After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  I smiled an acknowledgement and charged to the window, running into an artfully placed, gilded, pink-padded chair. ‘Have you got that in my size?’

  She looked me up and down. ‘Yes Ma’am, we’ve got larger sizes too.’

  Now, I am not a ‘big’ woman, just tall, but I let it pass. She went to the rack, rummaged through and suddenly there it was, the dress in the window and in my size.

  Dressing rooms are the very devil for changing. I jack-knifed to get my shoes and jeans off – plenty of practice in aircraft toilets – and dragged my sweaty t-shirt over my head. Hoping I wouldn’t leave wet marks on the fabric, I carefully slid the garment down and smoothed it over my hips.

  ‘Come out so I can get a look at you!’ shouted Tia. She was standing so close to the door, I was surprised she didn’t fall through it.

  I faced the mirror at the end of the shop.

  For a long moment we gazed at my reflection. ‘It looks amazing with your hair,’ she whispered. I swayed from side to side, sending the fabric swirling. The tiny amber beads scattered across the golden handkerchief skirt caught the light, shooting shards of fire around the walls. ‘Does it wear me or do I wear it?’The last thing I wanted to do was look as though I was trying too hard.

  Tia laughed. ‘Oh no, it’s awesome!’ She reached up and pulled my long rivulets of hair gently back into a careless knot. ‘Going somewhere special tonight?’

  ‘Yes. I’m performing at the concert hall. I have a navy dress which would do, but...’I narrowed my eyes and turned side-on trying to pull my stomach in.

  ‘You’re Pamela Miller!’ Tia’s shriek almost sent me into orbit. ‘My girlfriend and I are going to your concert for my birthday.’ Her face fell. ‘Grant – he’s my boyfriend – hates classical music.’

  ‘I’m playing a couple of items with Rezanov and two with the Pacific.’

  ‘Oh my God, isn’t he gorgeous?’ Her face turned bright pink; her grin left the Cheshire cat’s in the shade. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Well, he’s just like his photos and he’s a bit of a handful.’ I wasn’t sure what else to say about him; I didn’t want to burst her bubble. He’s a bit mad, actually.

  Tia’s eyes grew dreamy, but then she snapped back to sales-girl mode. ‘You’ll need special earrings to go with this.’ Her gaze roved across the glass-topped counter under which was a glittering mass of costume jewellery. In my excitement, I hadn’t realised the shop also stocked handbags and shoes. She opened the back of the display, paused for a moment, hand hovering over the contents, then, like a Shearwater diving for fish, swooped on a pair of earrings. ‘Try these! What size shoes do you wear?’ Hardly waiting for me to say ‘Ten,’ she scuttled to the back wall of the shop where she proceeded to open boxes, peer inside and reject the contents after a second’s glance.

  I moved close to the mirror, took out my current pearl studs and replaced them with sparkling Citrine flowers. ‘Awesome!’ Tia appeared beside me holding a pair of golden high-heeled sandals. ‘Come on, try these!’ she instructed enthusiastically, holding out her hand to support me as I slipped them on. We turned to face the mirror. A glowing, fiery column of woman looked back at me. I knew that if I presented this well without my hair and makeup done, then just how – I looked at a grinning Tia – “amazing” would I look that night?

  Carefully, we packed the dress, shoes and earrings into carrier bags and I paid an amount which could have covered a Shire Council debt. ‘Tia, have you got your tickets yet?’

  ‘No, we’re buying them at the door.’ Oh dear, why hadn’t they thought to book?

  I opened my shoulder bag and groped around inside. ‘Here’s a couple of complimentary tickets. ’ I signed the back of them, then scribbled in the back of my diary and tore the page out. ‘This will get you backstage and if we can drag Rezanov out of his cave, I’ll make sure you get to meet him.’ A lump of raw meat should do it.

  I passed over the tickets and the note. ‘Oh, my God! Awesome!’ Tia screamed, almost squeezing me to death.

  ‘Just get there in plenty of time as the queues can be horrendous. It’s better if you come early. After the concert I’ll be busy, but show the backstage doorman the note. See you tonight.’

