After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  I thought for a moment. ‘No, but I wasn’t looking around. I just wanted to get ho – here.’ I dashed tears away with the back of my hand.

  ‘Do you know what time she might have arrived home tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I do. She went to a call out during my concert and came back just as it was finishing. She caught a cab home just after ten o’clock. I don’t know what company.’ He looked puzzled, so I quickly explained why we were at the Concert Hall.

  ‘All right, someone will be here shortly to take a detailed statement. Does Ms Humphries, have family in Brisbane?

  ‘Her parents live a couple of streets away...I don’t know how I’m going to tell them!’ Tears welled.

  He looked concerned. ‘We’ll tell them. Has she got a pet? A dog?’

  ‘No, she’s away too much.’

  ‘Okay. Will you be all right sitting here? I need to talk to the paramedics.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.’

  Mind-numbing cold settled into my bones. I guess shock played a part because I couldn’t think coherently, let alone process grief. Visions of Goldie tumbling down the stairs kept running through my mind. The cop had said it was a suspicious death. Had someone pushed her? Why? Then I remembered reading that the police are always called to a sudden death...but murder? Had there been someone else there with Goldie? She hadn’t left the Concert Hall with anyone that I remembered. Harry what’s-his-name? I didn’t see him after the concert. Could he have been waiting for her? My mind whirled with confusion and shock.

  Police cars and a big van arriving stirred me out from my fog. People were donning the familiar, hooded blue jump suits and booties beloved of crime shows and as seen on the night-time news. Others sealed off the yard and the street, across which they put a roadblock. My mind jumped back to the scene along the river earlier. It looked alarmingly akin to the one here. I dragged the squatter’s chair further along the verandah and slumped into it.

  Two men walked purposefully up the steps and went inside. It wasn’t long before one of them – a short, portly man – came out. ‘Ms Miller, is it?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer, but laid his hand on my arm and patted it gently. That led to a flood of tears which reduced me to a complete wreck. He vanished and the next, an incredibly tall, well-built man stepped into my line of vision.

  The light picked up his high-cheek-boned features, glittered off his slanted eyes, highlighting his jaw-line. Dressed all in ‘assassin’ black, he oozed authority. His eyes travelled from one end of me to the other. Then the uniformed cop who had taken my particulars diverted his attention. I slumped back into the chair as though unhooked from a wall. My heart ached. Goldie, my cousin, my sister...my eyes closed from sheer exhaustion...

  ‘Ms Miller? Ms Miller!’

  A dark chocolate voice slammed me into the present. How could I nod off after the horror of what had happened?

  ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Anthony Hamilton, Ms Miller.’ His eyes glittered in the half light. Something warm stirred deep inside me. ‘I’d like you to take me through exactly what occurred from the moment you arrived.’

  ‘I’ve already told him everything.’ I looked nervously at the uniformed officer standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you now.’ His tone was uncompromising.

  Sighing inwardly, I recounted the events after my arrival at the house. He turned to his side-kick, whom I hadn’t seen come out of the house and gave him a look of enquiry. The colleague nodded; Hamilton’s expression folded into Easter Island statue mode. ‘Where did you go after the concert?’

  I told him about my supper with Ally and Brie, how long we’d been in the restaurant and that we’d taken our own cars home. ‘I got here about...half an hour...I don’t know, maybe more now I think. I can’t remember.’ Tears welled up again and spilled down my cheeks. Fumbling for a tissue, I realised I couldn’t find my handbag.

  The detective reached under the chair, his huge hand brushing my leg. I jumped. He ignored my reaction and dragged my bag out by the strap. ‘This what you’re looking for?’

  I nodded gratefully and rummaged around for the wad of tissues which habitually infested my bag. “What happened to Goldie?’ I was determined that this time there would be a straight answer.

  ‘Ms Miller, it appears that someone may have been here with Ms Humphries, because we don’t think she fell down the stairs. Forensics will be able to confirm the cause of death.’

  ‘You mean, she was murdered?’ My voice came out harsh and grim. Not again...

