The dog came to lean against my legs, the squashed plastic bottle still between his grinning lips. I bent and stroked him. ‘Fine watchdog you are.’ Voices heralded Evan’s return from his interview with the housekeeper.
As we drove away, I glanced back, but the couple had gone to ground in their fortress.
‘Well, that was something else,’ laughed Evan, as he drove a leisurely pace down the long, bitumen driveway.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You certainly know how to upset the resident lord and his lady. You went from being Senior Sergeant to Ms Prescott and back again in about three different moves.’
‘Too bad. What did the estimable Mrs Fox have to say?’ I asked, clawing through my shoulder bag for cough lozenges and fresh tissues.
’She confirms their story, but I didn’t expect anything less. Tell me about the paintings.’
‘At least seven are prints. There are two empty spaces where small ones have been removed. If they’re not in a vault or being cleaned, there could be another explanation and that is, he’s sold the most valuable ones and substituted prints. Could he off-load them in a couple of days? Art’s not my forte.’
‘Sure,’ said Evan, as he turned the car onto the main road.
‘Kidnapping is an emotional crime. It only works if there’s someone who cares enough to pay, and he’s the perfect target. I think someone’s holding the girl for ransom and he’s liquidating some of his assets. Depending on how much has been demanded, but even he would have to hustle to get huge amounts of cash together in a day or two. We’ll check his bank accounts. The art blokes can approach their informants and find out what the go is. If that’s the case…’
‘That sort of bloke always has expensive cars. Wonder if he’s sold them? I’ll check when we get back. Pity if he’s got something special.’
‘You men are all the same. Bloody cars,’ I teased grimly.
He frowned and straightened in his seat. Clearly he had something else on his mind.
‘Come on, what is it?’
‘Dunno. It’ll come to me. In the meantime, we should get the staff checked, although that would have been done before they were hired.’
I flipped my mobile open and contacted a member of the team. ‘Put someone onto digging into the bank accounts of this person.’ I gave the details then looked at Evan. ‘I have something to tell you, but I’m asking you to keep it to yourself for the time being at least.’
He stared ahead, eyes narrowed, as I told him about my family connection to Eloise. When I finished, he was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Okay, Susan, you’ll know if it’s going to get in the way of the case.’
‘Thanks, mate. Now we’ll pick the weakest link and take him apart.’ I replied.
‘Him?’
‘Briece Mochrie. He’s knows a damn sight more than he’s letting on. ‘ I stuffed two cough lozenges in my mouth, and trumpeted savagely into a handful of tissues.
CHAPTER 34
The Sound of Silence
Ally
Friday: late morning.
Breakfast was two bananas and a bottle of water. Are they about to let me go? Or is my real ordeal beginning? If they get the money and leave me here, I could starve to death. No one will know where to look for me. There’s got to be a way to save myself. Think. I can barely move and my chest hurts. Perspiration reeks under my armpits and my breath stinks. But I’m still alive.
I’ve lost count of the days I’ve been here. I hear a car coming and going sometimes. I’m relying for company on people who might kill me. Am I expected to go mad? No. They couldn’t care less what I do or feel.
They’re not speaking to me now, but he watches me like a snake waiting to strike. The taunting was scary, but icy silence is terrifying. I punched him on the arm yesterday, but he just swept me aside as he left the room. A violent reaction would be better than nothing. Perhaps Brie will kill him for me. ‘For God’s sake, Ally, get a grip on yourself.’ Brie couldn’t bring himself to kill anything bigger than a cockroach.’ The sound of my voice is startling in the silence.
My skin crawls with shame, as I remember my body responding, unfolding like a flower to Scarpia’s mouth and hands. Deep down I acknowledge he is a skilful… lover. Even now, remembering, heat rises within my secret places. I hate myself. I want to hide under a blanket for the rest of my life.
‘Leave her alone. She’s vermin…’ That hurt.
