Dead Certain

by Claire McNab

  Carol waited while Anne overtook a lumbering truck, then said, “Why didn’t he leave a note?”

  After considering the question, Anne said, “I’m not sure, but lots of people who suicide don’t leave notes. Perhaps he couldn’t be bothered, or he didn’t need to justify himself.” She had a sudden thought that obviously pleased her. “I know-he was killing himself for himself, if you see what I mean. He didn’t want to have revenge on anybody, or make them feel guilty, so there wasn’t any reason to leave a note behind.”

  “Interesting thought,” said Carol, amused at Anne’s delight at her own hypothesis. “Now, what if it happened to be an accident, as Raeburn’s father and sister are insisting?”

  Anne said immediately, “It would be the best possible scenario as far as most people are concerned. Just as a matter of course, Raeburn takes his sleeping tablets and painkillers along to the hotel with him. He’s feeling a bit low, so he buys a bottle of whiskey to drown his sorrows. He wants to be left alone, so he stops his calls and makes sure no one will knock on the door. His back’s hurting, he wants a good night’s sleep, so he takes some pills, but he’s been drinking steadily, first wine with his meal, and then whiskey, so he gets confused. Maybe he dozes off and wakes up again. Can’t remember what he’s taken, so he has some more. Unfortunately, the combination’s fatal, and he dies, like before.”

  “Why does he have the television on so loudly?”

  Anne glanced at her. “I don’t understand. Why not?”

  “You say he’s tired and he wants to go to sleep. So why have the volume up so high? Why have it on at all?”

  The sign indicating the Galston turnoff loomed on the right. Anne braked suddenly and turned at the intersection. Abashed, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were so close to the turn.”

  You so remind me of myself at your age… wanting to impress by doing everything well. Carol said, “The television?”

  “Maybe he meant to turn it off, but never got round to it.”

  As they sped past a row of shops sitting in lonely isolation along the edge of a paddock, Carol said, “Do you have a third scenario?”

  “Yes. Murder.”

  “You almost sound pleased with the idea.”

  Anne gave her a quick glance. “I’m not pleased, but if it is murder, it’s someone being very clever…”

  Carol knew what she meant. “Matching wits, is that what you mean?”

  Anne nodded. “I’ve imagined how I’d do it…”

  “How?”

  “All right, first I’ve got to have a motive strong enough to make me want to kill him. Sometime after he has his meal delivered, I go straight up to his room. I don’t ask at the desk because I know the number. He lets me in. Either I know he’s got the narcotics and painkillers with him, or I’ve brought them along with me. I might also have brought the bottle of whiskey. We talk, he orders a pot of coffee, I get him to take the tablets somehow or other. He’s drunk, confused. I feed him more drugs. When he’s unconscious, I turn the television volume up and leave. Sometime in the next hour or so he dies, and I’m well away from the place.”

  She slowed down to turn onto a narrow road that was sign-posted with the name Raeburn, a statement that it was a private road and a threat that trespassers would be prosecuted. Carol said to her, “How can you be certain he’s going to die?”

  Anne bit her lip. “Oh, God. Imagine staying there in the room, waiting… I couldn’t do it.”

  “Maybe you could, if you hated him enough.”

  An ornate sign declared grandly RAEBURN ESTATE. Set on several acres in the semi-rural area, the house was a two-story red-brick building with no character, no style. It sat morosely in a blank expanse of mowed lawn dotted with a few scraggly shrubs.

  “It looks,” said Anne, “like it’s been picked up from a conservative suburb and plopped down here in the middle of a paddock.”

  As they went to the front door Carol had to agree that this expensive house looked uncomfortably out of place, and totally alien to the environment in which it found itself.

  The Raeburns’ housekeeper, Martha, was a barrel-shaped woman. “Inspector Ashton,” she said authoritatively when she opened the door, “I’m Martha Brownlye, the housekeeper. You look just like your photographs.” Before Carol could speak, she went on, “The family’s so pleased you’re looking after the case. And I am, too, of course. I’ve been with the Raeburns for thirty-five or more years, since just before Mrs. Raeburn died.”