  I must have spoken, because the detective pounced on it. ‘What do you mean, “Not again,” Ms Miller?’ Piercing blue eyes examined me like a specimen in a lab. My skin flushed hot, my heart pounded. Of all the times to be attracted to a man – a cop for God’s sake – and Goldie’s dead? Guilt crawled deep inside.

  ‘Ms Miller, what do you mean, again?’

  I snapped back to attention and slowly recounted the details of Jess’s death just over four years ago. The cop took the particulars down in his notebook, looking at me from time to time as though to assess whether I was telling the truth. I wasn’t responsible for any part of what had happened then or now, but Hamilton’s expression tended to indicate he thought otherwise.

  ‘So was Ms Humphries with anyone tonight that you know of?’

  Hardly daring to ask in case there was another body in there, my lips formed the words without any help. ‘Is Harry here too?’Don’t tell me Harry’s upstairs...is he dead too? My heart pounded. Please God, no more...

  The cop’s nose quivered like a gun dog. ‘Who’s Harry?’

  ‘I don’t know his surname, but he’s a reporter from the Courier Mail. Goldie went with him to another police callout earlier, but I thought she left the concert hall on her own. You mean it might be a robbery gone wrong?’

  ‘We need to establish if the victim brought someone home with her.’ He looked at me sternly, as though I should know who and what. All I could think about was what had happened to Goldie. Had she been strangled? My legs started to shake.

  ‘Now I have to ask you some questions about tonight...are you all right?’ His eyes bored into my face.

  ‘Yes, I’m okay.’ No I’m not and it’s bloody cold...

  The interrogation began: Who was Marigold Humphries? How old was she? Was she married? What did she do for a living? Did Goldie and I get on well? Had we had an argument? How much did I know of her private life? Did she have a boyfriend, when did I last see her and what were our plans for the night?

  Answering was like mentally wading through treacle, but I forced my mind to focus. Despite the chill in the air, perspiration broke out under my arms and trickled down my ribs, soaking my cammie top. Hearing my teeth chattering, the assassin enquired whether I had a coat in my bag. I shook my head. ‘Can someone get a coat from my room upstairs?’

  ‘Sorry, Ms Miller. The house is a crime scene.’

  ‘There’s an old duffle coat in the garage, hanging on a hook on the left side just inside the door. Could someone get that for me, please? Here’s the key to the roller door.’

  He despatched a passing uniformed constable to fetch the coat, which I gratefully slipped on, trying not to react to “eau de mouse,” watched closely by the detective. Did he think I had a weapon in the pocket? I’ll just bet that cop checked the pockets and felt the hood of the car to see if it was warm. My mind squirreled frantically around the hours leading up to my return home. I could prove where I was; Ally and Brie had been with me every moment. Goldie’s flesh had been warm to touch. She must have died just before I arrived home...surely the police didn’t think I came back and fought with her after I left the city?

  The cop who’d fetched the coat said something to the detective, who turned to stare at me. ‘Why are two bunches of flowers lying beside the roller door?’

  The flowers! ‘They gave them to me at the concert hall. I was going to go back for them after I...’ Words f
ailed me. The flowers were the least of my worries. The two cops spoke for a moment and then the uniformed one left. The assassin moved to the front door, where he stood watching the forensic investigators as they went about their business.

  Murmuring to each other, the blue-clad scientists moved slowly on their booteed feet, stooping, crouching, collecting seemingly invisible specimens and popping them into what I knew from CSI, had to be test tubes. The bright lights dazzled me; someone was taking photographs of the scene. Like a crumpled piece of material flung on the floor, my cousin’s body lay, obscenely distorted in death.

  The lights shone onto the verandah and out into the street, trapping greedy spectators in their beam. Some shied away, some vanished and a few avidly contributed what I assume were their less than humble opinions to the uniformed cops moving among them. At the front door, a constable had taken up residence, muffled in a parka, taking the names of those who came and went.

