Charlotte Pass

by Lee Christine

  Laying a hand over her pounding heart, she wondered why he’d waited in the dark rather than speak to her in the open. Had he been afraid of being overheard? He’d purposely tried to intimidate her by grabbing her wrist then loitering outside her room, but why? Up until now, she’d barely exchanged more than two words with him.

  Feeling better now she could see properly, Vanessa sat on the bed and pulled the duvet around her shoulders. There was no way she was getting into her pyjamas—not until a few of the others had straggled in from the pub and she was no longer alone in the building with Bruno. She didn’t care if she had to stay in her bulky ski gear for another two hours.

  Just as her breathing felt normal again, something thumped against the wall.

  Vanessa shot to her feet, nerves jangling, heart jumping in and out of time.

  A soft snore travelled through the plaster from the room next door, and relief turned her body weak. She slumped down hard on the bed. How often had she cursed that oversnow driver when he’d woken her up? Not tonight. Tonight, she almost laughed aloud. She could have gone in there and kissed him for his habit of bumping the wall with his knee when he turned over.

  She laid her head on the pillow, massaging her sore wrist and flexing her foot to make sure it was fine. She would need to report Bruno to Terry, even though there was every chance he could walk off the job in a huff. He had it in him to do that. And if it happened, Winterfest would lose some of its shine. He was one of the most experienced groomers in the Snowy Mountains, and he wasn’t afraid of using it as leverage to get what he wanted.

  And his name was on the list she’d given to Detective Flowers.

  Seven

  Day 3

  Detective Sergeant Ryder had arrived in Charlotte Pass at first light, the pilot setting the police chopper down on the helipad behind the inn.

  ‘Looks like you’re in for a bluebird day, Sergeant,’ the pilot had said cheerfully, as though Ryder had flown in for a ski holiday. ‘We had a serious dump of snow last night.’

  Ryder nodded, his mind already back on the crime scene and what state it was in. He’d made good time on the return trip from Newcastle, only stopping in Queanbeyan to drop the hairpiece in at the station. Then he’d woken Inspector Gray and updated him on the case. When Gray learned of Ryder’s lack of sleep over the previous twenty-four hours, he made a call and arranged for a chopper to fly him up to the mountains.

  Now, Ryder stood at the window, sipping his mid-morning coffee, and looking out over the front valley. The pilot had been right. It was a bluebird day, and skiers and boarders were making the most of it. Some were racing down the slopes while others picked their way to the bottom. Directly below Ryder’s window, a ski instructor in a royal blue uniform was demonstrating a stop manoeuvre to a group of beginner adults. Further down the slope, a snowboarder lost control, cartwheeled and stacked it hard on the way to the T-bar.

  Ryder winced, then turned away as the sat phone rang.

  ‘We have enough mitochondrial DNA to conclude that it’s a perfect match,’ said Harriet. ‘There’s no doubting the identity of the body.’

  Ryder closed his eyes briefly against the mix of emotions. Sadness, relief and satisfaction that Celia had finally been found. ‘What about Eunice Delaney’s mouth swab?’

  ‘It will be processed in Newcastle, but it’s unnecessary now as far as the identification process is concerned.’

  ‘I’d still like it done.’

  ‘Okay … noted.’

  ‘And the autopsy results?’

  ‘We have a broken femur, broken ribs and numerous fractured vertebrae. Multiple skeletal injuries like this happen when there’s been a sudden deceleration.’

  ‘Like in car accidents?’

  ‘Yes. And falling from heights. We see a lot of workplace injuries like this when tradies fall from construction sites.’

  An image of a woman falling flashed into Ryder’s mind, her arms flailing, her lips parted in a scream. ‘An old chairlift used to go up the mountain back then, close to where she was found.’

  There was a pause, then Harriet spoke again. ‘Falling from a chairlift would do it.’

  ‘What about hitting a tree at speed?’ He needed to cover every scenario.

