, and a mysterious woman is going to make it difficult for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456620233

Book preview

believed.

THE INCIDENT – Part 1

Day 1 - Melbourne

Barron fought to control his breathing.

The door in front of him was closed, daring him to enter.

He strained to gauge the sound of running feet behind him, getting closer.

Wait for ...

Almost to him. Time it right, he thought,

Sharp cracks of splintering wood as he slammed his foot against the door and it crashed open.

... the Commander ...

But Wallace’s voice was drowned out in the ensuing noise, as he followed Barron into the room, eyes darting to and fro. Barron yelled Clear! and said something else, but Wallace never heard it. He saw what was on the floor and turned and starting throwing up.

Detective Inspector David Barron surveyed the scene himself. He was a big man, looking even bigger in the gear that he wore. A dark blue cloth cap, pulled down tight on his head, a black flak jacket over a black sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, the legs tucked into bulky black socks, black heavy boots.

He was the best part of two metres tall - sandy coloured hair which showed signs of thinning and which he brushed forward as a defence to thinking about it as a problem. He would never call himself vain, but he was conscious of how he looked. Piercing blue eyes that still caught the attention of women and a clean-shaven face, olive complexion. He didn’t carry any excess weight and, although he didn’t feel it, to many he looked fit. Now he was sweating, and a bead of perspiration ran down his left temple. He wiped at it, somewhat annoyed, feeling the cool metal of his revolver touch his skin as he did so.

He reached out with his foot and touched the side of the body at his feet. He was naked, half curled in a ball, one arm covering his face. Barron put pressure on his body with the toe of his boot, knowing that it made no difference, that the naked man was dead. The action helped him keep his control - and helped him avoid throwing up, like Wallace.

The naked man’s other arm, his right arm, was outstretched and his hand rested on the thigh of the woman who was also naked.

The woman was dead.

No need to check - she was dead.

Her face was unrecognisable, a mass of bloody pulp and bone and hair, blown away by the force of the shot from the shotgun. Somehow a few teeth had managed to stay in what was left of her jaw. An ear hung by a thin shred of skin. Her neck was red with blood and her hair was soaking in a pool of it that surrounded her head.

Her body, below her navel, looked much the same, the result of what appeared to be another blast from the shotgun. The centre of the blast was her groin. Skin had been ripped from her thighs, and above the pubic area there was a bloody mixture of soft skin and internal organs.

It was obscene.

There was blood everywhere.

More Federal Policemen were in the room now, hovering, checking other rooms. Barron’s commander was standing in the doorway, his face ashen.

Barron thought Wallace had finished being sick and he called him over.

Coming, came the faint reply.

Barron heard him move up behind him, felt him at his right arm and turned to tell him to call the forensic group in and saw the white face. Wallace looked into Barron’s eyes and then down at the bodies on the floor of the apartment and moaned and threw up again, turning in time to avoid covering Barron with his vomit, dropping to his knees.

Barron allowed himself a grim smile. He had to admit that the scene was pretty terrible. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a body as badly mutilated as this. Or as fresh.

The blood was still flowing. On the floor, surrounding the woman’s body, it had that sluggish shimmer about it, a black-red colour that caught the highlights of the room’s lighting in the deeper pools. Anyone with Barron could tell that this had just happened. They had timed their arrival immaculately - or, if you looked at it a different way, it had been wrong side of slow. Five minutes earlier and none of this may have happened.

The noise of the others had softened. Maybe a full minute since he’d kicked the door in. Timing was everything.

The blood had run across the highly polished timber floor and soaked into the carpet on which the man half lay. The blood had gathered around his head.

On your feet! he yelled, half turning the naked man’s body with this boot and, to his surprise, the naked man stirred. His heart jumped and he looked around. No one had stopped.

He’d imagined it, he thought, looking at the body again. Shock. Did strange things with the mind.

Malone came to his side, and laid his hand on Barron’s gun arm.

You won’t need that, mate. Come on out, leave it to the squad.

