Back in your box.
He wasted no time in getting out of the hotel. Newspaper posters shouted at him from the corner store a block down from the hotel: ‘World Famous Journo Murdered!’ and ‘Vale Goldie!’ There photos of Pamela Miller in that dress. He didn’t fancy her particularly but the golden vision – and those shoes – caused a twitch in his second brain. He forced himself to dismiss the image and concentrate on his mission to get a card reader. Beads of sweat prickled his torso. He wished he’d not worn a hoodie, but then how could he hide his face? Don’t be silly. No one knows who you are, stupid – except for the rest of orchestra. Put your sunglasses on.
Unable to help himself, he stopped and purchased a paper. The newsagent was inclined to be chatty. ‘Terrible thing, that. Right down near the ferry, too.’ He mumbled something vaguely appropriate and hastily allowed another customer to take his place. He walked slowly down the street, heart sinking as he read the front page and realised just who he had fought with and that Pamela Miller was the Humphries woman’s cousin.
Why did I do it? They’d be screaming for his blood. He leaned against a lamp post to gather his wits and rest his back. Oh God...threefoursix...threefourfive...oh God...no...Now the Humphries woman had broken out again. He forced back the voices tramping around in his brain. Shut up, shut up!
‘Are you all right, young man?’ The elderly voice breaking into his thoughts almost gave him a heart attack. An old woman leading a small dog, who was even older than she, if that were possible, stood beside him, looking concerned.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. Rough night out.’ Dingo flashed the beautiful smile which had endeared him to women all his life.
Her face lit up and patted his arm. ‘You young people, I don’t know...’ She shook her head, still smiling, and went into the shop.
Feeling he was pushing his luck, he rolled up his paper and strode out for the city, swinging it like a baton, willing his heart to stop pounding. He was glad to blend in with the Sunday morning walkers, some of them hoodies like himself.
The view of the river as he crossed the bridge was lost on him, as he brushed past the family groups dawdling along and stopping to take photos against the backdrop of South bank. The shops would be open in the Myer Centre. He edged his way through the crowd and found a place which sold card readers. It was all he could do not to rip the thing out of the shop assistant’s hands as she pointed out the various attributes and then went on to talk about other more expensive brands. ‘No that one will do.’
Disappointed, she placed it in a plastic bag and fixed up his credit card. He wandered out of the shop and walked slowly toward the Transit Centre, thinking he might stop at a bar on the way. A drink would be good. Then Dingo saw Pamela Miller ahead, crossing the street, heading for the Roma Street Station. Would she know what was happening at the house? Would she tell him if she did know? He hurried after her, wincing from the pain in his back and shoulder. As he ran into the ground floor, he saw her talking to someone at the desk. Uncertain of how to approach her without looking too interested in the murder, he lurked behind a newsagent’s stand. She walked to the lockers and started stowing her bags and flute case, before walking toward the back of the station.
Thanking his stars she was so tall, he slunk after her, keeping at least six or seven people behind, debating whether to follow her or go back to the hotel and use the card reader to check the weird Nikon card. He tucked his parcel into his jacket and then, following instinct kept his head down and tracked her into the park where she wandered, seemingly without any purpose, stopping now and then to touch a flower, or read a plaque by the side of the pathway. He stayed well back as she talked on her mobile and ate a snack, after which she got up and strolled slowly through the park. If she happened to see him, he could chat about the concert and the orchestra. Did she see him leaving right after Goldie Humphries? Wait, just wait and see what she does.
He thought there was all the time in the world – until she took what appeared to be a professional photographer’s camera out of her bag.
CHAPTER 20
Attacked!
Pam
Sunday, 1PM
The realisation that I was the focus of someone's attention wasn’t something which leaped out at me, but rather a slow and terrifying understanding that I was being stalked. It wasn’t the sort of scrutiny which lets you know a gorgeous hunk of testosterone is eyeing you up, more the type of: ‘I'm watching everything you do and waiting to pounce...’