  Carol, murmuring the appropriate response, wondered in amusement if the woman would suddenly present her with a printed curriculum vitae and references. As they were ushered in, Carol said, “Ms Brownlye, I’d like to see you before I go. Would that be possible?”

  Obviously flattered, Martha nodded, then resumed her monologue. “And the tragedy has broken the family. It’ll never be the same. I don’t know what’s to become of this house, for instance. It was built as a retreat for Collis, you see. It’s really a bit too far out from town, but it was essential for him to get away from the pressures. There’s a practice room, of course, and his voice coach came out here regularly-”

  She stopped abruptly as a man appeared at the bottom of the hall. “Thank you, Martha,” he said softly, but with an emphasis that sent her hurrying off to the back of the house.

  Carol’s first impression of Kenneth Raeburn was that he was a bantam rooster of a man. Shorter than Carol, he wore a dark suit and a burgundy bow tie and stood defiantly tall, his chin out-thrust, shoulders back, arms slightly bent and close by his body, giving Carol the impression that his heels were lifted so that he was poised on his toes. His iron-gray hair was still thick, and styled, she thought fleetingly, to add to his height. He had a hollow-cheeked, ascetic face, deepset eyes accented by heavy dark eyebrows and a nose that looked as though it had received severe punishment. His aura of pugnacity made Carol suspect that perhaps he’d been a boxer, who’d made up for his lack of height with ferocity.

  He gravely shook hands with both Carol and Anne, then ushered them into a lounge room. The furniture had the same dissonance as the house, belonging, as did the house, to another kind of surroundings altogether. The spare lines and bright fluorescent green of the Swedish-style couch, chairs and low table did not suit the regency stripe curtains nor the elaborate embossed wallpaper and flowered carpet. A rosewood grandfather clock stood heavily in one corner.

  Anne Newsome positioned herself at the other end of the couch, Raeburn sat opposite Carol. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “Inspector Ashton,” he said slowly. His voice was disconcertingly soft, and Carol had to resist the urge to lean forward to hear him clearly. Apparently waiting to ensure he had their complete attention, he paused until Anne Newsome had opened her notebook and looked up expectantly.

  “I’ve been told you’re the best the Commissioner can offer me.”

  Carol thought, You’re a controller.

  Raeburn was watching her closely. Almost in a whisper, he said, “Collis died because of a dreadful accident. He was taking painkillers and sleeping tablets-he had a bad back, I suppose you know that-and he became confused, took too many, drank too much whiskey.”

  Aware that her voice sounded loud next to his quiet tones, she said, “I’m preparing a report for the coroner, Mr. Raeburn, and I must tell you that the evidence seems to indicate at least the possibility of suicide.”

  “No.” His soft voice was not emphatic, but very sure. “Suicide is impossible. Completely impossible.”

  “He usually stayed at a hotel in the city when he had rehearsals or a performance?”

  “Always. Collis found it too tiring to drive from here, so there was nothing at all unusual about that, Inspector.”

  “Your son called the hotel desk about nine o’clock and was very emphatic that no phone calls be put through and that he not be disturbed for any reason at all.”

  “So? That only means he didn’t want to be
interrupted.”

  “You were here? He didn’t call you?”

  A look of pain crossed Kenneth Raeburn’s face. “I was here most of the time, but Collis didn’t telephone.”

  “There was a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook in the room.”

  “Yes?” An irritated click of his tongue. “Every second person’s bought a copy, it seems to me. The Handford action made sure of that. Collis was interested in the case itself.”

  He was referring to a case currently before the courts. A university lecturer, diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s disease, had used a suicide method detailed in the handbook-tranquilizers and a plastic bag over the head-to successfully kill herself. The Handford family were in the process of suing both the publisher and the author for substantial damages, holding The Euthanasia Handbook wholly responsible for the death of their beloved family member.