  ‘Possibly,’ Harriet said slowly, ‘but this is where it gets tricky. Her skull sustained a depressed bone fracture consistent with being kicked in the head or hit with something hard, like a hammer or a rock. The pieces of broken bone get pushed inwards when that happens. The impact would have been forceful enough to cause trauma to the brain and surrounding tissue.’

  Ryder picked up a pen and made some dot points. ‘So, we have deceleration injuries and a blunt force trauma to the head?’

  ‘Yes. This will all be in the report I send through, but my conclusion is that she was struck on the head first, then thrown from a substantial height. This woman didn’t wander off and die from exposure, Pierce. She met with a violent death.’

  ‘And then someone put her in the ground.’

  There was a pause before Harriet went on. ‘We also found small pieces of leather and rubber, probably from her boots. There’s some kind of small case, too, with a clasp. It could have been a change purse she carried in her coat pocket. We’re cleaning it up. Sorry, I can’t tell you when it will be ready.’

  ‘Thanks, Harriet. I owe you.’

  ‘You’re buying me lunch the next time you’re in Canberra.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘It’s lunch. I have a girlfriend.’

  ‘Huh. News to me.’

  After Harriet rang off, Ryder stared at the phone in his hand. Nigel Miller, the band’s lead singer and Lew’s major suspect back in 1964, was Celia’s husband and next of kin. And he had arrived at Charlotte Pass the same day his wife’s body was discovered decades after her disappearance.

  Ryder rang the front desk. Now that he had the confirmation he needed, it was time to set up some interviews.

  ‘Mrs Gordon, could you confirm that Nigel Miller is staying in the village or in one of the surrounding lodges? I saw the band unpacking their equipment early yesterday morning.’

  There was a pause. ‘Mr Miller always stays at the inn when the band’s in residence.’

  ‘I’d like his room number, please.’

  ‘We’re not supposed to give out that information …’

  ‘We’re the police, Mrs Gordon. If you’d prefer I go door to door—’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she interrupted crisply. ‘We’re in the middle of a very busy week, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Ryder replied, trying to keep the derision out of this voice.

  ‘His room is along the corridor from my office. If he’s in, I’ll send him up to you.’

  Ryder frowned, taken aback by the woman’s sudden U-turn. ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘No problem. How do you like your room?’

  It had come as a surprise to find the painters had finished, the planks and trestles nowhere to be seen. It was unlikely Flowers had hurried them on; more likely Di Gordon wanted the room ready for her next guests. It was clear she had wanted him out of the inn since the day he arrived. Maybe she thought a cop—even a plain-clothes one—snooping around was bad for business. Other than that, there seemed no good reason for her lack of hospitality.

  ‘The room’s very nice, thank you,’ he replied, and killed the call.

  He’d spent the morning listening to Roman Lewicki’s old interview tapes with Celia’s husband. The musician had an airtight alibi. The band had been playing in the lounge at the time Celia was believed to have gone missing. Miller said he had spoken to his wife in their room before the band started their warm-up. He had no idea what her movements had been after that.

  Ryder called Lewicki’s mobile phone for the third time that morning, and for the third time the call went to voicemail. He asked his friend to call him back, then debated whether he should ring the house. Chances were Annie wou
ld answer, and she wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that the Delaney case had resurfaced. Plus, she would try to pin Ryder down for his birthday dinner, and right now he didn’t have anything to celebrate.

  Sipping his coffee, he looked towards Mount Stillwell where the police tape fluttered in the wind. Celia had been murdered in these mountains that cast such a powerful spell over snow enthusiasts, drawing them back year after year. He could understand why. They came here to ski and unplug for a week or two. But what of the people who had moved out of the mainstream and decided to stay here long term? The ones on Vanessa’s list.

  A flash of red halfway down the home run snagged his attention. An enviable skier in black pants and a red jacket, her dark ponytail streaming out behind her, cut across the mountain at speed heading for the fallen snowboarder. She dug in her edges and, with a light spray of snow, came to a graceful stop a metre or so from the snowboarder who’d cartwheeled earlier. In one movement she clicked out of her skis, picked them up and drove them into the snow in a cross formation to warn skiers approaching from above to keep clear. Then she squatted, the medic cross on her back clearly visible, and spoke to the snowboarder who was hunched over and cradling a wrist.