Frightened of being mugged, I stowed the camera into my handbag and tucked it tightly under my arm with the strap wound around my wrist. Nothing happened, so after a while I relaxed a little. Then something moved on the periphery of my vision. Startled, I froze a moment and peered through the tall ferns nearby. Should I step into the inset pathway in front of me? No, I'd be trapped. My heart pounded and perspiration broke out over my body, sending prickles of panic into my stomach. I looked around for a group of people to join – pensioners, school kids – anyone – but while I’d been absorbed in the history of the gardens and taking photographs, the families had momentarily deserted the pathways to picnic on the lawns below. A small group of elderly women laughed as they pointed at something in the distance. I started toward them, pushing through a large overhang of fern.
Something crashed into my head.
Bright pain hurled me to the ground.
My face smashed into the planks of the walkway.
Lights danced in front of my eyes; a large hand snaked under my stomach, clenched the strap of my handbag and jerked violently.
I flattened myself onto the ground, curling my arm under me. ‘No. No!’
A steady stream of warm blood trickled down the side of my face and into my mouth.
The hand pulled away, wrenching my shirt free of my jeans. I grabbed the front of my shirt with the hand around which the strap was twined, and tried to protect my head with the other. First thing, get your face out of the dirt.
Bracing myself, I gingerly turned my head, trying to open my eyes before rolling onto my side. A middle-aged man stared down at me, his face creased with concern.
A babble of shocked voices pierced my consciousness. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’
Am I all right? Someone has hit me in the temple, blood’s streaming down my face, my eyes are full of tears, I'm almost knocked cold with shock, but – ‘Yes, I'm fine, thanks. It's nothing.’
‘I'll look after her,’ said a whispery voice above my head. ‘I’m her brother.’
‘I don’t have a brother!’ No one appeared to hear or understand.
‘She’s a bit confused.’
Someone wearing huge black sunglasses like blow-fly eyes, face half covered by a black hood loomed over me. His breath smelled of mints, his hands encircled my wrists like manacles as he pulled mine from my head. Deep in the inner recesses of my mind, familiarity stirred but vanished before I could catch it. I squinted upward through a haze of blood in my right eye, but the sun was behind him.
‘No, this isn't right! Get away from me! I don’t know you!’ I protested weakly, trying to push his hands away.
A small audience gathered, no doubt bristling in anticipation of drama. I jerked my wrist out of his hand, clamped my own hand over the cut on my head and braced myself against the stinging pain, still clutching my handbag to my stomach. If I closed my eyes tightly enough, he might go away.
Another voice chimed in. ‘I'm a nurse. I've called for an ambulance.’ I opened my good eye. A floral-perfumed woman with a kind face was kneeling in front of me. Thank God. ’You mustn't move until the paramedics check you out. You've got a nasty cut there, love, so keep still and don't turn or lift your head.’
The space where my supposed brother had been was empty. The pounding in my head intensified. My skin felt tight as the blood trickled down my face. Nausea swirled through my stomach, threatening to shoot into my throat. ‘He tried to steal my handbag,’ I muttered, trying to overcome the met
allic taste in my mouth.
‘Who?’ She paused, glancing around nervously.
‘The man who was here just now. Hoodie – green shirt. Sunglasses.’
She looked around. ‘He’s not here now. Are you with friends? What's your name?’
I tried to focus. ‘Pamela Miller. I'm here on my own.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Someone's phoning the police.’ She took a wad of tissues from her bag, proceeded to soak them from a water bottle and gently wiped my mouth before squeezing some water through my lips. ‘Rinse out, get that blood out of your mouth,’ she urged, ‘but don't swallow.’
Gratefully, I complied. ’I think he tried to rob me,’ I quavered.
My audience faded, no doubt disappointed I wasn't seriously hurt.
‘Can I phone someone for you? I'm Kathleen, by the way. My husband and I were just about to go home when he saw you lying on the ground.’
A witness! ‘Did he see that man hit me?’