  Tia was texting before I got out the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Concert

  Dingo

  Saturday, 7PM

  Flushed with excitement, the pulsing crowd of well-fed, cashed-up music lovers flooded the foyer. The bar staff’s arms and hands worked like threshing machines as they served everything from beer to Squashed Frog, a risky choice if the ladies weren’t used to it. Most of them regarded it as mother’s milk.

  Dingo stood off to the side of the stage as he looked at the rows of carefully placed seats for the orchestra – particularly where he would be – and the podium for the conductor, Lance McPherson. Tremors fluttered through him. Were Ariel’s parents back from Mackay yet? How long would it be before they realised she wasn’t at home – or anywhere? He’d never been in this position before and in spite of his OCD, had always coped without anyone knowing. Until, now, no girl had made him lose his composure. His heart ached as her lovely face sprang into his mind. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.

  There’d been nothing on the six o’clock news about her being discovered. Perhaps the cops were keeping it quiet for a while. He was surprised that someone’s dog – or a council park attendant – hadn’t found her. The undergrowth was pretty thick near the edge of the river; he remembered catching his parka on something. A chill swept through him as he pondered the possibility of having left a thread behind. Too late now...a member of the orchestra passed by, looking at him strangely. Had she spoken to him? She must have, because she shrugged and kept going. No, breathe, that’s it breathe. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  The orchestra filed in, took their places and sat to tune their instruments on the note, A, from the First Oboist. The conductor walked to the podium to enthusiastic clapping; the concert was underway.

  Motionless, he absorbed the glorious sounds into his mind and body, forcing his fear into oblivion. By the end of the symphony which opened the evening performance, he had managed to thrust the horror of dawn and the memory of the photographer who had been taking shots of the park and the river banks. Instead, visions of his holiday burst forth...the surf breaking on the sand, the early morning sun warming his skin...dogs snuffling excitedly past, out with their jogging owners...

  Clapping brought him out of his thoughts. He was close enough to spot a young girl in the audience looking at him. ‘Having a kip were you?’ she mouthed, grinning. He smiled back, his eyes alighting on her soft, red mouth. The audience coughed and rustled with anticipation then burst into applause as the young conductor came back. Dingo resisted the urge to hold his hands over his ears as a wave of clapping thundered throughout the auditorium. One, two, three four...sixseveneightnineten. The conductor raised his baton for the music to begin. The lead in from the orchestra heightened the tension as the glorious notes of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No 20 in D Minor filled the vast hall. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the music and performance, he forgot everything that had happened on this terrible day. His subconscious mind counted every beat, anticipated every note – but though numbers were his obsession, he forgot even that.

  The second movement, the Romance, brought him back to the here and now and as the movement ended and the third and last started, suddenly he became impatient for it to finish. Why did they have to have an interval? Couldn’t this lot sit on their arses for a bit longer? Anger and exhaustion surged through him; the day’s events would no longer be denied...

  Her lovely face, laughing and chatting. ‘So Dingo, tell me your real name? Come on, you owe me!’ She brought out a bottle of diet Coke and proceeded to pour him a glass. Gratefully, he took it and made a laughing reference to being a mystery man – for how could he tell her his real name? Sometimes he was glad he didn’t have friends when he was young,
because the bullies would have mauled him in the playground. Then he would remember watching, through the upstairs window of the music room, the other kids go by for school, laughing and hitting each other with their schoolbags, longing to join them. Surely anything was better than the loneliness of his life...her beautiful face changed from laughing to a grimace...

  The applause brought him back to the present. Had he made a fool of himself? Apparently not! The acknowledgement from the audience went on and on – endless bowing and smiling – when would it ever end? He had never wanted to escape so badly.

  When interval came, he scurried backstage and moved to the plate glass window looking out over the steps where people, wrapped in stylish coats, braved the night air. Beyond the expanse of lawn, the water rippled all colours from the city lights. Have they found her yet?

  The bell for the second half rang through the foyer. He watched his fellow musicians take their places. What would they do if they knew they were playing alongside a murderer? He forced down nausea.