  Vanessa.

  He’d been thinking about her and suddenly there she was, as if—

  A soft tap at the door intruded into his thoughts. Ryder turned away from the drama on the hill.

  ‘Mr Miller, come in,’ he said as he opened the door, taking stock of the man who stepped inside with his grey hair closely cropped in a modern style, and a perfectly manscaped goatee. The musician was about five ten and so slightly built even his straight-legged jeans hung loose on him. ‘Apologies for the paint odour.’

  Ryder waved him towards his makeshift office, standing aside so Miller could go in first. ‘Have a seat,’ Ryder said, pointing to the dining chair.

  Miller hitched up the legs of his jeans and sat down, eyeing Ryder warily.

  ‘Firstly, I’m Detective Sergeant Pierce Ryder from Sydney Homicide.’

  Miller’s eyes widened. ‘Homicide?’

  Ryder nodded. ‘Our headquarters are in Parramatta but we work all over the state.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I need you to confirm that you are Nigel Anthony Miller, husband of Celia Miller née Delaney who disappeared from Charlotte Pass in July 1964.’

  Miller cleared his throat. ‘Yes. I’m Nigel Miller.’

  The man was fidgety, tapping one leg up and down as though in time to some imaginary beat.

  ‘Look, Mr Miller, I realise it’s been a very long time, and you wouldn’t be expecting this but, as you’re Celia’s next of kin, I have to inform you that two days ago her remains were found within the bounds of Charlotte Pass Snow Resort.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ Miller whispered, his voice husky. ‘So, it is true what people are saying?’

  Ryder had no idea what people were saying, so he stayed silent.

  ‘Do her family know?’

  ‘They’ve been advised that the body is likely to be Celia’s. We’ll confirm it shortly.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ he said again, covering his face with his hands. An opal dress ring on his third finger caught the light and made patterns on the wall. ‘I can’t believe it. Poor Celia. After all these years.’ He lowered his hands and stared at Ryder, his expression puzzled. ‘I know where you found her. Everyone can see the police tape up on the mountain.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been upsetting for a lot of people.’ Ryder paused briefly before going on. ‘Mr Miller, I need you to answer some questions.’ He held up the portable recording device he’d brought with him. ‘I’m going to record our conversation because I want to hear your version of the events surrounding the night your wife disappeared, and this is the most accurate way of capturing it. If you prefer, you can give me a written statement, or I can type it directly into the computer. Believe me, this way is quicker.’ He looked at Miller, knowing it was unlikely he’d object.

  Miller sighed loudly and gave Ryder a pained look. ‘I told that prick Lewicki everything I knew back then, numerous times.’ Fifty-five years later, and the anger and resentment were still palpable in Miller’s voice. ‘Yes, okay.’ Miller raised a hand to shield his eyes as if he had suddenly developed a headache.

  Ryder started the recording device and tried to wipe his mind clean of everything Lewicki had told him about this man.

  ‘The previous file notes state that you and Celia were heard arguing late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Is that true?’

  Miller lowered his hand. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember what you were you arguing about?’

  ‘Yes. Look. You need to understand: Celia had a jealous nature.’

  Ryder raised his eyebrows, wondering if Lew had known about this personality trait. ‘Did you give her reason to be jealous?’

  Miller spread his hands, palms up. ‘It was the sixties, man. If you were lucky enough to escape conscription, it was sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll for the rest of us.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’ Ryder asked. According to Lew’s file notes, Miller had previously said he and Celia had quarrelled about his fondness for alcohol.

  ‘We were arguing about Di Gordon.’

  Ryder blinked and tried not to show his surprise. The only mention of Di Gordon in Lewicki’s file was a note that she and her husband owned the lease on Charlotte Pass. ‘Why were you arguing over Di Gordon?’

