The Naked Room

by Diana Hockley

  I am not an unattractive man—I’ve had many women, some of whom appeared determined to make me happy and whom I might have made happy, but not for me the glitzy socialite, the trophy wife or the precious academic. A practical businesswoman may well suit, but at forty-nine years of age, I can’t seem make up my mind what I want. The thought is unwelcome.

  I once desired Ally Carpenter, warmed myself in the glow of her charm and admired her unusual beauty, even allowing the thought to creep into my heart that many older, rich men make successful marriages with younger women. Therefore why not try my hand at winning her?

  Fortunately, not wanting to turn a good friendship into something more, I backed away from the attraction. Although I couldn’t possibly have known her relationship to me at the time, I squirm with shame at the memory of lusting, briefly, after my own child—

  The insistent ringing of the telephone jolts me into the present.

  I glance at the clock and realise I’ve been dozing for hours. A prickle of fear trickles through me. Late night calls are always the harbinger of bad news. The room is suffocatingly warm. Tears course down my cheeks. I dash them away with the back of my hand, as I stumble to the desk, turn on the table lamp and pick up the receiver.

  ‘James–’

  A muffled voice interrupts, but the meaning is clear.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully. We have your daughter, Ally Carpenter. I’ve got plenty of places to dump her body if you tell the cops. I’m warning you, do that and she’ll die. A pre-paid mobile phone will be delivered to you tomorrow night, along with another packet. Wait for instructions. You have forty-eight hours to find and pay the first instalment of three million dollars.’

  My voice seems to come from far away, shocking me by its calm, automatic response.

  ‘Australian or American?’

  CHAPTER 10

  It’s Blood

  Ally

  Monday: early morning.

  I feel so sick. I had no water last night, only coffee, but I couldn’t taste anything strange. Time is meaningless, only broken up into morning and night when they come, and then it feels like an invasion of my privacy. I’ve been forced to make this room my own. After being trapped here, it has become my refuge. Even if an opportunity occurs and I get away, how long will be before they catch me? Where would I run? I’d be fresh kill to Scarpia’s leopard. But I must try.

  I’m so cold. I want to pee, but the effort to get to the loo…got to get there before they come in. I feel squashed. My arm hurts. What—there’s a big bruise on the inside of my elbow with a large puncture mark. What have they done? Is that how they drugged me? No, I’d know about it.

  I swing my legs awkwardly around to the floor. Uh, large, blackish-red spots on the floorboards. Blood? Has my nose bled again? It’s so bunged up, I can’t smell the dried blood on my top and skirt. Fear rises in my throat. I grope around the stretcher for my glasses, put them on to touch a splotch and hold my finger right against my nostril. Yes, it’s blood.

  I place my spectacles carefully against the wall, then sweep my hair back and start to plait it. My hands tremble, but I’m managing. Long strands fall and cling to the front of my clothes. A tug here and there and hanks come loose. A chunk of my hair has been cut just under the base of my skull.

  Now I understand why my arm is sore. A man—my father, whom I do not know—will get a hank of my bloodied hair and a demand for three million dollars.

  Terrific. He will be pleased.

  I want to rip their throats out. How dare they keep me shut up in here? How dare they ruin my career and threaten me?

  They’re coming up the stairs outside. I flatten myself against the wall next to the door, ready to attack and run. As it swings open, Scarpia stops in the entrance, just out of sight. I can’t get behind him.

  ‘Fucking hell—’ He lunges forward. I shove him, using every bit of my remaining strength, but it’s like trying to move a telephone pole. He whirls around and grabs me by the hair, almost wrenching it out of my head and then throws me onto the floor. The hard ridges of someone’s feet break my fall, biting into my back. My breath rasps as I try to suck air and roll to face them, but I am still anchored by my hair.

  A shadow looms over me. The Cow swings her arm back to strike me.

  The man stops her.

  His boot swings toward me…my head explodes. I wrench my hair away from his grasp and curl myself into a ball, trying to protect my face as kicks land indiscriminately. I don’t how long it is before I find myself alone again. Blackness envelops me. I can’t open my eyes. My face stings and there’s blood in my mouth. It hurts to breathe and my head is aching so badly I can’t think straight. I put my hand to my face. My lungs wheeze in the silence, every breath a painful though hazy reminder of the assault.