Barry Malone was older than Barron, a man who had seen many things, and who had a vast wealth of stories - about everything. He was greying and he had put on weight and, shorter, next to Barron, he looked unfit. Barron was glad that Malone was part of the back-up squad; he would survey the scene and report with a seasoned mind. As a consequence it could be wrapped up quickly.

Barron made his gun safe, tucked it back into the holster.

Malone lowered his own gun, made it safe and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. Like Barron, Malone was dressed in jeans and boots, a long sleeved blue shirt and a black bulletproof vest. Pinned to the vest, over his heart, was the same identification that simply said AUSTRALIAN FEDERAL POLICE.

He gingerly stepped forward, as if he didn’t know where the blood was and didn’t want to stand in it.

Wallace moaned and tried to get to his feet. It was enough to bring Barron out of his reverie.

Take him out, Barry, before he covers the evidence.

The shotgun lay propped over the body of the naked man, its stock resting on the carpet, barrel pointed towards the window, its curtains drawn. There was blood on the shotgun as well.

Barron looked at the remains of the woman and felt the bile rise in his stomach. He fought it back.

Malone took Wallace’s arm and threw it over his own shoulder, half-supporting the young detective, walking slowly from the room, skirting the bodies on the floor, muttering comforting words as he walked, you’ll be okay, mate, just get a bit of fresh air. Throwing a smile at Barron, we all feel like this at one time or another, come on, get some fresh air.

Bring Green back with you, Barron said. And get Wallace to call for the wagon and the doctor. And get some front men in here. I don’t want nosy neighbours in here and I don’t want the media here either.

He caught the eye of the commander. He nodded.

Okay.

The naked man had not stirred again. Course not. Imagination.

Outside it was raining. Pouring down.

Barron remembered the noise they’d made as they came down the street and the noise of the breaking wood on the door as he’d kicked it open and stormed in, not waiting for them to park the cars or provide him with the proper back-up. He had had to get in. He normally hated being first because you never really knew what to expect, or what was waiting for you. Some drug crazed idiot with a gun, twitching at the noises, firing at the least noise, not caring what the hell they hit. Or some smart street kid with a knife, keen to prove to himself and his friends that he could cut a cop as easily as anyone else.

Or a shotgun. Worst of them.

All you saw was the black hole between you and the heavy, then the explosion and it was all over. Close confines of a room like this one. They couldn’t miss. Any bloody idiot could hit you. Couldn’t stop them.

Get your face blown away.

Like the woman.

They’d understand why he hadn’t waited.

Quiet room. He had a few minutes before Malone and Green came back. He looked around. There was some blood on the walls. Spray. Strands of hair stuck on the wall, the woman’s, blonde.

There were signs that there might have been a fight or something in the room. A chair was overturned and a vase had fallen off a table, smashing, sending flowers and water over a scattered pile of magazines. The ceiling was holed around the spot where there had once been an overhead light. The thought went through his mind - the shotgun had been used to kill the lights.

There were two items of underwear on the floor. Black lace bra and what appeared to be matching panties. Hers.

No other clothes. Why not? Why these?

He ran through the questions that would be asked.

Routine. It took his mind off the bloody body. He felt the bile rising again and turned away, sucking in air.

Nothing else out of the usual in this part of the room. Television, radio, three bookshelves crowded with paperbacks and another pile of magazines. On a small table there was an open bottle of scotch and next to it were two glasses, both empty.

Was the man drunk?

He heard footsteps coming from outside and he turned back to where the two bodies sprawled across the floor. For the first time he noticed the thin gold chain around the woman’s ankle and his immediate thought was the chance to use it for identification. His eyes flashed to her hands. No other jewellery, no rings or bracelets. And no chain around her neck. No earrings. Unusual? What would they make of that?

Christ! Green this time. And to Barron, Is he dead too?

Yes. He had imagined it. Got the camera?

Here.

You take them.

Green brought the camera up, checked the exposure and the settings on the flashgun. Then he proceeded to take the photographs, catching the scene of the crime, the victim and the perpetrator, from all possible angles. Green was thorough.

Behind him another officer was using a movie camera to record the scene.

Done?

Yeah.

And Barron stepped quickly to the side of the naked man.

Thought you said he was dead...