I know something dreadful has happened, but what? Have they kidnapped someone else? No, they couldn’t cope with two…but perhaps there’s more in their gang than I thought. I have flashes on and off, of the night they grabbed me from the disco. My impression is there were four, maybe five of them. God, I’m hungry. Has everyone forgotten me? Are the police looking for me? Do they even know where to start?
Why did mum lie about something so desperately important to me? She watched me longing for a father my whole life and still lied. It’s my life, for God’s sake, and I’ll never forgive her.
Insidious thoughts invade like skeletal fingers, probing endlessly into the innermost recesses of my mind. What if my father doesn’t care enough about me to pay the ransom? What if he doesn’t care enough about mum to do it? Perhaps I’m an embarrassment and he’s pretending not to be my father or maybe he doesn’t even believe I’m his daughter? What really happened before I was born? He might have left her for another woman. Or even another man.
I can’t show these monsters how frightened I am. The shame of being grateful to them for letting me live will brand me forever. Sometimes I feel a vibe coming from somewhere. Is someone praying for me? Is anyone even thinking of me?
I had a new dream last night. A child I used to sit next to in primary school was standing, staring at me with huge round eyes. I couldn’t prevent myself shrinking from him. Suddenly, we were in a circus tent and all around the outside of the ring, but inside beside the canvas, was a waterway where clowns jumped in and out of boats. When the child realised I couldn’t get to the boats, he smiled, and then his face disintegrated into a gelatinous mess.
‘Hurry up, Ally, I’ve been waiting for you!’ he called, in a high, piping voice. One of the clowns shoved me and I woke up, drawing painful gasps as my lungs expanded against my battered ribs. Perspiration broke out all over my body; shudders of fear shook my body. Davy died on his tenth birthday, after his drunken father beat him to death.
Was the dream an omen?
CHAPTER 35
In The Frame
Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott
Friday: noon.
A row with Harry blew up this morning, shocking me with its intensity. Having returned to Police Headquarters after a frustrating interview with Ally Carpenter’s parents, I was wolfing a sandwich and scribbling notes, when my telephone rang.
‘Harry, we’ve been through this! Please! You must stay away from her until we’ve found her daughter,’ I pleaded, cursing my impulsive phone call advising him of the result of our investigation into Eloise’ background. If only I had kept my mouth shut.
‘But she’ll need family around at a time like this!’
‘Harry, she may not know you exist and it’s the worst possible time for her to cope with it.’
‘Worst possible time for you, you mean!’ he snapped. Normally a comparatively placid man, he turned cranky when his back ached.
‘No. Yes, for both of us. If you compromise my investigation, I’ll be forced to take steps.’
‘It’s all about you, isn’t it? Always you and your job, Susan, so when am I going to be considered first for once?’
A young constable came into view, brandishing a sheaf of reports. I nodded to him and held out a hand. He bounded across to my desk to pass them to me, but we failed to connect and the papers went flying all over the floor.
‘Oh, bugger!’ Frustration ripped through me. I wanted to scream. The constable scrabbled around trying to collect them, as Harry snarled in my ear:
�
�You’re not even interested enough to listen to me! Why I bothered even going to Sydney to talk to—’
‘Oh stop it, Harry. I’m trying to work and talk to you at the same time. Can we leave this until tonight? Please?’
Silence reigned for a couple of seconds.
‘All right, Susan, have it your way as usual, but don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you get home.’
He slammed the receiver down in my ear and my spirits sank. I understood his eagerness to talk to Eloise, but this was a kidnapping and murder investigation. It wasn’t the first time he threatened to walk out on me, but so far he’s only retreated as far as his office behind the house where his secretary, who was besotted with him and who hated my guts, would cosset him with cups of tea and cream cakes. And I don’t give a monkey’s—stop it, you silly cow, focus on the case.
The papers were piled neatly back on my desk. I nodded my thanks to the constable who whipped out of the room, no doubt to spread the word about his senior sergeant having a “domestic.”
I skimmed the autopsy and crime scene report on Jessica Rallison in order to précis it in my mind:
‘…died between six and eight o’clock Wednesday night… four right-handed knife thrusts. Actual cause of death, perforation of the renal artery. Stomach contents, remains of ham sandwich, but nothing else. No match for the fingerprints found all over the house. Pregnancy, as reported earlier.’
