After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  ‘We’ve been in touch with the hospital Public Relations department and they’re sending someone to escort you.’ The nurse looked over my shoulder, smiling. ‘Here’s Sally to take you out the back way. Give me your friend’s number and I’ll text her where to meet you and how to get there.’

  We turned to see an older woman walking toward us. Having introduced herself, she escorted me through a maze of hallways and tunnels until we arrived at a nondescript door somewhere in the bowels of the building. Outside was a small car park, blessedly empty of reporters. A couple of hospital personnel were smoking over by a hibiscus bush, but they didn’t look up as we emerged. Before I finished thanking the woman, Ally’s rented car stopped beside us. Within moments, I was helped in and Sally had disappeared.

  It was a cool and overcast day and fortunately no one noticed us. Stopped at a set of traffic lights, a nearby newsagent stand had headlines shrieking at the front: Famous journalist murdered! Concert Pianist in Murder Death!

  Murder death? Puleeeeeeeese. Would the man who attacked me be able to find out where I lived? My phone number is ‘silent,’ but anyone could find out where I live. If the man who whacked me didn’t know who I was then, he certainly did now. I kept my eyes down and allowed my hair to flop around my face. Perspiration prickled my scalp and formed beads under my arms.

  We stopped on the way home to collect my belongings from the locker at Roma Street Transit Centre and headed off, hoping that the media wouldn’t have worked out where I was. The house organisers were just leaving when we pulled into my park under the building. They stopped for a few minutes and exclaimed over my battered appearance, before leaping into their vans and waving cheerfully as they left.

  Arriving home after a long time away, in this case I had been gone six months, it’s always a novelty to see one’s belongings again. The photos I’d forgotten, the ornaments I hadn’t seen, in some cases for years, even the familiar tea towels in the kitchen gave me comfort. The hall stand where I hung my coat was – in accordance with my sketch –exactly where it should be, the cushions on my lounge suite were slightly askew as though I had just vacated it. I couldn’t wait to go through my books again. Several magazines were on the table by the window; my stereo waited patiently for me to put on a CD.

  ‘Do you want something to eat or a drink?’ Ally asked, as she shut and bolted the front door behind us.

  ‘No, quite honestly, Ally, I just need to lie down. I felt fine at the hospital, but now I’m stuffed. Then I have to practice.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Pam. You can’t practice in your state. At least wait until you feel a bit better.’

  ‘You of all people should know I have to keep it up. I haven’t done anything since yesterday. Look, I’ll lie down and rest before I do it, okay?’

  ‘All right, off to bed. Do you want a hand to get up there?’ She gestured to the three steps up from the lounge room where the bathroom, my bedroom and my music room opened off a small landing.

  ‘No, I’ll just take it slowly.’

  She galloped ahead of me, carrying my bags which she put on the bench near the balcony door. The familiar pale blue walls, white trim and pretty patterned curtains billowing in the breeze calmed me. My favourite feather duvet, bottled water on the bedside table, bookshelf filled...what more could I want? My cousin alive for starters. Someone who would hold me in the night and comfort my wounded self would be nice too...you’re full of self pity, Miller. Shake out of it.

  I dutifully took my medication and Ally turned down my bed. ‘Now, rest,’ she said sternly. ‘I’ll bring you a frothy coffee and then make something for your dinner.’

  ‘Are you staying for the afternoon? I don’t want to be alone right now.’

  ‘Of course I can stay. The kids are with Brie at his parents place having a wonderful time being spoiled rotten!’ She closed the bedroom door and clattered downstairs. Moments later a Mozart Symphony wafted gently up the stairs.

  I couldn't sleep. Frustrated, I thrashed around for about half an hour, then got up and moved restlessly around the room, picking things up and putting them down. As a diversion from the horrendous happenings of the last couple of days, it was a dead loss. The Sunday Mail lay on the table beside the books. I fumbled through my bag for my reading glasses, picked it up and looked at the front page. International Photo Journalist Murdered! screamed the headline. A photo of Goldie accepting an award was splashed across the front page. Grief squeezed my heart. Oh, Goldie. Further down the page, my own photo was set beside a small article explaining who I was and that I had found Goldie’s body, inferring that Pamela Miller was a “person of interest.”