  For the first time Raeburn broke eye contact. He glanced at the constable, who was studiously writing, then said jerkily, “Inspector, you haven’t mentioned murder. I don’t for one moment believe that Collis was murdered, but are you considering it?”

  Intrigued by his agitation, she said evenly, “It’s one possibility.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill Collis. He was respected, loved. His death is a grievous blow, not only to Nicole and myself, but to everyone who treasured his voice.”

  That sounds like a set piece you’ve carefully rehearsed. “Nevertheless, there are some people who seemed to have grudges against your son.”

  “Indeed?” His voice was suddenly louder. “I imagine, if that’s so, that Welton and Livingston are the two you have in mind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He frowned impatiently. “I presume you do your job competently, Inspector. Then you would know that Graeme Welton has written an opera that is set to be an unmitigated disaster.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Dingo, I believe it’s called,” he said scathingly. “It was specifically written for Collis and Alanna Brooks, and the two of them were incautious enough to sign undertakings to take part in the premiere. I can assure you that when they realized the quality, or lack of it, they both were reluctant to be involved.”

  Carol decided that this was a good time to use some interesting items Anne Newsome had turned up in her investigation of the complicated web of Raeburn family finances. She said, “And you were involved, as well.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been advised you invested in the forthcoming opera. Was it on your own behalf?”

  His eyes narrowed at her question. “I was Collis’s manager,” he ground out. “I handled all the financial aspects-investments, property purchases, and the like. It was perfectly normal to put money into a project he’d be singing in.”

  It was almost a pleasure to needle him. “You said yourself you thought it likely to be a disaster. Did you mean artistically, or financially?”

  He moved impatiently. “Both. I’m not trying to hide the fact I had poor judgment in this case, but I put the money in before I realized what a turkey Dingo was going to be.”

  “You expect to lose your entire investment?”

  “Very possibly. I can’t get it out, as Welton had his accountants tie it up.”

  “Did your son resent that?”

  Raeburn ducked his head, and suddenly his softer voice was almost inaudible. “Doubt if he even knew we had money invested there. Collis wasn’t interested in the financial side of things. Details bored him. That’s why I handled the money, and Nicole looked after all the bookings, the tour arrangements, etcetera.”

  “Did he agree with you that the opera was unlikely to be a success?”

  This question elicited an unexpected response. Raeburn became animated, his voice becoming louder as he said, “Agree? He was the one who told me. Said he’d seen the libretto and the music, and it was amateurish, embarrassingly bad. Collis had it out with Welton. Said he wouldn’t ruin his reputation singing such rubbish. They fought over it, because Collis had signed a contract to sing the premiere, and Welton was holding him to it.”

  He paused, seeming to realize he was talking too loudly, and brought his voice back to its customary softness. “I’d decided we had to break the contract. I had the lawyers working on it when Collis died.”

  There’s something here… “Graeme Welton says he had a meeting with your son on Friday, and everything was smoothed over. You didn’t know anything about this?”

  He glared at her. “Collis would have told me if that had happened, and he didn’t. That makes Welton a liar.” He added quickly, “Don’t misunderstand, Inspector. I should have said that Graeme Welton’s made a mistake. He’s a friend of my daughter’s, and I suppose he wanted to have the conflict resolved for her sake, so he saw this discussion with Collis in a much rosier light than it deserved.”

  In the silence the faint sound of Anne’s pen seemed to remind him that his words were being recorded. He looked over at her, then back to Carol. She delayed until he fidgeted uncomfortably, then she said, “And Edward Livingston? You mentioned him as having a grudge against your son…”

  “Livingston’s impossible. Sooner or later everyone finds that out. Collis didn’t like him. Livingston has no idea how to handle artists. Big, splashy productions are his style. No aesthetic taste, but he gets to the masses.”

  “This makes Mr. Livingston an asset to Eureka Opera?”

