Dead Certain

by Claire McNab

  “An anonymous friend who claims to be a reporter?”

  “People do odd things,” said Anne, smiling.

  “Raeburn’s fingerprints were everywhere they should be, but if I were setting up a murder as suicide, I’d make sure of that anyway.”

  “But how would you get him to take all those tablets?”

  “That,” said Carol as they turned into Macquarie Street, “is where your creative imagination comes into play. Work out how you’d kill him, Anne, and while you’re about it, come up with a stunning motive.”

  The Conservatorium of Music, affectionately known as the Con, sat in Macquarie Street at the edge of the splendid greenery of the Royal Botanic Gardens. A squat white building, modeled on the gatehouse of a Scottish castle, its turreted towers looked bizarre but appealing.

  Carol and Anne Newsome were met at the entrance by Graeme Welton. He greeted them without enthusiasm, shaking hands briefly with Carol and nodding to Anne. His high voice and nasal twang seemed incongruous with his physical appearance. He was a bulky, thick-necked man with regular features and sparse mousy hair brushed forward, apparently to disguise his receding hairline.

  “Thought I’d meet you at the door. Never find me otherwise.” As he spoke, his fingers tugged at the lapels of his wine-red jacket, drifted across his face, pulled at an earlobe, smoothed his hair forward, finally coming to impatient rest in front of him, where he played, apparently unconsciously, elaborate finger games. Carol could see Anne staring at Welton’s hands; she herself inspected his face. He had ruddy skin, rather small but piercingly blue eyes, a wide, full-lipped mouth and a deep cleft in his chin.

  “I’m a little surprised,” said Carol, “that you knew I’d been put in charge of the case.”

  “Just heard it on the grapevine, Inspector.”

  It was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate. Carol said, “Is there somewhere we could go, Mr. Welton?”

  “Yes, of course. It’ll be cramped though. Practice room.”

  He led them at a fast pace, striding down the corridor with heavy steps. “In here. Your constable’ll have to stand.”

  The cramped practice room was untidy with music manuscripts, angular metal sheet music stands and ill-matched furniture. Welton perched on a high stool, Carol folded herself onto an ancient low leather chair, Anne Newsome stood against the dingy wall, notebook and pen ready.

  After gazing at Carol intently, he announced, “Well, Inspector, I’m impressed. You’re even better looking than you are on television. Mind, I’ve always had a weakness for green-eyed blondes.”

  “Thank you. Now, you said on the phone you had information about Mr. Raeburn’s death. When did you see him last?”

  His response to her brisk tone was an unexpectedly charming smile. “So I’ve no hope of disarming you with compliments?”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “Then I won’t persevere, Inspector.” He found a paper clip, and began to bend it out of shape. “Saw Collis on Friday afternoon. My place in Glebe.”

  When he didn’t seem inclined to expand on this, Carol said, “At the end of this interview it would be helpful if you’d give Sergeant Newsome a detailed schedule of your movements from Friday to Monday.”

  “Don’t tell me I need an alibi for Collis’s suicide?” he exclaimed in mock horror. “Frankly, I don’t have one.” He shot a glance at Anne. “Note that I spent the weekend working alone, Constable.”

  “Noted,” said Anne with the hint of a smile.

  He turned back to Carol. “And Inspector, don’t bother to say these questions are just routine. It’s such a tired old line.”

  “Why did Mr. Raeburn come to your place on Friday?”

  “We were discussing a current project of mine.”

  “Dingo?”

  “Well, well! You have been doing your homework.”

  Ignoring his facetious tone, she said, “I’ve been told there was some conflict about your new opera. In fact, that Mr. Raeburn didn’t want to sing in it.”

  Welton shrugged elaborately. “That’s what comes from listening to gossip, Inspector. You don’t get the story straight. It’s true Collis had some initial concerns, but they’d all been ironed out, so no matter what anyone might tell you, there were no ongoing problems. He was contracted to sing the lead male role, and he was perfectly happy to be doing it.”

  Carol said, “Collis Raeburn was a friend as well as a colleague?”