  Hastily turning the page, there was more tragedy. A girl’s body had been found in the park where Goldie and I had spent many happy hours walking, just a few streets away from my home and Goldie’s house. The police were calling for anyone who'd seen anything untoward to come forward. I recalled the roadblock on Montague Road on the way home Saturday night, just before I found Goldie. While I had been happily playing in the concert and dining with Ally and Brie, the worst had happened.

  I turned the page and tried to read a feature about the antics of a minor film star, a right scrubber by all accounts, but it was no good. Tossing it aside, I examined the books, thinking that perhaps reading for a while would make me forget the trauma of the last couple of days. I sorted through them, an eclectic lot from which I chose the autobiography of a somewhat splendidly proportioned woman cook, half of a fun duo, who had been on television a few years ago.

  I was about to call Ally and suggest we practice together, when a waft of cool air from the open window sent a chill over my bare arms. As I started to pull the sash down, something attracted my attention across the road.

  It was all I could do not to scream the place down. Heart pounding, I closed and locked it, pulled the curtains across and groped for a robe and tottered down the few steps to the lounge room, clinging to the banister. Ally ran out of the kitchen, shocked, as I burst in. ‘Pam, what's happened, you're as white as a ghost!’

  Fighting for breath, I couldn’t answer. She hurried out of the room and came back holding a paper bag wide open in front of my face. ‘Come on, mate, deep breathe.’

  I tried to tell her that’s an urban myth, but she persisted, so rather than argue, I grabbed it and thrust my face inside.

  ‘That's it, breathe in...hold it...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out...I’ll get some water, breathe for goodness sake. Keep going Pam, breathe in...breathe out...’

  Eventually I was relatively normal, apart from a thudding heart, trembling all over, and cold invading my body. Ally looked at me with concern. ‘What happened? ’ She took my hands in hers. ‘God, you're freezing. I’ll turn the fire on; you’re like an ice block.’

  ‘The man who hit me was in the garden! It had to be him. He was wearing sunglasses and a hoodie.’

  She wanted to go outside and look around, but I stopped her and phoned the cops who arrived shortly after, sirens wailing. My neighbours popped out of their doors. Any self-respecting mugger would have long gone, but the police discovered foot prints directly under the lowset balcony in the soft garden bed. As soon as my connection with Goldie’s murder was mentioned again, mobile phones leapt into action.

  Two grave-faced older detectives arrived. For a fleeting moment, I wished Anthony Hamilton had come and then chided myself. For goodness sake, Pam, you’ve got rocks in your head. Don’t go there.

  The uniformed officers prowled around outside. The detectives settled in the lounge, with Ally close beside me, holding my hand. My relatives had arrived in response to her phone call, despite my protestations. ‘It doesn’t matter, Pam. You need support this time.’

  Alex, visibly aged, sat in the lounge chair furthest from me. Fiona didn’t say much, but stayed near the door holding her handkerchief over her mouth. She had moved to kiss me when they arrived but a hard glance from her husband stopped her. Oh no.

  The older d
etective looked thoughtfully at the dressing on my temple. ‘Miss Miller, do you think the man standing outside was the one who attacked and tried to rob you yesterday in the Gardens?’

  ‘Yes. He was wearing a black, hooded jacket. The sun was behind him and he was wearing a pair of those big square sunglasses that cover half the face. I think he was youngish, though. Oh, and I remember now. He had a bandaid on his finger!’

  ‘How would he know where you are? Could he have been on the same plane from Sydney or at the concert on Saturday night? In other words, could he be stalking you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He may have been someone I’ve talked to, perhaps someone I’ve met. There was something familiar about him, but I can’t work out what it was. I was looking directly into the sun, so I couldn’t see his features under the sunglasses. With my face splattered all over the papers, it wouldn’t be surprising if some idiot decided to rob me.’