I put the papers into the file, reflecting that in spite of our computers, we seem to generate more paperwork than we did back when I was a recruit. I rested my head on one hand and reached for tissues with the other to blow my already tender nose, trying to thrust personal issues out of my mind. Ally Carpenter’s parents could close ranks as tightly as they liked, but the pieces were slotting into place.
Retrieving Jessica’s front door key from the pocket in the front of the file, I got to my feet, stuffed more clean tissues into my cavernous black shoulder bag and picked up my coat.
‘Ben, what are you working on right now?’ I asked, as I marched up to his desk.
‘Just finished the bank job in—’ He named the recent hold-up where a couple of intrepid tellers had downed the robber, a strapping fifteen-year old kid and sat on him until the police arrived. His mother was threatening to sue the tellers. ‘My Garrett is a good boy,’ she screeched to the media, who were thoroughly over-excited by it all. I well remembered the vicious, experienced young face snarling into mine, as we took him into custody. ‘Okay. I’m going to Jessica Rallison’s house. You can come with me.’
DC Taylor’s eyes lit up, as he saved his work and bounced to his feet like a dog let off a chain. Evan trundled up, papers under his left armpit and plastic bag of exhibits in hand. ‘Off to the scene of crime, Susan? I’m about to go through the neighbour statements. The solicitor has sent details of Rallison’s will. She left Pamela Miller all her musical instruments and Eloise Carpenter her CDs and royalties. The sister gets everything else, including her house and car. She’d not included her parents, or Ally Carpenter.’
The parents being left out was understandable, but I hadn’t realised how far relations had deteriorated between Jessica and Ally. Everything I knew and had subsequently learned about the violinist hadn’t endeared her to me, but I felt sorrow and anger when my shocked Townsville colleague reported that Jessica’s mother, when advised of her daughter’s death, said coldly, ‘I’ve never liked my daughter, Detective,’ and shut the front door in his face.
Friday: 1.30pm.
The cottage already wore an abandoned air. The houses nearby averted their shuttered, upmarket eyes like people at an elegant cocktail party confronted by a particularly bumptious member of the hoi polloi. Most of the residents were at work. A lone dog trotted by, peed on the gate and went on his way. Overhead, a 747 sped on its majestic way to possible exotic climes. Life would go on without the beautiful violinist.
We unlocked the front door and stepped into the airless house. The smell of putrefying body fluids, mingling with a faint aroma of magnolia made breathing undesirable.
I shivered. Jessica’s spirit had well and truly left. ‘For God’s sake, let’s open some windows!’
I flicked the light switch just inside the front door, and we leapt to the task with enthusiasm, gratefully sucking in the fresh air. Where to start? Officers from Scenes of Crime would have examined every inch of the place, but we put our latex gloves on anyway. A fleeting memory of something to do with gloves wisped into my mind, but was gone before I could grasp it.
‘See if you can find anything significant in there. You know what to look for.’
I left Ben in Jessica’s office and wandered through the house, trying to get a better understanding of the victim’s personality. Questions raced through my mind as I stood in her bedroom. Powder from fingerprinting coated the sills, door handles, jambs and personal belongings. Bed linen and pillows were tumbled around, exposing a luxuriously-appointed mattress. Cupboard doors gaped and clothes were piled haphazardly onto a padded window seat. Pots of eye shadow and mascara wands were jumbled together with compacts, liquid bases and bottles of perfume on the dressing-table, a nice mess for her sister to sort out.