  He frowned impatiently. “If you’re talking dollars, Inspector, then yes, he is valuable to the Company. If you’re referring to aesthetics, to artistic direction… well…”

  “Was there some specific conflict between your son and Mr. Livingston?”

  Again he clicked his tongue irritably. “It was Welton’s bloody opera again. It was bad enough that it was unsingable, but on top of that, Livingston’s planning to stage it in his usual ludicrous way. Ayers Rock on stage, trained dingoes and kangaroos…” His face was twisted with bitter amusement. “Can you imagine it, Inspector? An artist like Collis singing arias in the middle of a zoo? The whole idea was ridiculous, farcical.” He stood up and began to stride around the room. “I would not permit Collis to be associated with such a production.”

  “But,” said Carol mildly, “he would have had to sing in it, if his contract couldn’t be broken. Isn’t that so?”

  Raeburn was checking his watch. “Inspector, I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly, his agitation abruptly under control. “I have an urgent appointment. My daughter, however, is very keen to see you. I’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, but Martha will look after you.”

  “There is one important matter…”

  He said curtly, “Yes? What?”

  Carol said with deliberate bluntness, “Your son was HIV-positive.”

  “I don’t have time to discuss this now.”

  You don’t have time to discuss that your son had the AIDS virus? “I’m sorry, but we do need to talk about it.”

  He was already at the door. He turned back to say harshly, “First, I don’t accept that Collis had… the virus. It was a mistake with the blood test, or whatever. Second, I’ll take legal action against anyone…” He paused for emphasis, “… anyone mentioning HIV-positive and my son’s name in the same sentence.” Again he reminded Carol of a bantam rooster swollen with arrogant authority. “I’ll instruct Martha to get Nicole for you.”

  Carol stood. “Before you go, Mr. Raeburn, would you mind if we took a look at your son’s room?”

  “Your people have already been through his papers.”

  Carol nodded, but remained silent. You like calling the shots and you don’t want to accede to any request I make.

  After a moment he said impatiently, “All right. I can’t see any harm in it.”

  The heavy tick of the grandfather clock seemed much louder after he had gone. Carol was able only to exchange a glance with Anne Newsome before Martha appeared with a tray which she set down at the central coffee table. “Thought you’d want refreshments. He’s
so upset. Did you realize that? The funeral, too, it’ll be a dreadful ordeal. They say there’ll be thousands there. Will you be going?‘’

  Before Carol could respond, a woman came into the room. “Thanks, Martha. I’ll look after everything.”

  As Carol stood, she noticed Nicole Raeburn’s extreme slimness. Her wrists and ankles seemed to be fragile, breakable joints, her neck too thin to support her head with its abundance of chestnut hair.

  Carol shook hands, the bony fingers barely brushing hers before being withdrawn. Anorexic? she thought, considering the narrow shoulders and concave chest. Or sick? Asthma, maybe?

  When it became obvious that Nicole Raeburn was going to sit beside Carol on the sofa, Anne Newsome rose unobtrusively and went to a chair. Carol waited until she was settled, then said, “Of course you’ve been interviewed before, and I’m afraid I’ll be asking the same questions you’ve already answered.”

  “It’s no trouble. Besides, I was the one who suggested to Daddy that he get you put in charge.”

  Carol noted the childishness of the “Daddy,” the breathless little-girl delivery, and the shrewd look behind the manner.

  “Kind of you to suggest me.”

  Carol’s dry tone won a beguiling smile. “You’re annoyed with me, I know it. But the Minister of Police-Auntie Marge-she’s not really an aunt, but she’s such a good friend. You don’t blame me for pulling a few strings, do you?”

  What would you say if I asked why you and your father should expect special concessions? thought Carol. She said, “What can you tell me about your brother that would help me?”

  Nicole Raeburn’s eyes filled with tears. “My brother…” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry it’s necessary to intrude at such a time,” said Carol, cynically aware of how many occasions she had said these words by rote.