  The detective watched me like a hawk, perhaps expecting me to either change or add to my story. Perhaps he just thought I was still disoriented or over-wrought from Goldie’s death. Maybe I was just a hysterical woman.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone acting strangely on the plane or at the airport, even at the transit centre when I got here. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at the concert. Really, I just don’t know, but the papers are full of Goldie and me.’

  ‘If you remember who it might be, let us know immediately. We’ll get the report on the incident. Do you remember which hand?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His finger. Do you remember which hand had the bandaid on the finger?’

  ‘Er...no.’ I felt very silly and small. Why couldn’t I remember at least that detail?

  They looked at each other, before the younger one replied. ‘We’ve checked the gardens all around the units. You need to make sure the windows are fastened securely and we’d advise you not to go out alone tomorrow. Have someone with you –’ he glanced at Ally – ‘your sister? Are your parents in Brisbane?’

  ‘Ally’s my friend and no, mum’s in hospital and John’s up here in Brisbane. They live out at Emsberg. I promise I’ll stay inside.’

  Alex looked thoughtful. I caught something fleeting and nasty in his expression before he finally spoke to me, his voice cold. ‘Yes, you need to stay inside where you’ll be safe.’

  The inference was that I was a coward who should have been killed instead of Goldie. Alex wanted me punished for being alive. Hadn’t the man been just under my balcony and wasn’t there a tree abutting it?

  The detectives glanced at each other. No fools, they’d picked up the vibes emanating from Alex. ‘We’ll put the report in and liaise with Homicide. There’s no knowing if this is connected in any way to Ms Humphries’ death and you can’t positively identify the prowler as your assailant. Can you come into the station tomorrow and look through some photos?’

  I agreed that I could.

  ‘We'll leave you to sort it out, then,’ said the Detective Sergeant, snapping his notebook shut.

  ‘I’ll bring Pam in tomorrow morning,’ Ally promised. The detectives left, followed quickly by Alex. My aunt hesitated, but a snarl from her husband had her scurrying from the room with an apologetic glance at me.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Ally stared after them, puzzled.

  Sighing, I recounted, in detail, what had happened between my uncle and me late Saturday night and on Sunday morning.

  CHAPTER 22

  Operation Lima Photo

  Susan

  Monday, 10AM

  The news that Pamela Miller had been attacked at the Roma Street Parklands hit me hard as did the follow-up.

  Briony Feldman had approached me with a slip of paper. ‘Ma’am, this came in a few minutes ago.’ She gave a brief smile and departed. I gazed at the note in consternation. ‘West End advises that Pamela Miller saw a man watching her unit yesterday and she thinks it could have been the man who attacked her in the park. Apparently, this one was about the same height and size, and also wearing a hoodie. Didn’t get a good look at his face. Browning and Morse have gone to interview her.’

  Startled glances were exchanged and a rustle of comment spread throughout the team. Our new Detective Senior Sergeant looked thunderous. We’d dismissed the possibility that Pam might have been the target and Marigold Humphries had got in the way. Now I wondered if she had been the intended victim after all and Humphries had gotten in the way. ‘What on earth was she doing at the Parklands?’ I asked of Evan and young Jacob, the latest recruit to our team.

  Jacob said that Pam had told Anthony Hamilton she needed time out from the aftermath of the murder. ‘A friend is bringing her into the station to make a formal statement and see if she can identify anyone. They kept her overnight at the hospital, but she should be home by now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Ah, well let me know when she gets here, will you? Now, everyone in for the Humphries briefing.’

  Assuring me that the team was back, with the exception of a couple still following up interviews around the ‘Death Cottage’ as the media were calling it, we moved to the Incident Room. The bright face of Marigold Humphries glowed down from the board, accompanied on either side by the stalker, Adam McIntyre and the reporter who had invited her to go with him to Jane Doe’s murder site. Above Marigold was her father’s name, encircled. Yes, it was most unlikely, but his reported hostility to Pamela could be of interest. Across the bottom Evan had drawn a timeline.