‘No. Someone said he was your brother, but he went away.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Are you sure he was the one who hit you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ But was I sure? A large hand had shoved under my body, pulled at the strap of my handbag and in so doing had reefed my shirt out of my jeans. I was a woman alone and easy pickings. He’d only to watch and wait for the chance when there'd be no one else around. Why hadn't I left the garden when I realised I was being followed? Stupid, Pam ,stupid.
I drifted off for a few minutes, and awakened to the sound of voices and a scuffle of footsteps on the pathway. Two paramedics swiftly unpacked their bags. One medic wiped my face and cleaned my mouth of blood with something soft and wet. Enquiries were made as to whether I was feeling pain anywhere else. Competent hands checked me for injuries, my blood pressure taken and a torch flashed in my eyes. ‘You'll need to come with us,’ they announced as they strapped a neck brace on and then lifted me onto a flat stretcher, carefully holding my spine and neck rigid. Expertly and swiftly I was trundled to a waiting ambulance.
It was there two checked caps appeared. The elder of the officers took out his notebook. ‘Is she up to answering a few questions? We won't keep her more than a minute or two.’ The medics nodded, so he took out his notebook with a purposeful air, introduced himself and swung into procedures. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his colleague talking to the nurse, Kathleen.
I gave my name and address. ‘I’ve just moved back in there. Well, I’m going back there this afternoon.’
Understandably, the officer looked a little confused. ‘You mean you’re not currently living at your unit, but you’re going to be there from this afternoon?’
‘Yes, that’s what I meant to say. I’ve been away touring. I’m a musician and I just got home on Friday from Sydney. The tenants only left yesterday and the household organisers are – well, were – moving my belongings back in some time this morning.’
The cop nodded and made notes in his book. ‘From the look of the cut you have on your head and size of the lump coming up, you’re not going back anywhere today. Do you feel up to answering some questions? You can make a full statement later.’
I nodded gingerly.
‘Now, did you see who attacked you?’
I explained the sequence of events and then described the hooded man as best I could. The ferocity of the pain made thinking difficult. The officer pressed a little, but when I was unable to add to my statement, he closed his notebook. ‘Maybe it will come to you,’ he said comfortingly. ’That's all for now, Ms Miller. Would you like us to ring someone for you? A relative or friend?’
I panicked. Fiona and Alex were traumatised already, my mother was facing her operation and John worried about her. Anthony Hamilton? No, I couldn’t ask him to leave his job and chase after me. Then I remembered Ally and Brie. ‘Yes, please. The number’s in my purse.’
The officer scuffled through my bag and brought out my purse. With a glance for permission, he sorted through the pockets until I identified their business card.
‘This it?’
‘Yes, please could you ring them?’ I closed my eyes while he phoned and then advised that Ally would meet me at Emergency.
‘Wait!’ The cop turned back, putting his notebook into his pocket.
‘I don’t know if this is important or related, but my cousin, Goldie – Marigold – Humphries was murdered on Saturday night.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Shocked, he turned to his partner, who was already reaching for his mobile phone.
I raised my head. ‘Tell DI Susan Prescott...’ It hurt too much. I flopped back onto the stretcher.
The paramedic looked concerned. ‘Can you hurry it up? We want to get going.’
The cop on the phone shot her an apologetic glance and then, apparently being given an instruction, snapped the mobile shut and nodded to the paramedics who immediately trundled me into the ambulance. I raised my hand and touched my right temple. It had swollen to the size of a ping pong ball. My skin twitched and my teeth chattered. The medic who rode in the back with me added another blanket to the foil cover. As we pulled into the forecourt of the Emergency Department of Royal Brisbane hospital, my body started to shake uncontrollably. My stretcher became a trolley again, but I had just enough time to see a tall, hooded man getting out of a nearby car.
No!
I blacked out again.