Moving on, I investigated the black and white bathroom, noting the top of the cistern resting against the wall. Forensics inventory of bathroom contents’ skimmed through my mind:
‘One pair of men’s underpants (a Mother Lode of DNA) a comb, toothbrush, cake of soap and one damp face flannel. Lots of bath lotion and shampoo, and three towels, two of which were white and one lilac. In the linen press, two pale blue, two bright red, two black—and one lilac? It didn’t fit. If they found the missing towel in the house it would have been itemised in the report. Jessica’s murderer would have had to wipe off either sweat or blood, or both, and, if the murder wasn’t premeditated, find something in which to wrap the knife. A towel would have come in handy. I glanced down the list. No mention of a knife obviously missing from the kitchen, and I had seen a set sticking out of a wooden block when we were interviewing her previously. The knife could be an accessory, like a dog-stud belt or wristband.
Her nightie and dressing gown hung from a hook behind the door. I fingered the terry-towelling robe and dipped my fingers into the pockets. Empty, of course. A faint scent of magnolia clung to its fibres. As I stepped into the hallway, Ben came out of her office and handed me a leather-bound diary, burgundy cover smeared with finger-print dusting powder.
‘SOCO’s taken the computer in for analysis. There’s a couple of postcards from her sister and some bills from local traders left. This would be the replacement diary, fingerprinted by SOCO. Nothing much in it though, ma’am. Bookings for teaching jobs and private tutoring, concerts with the orchestra, rehearsal times, that sort of thing. No social dates. I thought she was this hot-shot violinist, CDs and everything, but there didn’t seem to be much going on with her career. There’s the date pencilled in for Wednesday night.’
He handed the book to me. He was right, the contents were sparse. A notation in a margin about Wednesday night, ‘A. Dinner 7.30 pm’ Initial A? as in the report and corroborated by Miller and Mochrie. Hm…
‘Ready to tackle the kitchen?’
‘Not quite, ma’am, I’ll be a few minutes more.’
He bustled off and I stepped into the kitchen, skirting the blackened mess on the floor, making a note to contact the scenes-of-crime cleaners. No loved ones should have to see this.
It was difficult to absorb the mind of the woman who had lived in the house. The kitchen was immaculately appointed with everything of very good quality, sharp-angled and rigid. What was it about your life, Jessica, which made you so obsessive? So neat, so controlling. Obviously, she didn’t cook much. Some herbs and spices, sugar, but not even a packet of flour or any of the ingredients one would expect in what I considered a ‘normal’ household. The refrigerator contained a litre of skim milk, half a dozen eggs, olive oil spread, some low fat cheese, a jar of patê, se
veral bottles of wine, mineral water, half a loaf of bread and some fruit.
My gaze roamed across the cupboards, over the chairs toward the laundry, then back. A vase of flowers decorated a bench in the corner of the kitchen. They should have been wilting in the airless house. I stepped over and ran my fingers slowly down the petals, skimming over the realistic resin water-droplets and artificial petals. I thought Jessica had been the sort of woman who would have fresh hot-house blooms and lots of them, heavily scented and richly coloured. Strange. Perhaps she was allergic to pollen? Note to self, ask Pamela Miller.
I turned to the cupboard beside the sink and opened it. Cutlery in the drawer, further down, medicines, headache tablets, sticking plaster, vitamin capsules. On the bottom shelf, gladwrap, a roll of foil, tea towels, dish cloths, folded neatly. Who irons tea towels these days? And an unopened packet of rubber gloves.
I had closed the drawer and turned toward the laundry when it struck me. Gloves. A flash of Jessica Rallison pulling on a brand new pair of green rubber gloves on the day we arrived at the back door to interview her. The cellophane packet was lying on the bench and she had stuffed it in the waste bin while we were talking to her. I swung back, opened the cupboard under the sink and peered inside. The garbage bin was there, empty from the administrations of SOCO, along with numerous cleaning agents, a scrubbing brush, dust pan and brush. So where were the rubber gloves I had seen her wearing? Even Jessica was unlikely to have thrown them out after only a day or two’s use. I tramped into the laundry and ratted through the cupboards. There was no sign of them, so I pulled out my mobile and dialled.
‘John? Susan Prescott…yes, I’m sure you are busy. Look, I’m at Rallison’s house. Did your team bag up a pair of quite new green rubber gloves? Okay, I’ll wait.’
The Naked Room Page 22