‘Three in the morning?’
‘Yes, whatever time. Now, go back to bed and think about me!’ His eyes crinkled with mischief. Fear licked at my heart. I hung onto him, savouring the last seconds we would have together for heaven only knew how long – or forever.
Someone coughed. We broke apart and turned to see the tall, burly form of DSS Moffatt of the Drug Squad standing on the steps leading up to the verandah. ‘Nice to see you, Susan. Sorry to interrupt, folks. Dave, it’s time to go.’
Grinning, these responsible husbands and fathers glowed with the excitement of leaving on a ‘Boy’s Own Adventure.’ I couldn’t keep my feelings from showing. Peter Moffatt eyed me warily, as though I might bite him and he was right.
Fighting the urge to cling, I relinquished my hold as David gently put me aside, picked up his bag and stepped through the door. The dogs tried to follow, but I restrained them and watched as the two men slipped across the back lawn, ducked under the hydrangea bushes along the side fence and vanished without a backward glance.
Fat Albert brushed against my ankles. I sprinkled some cat nibble into his bowl, made a hot drink and trailed into the lounge room unable to face the bedroom, now empty of David’s life-force. I switched on the table lamp, placed my cup on the coffee table and slotted a Bach cantata into the stereo. As I listened to the glorious music, my sister, Melanie’s voice crept into my head: ‘You’ve been a cop since you were twenty, you are now forty-one years old, raised your kids and gotten them off your hands, so what’s next? Are you going to remain in CIB? Stay in the police force until you’re sixty?’
‘What else can I do? Security?’ Even though occasional lassitude sets in, I couldn’t imagine being anything other than a police officer. My career has been good to me. Satisfying completions of cases and some not, had propelled me to Detective Inspector, a rank which doesn’t have quite as much physical activity attached to it. However, in spite of jogging most nights of the week and lifting weights, I find it harder to keep fit and leave leaping fences to my young troops and their dogs.
Now that I had a secret, which for the moment I’ve kept from David, even more so.
*
Endless hours passed divided into times where I read and wandered throughout the house, I fell asleep, as you do, just before dawn and awoke shivering, with a crick in my neck. Trying not look at the empty side of the bed, I heaved the cats off my legs. Genevieve – foisted onto me by Lady Ferna Robinson, now triumphantly widowed, Sir Arthur having fled to whatever Just Reward had been allotted him – hefted a fat paw, claws extended and missed my leg by a centimetre. Restraining myself from buffeting the fat furball with the pillow, I staggered to the en suite, showered and dressed, slapped on some make-up, bundled my hair into a scrunchy and headed for the kitchen
Sometime during the night, I made a decision to push David’s “secondment” to the back of my mind, this being the only way I could cope. I would imagine him where he was supposed to be, in Toowoomba doing routine Major Crime jobs, filling in for someone or other, instead of being ‘sussed out’ by criminals. That didn’t bear thinking about.
The overcast morning lured me to the window to watch the native shrubs in our garden and a line of gums along the south fence bending in the wind, leaves fluttering in distant supplication. The grass was longer than it should have been, because for my teenage lawn-mowing contractor who was sitting exams, tending to business was the furthest thing from his mind.
Overnight temperatures of 13 deg and 37 during the day – and ‘they’ say global warming is a myth? I slid the glass pane back and sniffed the air; rain coming, with any luck. The tinder dry bush was irresistible to the twisted arsonists who delighted in the misery of others. I went to the laundry, carefully avoiding the pile of washing lurking in the clothes basket, let the dogs out and headed for the kitchen.
Both cats wreathed themselves gracefully between my ankles, swatting each other spitefully from time to time. Marli’s pet rats rustled in their cage in the family room. Kids leave home for university, but their pets don’t! I paid a neighbour’s fifteen-year old daughter to clean the cage and feed the occupants. She spent far more time playing with them, which meant I had to check the cage every night in case she had forgotten to empty the litter tray. I didn’t begrudge the chore. The more animals I have around me at night, the safer I feel, especially with David gone. A tangle of limbs and whispered love seared through my memory...he promised he’d ring as soon as the job was finished.