What?

Thought I saw him move.

Malone was back and he stepped forward pushing Barron and Green aside. He had pulled on plastic gloves and he felt for a pulse at the man’s neck.

He’s fucking alive! Get the medic in here, bloody smart!

The call for the medic transferred down the hallway and out of the house.

Barron knelt beside Green and lifted the weapon carefully off the man’s body. There were smeared finger marks on the wooden stock, tracing lines in blood. He rolled out a sheet of clear plastic and put the shotgun on it and then folded the plastic over it, covering it. He let Green deal with the body.

He gripped the side of the naked man and pulled, forcing the body backwards, rolling him over. One hand slid from the woman’s thigh. The fingers were covered in blood.

There was blood across the man’s chest and the upper part of his stomach. There was a long scratch down the inside of his left thigh; it was red and angry.

His right arm had rolled as the body had rolled and his arm still obscured his face. Green bent forward and took the arm away, uncovering the face.

Shit.

My God, Malone echoed.

The face was covered in blood. It had been lying in the pool that had formed on the floor, drained from the woman’s body. The face was obscene.

Christie! Green said. It’s Christie.

And as the three men stood over the naked man his eyes opened, clear and white circles in a crinkled blood soaked mask. Brown eyes. Eyes that saw them and saw nothing.

Eyes that then slowly closed.

James Christie, Malone echoed.

James Christie, Barron thought. What now?

Day 2 - Melbourne

This is not going to be easy.

Barron was standing in the office of his Chief Superintendent, Charles Lefroy. It was a spacious office, on the fifth floor of the office block. There wasn’t much of a view - other office blocks across the road that towered over them. Towards the docks, a sliver of green that was Flagstaff Gardens.

Why not? Lefroy asked.

Lefroy stood up as he asked the question and wandered slowly to the window. He was a thin man with a bush of deep black hair, and dark eyes set deep in their sockets. He wore a grey suit, neatly tailored to fit the contours of his body, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt with a red tie. The trousers had sharp creases above immaculately polished black leather shoes. He’d come into the AFP from outside, something to do with intelligence, and that was all most people knew. Barron was impressed by Lefroy’s easy mix of practicality and strategic view.

He doesn’t remember anything.

What? As in drunk?

No. As in amnesia.

You’re joking.

Wish I was.

Has the MO had a look at him?

Yes...

And?

Confirms the diagnosis.

Christ. And Christie remembers absolutely nothing?

Nothing.

What does the MO say exactly?

Thinks it’s likely to be temporary amnesia. You know, bought on by a traumatic event.

Like butchering this woman? What’s her name?

Amy Deacon. At least that’s what we’re working on. Formal identification is not going to be easy. We’re trying a fingerprint match, but if she hasn’t got a record then that’s pretty inconclusive. The chance of getting some ID from dental records is almost impossible. The forensic people are trying, but aren’t very hopeful. The shotgun made quite a mess and was probably aimed at making identification impossible.

Where does the name come from?

Christie was known to be ... to be in a relationship with a woman of that name. Christie owns the place. We’ve checked the place and there are other traces of her there. Evidence of her having lived there - women’s clothes, that sort of thing - but no sign of the woman herself. Green is double-checking with other residents in the block - using her photo. If it’s not her, then we could be in real trouble finding out the hell it is. No one knew it was Christie’s place.

Any other links with evidence at the murder scene?

Found items of women’s underwear in the murder room. Bra and panties. Same size of similar items found in the bedroom. Also some other items with the same labels. Forensic will do some checks to see if there’s any sort of match.

What about head hair?

Deceased was blonde. Matches knowledge of the Deacon woman and also some photos.

Photos?

She was a model. That’s as much as we know. There were some photos of her in an album we found at Christie’s place.

How do you know they’re photos of this Deacon woman?

There’s a few notations against a couple of them. You know the sort of thing - Amy at the beach, Amy in her new hat.

Anything else at Christie’s?

Nothing obvious. One of the lads is with Forensic there at the moment.

Lefroy was suddenly quiet. Barron sensed that he was worried. The Christie link made it very nasty. With all the potential to blow up in their faces.

