by Claire McNab
“Any idea how long he’d been carrying the virus?”
Bourke looked as though he’d eaten something bitter. “As far as I know, Raeburn wasn’t showing any physical signs, but it varies so much from person to person. Could have been months, years even.”
Carol began to doodle arrows on a scratch pad. “How’d he take it? Depression? Anger?”
“The doctor says he was reasonably calm. He listened to all the medical stuff, took the name of an AIDS counselor-who, incidentally, he never contacted-told his doctor he’d beat the virus and he was convinced a cure was around the corner, and went off into the sunset. His doctor never saw him again.”
“He may have gone to an AIDS clinic where he’d have specialist medical help.”
Bourke ran his hand over his hair. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what it’d be like to walk in, thinking everything was okay, and be told you had a death sentence?”
Carol wondered what she would do. “It’d be rough, and all the worse when you had to tell friends or lovers that you might have infected them.”
Sounding almost angry, Bourke said, “You say he told Martha Brownlye, but as far as I can see, that’s it. Either he didn’t warn anyone, or they’re keeping quiet about it. The doctor told Raeburn he must warn any sexual partners, whether he practiced safe sex with them or not… it’s not always that safe.”
“There were no needle marks on the body, but he may have used intravenous drugs in the past.”
Bourke’s usually mild voice was harsh. “He was told to contact anyone he’d shared needles with, if he ever had.”
Puzzled by the suppressed anger in Bourke’s voice, Carol said, “Mark, there’s something here I don’t understand. Have you got a problem with this?”
“Sort of.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want this to go any further.” He looked up at her murmur of protest. “I’m sorry, Carol. It’s just that it’s a little close to home. Pat’s younger brother, actually…” He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “The first he knew is when he got sick, really sick. He’s progressed to early-stage AIDS and his immune system’s stuffed. Tony had pneumonia a few weeks ago, although he seems okay at the moment.”
“Oh, Mark…”
“He’s really still just a kid-he’s in his early twenties.” He added bitterly, “It was an older man, married. He told Tony everything was okay, that he was clean, that it was quite safe. After all, the guy said to Tony, I’m not gay, just looking for something a little different…” He shook his head. “The bastard’s probably infected his wife too.”
“He might not have known.”
Bourke’s face was flushed with anger. “That’s an excuse, is it? Tony’s going to die, Carol, unless some miracle occurs. He won’t ever see thirty. And it’s all because someone just like Collis Raeburn was too selfish or too stupid to take precautions.”
Carol wanted to cool his uncustomary anger. This new Mark Bourke had the uncomfortable shock of the unfamiliar. “Can we get back to Raeburn?”
“Sure.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Sorry-got a bit carried away there.”
“Not at all, Mark. Did Raeburn discuss with his doctor how he caught the virus?”
“Not a word. He listened to the medical advice, refused to answer any personal questions, established the protocol about confidentiality, and left.”
“We could try some of the AIDS clinics.”
“We could, but they have an absolute ban on providing any information that could identify an HIV patient.”
“See what you can dig up, Mark.”
He unfolded himself from the chair. “Okay. But you know no one’s going to want to talk. To lots of people HIV and AIDS are words that are the ultimate obscenities.”
“What’s more obscene,” said Carol, “is that there may be people he slept with who are infected, and don’t know it.”
Carol noticed that Anne Newsome seemed to be treating her with unusual deference. As their car was waved through the gate at the Sydney Opera House, she glanced over at the young constable. Her short curly hair and olive skin shone with health and suppressed energy. Carol said mildly, “Perhaps I’m wrong, but you seem to be treating me with rather elaborate courtesy.”
Anne didn’t bother to dissemble. Grinning, she said, “Thought you’d bite my head off if I didn’t.”
“That bad, eh?”
An anxiously obsequious official was waiting for them under the illuminated STAGE DOOR sign. This inappropriate appellation marked the cavernous entrance to the Opera House basement that was barred by a boom gate and flanked by a glass-walled room with uniformed security officers and an elaborate console of lights indicating the status of all areas of the building.
“Inspector Ashton! I’m Douglas Binns. We spoke on the phone? Afraid there’s a minor problem. Lloyd Clancy and Alanna Brooks are still in rehearsal. I know you made firm appointments, and both of them should be free soon, but… ah…” He trailed off into a glum silence.
He was neat, nondescript and eager to please. When Carol said, “Is Corinne Jawalski available?” he brightened immediately.
“Indeed, yes. I left her in the Green Room, actually, a few minutes ago. She isn’t due for rehearsal for some time, so if you’d follow me…”
The Stage Door entry was the beginning of a huge square tunnel that bisected the building from south to north and was large enough to accommodate trucks and machinery. At the far end Carol could see the scintillating light reflected off the water of Sydney Harbour. Binns led them past forklifts, stage flats, anonymous piles of equipment, then plunged into a network of stairs and passages.
Over his shoulder he said, “I’ve been in touch with Edward Livingston’s secretary since I last spoke with you, Inspector. I’m afraid Mr. Livingston can’t make time to see you for a few days, at least.”