  “Yes. A close friend. We shared a great deal.” The staccato rhythm of his voice slowed as he went on reflectively, “Music, of course. I wrote much of my work with Collis in mind. But we also enjoyed many of the same things-test cricket, bodysurfing, gourmet French food…”

  “You said on the telephone that you had something of interest to tell me.”

  “Meaning that these musings aren’t of interest? Or perhaps you have other important interviews this afternoon?” When Carol didn’t respond, he went on, “Forgive me. I’m upset about Collis, of course. What I want to tell you concerns Edward Livingston. Know who he is?”

  Carol gave a measured smile. “It would be difficult not to know, considering the amount of publicity he generates. I happened to be one of the many who watched the telecast of his production of Nabucco at the Sports Ground, complete with Jerusalem, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and a cast of thousands.”

  Livingston was the controversial manager of the Eureka Opera Company. An Englishman, he’d been appointed over several qualified Australians vying for the position, and his abrasive manner and lack of reticence about his own abilities had ensured that his name was well-known even by people who had no interest in opera.

  No one could ignore his productions. Either he was staging huge spectacles in outdoor sites, or taking popular operas and changing them, to traditionalists, in some shocking way. Carol remembered with amusement the stir he’d created a few months before by altering Madame Butterfly from a love story between a Japanese geisha and an American naval officer to an encounter between a call girl and an extraterrestrial. Simulcast with an FM radio station, the live telecast had initially attracted huge ratings, but as the program went on, more and more viewers switched to other channels. Collis Raeburn had made a handsome, if somewhat unconvincing alien, while Butterfly had been sung by the prima donna of the Eureka Opera Company, Alanna Brooks.

  “He drove Collis to his death.”

  It seemed he was waiting for some response to this statement. Eventually Anne looked up from her notes, and he said to her, “Suppose that sounds too dramatic, but it’s true. Hounded him, never let him alone.”

  Carol said, “About what?”

  Welton drummed his fingers against a rickety music stand. “About everything. Livingston was disappointed at his Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly. Said his acting wasn’t up to scratch. Collis always had doubts about himself, no matter how successful he was. He didn’t need criticism-he needed building up, trust, optimism. Livingston was bad for him.”

  “You must be aware suicide is one possibility.” Carol waited for his acknowledging nod. “So are you suggesting Mr. Livingston’s attitude would be enough to push Collis Raeburn to the point of killing himself?”

  “No, no. Of course not. But it helped. Believe me, it helped.” He smoothed his hair, tugged at his collar. “Livingston never let him alone. Always finding something to pick at, something to criticize.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? The man can’t help himself. Has to tear down anyone greater than himself. He was jealous of Collis. Of his fame, if you like.”

  “But surely Mr. Livingston’s success depends on the talents of other artists. Isn’t it to his advantage that they be famous?”

  Welton tapped a fist against the palm of his other hand. “Secondary to him. It’s all secondary to him. The artists, the music, the whole thing. He has to be first. Always him.”

  His bitterness hung in the air. Carol waited. He didn’t continue. She said, “Do you have a personal grudge against
Edward Livingston?”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “Find someone who hasn’t!”

  Carol had decided to use Sykes and his professed public relations expertise after all: she had rerouted all calls from the media through him. When her phone rang she picked it up quickly, expecting the caller to be Sybil.

  “Mum?”

  “David! What a nice surprise.” She could hear her voice becoming uncustomarily gentle. “Why are you ringing me at the office, darling?”

  “About next weekend… Dad wants to talk to you.”

  She frowned as she listened to the mumbled conversation as her son handed the phone to Justin Hart.

  “Carol? How are you?” Her ex-husband’s loud, confident voice was as definite as he was in person. Without waiting for any response, he went on, “Look, sorry to do this with so little notice, but I’ve got a favor to ask. I’m going to a legal conference in Melbourne this coming weekend and through to Tuesday, and at the last moment it looks like Eleanor can come with me, so I was wondering if you’d be able to take David. Say if you can’t, of course. I realize you’re on the Raeburn thing-saw you interviewed.”

