The Naked Room

by Diana Hockley

  Because of the circumstances of our childhood, we’re not close. I’m afraid to ask. Her answer may throw open a closet from which the bones of our family skeletons will pour out and engulf me.

  Our parents actively discouraged us from bonding and I realise we’ve grown up like playground acquaintances, forced by the teacher to share a text book. I know that’s not normal for sisters, but I don’t have the skills to circumvent it even now. Julia and I were just two girls who inhabited the same house. We were sent to different schools, rarely visited each other’s bedrooms or gossiped together, borrowed clothes and make-up.

  Of course there were no pets in our house. I longed for a warm, furry creature to love, but I didn’t dare bring any stray cats or dogs home. Once a neighbour offered Julia and me a kitten and when I asked our father if we could have it, he said, ‘Bring that thing here and I’ll wring its neck. Better still, I’ll make you two do it.’ Oh, God.

  So on the rare occasions I visited friends’ homes, I played with their animals, then fibbed when my parents asked what I had been doing. I’m an expert liar.

  During holiday breaks and the times we flew back to Australia, I cadged invitations to Ally’s or Pam’s homes. My parents never made my, or Julia’s friends welcome.

  Music saved my life. While I was having lessons, Julia was doing her homework as though her life depended on getting it right, and it did. While I studied at the Con, Julia worked like a demon at medical school—Doctor Julia Rallison. Even now we communicate only by Christmas card and the occasional phone call or letter.

  When I was five years old, it was as though a pane of glass came between me and other people. At first I tried to shatter it, to break down the invisible barrier which prevented me from making close relationships and threatened my ability to cope with the outside world. Later, I found it a comfort and protection from emotional involvement. Oh, I knew all the methods of interaction, how to smile, giggle, flirt—all the attributes which made up the normal young girl. Inside, I was frozen, and so very, very, afraid of getting too close to anyone.

  I don’t remember when I first heard classical music, but one of my great-aunts gave me a violin which had been stashed in a cupboard by a long-dead relative. My father wasn’t keen on hearing me learn to play it. ‘For fuck’s sake, Lynda, send Jessica to lessons or I’ll throw that bloody thing on the dump.’

  It wasn’t long before I was besotted with the instrument. When I played, I escaped in a world of light. Without it, I had to confront the darkness within my frozen soul where, I was sure, dangerous ectoplasm nestled, waiting to seep into my heart and destroy me.

  Nothing has changed.

  I didn’t have a choice in being friends with Ally. Not if I wanted to keep Pam happy and she is the sister I need. Ally is the hanger-on, the one with whom I compete for Pam’s love and approval.

  When I visited Masters Island, Eloise Carpenter tucked me, old as I was, under her wing, as if I were another daughter. Every chance I got, I cornered Eloise for long chats. She was endlessly patient, listening to me when I was miserable, which was pretty often. Sometimes I think she suspected my trouble, but in spite of carefully worded hints, I couldn’t even confide in her.

  I was the one who helped Eloise make scones, the one who went along when she walked the dogs along the cliffs, while Pam and Ally went to the only pub on the island or lay reading in the hammocks on the front verandah.

  Men think I’m beautiful, but they eventually gravitate to Ally. Keeping dates away from seeing her was my main goal when we three lived together. I knew that once they met Ally, I’d be abandoned. She never bothered with them, but like leaves in the wind, they were sucked in by her personality. The only way I could compete was through music. There I could hold my own. Ally is no violinist.

  But she gets me in with her charm. There are times when I would do anything for her, but deep down, I wish she’d just go away. And die. Since Ally has come back to Australia, I can hardly control myself. She’s got Brie chasing after her now, and I can’t even say she took him from me, because it was never going to work with us.