CHAPTER 21
The Watcher
Pam
Monday, 8AM
Overnight stays in hospital are not my idea of comfort and good fun. The endless wait for the CT scan, then the wait for the doctor to stitch my wound, followed by the night-time clatter and laughter of the nurses. The torchlight shining in my eyes, not to mention the constant monitoring of my blood pressure, nearly drove me mad. Of course, I was grateful for the care which was second to none, but exhaustion and grief were threatening depression.
‘You can’t go home until doctor's been and had a look at you,’ announced the nurse, when I whined to leave. I would catch up with my stepfather if I could just get out in time and I was desperate to get home and practice my music.
‘That’s quite a knock you’ve had, dear.’ The lump on my temple throbbed, the stitches stung. Why would a stranger deliberately hit me with a rock? A mistake? But how could you mistake a 183cm female musician for someone else? Another 183cm musician? There aren't too many of us around. I remembered the hand tugging at the strap of my handbag. Maybe it was ‘just’ a common or garden mugging. Perhaps Goldie’s murder was a burglary gone wrong...just random chance...wrong place, wrong time. I’d tried to put speculation behind me.
After a CT scan was pronounced clear, I was taken on a trolley to a side ward, part of Emergency, and put to bed. Two police officers came to take a formal account of what had happened, taking me through my statement slowly and gently, showing no impatience when I had difficulty remembering details. After half an hour, they left me a card and asked me to call if I thought of anything more...
‘Miss Miller? Or should that be Ms Miller?’
I opened my eyes, to see a rotund, grey-haired man dressed in a suit, standing at the foot of the bed. I squinted at my watch, dismayed to see that I had missed seeing Mum. John would be upset and wondering why I hadn’t turned up this morning before she went into theatre.
‘I’m Doctor Phillips. I see you’re a celebrity. We’ve had to ward off the press on your behalf.’
‘Really?’ There hadn’t been any sign or word that my presence in the hospital had become news.
‘We like to protect our patients, Ms Miller. How are you this morning?’ He frowned and took my chart handed to him by an attendant nurse, who looked at me curiously.
‘Fine, thank you. Can I go home today?’ I asked eagerly. I would run upstairs and see if I could find John at the Oncology Unit before finding a sneaky way out of the hospital.
‘We'll see. You had quite a bump, you know. The CT scan showed nothing damaged, but you're going to be very sore for a few
days,’ he added, stating the obvious. The doctor peered over the top of his bifocals and prodded gently around the wound with a glove-covered forefinger. I tried not to gag at the fog of cigarette clinging to his body and clothes.
‘Hm. The swelling’s gone down considerably. Good. Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He made it sound as though I was a vagrant.
‘I meant, do you have family or friends who can keep an eye on you for a day or two?’
‘Oh yes. I have a friend who will collect me and take me home to my unit.’ The night before in Emergency, Ally had told her to call the instant I was ready to leave.
‘Well, I'll let you go if you promise to rest. No nightclubs and carousing!’ Carousing? Did anyone use that term anymore? I promised solemnly and he left. Ally promised to come and get me in about an hour and she would text me when she got to the front of the hospital. ‘Apparently the press know I’m in here,’ I explained.
‘Don’t worry; we’ll get you out in one piece.’
With the dregs of charge in my mobile phone battery, I called my stepfather. Speaking faster than a race caller, I told him what had happened and heard that Mum had gone into theatre around seven o’clock. He refused my invitation to come to my unit, as he wanted to stay at the hospital so he could be there when she came back from surgery. ‘I wanted to see her before she went in,’ I wailed.
‘Don’t worry, she was fine, love. You can see her tomorrow. She won’t be ‘with it’ when she comes out of theatre. I’ll give her your love, but I’ll leave it to you to sort work that out later. You have to look after yourself. Have you got someone to take you to your unit?’
‘Yes, Ally will come and get me, don’t worry. How did mum take the news about Goldie?’
‘Not well. She phoned Fiona and spent about an hour talking to her.’
I knew Mum would have been exhausted after that, so was glad that I couldn’t have called her the night before. I had a shower and dressed, just in time to see a text message from Ally who was on her way.
After Ariel: It started as a game Page 15