This is a bloody mess, Lefroy said, as if reading Barron’s mind.

Couldn’t agree with you more, Barron said.

Where’s Christie now? Lefroy asked.

He’s downstairs with the MO.

And the MO is quite firm about this amnesia thing?

As clear as he can be. I’d suggest...

What?

I’d suggest we transfer Christie out of here as soon as possible. As few people here know about this the better.

Agree. Who does know?

Only the investigating team. And two members of Forensic. I’d like to keep it that way.

Good idea. Where are you going to take him?

Mornington.

You think so?

There was a facility on the Mornington Peninsula that the AFP used - and sometimes shared with other agencies. Like Special Branch and ASIO. Barron had given the matter a fair amount of thought and he could offer no better alternatives. He knew also that Lefroy operated best with his officers when they were giving him suggestions. Showed they were thinking and not just relying on Lefroy to come up with all the answers. This thing was likely to get messy in the future and if Lefroy and he worked together on it, it would make the process cleaner. Easier.

It’s not ideal, but it gets Christie out of here and out of the city, Barron replied. We can keep the place secure. And secure not only to keep people out, but also to keep Christie in. I’d need a couple of men.

No problem, and Lefroy allowed himself a short laugh. Well, it is a bloody problem. Finding extra staff out of a declining budget is always difficult, but this is bloody serious. Let Admin know I’ve said it’s okay.

Barron knew Lefroy to only use mild expletives - if he used them at all. He saw that as a good trait in a superior. It set a good example.

Good. The MO’ll go out with him. He can undertake a more thorough examination and let us know how we stand.

Lefroy smiled to himself. If he had to choose any of his officers to handle this case it would have been Barron. He was competent, knowledgeable and engendered a great team spirit amongst the people he worked with. They trusted him and, in the process, supported him solidly. He also had a good network and if there were operations that involved liaison with Customs or the State Police or even the intelligence people, there was no friction, no demarcations, no petty squabbling for the points that went with making the final bust. Barron had a good track record and he’d handle this well.

He thinks a murder could have brought on this amnesia? Lefroy asked again. This was a complication they could well do without. He watched Barron as he answered.

Barron looked worried. Yes. But he’d like more time on it.

Does he know whether it’ll go away? When it’ll go away?

No. Too soon to tell.

Lefroy assessed the look on Barron’s face. What is it? he asked.

Barron ran his hand across his face and kneaded his tired eyes with his fingers. Then he looked straight into Lefroy’s face.

Well? Lefroy asked.

"We’ve got Christie cold on this one. Caught at the scene of the crime.

So?

There’s no obvious motive. There’s...

"Hey, look. That we have a murder as gory as this one is bad enough. That Christie is involved is unbelievable. But as you quite rightly say, he was caught at the scene of the crime. All you have to do is bring together the evidence that we need. Just wrap it up thoroughly and wrap it up quickly. It’s not our job to investigate murders, but in this case we make the exception. We don’t get outsiders involved in our business.

I want you to take charge of this. Keep it contained. I do not want the media involved. Not even a whiff of it. Understand?

Yes.

And I don’t want to be fielding the Victorian Police because they’ve found out about it.

That may be easier said than done.

Try. Make sure your team understands all of this. I’ll talk with Forensic.

Lefroy turned his back on Barron and looked out the window. Without turning he said, You keep me informed on a regular basis. Me and only me. I’ll talk with the boss and let him know what’s happening.

Barron nodded. Lefroy turned back to face him.

Make sure this is done by the book. No loose ends. The boss’ll go through it very thoroughly. You know what he’s like. Barron nodded. If it’s done properly we can complete the investigation, make the submissions and convince the Internal team - and then close the file.

Barron was thinking ahead. This was an unusual case and he knew that Lefroy was taking a chance that it could all be resolved by having the boss create an Internal Investigation Enquiry. There was, he realised, a pretty good chance of that happening. The alternative - resolution in a much more public arena, could be very damaging to the Force. With absolutely nothing to gain by it. He hoped Lefroy could swing it. It would be simpler all round.

Okay.