Breakfast, as always, was yoghurt and pears, followed by toast and coffee taken out on the side verandah. Time stretched endlessly ahead of me, with little prospect of respite from paperwork. Pitiful crime scenes – those of women and children horrendous – the misery caused by uncaring scum crowded my day. My aunt Beryl once said, ‘Susan, believe me, life can be hardest when there is nothing to look forward to. When a crisis occurs, we rise to the occasion, no matter how drastic or exciting it can be. It’s when the future stretches ahead of you without any chance of change, that’s when you need your strength, girl.’ Well, she was right.
I pulled the back door closed, flicked the cat flap to make sure it was swinging freely and checked the water bowls on the back verandah. Heaven only knew what time I would be home that night. The weather, reflecting my mood, had turned cold and rainy, the trees doing their level best to throw their branches around the surrounding paddocks. The ones by the house dipped and swayed. I envied the cats who had retired to my bed to curl up in the doona. The dogs, quivering with joy, leaped into the back seat of the car, fussing over who was going to sit which side, until I roared at them.
We reached the Valleys of the Scenic Rim in just over an hour and as I turned up the driveway to the house, my spirits lifted. No matter what my friend had to tell me, the sight of our country house always made me feel better. The main through-road was almost buried under the jacaranda petals stripped from the trees by heavy rain. I saw a few cars I recognised, but hoped their occupants wouldn’t see me. I didn’t want to talk.
Our large, strawbale house was five kilometres out of town, nestling on ten hectares in a fold of the pastures under a massive mountain, one much beloved of climbers who swan-dived off its craggy rock face and had to be rescued on a regular basis. Ros Miller – now Glenwood – moved in with her daughter Pamela’s spoilt marmalade cat, Fudge and their border collies. She and her new husband, John, rent from us and look after the Scottish Highland cows and the chooks which Eloise bequeathed to David and me. It was a few minutes before the house came into view bringing with a feeling of ambivalence foreign to me.
I pulled up before the broad, stone steps leading onto the verandah, grabbed my umbrella, climbed out and opened the back door of the car. The dogs burst out and took off, bouncing across the lawn to roll in the wet grass with evident enjoyment. They can have it!
The door whipped out of my cold, wet hand and slammed shut as Ros and John came out to greet me. At first sight, I was shocked. She had lost so much weight, her face looked translucent; when she smiled and threw her arms around me the frailty of her form sent a shaft of fear through me.
They hustled me up the steps and into the house. ‘Come and have morning tea,’ Ros urged. As always, the lovely sitting room enveloped me in the warmth and comfort of its ochre walls, the fire blazing in the hearth and the comfortable furniture. I was happy to see that Rosalind’s music was set above the keys of the grand piano. At least she was well enough to play...
As Fudge leapt into Rosalind’s lap, I sensed rather than saw her cringe. He butted his huge marmalade self into her chin; she wrapped her arms around his portly body. I settled myself into the couch beside her and reached out to stroke him. There was no point in beating around the bush. ‘You’re looking tired, Ros. Are you not feeling well?’
She lifted her face and I saw tears welling in her eyes. ‘Susan, I’ve got cancer.’
‘Oh no, where?’
‘Inside my left cheek. We only found it two da
ys ago, and they want me in the Royal Brisbane on Monday morning. I had the pre-op checks when I had the MRI.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’m trying to be positive, Susan, but it’s scary. A sort of ulcer actually, but very small.’
Cold spread through my body. A sort of ulcer? I knew my fear mustn’t show; Rosalind had enough for all of us. ‘How is John coping with the news?’
‘He’s bereft, but he’s being so strong. What did I do to deserve him?’ The cat settled into her lap, leaving her hands free for tissues and eye wiping. ‘You know, it’s ironic. Here I am, all these years without anyone decent in my life –’I know she’s thinking of Tommy Esposito, a criminal who conned his way into her life and who is now in gaol.
I finished for her. ‘– and now you’ve finally found your soul-mate and this happens.’
Ros nodded, sniffing.
