After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  CHAPTER 28

  No News is Good News?

  Susan

  Tuesday, 8.30AM

  ‘Guess who got released yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Yes, GrantWinslow’s back on the streets and no doubt looking for trouble –’

  ‘And if there isn’t any, he’ll make some!’ I finished for Evan, who was looking less than impressed. Juvenile would be furious.

  Sighing, I joined the team in the Incident Room.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got a name for our Jane Doe, Ariel Maxwell, identified by her parents yesterday afternoon. We’ve released her photo to the media and as you would all know, it was splashed all over the Courier Mail this morning. We need to intensify our enquiries around the park and it seems Ariel went there frequently.’

  We spent the next three-quarters of an hour re-hashing, speculating and cursing the case. Those of us who were the parents of teenage girls felt pressure to chase down the killer, those who weren’t, regarded it as one more sad challenge.

  ‘Now, our first port of call is the Maxwell’s and then we’ll deal with Humphries. Right, Jacob and Sym take the Maxwell’s residence. Pay particular attention to Ariel’s bedroom. Fingerprints’ll follow you in.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Someone must have seen the girl when she came in on the bus from Sydney. Check the bus timetable, you might get lucky and the bus driver could be home or at the station. Trains – you know what to do – and Gerry, just in case, find out if she flew up. A long shot, but not unlikely. Now, someone needs to canvas the shops nearest the Maxwells. If she had a bloke with her, then it’s likely they got takeaway. The parents say Ariel wasn’t much of a cook.’ I sent two more of the team members out then turned my attention to my Senior Sergeant, who was writing in his notebook. I had the sense he was hoping to be overlooked. No such luck, gorgeous.

  ‘Any more on Pamela Miller?’ I could have sworn he blushed.

  ‘No, Ma’am, and no further problems with a prowler.’ And how would you know that? Hm.

  My team scattered in all directions, chattering among themselves. We’re missing something, I just know it. If Ariel Maxwell’s murder didn’t tie in with the Humphries’ killing, I’d eat my hat. Granted one happened in the morning and one late at night the same day, but until we found the link we couldn’t prove a thing. Before I could get a cup of coffee and prepare for a team briefing on the Humphries’ murder, I got a message. ‘Susan, the Super wants to see you!’

  Sighing, I gathered my notes and headed off to give an update on the investigation.

  Superintendent Peterson lurked in an enviably large office on the other side of the level, overlooking the river. A tall, imposing man, he looks every bit the avuncular person he is – until you do something wrong.

  ‘Right, Susan, so what’s the update on the Maxwell murder?’

  I brought him up to speed and then ventured to expound my theories about a link between the Humphries and Maxwell cases. He looked sceptical. ‘It’s a long jump from a teenager murdered on Saturday morning to a thirty-three year old photojournalist late Saturday night. Apart from them being in the same area within twenty-four hours, you’ve nothing more to link them.’ He stared at me over the top of his reading glasses. ‘However, I am aware of the numerous times that your gut feeling has steered you in the right direction and this time may be no exception. I have every confidence in your skills.’

  For a man who rarely smiled or gave praise, I was taken aback to be treated to both. He didn’t miss much either.

  ‘I believe your new Senior Sergeant is showing interest in one of the persons involved in the Humphries case.’

  ‘Where did you hear that, sir?’

  ‘No one told me, I overheard a couple of your team discussing it outside the toilets.’

  ‘Ah. Well, Pamela Miller is no longer a POI and I’ve already had a chat with Anthony. He’s a very professional officer and won’t do anything to sully the case.’

  ‘I’ll accept your assurances, Susan. I know you’ll make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.’

  We parted amicably and I headed back out to the office checking my texts. Nothing from David. I went into my cubby hole and picked up the phone. Peter Moffatt had better be available or I’d skin him alive. His phone rang out. Frightened, I dialled again. This time it picked up.

  ‘Moffat.’

  ‘Pete, it’s Susan. What’s happening with David? He usually texts me twice a day when he’s away and rings me at night. I haven’t had anything since last night’s contact. Is he on an assignment?’

  A telling silence followed. Then he sighed. ‘He’s just busy. I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.’ His tone indicated I was being a typical hysterical woman and confirmed for me what I suspected. David was undercover and Peter his handler. Damn them.

  I said goodbye, trying not to tell him that I knew what they were up to. Nausea rose in my stomach; I rushed for the washroom.

  When I came out, Evan was standing in the corridor holding a clipboard. ‘Susan, what’s happened?’

  Exhausted, I leaned against the wall. ‘Nothing desperate. I haven’t heard from David today and he’s usually in touch when he’s away.’ Evan was the only officer on my team who knew what I suspected about David’s job over the range.

  ‘Well, no news is good news, as they say,’ said Evan dryly. He knows something.

  I allowed myself to be guided back to the office.

  ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re not going to tell you anything even though you are a police officer. I know it’s impossible for you not to be concerned, but David is strong and clever. Whatever he’s doing, he won’t let them get him.’ Evan looked me in the eye. ‘Susan, even crims hesitate to kill police officers. Settle down. You have two murders to investigate and knowing this city, there’ll be more to come in very shortly. You need to stay focused and trust in David and Pete, otherwise you’ll have to ask Petersen to release you from the case.’

  He was right. Reluctantly, I tried to put aside my fears to concentrate on the here and now. ‘Okay, so how did the team go at the Maxwells?’