  As I waited for the stragglers amongst my team to join the briefing, my thoughts swung back to Humphries’ house which Evan and I had inspected early on Sunday morning while Forensics attended to their main business, the immediate crime scene surrounding the victim’s body. We wanted to get in there before they moved into the rest of the house and before Fingerprints covered the area in powder and glue.

  Originally a 1920s workman’s cottage, another storey had been added to it somewhere in its history. The morning light would make it possible to get some idea of the person who owned it. I’d arrived back at eight o’clock Sunday morning, accompanied by an exhausted Evan. We’d logged in, gloved and booteed up, and then entered through the back door in order not to disturb the immediate crime scene and upset the scientists, whose vehicles clogged the driveway. Out the front, the media howled for information. A series of impeccably groomed young women with serious faces were taking turns at reporting from the front gate. Marigold Humphries’ death was big news.

  The narrow laundry led to, what was for me and certainly Evan who had four children, an abnormally tidy kitchen. Someone had taken the house phone off the hook and laid it on the kitchen counter. The only items on the draining board had been a used coffee mug and a side-plate with a butter-smeared knife lying across it. So, no sign of a late-night guest.

  Evan made a note while I visually examined the magnets adorning the refrigerator door – mementos of her travels, lots of wildlife, a plastic yabby waving it’s fragile claws at me. I opened the door and peered inside. A half-full pot of acidophilus yoghurt, a square of butter, partially wrapped, Vegemite and couple of tomatoes, strips of bacon and half a dozen eggs completed the inventory. Two bottles of chardonnay – one half empty – stood sentinel by a one litre bottle of Real Milk. So, not much cooking going on then?

  The freezer drawer was packed with frozen pre-cooked meals. Some were commercial, many obviously homemade which tended to indicate that Marigold’s mother must have been aware of her daughter’s slapdash diet. Hanging on cup hooks from the underside of the overhead cupboards was a set of crude pottery mugs painted with what looked like African scenes.

  ‘Not much in the food cupboard,’ Evan said, as he poked the pantry door open with the tip of his pen and peered inside. Apart from a comprehensive herb and spice rack, the contents of the storage cupboard consisted mainly of packets of biscuits and tinned food. Cobwebs and moths could be seen through a clear glass jar containing muesli. A packet of teabags and half a jar of instant
coffee made up the list from there. At the far end were stacked tiers of exotic-looking crockery and wineglasses, obviously party-ware. To say the young woman had been a “non-cook” would have been over-stating the case.

  I’d lifted the lid of the garbage can near the sink with the tip of my gloved finger, but it was lined with a clean plastic shopping bag. Evan scooted out the back door and I could hear him rummaging around. ‘We’ll have to check when the garbage collection came round, but there was only one empty Lean Cuisine packet in there along with a pile of newspapers and magazines. The boys’ll be checking it this morning,’ he reported. He prised open a cupboard under the bench. ‘There’s stacks of stuff in here, but the coffee mugs are dusty. Can’t have had too many visitors!’

  ‘She mightn’t have been home for a long time. We’ll have to check with her parents, they’ll know.’ The usual kitchen drawer with odds and ends had just that – a half empty packet of bandaids, bobby pins, rubber bands, old receipts, several biros, several buttons, a reel of white cotton stained from what looked like gravy, a couple of menus from takeaway shops...the accumulation of things that we women might find useful, know we won’t but can’t bear to throw away.

  So far, it had been hard to get a “handle” on the woman’s personality. Anyone who travelled for her work as often and for as long as she had could be forgiven for not accumulating too many possessions, but I was surprised by the lack of bits and pieces which usually surround women.

  The photo journalist’s body was being removed as we moved into the lounge-dining room. An unprofessional spurt of rage shot through me, as I watched the bagged body of the brilliant young woman being strapped to a gurney. So much talent and so much to offer...all gone, leaving devastation in the wake of the crime. How many times had I watched as husbands, parents, siblings and friends bowed beneath crushing pain. Accidents were bad enough, Heaven knows, but murder?