  The night air grew colder. I pulled the heavy coat tightly around me, wrapping my arms across my torso. Just as I was thinking that I would be there all night and wondering when they would tell Aunt Fiona and Uncle Alex, the crowd at the front fence turned to watch a slender, attractive woman dressed in a heavy coat, her hair in a long plait, duck under the checked tape and walk into the driveway. She stepped onto the verandah.

  Before I could stop myself, I leaped to my feet and lurched forward.

  CHAPTER 14

  Not Again?

  Detective Inspector Susan Prescott

  Sunday, 1.27AM

  Pamela Miller towered over me. As I held her I could feel her muscles shaking deep inside. I gently coaxed her back into the squatter’s chair – well, dropped her into it would be a better description. I signed in with the constable and then poked my head through the front door to take a lightning inventory of the action before sitting on a nearby stool to talk to Pam.

  Voice trembling so badly that sometimes she had to stop, she told what had happened. I allowed her to ramble a little. Sometimes you can pick up a lot of what someone tells you without realising what they’re saying.

  As she talked, I became aware that this death was going to explode into the media. Even I had heard of Marigold Humphries, celebrity photo-journalist shot and wounded overseas in a war zone, whose articles, interviews and image had appeared in everything from The Australian Women’s Weekly to Time magazine. She’d even been interviewed on Oprah Winfrey’s show. I wasn’t aware she was Pam’s cousin, but now I knew the connection their physical similarity became obvious.

  I wondered if Pam had been the target of what I’d been advised was murder, but knew that Humphries was the more likely of the two, having made enemies in many walks of life – politicians, bankers – definitely animal poachers and abusers. Had one of them tracked her down and done the deed? It wasn’t rocket science. Someone had either come back with her, broken in or she’d opened the door to him – or her. From the quick glance I’d had at the victim, the woman had been as tall as Pam, but more muscular. It would’ve taken a powerful man or woman to get the better of her.

  As Pam finished speaking, Anthony Hamilton came up to us and suggested that she might go with an officer to tell Marigold Humphries parents what had happened. Pam turned even paler. Seeing the exhaustion in her face, I made an instant decision. ‘Anthony, you can take Pam to the Humphries’ place and you don’t have to bring her back tonight.’ “And break the news to the Humphries” went without saying.

  I turned to Pam who was snuffling into a handful of tissues. ‘We can’t let you take anything from the house, I’m sorry. This is a crime scene now, the whole property including the garage, so you’ll have to make do. You can stay with your aunt and uncle for tonight? You could be of help to them.’

  ‘I’ve nowhere else to go right now. My unit’s not going to be ready until tomorrow and Mum’s got her big operation on Monday. Do you think we can keep this from her until after that’s over?’

  ‘I doubt it, but talk to John and see what he thinks. I saw Ros this morning – yesterday morning.’

  ‘You saw mum? How was she?’

  ‘Very tired and longing to get it over with.’

  ‘I have a feeling she’s got more of a battle to overcome than she’s letting on. John obviously knows but he’s not telling,’ Pam replied, her posture one of defeat.

  Anthony looked from one to the other of us. I felt like telling him to wipe the surprise off his face and that I do have friends who are not cops. He hesitated for a moment and then reached for Pam’s arm to help her up. She fumbled around for her flute case and bags, but he scooped them up and waited patiently for her to move. She walked a couple of steps and then turned back to me. ‘I know this sounds silly, but when they open the garage in the morning can they go slowly?’ A sheepish expression passed across her face. ‘There’s a little possum lives in the roller door. Goldie made a pet of it and she asked me to be careful.’ Her face crumpled.

  ‘I’ll tell them, don’t worry and I’ll try and talk to you tomorrow. We’ll need you to give a formal statement and come back here when Forensics has finished and see if there’s anything missing. We’ll have to ask Ms Humphries’ parents to have a look as well.’

  Pam wiped her eyes, smiled briefly, said good-bye and followed Anthony Hamilton out to the police car. I didn’t envy him. If there’s one thing a cop hates most it’s telling a deceased’s family that a loved one has died. Car accidents are awful, but murder beats everything. I hoped Marigold Humphries wasn’t an only child.