  “I’d love to. Anyway, Aunt Sarah’s coming down from the Blue Mountains tomorrow night for a week, and she’ll be staying with us, so it’ll work out well.”

  “Fine,” he said heartily. “Drop David over Saturday morning, then. That okay?”

  Carol was smiling with the delight of having David to herself for several days. “I’ll pick him up from your place, if you like.”

  “No, Carol. We’ll be on the way to the airport, so it won’t be any trouble. Hold on a moment…” She heard him say to David, “Go tell Eleanor it’s okay with Carol.” Back on the line, he said with a change of tone, “We do need to talk, sometime soon.”

  She took a deep breath, suspecting what he was about to say. “What about?”

  “About you. He has to know, Carol. And you have to be the one to tell him.”

  She shut her eyes. “All right, Justin. After you get back, we’ll talk.”

  His voice was again full of forceful certainty. “Great. Well, thanks for being so helpful. See you Saturday.”

  Before she could ask to speak to David again, he’d broken the connection. She sat looking at the phone. What could she tell her ten-year-old son that he would understand?

  As Carol was packing her briefcase, preparatory to a late departure for home, Anne Newsome came into her office. “No one named Oldfield works for the Sentinel, either permanently, or freelance. The closest names they could come up with are Oakley or Bradfield, but neither reporter had anything to do with the Raeburn story.”

  “And the morgue?”

  “Couldn’t get anything out of them. Of course their policy is to give no information to the public, so it’s not surprising that no one remembers a call from an Oldfield.”

  Carol snapped her briefcase shut. “Some reporters would have an inside working relationship with staff at the morgue-it’s the way things work. When you get a spare minute follow it up, but it’s not urgent, okay?”

  As she drove across the Harbour Bridge, mind in neutral, a conviction swam up into her consciousness. She felt a sudden thrill, as though she’d caught a glimpse of her quarry. Someone killed you. Cold-bloodedly. Carefully. And I’ll find out who…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Over breakfast, Sybil handed her a stiff rectangular card. “Forgot to show you this last night. It came addressed to both of us, so I opened it.”

  The embossed invitation requested the company of Carol Ashton and Sybil Quade at the wedding of Patricia James and Marcus Bourke at Balmoral Beach and afterwards at the Bathers Pavilion Restaurant at the same location. Carol smiled at the “Marcus,” wondering why Mark had let it through.

  “Carol? We’re going?”

  Don’t push it. Carol looked at the familiar lines of Sybil’s slim figure, the dusting of freckles across her nose, her direct, frank gaze, and felt a rush of anger. “Mark’s my friend. He wouldn’t understand if I didn’t go.”

  “That’s not what I mean. We’ve been asked together.”

  Carol flicked the card onto the kitchen bench. “Pat knows we live in the same house. It’d be stupid to send separate invitations.”

  “Carol…”

  Slamming her open palm on the bench top, Carol said, “As far as I’m concerned, we’re not going together-we’re going at the same time.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. Colleagues, superiors will be there. To all intents it’ll be a police wedding.”

  “And you can’t be seen with me.”

  “Not the way you want to be. I can’t do it, Sybil. You don’t understand. It’d stuff my career if I was openly a lesbian.”

  Sybil was as bitterly angry as Carol. “What do you think I’m going to do? Wear overalls and a Lesbian Nation T-shirt? Kiss every woman in sight passionately? Wave a placard telling everyone we’re lovers?”

  “Stop trying to manipulate me!”

  “Manipulate you? I wouldn’t know how to begin. You’re set like concrete, Carol. You won’t even listen, will you?”

  “Give me a break!”

  A pause, then Sybil said quietly, “This is too important to be yelling about. We should talk about it.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m sick of talking. You know what the situation is as far as my work’s concerned. Outside that, okay. But this wedding is work, Sybil.”

  “So that’s it?”

  To herself, Carol’s voice sounded cold and final. “That’s it.”

  “Murder?” repeated the Commissioner, heavy brows frowning. “I’ve seen Bannister’s initial report. Don’t see where you get that scenario, and I certainly don’t want it mentioned in the press meeting we’re having this morning.”