Thanks, David. I know I can count on you. Coffee?

Thanks. Barron suddenly realised how hungry he was. He’d been at the crime scene all night, making sure that nothing was missed and he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. Barron followed his superior into the small room off Lefroy’s office that held an urn, a fridge, and other basics. He watched as Lefroy spooned coffee into the empty cups and then added the water.

There’s milk in the fridge. Sugar’s there.

Barron put more sugar in the coffee than he needed and walked back into Lefroy’s office.

What’s first? Lefroy asked, sipping at the hot drink and looking at Barron over the rim of the cup.

A number of things. We’ll follow up on the Deacon woman. Establish positive ID. We’ll have to rely on Forensic, but we should be able to supplement their evidence with some empirical stuff. Confirm the link with Christie. Do the best we can at re-creating their time together over the past six months or so. I don’t think Christie knew her for long. That shouldn’t be difficult. Christie also has a sister and I think they were pretty close.

Avoid that if you can.

I will. He took a drink and appreciated the feel of the hot liquid as it went down his throat. He decided he’d go and have a big breakfast when he left here. And because there’s a link - albeit distant now - with Doyle, I’ll go and see Doyle’s wife again.

Doyle? That could be tricky.

Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll work it out.

Does she still not accept that he committed suicide?

I don’t know. I know I should have gone and seen her, but I haven’t, for a long while. Maybe she’s had some time to think it over. After all ...

I know. Go carefully, that’s all, Lefroy offered.

I will. Another drink. My guess is that Christie and the woman had some falling out. I don’t think its complex.

And the sexual thing?

What do you mean?

Well you said he mutilated the Deacon woman. Blasted her groin away. That’s not normal.

I know Christie - obviously - but I don’t know him that well. Maybe the woman was playing around and it was Christie’s way of making a point. You know as well as I do that all sorts of things can throw people over the edge. Can make ordinary people into barbarians. And this wouldn’t be the first woman to drive a man to murder. Even her own.

True.

And while this is going on, hopefully the MO can make some progress with Christie.

That could be a deciding factor.

In what way?

It’s hard to know which way the Internal could jump. They may think there’s not enough of a case if Christie still can’t remember at the time we go to court. They may want his confession to make it a watertight case.

That may not be possible.

I know. That’s why the other evidence has to be perfect. The priors, Dave, the priors. Important in every case, but if this amnesia thing lingers on, they’ll be even more invaluable.

Okay. Barron downed the last of the coffee. I’ll keep you posted, he said.

Thanks.

Lefroy walked over to his desk and Barron knew that their meeting was over. He headed for the door.

Oh, Dave.

Yes?

Get some sleep. You look terrible.

Barron nodded and left. He went into the toilets and filled one of the sinks with cold water and then he pushed his face into it and held it there. He dried himself with a bunch of paper towels and raked his hands through his short hair. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven.

He reminded himself that he was hungry and he took the lift to the ground floor and left the building.

The rain had stopped, and the pavements and streets were drying, small pools of water here and there. There was still the hiss of tyres as the cars drove past. The people on the street were prepared for more rain and the skies promised more was to come. A light breeze shifted around him as he walked.

He’d ring Fay at work, apologise for missing their date last night and see if he could set up another. Not tonight. Maybe the night after.

How was this investigation going to pan out? How long was it going to take him? He turned off the pavement and into the shop.

G’day, Mr Barron. Nice day.

Morning, Nick.

Nick’s shop was empty save for Nick and the young girl he had behind the counter. She looked up and smiled at him and then went back to stacking the packs of cigarettes in the display cases. She knew that Nick would look after Barron, that Barron was one of Nick’s special clients, someone he liked to keep in good favour, provide the personal touch.

What’ll it be, Mr Barron?

How about a big plate of bacon and eggs?

No worries. And some sausages?

Sounds good.

You sit down and I’ll get it for you. A coffee?

Barron nodded.

Maria, get Mr Barron a coffee, hey?