He paused, seemingly embarrassed by his inability to deliver on schedule, but brightened as they entered a large rectangular room. Only a few people occupied an area that obviously could accommodate hundreds. At one end was a serving area with what looked like standard cafeteria food, at the other a wide window framed an arresting view of the harbor. Between these extremes of utility and beauty sat rows of tables and chairs like any communal eating space, and then, nearing the dazzling water, a lounge area and bar.
Smiling with obvious pride, he said, “The famous Green Room. You might be interested, Inspector, to know that seven hundred performers and staff eat here every day.”
Carol repressed a smile. “Indeed?” she said.
He waved a proprietary hand. “And these monitors show each theater, so one can sit here and see one’s cue on stage.” He paused, apparently expecting some positive reaction from his audience.
Half-smiling, Carol looked at Anne Newsome, who obediently responded, “That’s very interesting.”
This seemed to be sufficient. He swept them towards a red lounge near the glare of the window where a slight figure in a plain white dress sat desultorily flipping the pages of a magazine. “Corinne?”
She looked up, sulky and unsmiling. “Yeah?”
“This is Detective Inspector Carol Ashton and Constable Newsome.“ When she didn’t respond, he went on, “Corinne Jawalski, one of our brightest young stars.”
She came to her feet with one easy movement. Carol had the thought that she was one of those people who, although not beautiful, act as though they are. “You want to speak to me about Collis.” Her voice had been assured until she said his name. She blinked quickly, obviously attempting to regain control.
A year before, Corinne Jawalski had had the good fortune to step into a major role at short notice when a flamboyant imported soprano had fallen suddenly ill. The fledgling diva was already known to the general public because she had won a television talent quest and had then gone on to be featured in a series of advertisements devoted to the Tourist Board’s drive to depict Australia as a cultural identity rather than just a collection o
f scenic items. Unfazed by the searchlight of publicity, Corinne had sung Gilda in Rigoletto to spectacular effect, and her operatic career had moved into high gear.
At Carol’s elbow, Binns was looking anxious. “Inspector, would you like me to find somewhere private…”
Carol glanced around the almost deserted Green Room. “It’s only a few preliminary questions. Here will be fine, if it’s all right with Ms Jawalski.”
“Then I’ll check on the rehearsal. I’m sure they’ll be free soon. Be back shortly.”
As he hurried away, Corinne gestured to an adjoining red couch. Any grief for Collis Raeburn she might have felt was hidden as she said crisply, “Might as well make yourself comfortable, Inspector. I’ve got a few things to say.”
Dryly amused that her interrogation seemed to be in the process of being hijacked, Carol nodded to Anne to take her place, then obediently sat down. “Please go on.”
Head tilted to one side, the young woman surveyed her. At last she said, “Is this really an investigation, or is it just going through the motions?”
“Meaning?”
Her voice had grown harsh. “Do I have to spell it out? Hush up the scandal and accentuate the tragedy. That sort of thing.”
Carol gave her a brief ironic smile. “This is really an investigation. Now, what would you like to say?”
Corinne Jawalski pursed her lips. She had a plain, yet elegant face, heavy coils of rich brown hair and an aura of cool authority that was almost incongruous in one so young. “Next season, I was to be Collis’s new partner. He was going to tell Edward Livingston that he didn’t want Alanna singing with him anymore, at least in the roles that really need someone my age.” She smoothed the skirt of her white dress. “Quite apart from the fact she was older than Collis, it looks ludicrous, don’t you think, to have a middle-aged woman singing in Romeo and Juliet?”
Noting the thread of malice under the conversational tone, Carol wondered if she had been jealous of the other soprano. “They’ve been singing together for some time?”
“I suppose so.”
Carol probed a little more. “They were friends?”
Corinne flushed slightly. “What has this got to do with anything?”
Carol said mildly, “I was wondering how he told her about this new arrangement.”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea if Alanna knew. Frankly, I don’t know if he told anyone else, but that’s what he was going to do. I mean, these things happen, don’t they? Things change.”
Carol said pleasantly, “Forgive me-I don’t understand the ins and outs of your profession, but I would have thought decisions about casting would not be left to the singers…”
Corinne’s tone was equally agreeable. “In most cases, of course not. But Collis could ask for anything… and he got it. It’s one of the perks of fame, Inspector Ashton.”
“Why was he thinking of replacing Alanna Brooks with you?”
The question elicited a complacent smile. “I don’t like to sound immodest, but Collis believed we would make a better team. I mean, Alanna’s had a great career, and she’s not that old for a singer, but…”
“She’s past it?” said Anne.
The young singer swung her attention to the constable. “Brutal,” she said with a faint curve to her lips, “but pretty accurate. Alanna had it to begin with-there’s no doubt of that-but her high notes are getting hard, the bloom’s off her voice. She should have years of singing left, but…” She added with unconvincing regret, “Faulty technique, probably.”
Such casual cruelty. Carol said, “When did you last speak with Collis Raeburn?”
The question jolted the young woman. Her expression of private triumph melted into misery. She dropped her head, saying almost inaudibly, “That evening.”
“He called you from his hotel?”