  I can’t keep my mouth shut when Ally’s nearby. My venom edges around every word I utter. Dear God, what sort of a monster have I become? Sometimes I catch her looking at me, puzzled and hurt, but then I make a joke or get her a cup of coffee and hand it to her with a hug. Pam and Ally have tried to get me to open up and talk my problems through, but there is no way I can admit about my shameful secret. If I tell, it’s going to diminish, to expose me. I want to be normal, like everyone else.

  There’s no way I can admit the truth about why my agent requests the bouquet which is presented to me after a concert has to be of artificial flowers. Everyone, including him, believes I’m allergic to pollen. I made Pam and Ally keep the flowers they’d receive in their bedrooms or the laundry when we were sharing rentals.

  Professionally, I held my own until two years ago. I don’t really know why things started to go wrong for me. Too many concerts? Too many hours in recording studios? I needed to get away from my friends, with time out to hide so no one would realise I was falling apart.

  When I left London for Australia earlier this year, I held my breath until I could get safely on the plane. Then I heard Ally would be joining the Pacific Orchestra as guest artist under contract for six months and I wanted to scream.

  God, I hate her so badly I can taste my own bile.

  But I hate myself even more.

  I am so confused and frightened. My solo career is up the creek. My CDs are selling, but only because they’ve recently been played on ABC Classic FM. Fortunately, the Pacific Orchestra pays well, so I can keep the roof over my head and buy myself the clothes, perfume and jewellery I deserve.

  Michael Whitby is fairly attractive in a blonde sort of way and filled the gap after Brie dumped me two months into our relationship, but now he’s become a nuisance. Yesterday, he overheard me talking on the phone, but he wouldn’t dare tell. He knows I’d fix him with Sir James and the directors. Taking drugs means instant dismissal and Michael is hooked on a lot more than the weed.

  I will not allow him to destroy me.

  A few weeks ago, I met my soul mate. He thrives on playing games—dangerous games—as much as I do.

  Take deep breaths and just keep cleaning.

  They promised faithfully nothing’s going to happen to her. I tell myself it serves Ally right for all the years I’ve listened to her whining.

  She should be so lucky.

  She didn’t have a father who, from the time she was five until she was fifteen, slithered into her bedroom under cover of darkness bearing a posy of fresh flowers wrapped in cellophane, complete with gift tag, for his sweet, “princess of the night.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A Surfeit of Old Goats

  Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

  Tuesday: 9.30am.

  Eloise Carpenter’s phone call shook me. Her daughter goes missing and one of her closest friends is murdered three nights later? Sure, I believe in the occasional coincidence, but this latest event was pushing things a little far for comfort. My team was following what clues we had, but nothing useful had come to light and the Commissioner prowled with intent.

  Early this morning, footage in the news showed Masters Island, with Eloise’s pretty, spacious cottage and three Scottish Highland cows tossing their horns and peering fiercely through hairy faces at the cameras. The media had made the connection between Ally Carpenter’s disappearance and the murder of Georgie Hird, whose cottage and studio were shown perched near the lighthouse. I “googled” Eloise but apart from a few mentions of her as secretary of the local RSPCA and some basic stuff, most of the information was about Ally. Ally’s pages were more fruitful, with snippets of her contract, program of concerts and gossip. The last entries were more hysterical, documenting her non-appearance at her concert and rife with speculation.

  I sat at my desk, anxious, isolated from the necessity of answering
telephones and being constantly interrupted for decisions on other cases. At least three very well-prepared people were involved in the Carpenter case, but something about the video tugged at my memory. I picked up the telephone.

  ‘Ben? Bring me the Traynors Night Club CCTV footage, please.’

  The in-house CCTV footage for the whole of Friday evening was being scanned by a team of young, eager, police recruits to pin point the moment when the alleged abductors entered the club.

  Less than a minute later, DC Taylor popped up in front of me, tape in hand.

  ‘There’s something about this which puzzles me. I need young eyes to help me out here.’

  ‘Right, ma’am,’ he replied, taking the tape out of its cover to slip it into the video player in the corner of my office. ‘Any idea what we’re looking for?’

