After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  ‘No sign of a bag or phone. The “perp” must have taken them. Maybe a mugging.’ He sighed. ‘What a waste.’

  A forensic specialist moved up beside me. ‘Inspector, I need to get in here.’ She bent down, a blue boiler-suited and booted figure, took a pair of latex gloves out of a sealed bag and proceeded to blow into each one before sliding her hand in, flexed her fingers, then squatted down and opened a box of specimen jars. Just then, John Lynch, the government pathologist stopped beside me. ‘Hello Susan, haven’t seen you for a long time!’ We’d met over drinks only a week previously.

  Ignoring his attempt at levity, I ploughed ahead. ‘Have you any idea how she died as yet? Just a preliminary heads-up will do.’

  He bent over the forensic officer’s shoulder and spoke quietly to her. Straightening up, he drew me away a short distance. A whimper and wriggling movement alerted me to outsiders. Following my gaze, John smiled. ‘That’s Jeffrey who found the body and his owner who called it in.’ A middle-aged man squatted beside the Labrador stroking his head. I turned my attention back to John.

  ‘It appears she’s been dragged’ – he pointed to a barely discernible track along the ground–from there – and it looks as though the perp piled the bushes over her here. Rigor is full on, so she’s been dead anywhere between twelve and sixteen hours, depending on the temperature. We’ll need to get her back to base and see what’s what. Sorry I can’t be more specific, Susan, but I’ll let you know as soon as possible. Bruise marks around her mouth and bloodshot eyes. Her sternum felt caved in. No obvious sign of rape, no obvious track marks anywhere but again, we’ll know when we do the post mortem. I’d say, off the record, it’s more than a mugging. Okay? I’ll give you a full report ASAP.’ He turned away before I could thank him.

  I moved over to Simkins introduced myself. The dog leapt at me, tail wagging, but his owner pulled him back by his lead with trembling hands.

  ‘Do you walk in this area of the park often, Mr Simkins?’

  ‘Quite often. I live at the end of the road at 68. I try to take Jeffrey for a walk before I start work.’

  ‘And today was different for some reason? And what time did you find the shoe this morning?’

  He looked puzzled for a moment and then realised my meaning. ‘It was around eight o’clock or eight fifteen, I think. I cut Jeffrey’s walk short, so I took him out tonight. It’s late because I was finishing up some work after dinner. My wife and children are away visiting her sister, so I was on my own in the house. Good chance to work without any interruptions. I’m an architect and work from home most of the time...it was actually a sandal, Inspector.’

  So, the girl was dead well before eight. ‘When you were out this morning, did you see or hear anyone in or near the park? Someone walking along the footpath or boats on the river?’

  Simkins stared into the darkness for what seemed like forever. ‘It was deserted, Inspector. Not even joggers were out, but they don’t often come this far down the park. No footpath, you see.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

  I glanced back down the grassy expanse. He was right. The footpath finished some three hundred metres away. I sighed. No CCTV footage then, something confirmed by a nearby uniformed officer, unless the girl and her companion had walked past the cameras down near the ferry terminus. ‘Thank you for your patience in waiting for us, sir, and I must commend you for calling us. Some wouldn’t want to get involved. We would appreciate your coming in to headquarters to sign a statement tomorrow morning. It will only be a formality, but where paperwork’s concerned, needs must.’

  I handed him my card. He responded to the charm I applied to the occasion and with a, ‘Come Jeffrey, home,’ he left.

  As members of my team arrived, I sent them to roust out the nearest neighbours. A chilly night meant that most people would be inside watching TV although a few people, perhaps smokers banished from their homes to puff in isolation, stood in an interested clump behind the checked barrier. A few shouts indicated members of the press, but we ignored them.

  ‘Okay, we’ll need to see the tapes from all of the CCTV cameras down near the terminal. Pity about this end...’ Evan stood beside me, frowning as he made notes.

  Had the perpetrator deliberately chosen this end of the park, with its trees and long grass for his, or her, crime? Most murders of young women are men, and instinct said this one was no exception.

  CHAPTER 11

  Glowing Success!