“Collis didn’t say where he was, but it must have been from the hotel. It was about seven and I was on my way out when my flatmate took the call. Beth called me back, but I was in a hurry, so we only had a short conversation.”
“Why was he calling?”
“Why was he calling,” Corinne repeated.
Repeating the question gives you time to think. What is it you need to think about? Carol looked over at Anne, and was pleased to see that she was watching Corinne Jawalski intently.
The young soprano put her hand to her mouth, then said with an attempt at nonchalance, “Nothing important. Just some stuff about Graeme Welton’s latest little epic.”
“Dingo? Were you to sing in it?”
“I wasn’t tied to it legally, if that’s what you mean. Poor Collis was packing death at the thought of the whole thing. Didn’t want to be involved, and couldn’t see how he could get out of it.”
“Did Mr. Raeburn sound depressed?”
“Well, he wasn’t very happy. I got the feeling Alanna was giving him a hard time.”
“Because you were to replace her?”
The singer gave an offhand gesture. “Don’t know. Could’ve been anything. Alanna’s always taken the role of temperamental prima donna as far as she can to give her an excuse to bitch about anything and everything.”
Carol looked up to see Binns approaching. She got to her feet. “Ms Jawalski, I’d appreciate it if you give Constable Newsome full details of the conversation-anything you can remember verbatim would be a help.”
Binns was beaming. “Lloyd Clancy’s in his dressing room right now. Can I take you down?”
Confident the young constable could complete the interview efficiently, Carol said to Corinne, “Please excuse me. Constable Newsome will have a few more questions for you and will make arrangements for a statement.”
Plainly irked to find Carol leaving her midway through the interview, she said tartly, “There’s a lot more you should know, Inspector.”
“I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
Carol followed Binns as he plunged into a low-roofed wide corridor. Brightly lit, filled with the muffled hum of air-conditioning and carpeted with gray-brown carpet chosen to blend in with the widest range of stains, it seemed identical to all other corridors she had seen in the Opera House. “Do you ever get lost?”
He was delighted with her question. “No, but I can see how you might think that. It’s the white birch ply.” At her raised eyebrows, he elaborated, “This blond wood you see everywhere. It’s in all the passageways, the rooms. Native wood of New South Wales, white birch. Makes everything look the same.”
As they came to a halt outside a pale door labeled Mr. Clancy, Binns pointed to a row of huge wicker containers that filled half the corridor. “They’re called skips. It’s traditional to transport all the costumes and props in them.”
The door opened to his diffident knock. Carol had seen Lloyd Clancy in photographs and on television, but she wasn’t prepared for the full weight of his engaging personality. Rather heavily built and with an imposingly hooked nose, deeply set dark eyes and a rougish smile, he radiated a cheeky informality. He was wearing ancient jeans and a navy blue shirt. “Come in, Inspector Ashton,” he said with an elaborate sweeping gesture. “I find it very reassuring that you’re on the case.”
“Indeed?”
“Absolutely indeed!” He was chuckling at her skeptical tone as he ushered her down a tiny hallway with a cramped bathroom on one side and a walk-in wardrobe on the other. The dressing room itself was quite small, one side of it taken up with makeup mirrors ringed with lights. Set into another wall was a control panel from which music and singing whispered. “The rehearsal,” he said, as she glanced at it. “I’m due back for the next act, so I’ll know when I have to be there.” Seating her on a rather battered lounge, he said to Binns, “Douglas, coffee would be wonderful. Could you?”
The dressing room had the ubiquitous gray-brown carpet and pale cream woodwork and walls. The window was a long oblong laid on its side through which an expanse of water danced in the sunlight. Seeing her watching a catamaran ferry swishing past, he s
aid, “Lovely view, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I hardly have time to appreciate it, and besides, one can become accustomed to too much beauty, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps, although the harbor’s changing all the time.”
The amusement disappeared from his face. His voice was washed of laughter as he said, “Yes, everything changes. You want to see me about Collis.” He’d taken one of the three-wheeled swivel-backed chairs from the makeup mirror, swung it around so the back faced him, and had straddled it. Now he sat, hands folded along the top of the backrest, watching her closely.
“Let’s start with how he was the last time you saw or spoke with him.”
Clancy’s initial levity had vanished. He said pensively, “I can’t believe we’re sitting here discussing Collis’s death. It’s such a pity…”
“When did you see him?” Carol prompted.
“Would have been about midafternoon on that final day. He was here, in this dressing room. Wanted to check something about next month’s schedule. Seemed preoccupied, but not depressed. Of course, you couldn’t always tell with Collis. He was an intensely private man.”
“Did you get on well?”
This question earned a rueful smile. “To be honest, not particularly.” He seemed to make an effort to be jocular. “I mean, it’s no secret we were rivals. Tenors often are.” He added disarmingly, “In opera we have all these noble, heroic parts, you see. And all this drama spills over into our lives.”
What are you really feeling? Are you happy that your challenger has gone? She said lightly, “So the stereotyped perception of the opera world is correct? It is seething with professional jealousy?”
He tried to match her tone. “Positively boiling.”
“And Collis Raeburn? Where was he in all of this?”