  The rustling and coughing ceased. Tension filled the hall and before he realised it, a column of flame stood on the stage in front of them. Tall and slender, blonde hair upswept, her earrings pinpoints of light igniting the glowing dress, glittering lights flashing from the bodice and skirt. The audience gasped; thunderous applause ensued. Mesmerised, his gaze dropped to where the sexiest golden shoes he had ever seen flashed fire on her feet.

  Pamela Miller, flautist.

  A wave of Ariel’s perfume reached him and suddenly he was transported back to the park. His heart started to pound. Sweat pricked under his suit coat and his collar restricted his breathing. He gazed at Pamela’s delicately painted toes, the diamonds glittering around her ankle. His eyes travelled up to her slender hips and as he looked into her beautiful face, his mind spun out of control. He daren’t allow panic to overtake him. Was the photographer her sister? Did Pamela have a sister? Perhaps someone just like her...onetwothreefourfive...Pamela might be related to the woman, but when he focused he could see that not only was she taller, but the photographer had shoulder-length hair.

  Relieved, his attention snapped back to the girls below him before returning to the matter in hand. Control... control...two, four, six, eight...He grappled for his handkerchief – A gentleman is never without a freshly laundered and ironed cotton handkerchief, my darling – and pressed it to his mouth to force back screams...go away you old cow... catching Pamela’s eye, he pretended to cough and looked down into the audience once more.

  The two girls were incandescent with excitement, one of them even going so far as to wave to Pamela, whose face lit up with pleasure as she smiled down at them. She knows them? The flautist turned to the rest of the audience acknowledging the applause. Did she see me with Ariel? A shaft of fear struck him. He forced himself to hide any emotion. He rubbed his hand over his thighs to keep them from shaking.

  Pamela Miller raised the flute to her lips. Within minutes, the audience was transfixed by the beauty of the music, swelling throughout the concert hall – mesmerising, magical.

  Ariel was forgotten.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jeffrey Triumphant.

  Saturday, 9.10PM.

  Deep in Jeffrey’s doggy brain lurked a vague memory of something exciting hidden under a pile of bushes at the top of an embankment near the water. ‘Jeffrey! Jeffrey? Where are you?’ Robert Simkins shone his powerful flashlight around the park.

  Snuffling his way along, his tail wagged faster as the scent got stronger. Yum. It was almost more than a daffy dog could bear! He snorted his way forward and there it was: the pile of bushes and leaves. Jeffrey wasn’t about to let his treasure go. He barged into the centre of the pile, dug deep and tossed his head, sending a flap of old sacking into the air. Branches of every size and leaves flew in every direction. Seeing his quarry, he pounced.

  ‘Jeffrey! Get out of there, you dozy animal!’

  Jeffrey held another sandal in his drooling jaws. Torchlight flashed over him, passed on and then veered back and down; behind the dog, lay part of a jeans-clad body. Quaking, Simkins moved forward as though in a dream and gingerly moved aside the top branch to see a still form underneath – a young girl, glossy dark hair hiding her face, arms folded across her chest as though she was asleep.

  He had never seen anything like it; he felt sick. Drugs? A recollection from CSI reminded him that a dead person usually didn’t fold their arms neatly in front of their body, unless of course, it was suicide. He didn’t dare look any further in case he found needles or something, but the unwelcome realisation dawned that someone had covered this person up after they’d died. He shuddered. Dimly, he remembered from some TV program, that he shouldn’t touch evidence with his bare hand, but how else was he to take it from the dog?

  Shaking from head to toe, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, grabbed Jeffrey’s collar and, wrapping the material around his hand, wrenched the – thing – from his dog’s mouth and dropped it on the grass. He had fastened the leash to Jeffrey’s collar and wrapped the end around his wrist, when he remembered: ‘Oh no, the other shoe this morning!’ His heart sank when he recalled grabbing the mate off his dog and casually chucking it in the bin at the back of his house. Fortunately, the garbage collection wasn’t due for a few days. He became aware that the night air was bitter, buttoned up his coat and pulled the hood over his head. Shivering, he took out his mobile phone.

  Jeffrey, deprived of his prize, flopped onto his well-padded, furry bum to commence an intimate and vigorous cleaning regime.