  Pam

  Saturday, 10.30PM

  I couldn’t believe the concert had gone so well. Not once had I experienced a twinge of nerves – well, no more than any performer would have under the circumstances. Rezanov had been a considerate and expert partner in our combined items; performing solo with the orchestra had been a joy.

  I was happy to see the girl from the dress shop and her friend in the audience and from the expression on their faces they’d had a wonderful time. I was puzzled by the empty seat beside them. Goldie had been sitting there at the start of the program. Perhaps she had moved somewhere else, maybe to take photos. You’d better have a good excuse, madam, and those photos had better be good!

  But the one thing which excited me above all else, and almost made me miss my cue, was seeing my closest friend and “pseudo” sister, Ally and her husband, Briece Mochrie, in the front row of the audience! “See you later,” Ally mouthed to me, grinning and nudging Brie.

  When I reached the dressing rooms after the concert, Tia and her friend, Rose, arrived at my door first, quivering with excitement. ‘So you enjoyed the music?’ I asked, as they squeezed into the double seat beside my make-up bench. I placed the huge sheaf of flowers with which I was presented, on a side table, carefully moving the bouquet from Mum and John so it didn’t get swamped.

  ‘Ooh yes, and you looked awesome!’ They ran their hands over the petals of the gladiolas. ‘What’re you going to do with these?’

  ‘Take them home with me and thank you, Tia, the dress did the trick didn’t it?’

  I glanced down at my dress, admiring the glitter which looked as expensive as it was, even in the neon light in the dressing room. Just then, someone knocked. Excited gasps alerted me to the fact that Rezanov had arrived. It was with great pleasure that I trapped him long enough to introduce the girls. To his credit, he was charming and patient with their exuberance, wishing Tia a happy birthday. Beaming, they got his autograph and left with promises from me to visit the shop at my earliest convenience.

  We looked at each other steadily for a long moment. God, the man was a work of art. ‘Pam, you were superb tonight. I’m very impressed!’ Then he spoiled the moment with an impatient glance at his watch. ‘They’re waiting for us in the foyer. Better get going.’ I spun the chair around and scuffled for my gorgeous, licentious shoes. His eyes widened. I hoped they sent a lying message that there was someone available to appreciate them in private.

  He led the way out of the room, holding the door back for me and marched along to the lift where he leaned against the wall, arms folded defensively over his cummerbund, pouting in glorious splendour. A cloud of Rezanov groupies would undoubtedly be awaiting their prey in the main foyer. The large group of musicians waiting before us engaged me in conversation, glancing somewhat nervously at Himself. Unable to join the crush in the lift, I stood back to wait until it returned. I tried smiling at my companion. Receiving no response, I stuck my tongue out at him. A tiny smile twitched fleetingly at the corner of his sublime mouth.

  ‘Oh come on, Rezanov. It would be worse if no one bothered to wait for you, wouldn’t it? Then you’d have something to really pout about.’

  He glared at me. ‘You love this, don’t you? The applause...the...’ words appeared to fail him.

  ‘Of course I do. If it weren’t for these people I wouldn’t have a career and neither would you, mate!’

  He was silent for a moment then snapped, ‘Are you dating that idiot?’

  ‘Which idiot are you talking ab
out? Is there another one in the building other than yourself?’

  ‘Seymour.’

  ‘Is he an idiot per se, or have you got it in for him because he called your bluff when you threw a tantie this morning?’

  He had the good grace to look sheepish and a tinge of red darkened his gorgeous face. ‘Ah, no, of course not. Are you going out with him?’

  ‘I’ll go out with him if he asks me. Not that it’s any of your business!’ The lift doors slid open and we stepped in. I leaned against the back wall, concentrating on the level numbers – as you do.

  ‘Is what Seymour said about you true?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That you could have taken my place in the concert tonight?’

  I didn’t want to admit just how long ago it was since I’d chosen the flute professionally instead of the piano and that now I only accompanied other musicians or played for fun. ‘Well, I have given a few piano recitals, but I’ve heard Seymour himself could have played the concert if he wanted. He joins an ensemble from time to time.’