  The Commissioner hadn’t offered her a seat. Carol put her hands into the jacket pockets of her navy blue suit. “I thought you should know I think it’s a possibility.”

  He grunted, surveyed her soberly. “There’s going to be a State funeral for Raeburn next week. Are you going to hold up release of the body?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Homicide will complicate things.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He smiled briefly. “Warned the Minister you’d run it your way. Told her if she wanted someone amenable, there were others who’d be a better bet.” He stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Do what you have to do, but keep me informed every step of the way. I don’t want any surprises.”

  “There’s something else…”

  “Important?”

  “Very. Collis Raeburn was HIV-positive. If during the interviews it becomes obvious that the person’s had unprotected sex-”

  “You say nothing,” he interrupted. “The lid’s got to be on this, at least at the moment.”

  “What if someone unknowingly infects another person?” Carol asked, her anger evident.

  “All right, I see your point. You can advise the appropriate health authorities and let them deal with direct notification, if necessary. I don’t want AIDS or HIV linked to the investigation in any way, so neither you nor any of your team are to warn anybody. Is that clear?”

  As she reached the door, he added, “I’ll see you at ten for the press conference… And Carol, I’m willing to back you on this case, but be careful. We’re talking a lot of politics here.”

  Simon Sykes hovered anxiously around Carol and the Commissioner as the microphones were set up. “I’d be the last to advise you, Carol, but this is a delicate situation, and the Minister will be watching…”

  Carol fixed him with the coldest look she could muster. “Go away,” she said. He went.

  Under the warmth of the television lights and to the accompaniment of clicking shutters from the press photographers, Carol went through her paces. Yes, she was in charge of the investigation of Collis Raeburn’s death. No, she was unable to comment in detail becau
se she was new to the case. The fact that she’d replaced Detective Sergeant Bannister was an administrative decision which was outside her area. No, she couldn’t comment on the possibility of suicide-her team was making a full investigation.

  She parried questions on the Raeburn family’s response to the tragedy; whether or not she was an opera fan; if there was any possibility of foul play; had Collis Raeburn left a note; did rivalry in the singing world have anything to do with his death; the predictable rumor that he had had throat cancer and was facing a silent future; did she have a personal opinion, or even a hunch, regarding his death…

  Afterwards, the Commissioner’s comment was a sardonic accolade. “Vintage Inspector Ashton,” he said. “You charmed the pants off them, Carol, but told them bugger all.”

  Anne Newsome drove with her usual competence to the Raeburn estate at Galston, Carol beside her. As they entered the more rural areas of Sydney’s north, the vitality of early spring became obvious. Everything was washed with a green, glowing patina, and to Carol the feeling of renewal was exhilarating.

  She glanced at the young constable beside her. “Anne, you’ve read through everything on Collis Raeburn’s death, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” A grin. “Why do I feel you’re about to ask me something I can’t answer?”

  “Describe the possible scenarios, as you see them.”

  Her eyes on the road, Anne said, “His death looks like suicide, and if Mr. Raeburn hadn’t been so famous, I imagine that wouldn’t have ever been questioned.”

  Carol leaned back and relaxed. She felt the pleasure of a teacher with a promising student. “Go on.”

  “Okay. He finds out he’s HIV-positive and he can’t face what that will mean. Besides that, he’s never formed a permanent relationship with anyone, so it’s possible he feels alienated and lonely anyway. He decides to kill himself. There’s been plenty of publicity about The Euthanasia Handbook so he buys a copy to get reliable information. He discovers he already has the necessary drugs, puts the pills in his luggage, buys a bottle of Johnny Walker, and checks himself into his favorite hotel. He has a last meal, orders coffee, stops any telephone calls and puts a Do Not Disturb on the door. He takes a handful of pills, drinks whiskey and falls unconscious on the bed. Before he can die of the combination of drugs and alcohol, he vomits while unconscious, and chokes. He wouldn’t know anything about it and the effect is the same. He’s dead.”