  Then it all comes back to me. I attacked him, he kept kicking me and she pulled him off. My hands. They’re okay, I think. I can feel my fingers, he didn’t cut them.

  Now I can see light, just a little out of my left eye.

  I’m so thirsty. I crawl to the wall and try to stand up.

  The stretcher. Get to it.

  It takes forever to drag the blanket around my body and over my head.

  I can’t stop shaking.

  Pretend, Ally. You’ve got to pretend you’re not terrified. Retreat into a place where they can’t touch you, where the pain can’t follow—the past.

  My first piano was given to me by the postman’s wife on Masters Island. No one else wanted it and I loved it. Mum bought me some easy correspondence lessons for my sixth birthday. Pretty soon it wasn’t enough, and she had to find someone to give me proper tuition.

  My time with my teacher, Mrs Minowski, feels as though it happened only yesterday. The first piece I played for her was Brahms Lullaby. ‘Ally Carpenter, you will take this slowly now. Brahms did not intend it should be galloped through. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Minowski,’ I hear myself chant.

  Mrs Minowski is Polish, a dumpy, bespectacled little old woman, much given to wearing an assortment of bright clothes which smelt strongly of camphor. She sported an armful of bangles, which sent us into fits of giggles as they clattered on the ivory keys of the piano.

  An old-fashioned fox fur lived around her shoulders, it’s pathetic little feet clasped together with a hook made out of its own toenails. Beady little eyes glared watchfully out of its broad face, ears flattened to its skull. When I thought no-one was watching, I would touch the wet-looking nose and apologise for the animal’s indignity, repulsed by the barbarity of its artificial existence.

  Mrs Minowski’s music room was cluttered with sheet music, text books and half-finished glasses of water which, rumour had it, held gin.

  I soon learned if I made mistakes, it would prolong my lesson and save me from the school thugs who circled like piranhas in the playground, lying in wait for the four-eyed island parrot. My teacher was not fooled for long. ‘What is this, child? I know you are a pianist far advanced for your years. Today you are playing as a two-year old!’

  She twirled the piano stool around so I was facing her. For a long moment we eyeballed each other, before she glanced out of the window, nodded as though satisfied of something important and spun me back again to face the keyboard. ‘We will finish your lesson, and then you will play a duet with my next pupil, who you know well. Then we go together across to the classroom! This is the way it shall be from now on.’ Her lips folded in a determined line. Thank you thank you thank you, God.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Minowski!’ I sighed with relief, safe for the foreseeable future. A knock came at the door and my best friend, Pam entered, flushed and panting.

  ‘Aha! Pamela! You are on time. Good.’ She pushed me forward, beaming from ear to ear, teeth clacking as she chewed the menthol cough lozenges to which she was addicted. We fell to giggling and pushing each other. Mrs Minowski clapped her hands and admonished us to behave.

  Pam got her flute out of its case and M
rs M’s eyes glittered with excitement. She grabbed Pam by the sleeve of her uniform blouse and propelled her into position beside me at the keyboard.

  ‘Now, the Lullaby. One, two, three!’

  Brahms Lullaby filled the room; Mrs Minowski clasped her hands, tears welling.

  ‘My wee ones,’ she sobbed, ‘so beautiful. Never have I had two so talented children at once, never! You will be famous, I know it.’ I still send her my CDs when they come out and receive voluminous letters in return, which contain a great deal of advice, much of which I am grateful for.

  Pam and I were accepted into the Conservatorium of Music. Our mothers leased a three-bedroom flat for us which, unbeknownst to them, had been previously occupied by two call girls. The lavish décor, an African jungle motif, should have alerted us to something untoward, but we only discovered this from the neighbours after we had lived there for a couple of weeks.

  We needed another girl to help out with the rent, but despite advertising and asking around, it was about three weeks before tall, slim and self-contained Jessica Rallison, also from Townsville, stood on our doorstep. Her olive skin glowed; her long, black hair fell in a thick, glossy plait. She oozed over the threshold and sauntered through the unit, eyeing our photos, furniture and general mess.