  He stared into my face for what felt like forever, then grunted and broke eye contact. I thought I saw a smidgeon of relief on his face. Hiding a smile, I stepped ahead of him into the foyer to the applause of what seemed like hundreds of people. Within seconds we were swamped by well-wishers anxious to discuss the performance and obtain autographs.

  Ally and Brie arrived at my side and we hugged until our breath left us. Ally was so excited that her words tumbled over each other. They congratulated me and Ally screamed enthusiastically over my dress. Brie rolled his eyes when his wife chortled over my shoes. ‘You were wonderful, Pammy! You’re still coming to supper in the city after this aren’t you? We’ve been looking forward to it.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ve been looking forward to it too. When did you get here? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming to this concert?’

  ‘We didn’t want to spoil the surprise, Pammy darling.’

  ‘Where’s the brats?’ I asked referring to their over-active two year old twin sons.

  ‘Oh, Brie’s parents have them for the night!’

  I thought about that for a moment. Ally and Brie’s identical twins are reminiscent of Kipling’s Bandarlog – much given to pelting each other with fruit and falling to fighting amongst themselves. Ally’s eyes twinkled. She knew me well. ‘Don’t worry, Lara’s there too. We’ll wait for you to finish up here and take you in with us.’

  I laughed. Brie’s sister is more than a match for the boys. ‘I have Goldie’s car tonight. I’ll just ask her if she wants to come as well,’ I said, casting my eyes around the room.

  With a cheery wave, the two of them vanished to the bar. Signing what appeared to be the last of hundreds of programs, I was still looking for my cousin, when Goldie materialised at my side. ‘Pammy, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. Harry had to leave at the beginning because they found a body in West End in the park near your place. I went with him. Will you forgive me?’ Harry?

  A tiny intake of breath nearby alerted me to something not quite right, but Goldie touched me on the arm to keep my attention and continued. ‘A young girl. Harry Brown, my mate on the Courier Mail, got the heads-up from one of the cops that they think she might have been crushed to death.’ Horror lurked in her eyes, but I knew that Goldie, ever the reporter, couldn’t have resisted going with him.

  ‘I hope they find out who did it. Her poor family.’ We shared a moment of sorrow, before I was distracted.

  ‘Pam, can you come with me, please? The directors want a photo with you and Vlad.’ Bill Seymour was suddenly standing beside me, looking from Goldie to me in confusion. I hastened to introduce them. He was very gracious, but he led me away before I could say anything more.

  The directors and sponsors stood with their Gucci-clad, bejewelled wives in the centre of the foyer, beaming with triumph and alcohol-fuelled good will. Rezanov, who had also been rounded up, was standing beside the young conductor, Lance MacPherson; both looked about to bolt. Their eyes latched onto my waist as Bill gently guided me toward them. Rezanov snorted and glared at us; Lance glanced at him thoughtfully and then back at me. The Russian opened his mouth, but thankfully, before trouble could break out, the directors were upon us and we were shunted into position for the official photo, which would no doubt appear in the Sunday paper supplement.

  I couldn’t wait to get away from the fuss, so when Goldie rushed up to me and said she was off home – she would catch up with Ally and Brie tomorrow – and would catch a taxi I was relieved. Now I could leave too. She was gone before I could suggest she take her car; I would get Ally and Brie to take me back to the house after supper.

  Autograph hunters and members of the orchestra distracted me. When I finally came up for air, Rezanov, Seymour and Macpherson had left, presumably womanising in the city.

  CHAPTER 12

  Unravelling

  Dingo

  Saturday, 11PM

  It was the photographer! He looked closely at the beautiful woman talking to the flautist, a great lump of ice forming in his chest, travelling into his belly. Had she recognised him? No, all her attention had been on Pamela Miller. They looked like sisters – perhaps they were. Whatever, Pamela obviously knew the woman well and now he had that to worry about too. Long schooled at hiding his feelings, he kept his expression under control, but before he had decided what to do, she headed for the front doors of the complex. Goldie was her name; at least he’d gotten that much information.