  ‘I have a feeling we’ve overlooked something.’ I squinted through my bifocals at the whizzing images as he re-wound the tape.

  ‘Ma’am, if you missed it, so did we,’ he said gallantly.

  We leaned forward as the footage slowed, stopped and then started to run. The car, its license plate angled to the ground, slid into position beside the kerb, the driver in shadow, his face hidden by the sun visor.

  The man and the apparently drunken girl wrapped in the black coat, came into view, their backs to the camera. The woman behind them kept her head down and held what Briece Mochrie had identified as Ally Carpenter’s handbag. She slipped ahead and held the back door open as they neared the car. The man pushed the girl a little ahead of him, almost shoved her into the rear seat and dived in after her. As he did so, there was the slightest movement, a possible other person in the back. Ally Carpenter, if indeed it was her, would be sandwiched between two people. Not good.

  The woman got into the front seat and the car pulled away, a slick, four-person operation, only lasting seconds.

  ‘Hang on a moment, Ben. Run it back and try to zoom in a little. Not too much, or it’ll blur.’

  I leaned closer.

  ‘Stop.’

  I pointed at the hand of the man escorting the woman in the black coat. ‘What do you think that is?’

  ‘What, ma’am?’

  ‘Is his hand painted?’ I asked.

  Benjamin narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen. ‘No, ma’am, I think he’s wearing a surgical glove. And look at the driver’s hand when he brings it back onto the steering wheel. It’s too white and smooth.’

  Damn, how could I have missed it the first time around? Innocent people do not wear surgical gloves on a night out. Forensics would need to view this. A lot rested on whether the plan had been to target Ally or if she was chosen at random.

  Remembering Eloise Carpenter’s outlandish behaviour the morning Evan and I interviewed her, kidnapping for ransom had to be considered. However, though Ally Carpenter made excellent money, it was hardly enough for kidnappers to put themselves so deeply in jeopardy. Research on her relatives and friends confirmed that none of them were worth a kidnapper’s while. But what if her father was alive and rich? Eloise’s statement that he was dead had been unconvincing to say the least. There was no proof of his continued existence, so we had to go with the theory that if Ally Carpenter’s abductor was a kinky sexual predator, time was indeed running out, if it hadn’t already. Dear God, please…protect this young woman.

  The Pacific Orchestra Board of Directors, administration, cleaning staff, concert night doormen and Ally Carpenter’s friends, both in and out of the musical profession, maintained there had been no indication of stalking by fans, former boyfriends or outstanding professional jealousy.

  My partner, Evan, arrived.

  ‘Got some response to the paper this morning,’ he reported. ‘Not a lot, but it’s more than we’ve received so far. A couple said they thought the young woman was drunk and her family had come for her. Two callers say the car was a white Toyota Corolla, which we now know is the case and the other couldn’t remember the colour, but saw the incident and dismissed it as a family matter at the time. Of course, none of them can describe the suspects.’

  ‘Right, thanks Evan. Bring the tape to briefing, Ben.’

  An officer handed me a printout of a forensics report as I reached the incident board.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. Some updates, firstly the fingerprints on the outside of the car were no help at all, but—’ I glanced at the report just handed to me, ‘—a strand of long red hair has been retrieved from the back seat of the abandoned car. We’ll get a sample from Ally Carpenter’s house and have a DNA done.’ Now, something new for you.’ I showed the team what we had just discovered.

  ‘We know the gang were wearing gloves, the likelihood of getting any fingerprint matches is zilch. The car was reported missing on Friday morning in East Brisbane, wasn’t there when they were going to work, left it outside the night before because they couldn’t get into their driveway. A car was parked across the entrance.’ I exchanged a telling glance with the members of my team.

  ‘Has Carpenter got a boyfriend?’ asked one of the team. Predictably, the male detectives guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? Did ya look at her face? Too right,’ they chorused enthusiastically. My female colleagues and I rolled our eyes.