  ‘I was sleeping with her back then—periodically.’

  ‘Periodically?’

  ‘We had an arrangement.’

  ‘Was Celia aware of this … arrangement?’

  He nodded. ‘I was straight with Celia before we got married. She knew the deal.’

  ‘And what was the deal?’

  ‘The band had a standing two-week gig here every season. During that time, Di and I took the opportunity to … be together. We’d been doing it for four years before I met Celia. I wasn’t going to give it up.’

  ‘And Celia accepted this?’ Ryder asked, trying not to show the rising contempt he felt for this man.

  ‘No. She gave me hell about it. In the end she got her own back, though.’

  ‘By dying?’ He hoped the question would throw Miller. He wasn’t disappointed. The musician’s mouth fell open and he stared at Ryder, visibly shaken.

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  Ryder pictured the smiling girl in the black-and-white photograph at her parents’ home in Newcastle. ‘How did Celia get her own back? By taking a lover for herself?’

  ‘I think so.’ He shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as though he were still angry about it all these years later. ‘I don’t know who he was. Somebody down here.’

  Ryder considered the musician. Without rushing, he took a plastic sleeve from the old file and slid it across the desk in front of Miller. ‘You’ll recognise this photograph of the village back then. The inn and ski club were the only available accommodation. The rest of the buildings were garages and machinery sheds. It would have been difficult to keep an affair under wraps, don’t you think?’

  Miller shrugged. ‘I have no idea who she was seeing. It crossed my mind that she might have invented someone just to get back at me.’

  ‘Tell me in your own words what was said during the argument.’

  Miller looked nervously around the room before turning back to Ryder. ‘Basically, she said that when we got back to the city she’d be filing for divorce. She hated life on the road with the band, and she also hated being home alone. She said that even when we came down here, I made a fool of her by sleeping with Di.’

  ‘How did you react? Did you threaten her?’

  ‘Of course not. I reminded her that she knew what the deal was before she married me. She said that she’d thought she could handle it, but it turned out she couldn’t. I tried to reassure her that Di was just an interlude for two weeks a year. That it was nothing serious.’

  ‘Di
d you get angry?’

  ‘Sure, I got angry. She sprung this on me shortly before we had to go on stage and play. I told her we’d talk about it after the gig. That’s when she said she was meeting someone else that night, and she was done talking about it.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It was the pre-dinner set. So, before five.’

  ‘Did you see your wife after that? Did she come down to watch the band?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I never saw her again—ever.’

  ‘Did you have your suspicions as to who she might have been meeting?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Did you try to find out?’

  ‘No, I just told the police what happened.’

  ‘You told them you’d argued about your drinking, not about Di Gordon. Did you lie?’

  ‘No.’ Miller shifted in his chair. ‘Celia and I argued about everything.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Miller, was your wife a good skier?’ asked Ryder, noting the changes in Miller’s story. ‘Would she have been tempted to go out skiing that day?’

  Miller gave him an incredulous look. ‘Celia was a nervous skier. She stuck to the lower slopes that were accessed from the T-bar and poma. There’s no way she would have gone out skiing in that blizzard, no matter how pissed she was at me.’

  That sounded reasonable to Ryder. So, where had Celia gone after their argument? ‘What do you think happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Up until now I agreed with the Coroner’s findings. That she got the shits and decided to walk into Perisher, believing she’d get to Jindabyne and then make her way home from there. But, now …’ He swallowed, then cleared his throat again. ‘How do you think she ended up all the way up there—on that mountain?’

  ‘She might have got on the old chairlift, the one that went up Mount Stillwell back then.’

  Miller shook his head. ‘Celia wouldn’t get on that chairlift. There was a restaurant at top station—on the peak of the mountain before the chairlift went down into Thredbo. Beautiful spot. Magnificent views. I was always trying to convince her to go up there with me and have lunch, but she wouldn’t have a bar of it.’