  Pam and I fluttered behind her like acolytes to a priestess, trying to resist the temptation to snatch cardigans, books and clutter and stuff it under cushions. If we had worn white robes and crawled on the floor behind her, we couldn’t have grovelled any harder. All that was left was to make a sacrifice in her honour.

  We designated the smallest bedroom for a third flatmate. A momentary wrinkle sullied her perfect forehead when she saw it, but her eyes gleamed when she was shown the bathroom. The call girls had obviously designed and installed it for their pleasure. It was our pride and joy too.

  A deep, claw-footed tub under a shower, chequerboard tiles and faux gold fittings were complemented by a set of cupboards running the full length of the wall. These were supported by a wide bench top, with a huge mirror screwed to the wall. The full length makeup bench, inset with two deep hand basins was polished granite.

  We allocated the medium-sized second bedroom, decorated with an African veldt mural with sunset waterhole scene as our music room, having coaxed our current boyfriends into helping line the walls with egg cartons to deaden the sound.

  Jess hovered just inside the door. My upright piano and Pam’s music stand took up most of the space on one side, a filing cabinet packed with sheet music, another full of CDs and a black vinyl collection occupied a good deal of the room.

  ‘I could fit my stand there—’ Jess pointed a contemplative finger at the only spot left. We smiled as though approved for an honour by the Queen, then bowed and scraped our way to the kitchen for coffee. A flushed glance of agreement and we invited her to move in. Jess settled in and we all mucked in together, but it wasn’t long before we discovered that she was a compulsive cleaner. This was great to start with but later we felt guilty because we knew we disappointed her with our grottiness.

  Jess wasn’t always easy to fathom. We three could spend hours practising in our music room, sharing confidences about study and socialising—a euphemism for clubbing and hunting men, but Jess had a barrier which she seemed unable to overcome. We knew she had emotional problems left over from childhood and couldn’t seem to sustain a relationship for long, but despite our support, she could never confide any worries.

  A year later I won a highly prestigious competition and was offered a scholarship to study at Trinity College, Cambridge. I left for London on a bleak day in March; Pam and Jess arrived a few months later. We found, after much searching, a flat we could ill-afford and nowhere near the standard of the one we enjoyed in Brisbane. But there we lived lives which alternated between desperation and joy.

  Desperation. You didn’t know the meaning of the word, you idiot.

  But you do now.

  ‘Hey, wakey, wakey, Ally!’ They’re back. He kicks my leg, which is hanging over the edge of the stretcher. I keep my arms wrapped around my head and face to protect them. Please God, help me.

  ‘Ally, right about now your dad’s wonderin’ how he’s gunna raise that money,’ Scarpia announces, joyfully. ‘Bet you’re the one fuck he wishes he’d never had!’

  CHAPTER 11

  Someone Like Her

  Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

  Monday: 7.30am.

  The car park reeked of rubber and exhaust fumes. I almost fell over the disgusting bucket into which the smokers put their stubs. I’m sympathetic, but there’s a limit. Chocolates are my addiction of choice.

  A group of media were clustered in reception. ‘The word must be out,’ I muttered, as I scuttled across the foyer to the lift, keeping my face averted. Fortunately, they were engrossed in trying to bully the imperturbable counter staff. I breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed. As the lift lifted me to CIB, I brooded over last night’s conversation with my husband, Harry, and feeling guilty over my irritable response.

  Ally Carpenter’s face is startlingly familiar. He speculated endlessly during dinner and throughout the evening. ‘Susan, she reminds me of someone. Where did her family come from, originally?’ he asked for the umpteenth time, as we prepared for bed.

  ‘I don’t know. And if you had met someone like her, you’d remember. Now for goodness sake, go to sleep, Harry. We’ve both got early starts in the morning.’

  His hurt expression tugged at my heart strings. I leaned over to kiss him, but at the last minute he turned his head away and my lips bounced off his ear.

  ‘I’m sorry I snapped, love. I’ll find out more about her tomorrow.’

  He looked at me for a long moment, his face expressionless, then pulled the bedclothes up around his ears and turned his back, effectively shutting me out. My guilt made sleep elusive; I felt washed out and not my usual self.