  ‘There’s to be a media conference at ten o’clock for full-blown newspaper and television coverage, appealing for people to come forward with relevant information. I am interviewing one of the directors, James Kirkbridge, at 11.30 this morning and the conductor, Sir James McPherson, late this afternoon. Ben, I want you with me for that. Any questions?’

  There weren’t.

  A seething mass of over-excited journalists and accompanying cameramen filled a downstairs conference room. The disappearance of a celebrity is hot stuff and a welcome change from pontificating politicians.

  I braced myself, smiled at DI Peterson who was to make the statement, took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Tuesday : late morning.

  James Kirkbridge dwarfed DC Ben Taylor and me, at well over 195cm. He herded us into the sumptuous boardroom and seated himself at the head of the table, making sure we saw him glance at his watch. As practised, power-laden theatrics it was highly skilled, but his attempt to intimidate us, futile. I have traded glares with some of the most dangerous criminals in the country. After them, Kirkbridge was chicken feed.

  I fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare, allowing the silence to drag until he leaned back, crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms across his chest. I sensed, rather than saw, his foot swinging under the table. Good, you’re not as calm as you pretend, Cuddles.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Kirkbridge.’ As soon as we got his preliminary information out of the way, I started. ‘We understand the directors mixed with the orchestra on a social level?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So, what is your relationship with Ms Carpenter?’

  ‘I knew her as the guest pianist under contract, Senior Sergeant. As a working director, I am involved in the running of the orchestra. I help organise events, tours… it’s very much a hands-on commitment. I am also a major financial sponsor and run my own business interests. I know Ms Carpenter only in that capacity.’

  I watched him calmly, maintaining eye contact. He assessed me coldly for what proved to be a very long moment, before resting his elbows on the highly-polished wood and steepling his fingers. He answered my questions in note-form, in his clipped English public school accent.

  ‘He didn’t know of any religious leanings of Ms Carpenter and doubted she belonged to a cult; yes, she had several close friends in the orchestra, including Briece Mochrie. He had last seen her on the Friday afternoon during the recording session with the orchestra.’

  ‘I believe there was a considerable amount of social mingling with the orchestra members, so you must have known her quite well personally, Mr Kirkbridge?’ I repeated.

  His eyes flickered, before he shifted slightly in his seat. The faintest flush swept over his features. Y
ou old goat, you fancied her.

  ‘Er, yes. She was very popular, Senior Sergeant,’ he acknowledged. He might have been hiding something, but I suspected the chilly demeanour was normal. I pried and probed for as long as I could.

  Had he observed an obsessive fan hanging around the concert hall?

  Had Ally herself or anyone else commented on someone taking an unhealthy interest in her movements?

  Did she gamble?

  A discarded lover who might be responsible for the snatch?

  His negative response to all my questions was frustrating. ‘And are you a musician, Mr Kirkbridge?’

  He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I am a classically trained pianist, Ms Prescott, but of course, I am hardly the professional standard of Ms Carpenter.’

  ‘How long have you lived in Australia, sir?’

  ‘I have been here for six years and as you must be aware, I am now an Australian citizen.’ If looks could kill, I’d be flat on the floor. Why? It was a perfectly normal question, so what did he have to hide?

  We parted on uneasy terms and I made a note for someone in the team check him out, hoping to find some skeletons rattling in his cupboard in the near future. Perhaps Sir James McPherson would be more approachable later in the afternoon.

  Tuesday: 8.30pm.

  I kicked off my shoes and slumped into my armchair in front of the fire, restless and dissatisfied. I wanted to unwind, but couldn’t bring myself to read, watch television or even fire up the oven and make a batch of scones. There’s something about kneading the butter through the flour, shaping the dough and the smell of freshly baked food at the end which soothes, but not this time.

  Our dogs collapsed on each of my feet. My geriatric cat squeezed herself into the space between my hip and the armrest, and my eyelids drooped as my mind drifted back to the late afternoon interview with Sir James McPherson.