  Sliding through the crowd, Dingo hurried after her, trying not to look as though he was in pursuit. What if she had a car? Out of my way, you old bags! Restraining the urge to push a gossiping pair of matrons aside, he dashed down the steps after her. Must keep back, she’ll see me.

  That the woman might have downloaded the photos of the park didn’t occur to him; all he could think about was how he could get the camera. He realised that he was getting too close, but just as he was about to let her get ahead, she hailed a taxi. Thinking quickly, he held his program up, angled so that the streetlight fell across it, as though trying to read the print.

  Her words came clearly through the night. ‘13A Geroge.’ With that, she climbed into the cab and was gone. He couldn’t believe it. On the one hand, he’d lodged in Geroge Street as a student. It wasn’t far from the hotel and about two kilometres from where Ariel lived – had lived. On the other, it was number thirteen. Terror swept through him. How could he possibly...tennineeightseven...he had to take hold of himself, regardless of the number. It was just a number, right?

  Adrenalin pumped through his veins. He saw a bus coming toward him. From living in the area previously as a student, he knew that route would take him to the bottom end of the suburb. He whipped his bow tie off and stuffed it in his pocket, undid the top two buttons of his shirt and ruffled his hair. At least he looked as though he’d been out for the night, perhaps to dinner or the pub.

  There were only two people on the bus, but he kept his head down, ostensibly reading the program in his hand. The bus driver had been talking to someone outside the window as he got on and hadn’t even seen him use his Go Card. He had to talk his way into the photographer’s home and get that camera.

  In spite of his compulsive obsessive disorder – or because of it – Dingo was able to compartmentalise his thoughts. He was proud of that. Ariel, as per his therapist’s instructions on how to handle problems, was now neatly packaged into a box he called “Grief,” to be dealt with if or when it arose again. The foremost box which required attention was the matter of the photos, which would put him with Ariel just before she...got into her box.

  Murderers always return to the scene of the crime, he’d read somewhere, but he had no urge to do so. Right then, his concentration was on keeping control of himself and of the situation. As long as there was an even number of everything in his immediate surroundings, he could cope. He put his head down and walked as fast as he dared, careful not to attract atte
ntion.

  Ten minutes later, he stopped a short way from the photographer’s two-storey, ‘tarted-up’ workman’s cottage. The street light was out, but he could see the chocolate-box-pretty building very well. Standing in the shadow of a tall shrub on the footpath beside the front gate, he thought about how to tackle his mission. Go straight up and ring the front door bell? Maybe wait until the lights went out and then break in. Did she have a pet? That could be a problem. He didn’t know what to do about a dog, because he couldn’t bear to hurt one.

  Disheartened, Dingo found himself counting to keep his courage up. He’d got to two hundred when all but one of lights went out downstairs, and after a moment or two, the upstairs light went on. He craned his head and checked the height of the balcony against the brick wall on the right hand side. Yes, it was doable, but she needed to settle down first. His heart quailed at the idea of scrambling up the fence and climbing onto the roof. There had to be another way.

  He slithered closer and peered along the garden fence, noting there was no gate into the back yard, only straight pathway all the way. A woman’s voice nearby startled him. Heart pounding, he shrank back into the shadows, fingering the tiny penlight in his pocket. Always be prepared, my darling... He squeezed the barrel of the torch. Shut up you old bag.

  The voice faded and he realised it was coming from the block of units to the left of the cottage. A light in the downstairs unit went out and silence fell. Could he introduce himself as friend of Pam? Or perhaps as a member of the Pacific Orchestra who wanted to catch up with Pam? No, that wouldn’t work. What if she phoned Pam to ask...maybe the best way was just to walk up to the door and enquire if someone else lived there. Perhaps she’d ask him in? No, she wouldn’t invite a stranger inside her house at this hour. Then he had an idea. He walked swiftly to the front gate of the units to where rows of letterboxes lined the wall. Cupping his hand over the beam, he shone the tiny light onto the names: Henderson, Wright, Meadows, Matthews – any one of those would do.