  Evan had already updated the whiteboard timeline documenting the movements of Ally Carpenter and her friends on Friday night. Shots from the security cameras were pinned on a separate board, beside an enlarged photo of the victim. My investigating team trickled through the door clutching their notebooks and slumped into chairs, seemingly in slow motion.

  ‘Good morning. Is everyone here?’

  A desultory chorus replied. To be fair, most of them had worked throughout the weekend, but I needed everyone on the ball. Two days and three nights since the girl was snatched; I didn’t hold out much hope of finding her alive.

  ‘Right, now let’s sum up what we know so far, which is damn all. Detective Sergeant Taylor will take you through what we have so far.’

  Evan stepped forward. ‘First of all, the media are on the rampage and a conference will take place shortly with DI Patterson and Senior Sergeant Prescott. We’ve advised the management of the Pacific Orchestra to make sure their members and admin staff refrain from speaking to journalists. Hospitals and taxi companies have been checked for sightings of Ms Carpenter, and cadets are viewing CCTV footage of bus and train stations. Facial imaging didn’t pan out, the features of the mob in the Toyota Corolla weren’t clear.’ He cast a beady eye on his nephew, DC Ben Taylor. ‘What did Traynor’s staff have to say?’

  ‘Well, Sarge, the barmen don’t remember her, but the doorman said she left with a man just before ten. He didn’t see them get into the car, but they would have turned up to the city or onto the Storey Bridge.’

  ‘It could just have easily headed down Brunswick to New Farm,’ said Evan, frowning severely at Ben. ‘Or gone up Ann Street and gone right to the western suburbs. Ma’am, over to you.’

  Before I could speak, a uniformed constable handed me a message. ‘Ma’am, uniform located a white Toyota Corolla sedan which fits the description of the wanted vehicle from Traynor’s Friday night, abandoned in bushland at Gumdale.’

  ‘Right, I nodded to a pair of my team. ‘Off to Gum-dale with you. Get forensics to go over the car. Here—’
I passed the paper.

  ‘No sign of forced entry at Miss Carpenter’s house. No sign of a struggle or abduction from the premises. Her friend, Pamela Miller maintains there are no clothes missing. Her passport is still in the house as well as jewellery and medications, iPod. Her emails have been checked, Facebook and Twitter pages, but no sign of stalkers or threats. Her answering machine only has a couple of messages on it from friends who are being checked now and her mobile phone records show no calls from unknown numbers. Pamela Miller verified most of the calls, the others checked out as work related. Sergeant Taylor and I will talk to Rallison, Whitby, Miller and Briece Mochrie again. At this stage, we’re going with predator snatch.’

  I paused for a sip of water.

  ‘However, the woman carrying Carpenter’s handbag could suggest she knew them. But if that’s the case, why didn’t she tell her friends she was leaving? The one thing you should all remember is that Ally Carpenter is a mature, professional concert pianist. Sir James McPherson and James Kirkbridge from the Pacific Orchestra insist she’s not given to taking days off or hysterical behaviour. The concert on Saturday night was a long-anticipated and well advertised event, which was part of a series of performances for which the Carpenter girl was contracted. She had put a lot of work into it. So it’s unlikely she went off with a boyfriend, as has been suggested. Her mother has arrived in town from North Queensland and Sergeant Taylor and myself are leaving now to interview her. Right, that’s all for the moment.’

  The team got to their feet and trooped out of the room, muttering among themselves. Evan gathered his notebooks. ‘It’s not looking good,’ he commented, as we buckled ourselves into the car.

  ‘You’re telling me. If we can’t get anything concrete today, I’m not sure where we’re going to go next. Perhaps the mother can help.’

  I cast a glance around the neighbourhood while we waited a good three minutes for the door to Pamela Miller’s unit to be answered. She lived in a block of four trendy faux-colonial flats behind a row of tall trees. A dog toilet nestled at the base of a collection of knee-high shrubs. The door was opened by Eloise Carpenter, a small attractive woman with terrified eyes and wild red hair, Her appearance took my breath away. I’d seen her, or someone very like her, before.