  Turning back to the crime scene, I requested kit and suited up from top to toe, after which I edged into the hallway, trying not to get in the way. Traditional floral sofa covers, plain curtains and mock Queen Ann furniture gave the lounge room a “cottage” feel, as did the fireplace, complete with granite surround and mantelpiece bearing family photos.

  I checked them out: Pam and Marigold, arms wrapped around each other, Pam with Ally Carpenter and now deceased Jessica Rallison, a much younger Ros and a woman who was obviously her sister. Would that be Fiona Humphries? I must have met her at Ros and John’s wedding but couldn’t remember her. David and I were standing in the back row of their wedding photo. Eloise and James had come home from the UK for the occasion. Pam and my niece, Ally Mochrie, were dressed in bridesmaids gear but no sign of Marigold Humphries. Perhaps she had been overseas at the time. A veritable gallery of smiling faces lined the back of the mantelpiece, but apart from Humphries, none was recognisable.

  The portrait above the fireplace invited attention. Parry, 1976 -2009. Obviously the man in the painting meant a great deal to Marigold – Goldie – Humphries. Please God, look after her... and let them meet up. I wouldn’t admit to anyone but David that when I attended a death I always said a quick prayer. My team would probably think I’ve lost my marbles and invest too much emotion in the case. As for the boss, DS Petersen, his take on it didn’t bear thinking about.

  The forensics team worked methodically in the background. They would let me know what I needed soon enough. As though he had heard my thoughts, Lynch came up behind me. ‘Well, Susan, no rest for the wicked, eh?’ He grinned and then launched into a preliminary report. ‘Caucasian female, late twenties to early thirties, in good health. Body temperature relatively warm, so she’s been dead for only an hour or two. Broken neck and bruises on her throat indicate strangulation, bruising to her legs and scrape marks on the wall. Fully clothed and doesn’t look as though there’s been sexual assault, but we’ll know more when we do the autopsy. It’s obvious that the wall has been washed down as well as the bottom four stairs, the posts and railings. Because he – or she – knew enough to do that, then no doubt the doorknobs and any other places the perpetrator touched have been cleaned as well, unfortunately for our friends in Fingerprints.’

  Who could she have annoyed enough to actually want to kill her? What was he or she after? Lynch hadn’t finished. ‘The person who did this was very strong indeed. Her larynx was complet
ely crushed and the hyoid bone snapped. She was no shrinking violet herself and there are indications that she worked out regularly. She would have put up quite a fight.’ He ran his hand over his head, blinking. The second of his callouts in one night; his whole team must be stuffed.

  So, two deaths in twenty-four hours within a couple of kilometres of each other...I don’t like it. We made eye-contact, in perfect accord. He nodded and returned to his work. My team had gone upstairs, but so far there had been no indication that they had found anything significant. I tapped out a number on my mobile. ‘Any sign of disturbance up there?’

  ‘No, ma-am. Everything’s normal as far as we can see so far. Pamela Miller was staying in the guest room. Her bags are here, but no sign of anyone searching. Nothing obvious in Humphries’ either, but we’ll bring her laptop and files down when we finish. Perhaps Ms Miller will know if anything’s missing.’

  The sigh in the officer’s voice indicated discouragement. I wasn’t surprised. My gut said it was personal; the perp wanted something or had a grudge. We had a lot of ground to cover, but perhaps the parents could help. Much would depend on the answers to the questions we asked of her nearest and dearest. It’s always the way – quiz the people who knew her and check out who benefited from Marigold Humphries’ will.

  I wanted to spend time with Pamela, not convinced that she didn’t know what this was about. Oh, of course she probably didn’t realise what she knew, but if I put the right questions, she would tell me. I was getting incoherent with tiredness. All I’d had time for after the first call out was a shower, before the phone rang again. No sleep and no prospect of rest any time soon, probably not until tomorrow night at the very least.

  I wondered what was happening at the home of Marigold Humphries’ parents.

  CHAPTER 15

  Terror Unleashed

  Dingo

  Sunday, 1AM