  CHAPTER 10

  Call Out

  Susan

  Saturday, 9.45PM

  My mobile cut the conversation in mid-sentence. What else would it be but work on a chilly autumn night when I was well fed, sitting in front of the fire in the company of my sister and good friend, talking about our men and our children?

  ‘Susan?’ The voice of the Incident Commander from Comco spoiled the ambience of the moment well and truly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The body of a young woman has turned up in West End, down by the river near the old boatshed. Forensics’re on the way.’ He filled me in on the exact location, gave me command and hung up. Cursing silently, I turned to my sister, Melanie and our friend, Briony. ‘Sorry, ladies. A body’s been found in West End.’

  Guilt assailed me. Someone’s daughter, sister or perhaps girlfriend was lost forever, and I was cranky about leaving my friends? I gave myself a mental scolding and tried to switch to professional mode.

  Briony looked hopeful. ‘Do you want me to come?’

  ‘No, not tonight, but you’ll probably end up there tomorrow.’

  Briony Feldman was shaping up to be a very fine officer. We had met two years previously when she’d been contracted to write the autobiography of the eccentric, lustful Sir Arthur Robinson, at the country town of Emsberg. A historian, she had been disenchanted by the job, but fascinated with the murder investigations swirling around us. Having bonded over coffee, cakes and a funeral, my suggestion that she join the police force was enthusiastically embraced. Now stationed at West End, she is a uniformed constable.

  Dressed in heavy polar fleece pants, boots, a T-shirt and warm coat, I grabbed my shoulder bag and keys and raced out the door. Melanie and Briony would let the dogs out for their nightly constitutional, lock up and troop off to bed when they were ready.

  The roads were all but deserted as I sped to town and joined the mainstream traffic into the CBD. The lights from the concert hall shimmered coldly on the river as I crossed the bridge, wishing I could have been part of the audience.

  Uniform had set up the crime scene and Forensics arrived as I pulled up. The generator for the portable lighting chugged, a background to the voices of the forensic team. The chilly night air of the river hit me as I stepped out of my car. Zipping my coat, I pulled the hood over my head, hoisted my shoulder bag off the passenger seat and walked to the tape. Jacketless and shivering, the
young constable keeping the crime scene log moved to meet me, but I told him to wait and trudged back to my car to get an old gardening jacket of David’s. He smiled his gratitude and scrambled into the grubby garment, before inspecting my ID, logging me onto the crime scene and lifting the tape for me to duck under.

  A familiar face greeted me. ‘What’s the “go” here, Al?’

  ‘Ma’am. The call was logged at 21.10 by Triple 0. The body is that of a female person.’ He looked at his notebook. ‘Caller’s name, Robert Simkins. Dog found a shoe –he waved at a bulky, plastic-wrapped exhibit lying on a small tarpaulin – ‘and then uncovered the body. Apparently the dog found the matching one this morning, around 0500, but Simkins chucked it in the bin at home thinking it was discarded by a drunk. We’ve sent a car around to get it. He saw no one anywhere near the body when it was uncovered.’

  ‘Right, thanks, Al. I’ll talk to Mr Simkins in a moment.’

  He moved away to instruct a search in the grass for anything interesting. I opened my mobile and phoned my partner, Evan, who would arrange for the members of my first team to come in. Fortunately most of them lived within the city precincts. As soon as I finished the call, I walked toward the body, careful not to impinge on forensics. Invisible beyond the spotlights, the sound of the river lapping at the bank made me shiver.

  The young woman lay on the ground, arms folded over her chest as though prepared for burial, brilliantly lit by the portable lighting. One leg was straight but the other had been pulled sideways. Sexual assault? She was fully clothed, so it didn’t seem likely.

  I bent down and peered at the graven face, eyes half-open, and opaque. There was no telling what colour they were, but her skin and dark hair spoke of possibly Italian or Spanish descent. Dark marks around her nose and mouth – were they the result of bruising? Or dirt? I wasn’t close enough to be sure. Shadow obscured her throat. I looked at the girl’s feet. Had the dog dragged both shoes off or...no, the bottom of the nearest foot was grass-stained, so she’d taken her shoes off before she died. I straightened as Al came back. ‘Handbag? Tote bag? Mobile phone? Anything?’