Just then, John arrived with a tray of cups and pots, so we cleared the coffee table and settled in for a cuppa. He adjusted the cushions behind his wife’s back, every move showing his devotion. His face revealed the stress he was under, but as a retired senior constable, I knew he would never allow her to know the extent of his concern.
‘So what can I do to help?’ I asked, after I had taken a sip of tea, wincing because John always makes sure the water is boiling.
‘I wondered if you would keep an eye out for Pam? She’s coming down tomorrow. I know she’s going to be horrified at just how big this operation is going to be as soon as she lays eyes on me. All the tubes and things. She’ll get all worried and she still has to get through her major concert tonight.’
‘That’s at the Concert Hall in Brisbane?’
‘Yes.’ John passed me the program.
‘Yes, that’s it. She has to finish her tour no matter what, and do the UK concerts as well!’ Rosalind folded her lips in a thin line. No matter what...that meant even if she didn’t come out of the operation... I put my hand on her ‘sparrow-leg’ thin fingers, aware that Ros’ cancer may well be further advanced than she was letting on. I caught John’s eye and we shared a terrible moment. ‘Do you want to talk to me about this? I know you’re going to be fine, but I’ll get into contact with Pam and perhaps we can meet up for coffee if she has time. ‘
Rosalind sighed. ‘The House Organisers should have her unit ready for her by Sunday afternoon, but she’s planning on coming down here to see me on that morning. She had tenants, but they moved out yesterday.’
Over the years, I have encountered victims of every age, sex and social strata, and criminals both vile and petty. Body language is second nature to me and I knew my dear friend was very worried indeed.
With David off up on the Darling Downs and Rosalind facing a life-saving operation, surely nothing more could go awry?
CHAPTER 7
Rehearsal with a Swine
Pam
Saturday, 3.45AM
No matter how long I’ve been awake staring into the darkness or reading, I always lurch into wakefulness with heart-pounding shock when the alarm clock goes off. I fumbled for the switch until the buzzing stopped, squinted at the dial and cringed. Someone had set the alarm for 3.45am.
When I was about twelve and staying on Masters Island with my best friend Ally and her mother, Aunt Eloise, we used to sneak the alarm clock into our room, set it for three o’clock and stow it under one of our pillows. When it was my turn, I always woke up, stabbed at the “off” button with shaking fingers, scared that Ally’s mother, Aunt Eloise, would hear it and come to investigate.
Quivering with excitement, we would get dressed and sneak out into the moonlight – it was always a full moon the nights we went prowling – and roam at will on the island. It never occurred to us that we might come across someone who would hurt us, even though the island had lots of holiday makers most of the year round, for didn’t we always take our dogs along on our adventures? Fortunately we didn’t come to any harm, the most punishment incurred being the delicious secrets – neighbours being in places they shouldn’t, for example – that we couldn’t tell for fear of getting into trouble ourselves. Our mothers were horrified when we confessed years later of the scams we got up to at night.
A vestige of light shone through the window; I glanced around the room remembering I was Goldie’s guest and the major concert of my tour was tonight! I yawned, hauled myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom feeling like a squashed beetle. Downstairs the sound of the electric jug coming to the boil indicating Goldie was up, getting ready to go out early on a photo shoot. I would join her for a cup of coffee and then get back to bed.
Doing a tour is exhausting as well as exhilarating. Perhaps there would be time for a nap after rehearsal with a Russian wolf and a run through with the orchestra. My reflection in the mirror, drowned in toothpaste and tangled hair didn’t inspire confidence in my ability to ‘scrub up.’ When I got downstairs, Goldie was downstairs drinking coffee, her camera and tripod nearby.
‘Help yourself, love. I’m going to nick off and take some shots of the river at the bottom of the park and the ferry terminal.’ She jerked her head in the general direction of the park. ‘I’ve got to do an article and get some photos of the river and the rowers for KRL magazine in California. Only a small job, but it all helps and it won’t take long. It’ll be light soon. There’s eggs and bacon in the fridge, so just help yourself.’ She nodded at the dress which I had slung over shoulder. ‘The ironing board’s in the laundry and the iron’s in the cupboard.’
She poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, went to the backdoor and pulled on her boots. ‘Okay, see you in a coupla hours!’ She gathered up her gear.
‘Oh Goldie, have you a spare message stick I can use later today?’
‘I haven’t got a spare one on me, but I’ll get one from the office while I’m out this morning and give it to you this arvo. I’ll leave it in the fruit bowl.’ She pointed to the all-purpose shallow bowl on the counter, filled with bits and pieces. ‘Do you want to borrow a camera?’
Goldie went to a cupboard and took a professional-looking camera off the shelf. ‘You can take my Nikon 2. I left it in the car the other day and I’ve got my new 4 here, so I don’t need it!’
‘Crikey, Goldie, this looks too good for me!’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s my old one. If you lose it or break it, it’s insured.’
‘Well, thanks so much. I’ll look after it, believe me. I need to be at the concert hall early for rehearsal. I should be back here by two. How do the buses run around here?’ I sold my car before I went overseas last spring. Note to self: get car ASAP.
Goldie shucked her keys over to me. ‘Here, take my car. I’ll catch the bus into town later and walk. I don’t have to be anywhere else this morning.’
Gratefully, I put the keys on the bench beside me and hurried upstairs to put the camera in my carry bag to leave in the car for later. Goldie disappeared down the back garden to the laneway. I picked up my coffee mug and turned to go back up to bed, eyeing my basic, stand-by navy draped over the back of a chair. Boring, boring – but it would just have to do.
*
10.30am
I hunted out the musician’s swipe card sent to me by my agent and headed through the morning traffic to the Concert Hall at Southbank. The river air was fresh; I drew a deep, appreciative lungful. Shopkeepers were running up the shutters and putting out merchandise; people bustling to work. Saturday was as busy as any other day in Brisbane. I pulled into a vacant space near the lift, gathered my flute case and briefcase. Unaccountably, nerves struck. Could I “cut it” after two years away?
Vacuum-wielding cleaning staff made a maroon path for me, as an anxious-eyed young woman of about my own age popped out of a doorway, carrying a sheaf of papers. Her eyes widened when she saw me. ‘Hello, you must be Ms Miller. I’m Joan Hamilton, the admin assistant. I’ll take you down to Mr Seymour. He wants to introduce you to Vladimir Rezanov, and Lance MacPherson will be in to rehearse the orchestra’s item with you after that. W
e’re at sixes and sevens here this morning because they’ve all just come back from short breaks. Mr Seymour has been away for a couple of weeks, Vlad – er – Mr Rezanov, well I’m not sure when he got in to Brisbane, and Lance has been here since early this morning.’
I was grateful for a friendly face, because meeting a well-known musician for the first time is always stressful for me. What is it about ourselves that we can’t recognise when we are worthy of being in such hallowed company? I allowed Joan to usher me back into the lift. ‘So, has Rezanov arrived for rehearsal yet?’ I asked, hoping to elicit gossip.
She blushed, rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Oh yes, he’s here. Have you met him before?’ Hm, I fear you’re too old, Joan.
‘No, I haven’t.’ I was also curious to “suss out” the manager of the Concert Hall and the conductor.
We stepped into the lift and headed down to the dressing rooms. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the clatter of dishes, presumably in the canteen. Voices echoed along the corridor to the dressing rooms; I became aware of a brawl in progress. Although I speak reasonable French, Italian and German, this could only be Russian. Rezanov‘s throwing a tantrum – or perhaps he’s just discussing the soccer. I didn’t have to sneak up on them, the noise he and whomever he was bellowing at were making enough for an army. Joan slowed and grabbed my arm. ‘Hang on, Pam.’
I disengaged myself and went to the door. Wondering whether to knock before stepping inside, I was riveted by the words ‘Puking Pam’ followed by more tirades. Russian didn’t have to be a language I understood. The contemptuous snarl with which the words pronounced my nickname revealed what Rezanov thought of me. Curling my hands in the ‘kill’ position, I charged into the room. Two men watched, while the third strode back and forth. Dark-eyed, totally gorgeous and sporting designer stubble, Rezanov swung around.
After Ariel: It started as a game Page 6