There was a copy of the morning paper on the table and Barron looked at the front page. More economic woes, increasing balance of payments debt and falling retail sales. And increasing unemployment. No one was safe these days, he thought. Even public servants - once thought to have jobs for life - were being laid off. Down sizing was the current terminology, along with redundancy. But it still amounted to the same thing - the sack, dismissal. No job. And not much chance of picking up another.

And Lefroy had hinted at problems in the Australian Federal Police. Decreasing budgets. That meant less money allocated to them and with less money you couldn’t afford to keep employing and paying the same number of people. There was a story going around the office that they’d hired a private consulting firm to look at the AFP’s human resource budgeting. Another set of nice words to see how the people were being used. If the duties were relevant, if there were better ways of getting things done, if they could do the same jobs with less people.

Reggie had left a couple of months ago because he thought he could make it on his own. Gone to an easier job and only earning a little less than with the AFP. And they hadn’t replaced him. Let natural attrition solve their budget problems.

Coffee, Mr Barron, Maria said and laid the cup in front of him.

Thanks.

She’d been working for Nick for the last two years, an attractive girl with the large and dark Greek eyes, the olive skin and the flashing white smile. And breasts that filled out her uniform to perfection. If Barron remembered well, Nick’s last assistant had been similarly built. He smiled and watched her walk back behind the counter.

Increasing unemployment. It made it even more important that he make arrangements for his future. Maybe he could persuade Fay to move out of Melbourne with him. To the Gold Coast. It was warm there. No, maybe not Fay. He would sever all links with this place. Just leave and never come back. There’d be women in Queensland. He felt himself smiling and wondered what his problem was with Fay. Why would he think about severing the ties with her? Too serious?

There you go, Mr Barron, Nick said and laid the plate in front of him, placing a knife and fork next to it, wrapped in a paper serviette. Enjoy.

It looked good.

A lot of the boys talked about getting out. But to many it was just that - talk. Dreams they might never realise. He didn’t want to end up like that. He’d make it to the Gold Coast. He would.

He jabbed the fork into the egg and watched the thick yellow fluid flow out. He started to eat.

Day 3 - Melbourne

A full forty-eight hours had passed since they’d found Christie and the dead woman. In that time Barron had slept for ten hours; his usual was six. He generally went to bed late. He’d sometimes just sit in the lounge room by himself, no sound save for the traffic that ran outside, and read. Biographies mainly. Stories about people, real people, and the lives they had led. Written by themselves or by others. And he never ceased to marvel how different people could be, how their backgrounds or their parents impacted on their lives - how they made conscious career or life changes because of differing circumstances. Conquered them, reacted against them, went with them. But always went on. Rarely looked back with regret. Looking back was just memories - memories that you kept or ignored.

Or he’d sit and listen to his music. Five hundred records, ninety percent of which were classical, and a growing number of compact discs. There was still something about the tone that made it hard to throw any of the records out. He had five versions of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons - each different in their own way, but if he had to pick one it would be the one by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra. A link, he thought. Association, but then so much of life was. Don’t fiddle around. Violin. Zukerman and the Bach violin concertos. Association.

Who you associate with. Fay. Met her at the club one night. She’d gone with a friend, but he’d lost a lot of money and stormed out without her. She played alongside him for a while, turning fifty dollars into two hundred and enjoying herself, while he’d lost another three hundred. But he’d bought her a drink and one thing had led to another.

Or, on rare occasions, he would merely sit in front of the television and let it rule him. Effortless entertainment that numbed the mind. But, too often, he’d drink too much and he’d awake in the early morning, the television screen a glare of hissing light, cold wrapping around his shoulders, an empty glass at his feet.

In the day work was everything, all consuming, occupying.

And today he felt fresh, as he should. He hadn’t wanted to see Gloria Doyle yesterday, because he needed to be alert. Careful of what he said and alert to her comments, her mood, her reactions.

The Doyle’s house was in Burwood and he turned the car north off Toorak Road before it crossed Warrigal Road. It was a house that Barry and Gloria Doyle had lived in since they first bought it. Barry was prone to repeat the story to whoever would listen to it, about how a rich uncle of Gloria’s had returned from Africa and lived long enough to re-write his will and leave the pretty Gloria one thousand pounds. And with that money they’d bought the house