  Evan consulted the report clipped to the board. ‘Not well. No dirty dishes, everything wiped in the kitchen, but the remains of fish and chip wrapping and squeezed lemon quarters in the garbage. They should be able to get good prints off the wrapping but as you know, unless we have a match...interestingly, the lounge room is pristine, not like you’d expect from a teenage girl. The cushions were perfectly straight and coffee table is as clean as a whistle, so someone, either Ariel or the person with her, was trying to hide his – or her – presence.’ He rolled his eyes. Her? Yeah right, in a pig’s eye.

  ‘They did get some smudged prints under the coffee table and a few in the bathroom under the edge of the hand basin, which didn’t match the parents. Of course they could be the sons, but Mackay notified us that the Maxwell boys’ll be back here tomorrow. We’ll get their prints then.’

  ‘Okay, so anything else of interest?’

  ‘Well, the parents said that nothing’s missing, but another thing – Ariel’s bed was made up with clean sheets, but there was a set of sheets in the washing machine. They’d been washed, but not dried. Mrs Maxwell said there shouldn’t have been anything in the machine and that Ariel never did the washing.’

  We knew what that meant. Ariel had had company and tried to cover her tracks. Forensics would “luminal” everything in the dryer. Problem for Ariel’s companion was – she hadn’t gotten home to put the sheets in the dryer and then back into the linen cupboard.

  CHAPTER 29

  Surprises

  Pam

  Tuesday, 7AM

  I’d missed practising Sunday and Monday. Panicked, I’d risen at four o’clock and put in three solid hours. I had my spare room sound-proofed so I could do my practice without driving the neighbours into a stampede. The media, frantic to get a comment on Goldie’s murd
er, putting my block of units under siege on Sunday night didn’t help matters. The Body Corporate Chairman was not amused. ‘Not something we encourage of our tenants, Ms Miller.’ Old goat.

  I slumped back onto the bed, wishing I didn’t have to go anywhere, do anything except “veg out.” My drawn face stared at me from the bathroom mirror. Dark eyebrows, very fair skin topped by rather ordinary, wild blond crinkly hair cascading to my waist couldn’t detract from the tired lines around my eyes and the bags under them. Events since Saturday night were becoming almost too much for me.

  Alex’ hostility, the knowledge that I was a suspect and had in fact been attacked was reinforced by the tight stitches in my head. I picked at the Elastoplast holding the small bandage on the wound and carefully peeled it off. A small amount of dried blood had seeped from the cut, held together by four ugly black stitches. Another week before they came out. The hard lump on my forehead had shrunk to a small squishy mound.

  Sighing, I prepared for a shower, thinking of all the things I had to do today, before concentrating on the one highlight in my life – Anthony Hamilton. A thrill shot through me as I remembered his visit the night before. My mouth curved into a smile. Then I remembered that I was supposed to go out with Bill that night. Leaving a message on his mobile saying that I couldn’t make it left me feeling slightly guilty, but what the heck? Men broke dates all the time.

  I’ve always enjoyed really hot showers – Jess used to complain it took hours for the towels to dry after I’d had a shower – so I turned the tap on further, relishing the heat on my muscles, allowing it to spray gently on the stitches.

  Already I felt physically better, but as I got out, dried myself and dressed, reality set in. No Goldie to share my excitement with. In the past three years, I’d giggled along with her and Ally over various blokes, speculating whether they were likely to call and, when I was much younger, hanging around the house with Ally and Jess longing for the phone to ring, always careful to keep our mobiles with us – just in case. The times when we’d had too many drinks and we’d wept together about how lonely we were, how much we wanted to find someone to love and who would love us unconditionally and how that would never happen again.

  It was incomprehensible that only this time last week, Goldie was yet to meet me at the air train and looking forward to the future. Maybe someone important had arrived in my life and Goldie was going to miss everything. If Anthony and I – ended up together – cool it Pam, for God’s sake. You barely know him. Okay, so I was allowed to be excited. Just a little bit, right? The number of times I’ve met “someone” and been bitterly disappointed couldn’t dim my spirits. I was fed up with kissing frogs and hoping this one would be the prince.

  Generally, I’m pretty happy with my life, quite content, practicing my music, reading or going out with girlfriends, but like most women, I want to love and be loved and of course, have children. Time is slipping by. Almost twenty-nine, though not over the hill by any means, soon becomes thirty, then thirty one. You always think there’s plenty of times to do all the things you want, but now that I’m in my late twenties, I realise what older people mean when they say time goes so fast. Now, having met Anthony Hamilton...careful, Pam. Better to expect nothing and if something comes of it, then that’s a bonus. Guilt reared. How could I even think of being so happy when my cousin was dead? And in the worst possible way.

  I wanted so badly to see my mum. John phoned me early to say that she was doing well and longing to have me visit her in hospital. ‘She can’t talk for too long, Pam, but she’s desperate to see you.’

  Morning rituals were rushed through, the dressing on my head changed – oh, to be free of it – panadol scoffed down and then the crucial part of my day...what to wear.

  Travelling a lot means I don’t have many clothes. Jeans, t-shirts, slacks, sweaters, a coat or two, ballet flats and joggers are all I require of my everyday wardrobe and not many people get to see me in the same things. That did not include my performance gear, which comprised three gowns – the inevitable black, the navy blue and a turquoise cocktail frock, all long enough to hide the ballet flats!

  Remembering the new gorgeous golden dress and shoes I’d worn Saturday night reminded me that it would have to be dry-cleaned before the next concert. Well, since my next one was Saturday, perhaps it might be okay to wear it once more.

  I struggled into my best pair of jeans, a crisp white shirt and denim jacket, tied a jaunty scarf around my throat and, leaving a mussed fringe to hide the dressing on my temple, hooked my hair back with jewelled combs. A pair of suede boots and a dash of makeup and I was ready to face the world. It was only 8.30am, so I figured to do the statement and dry cleaner first and then head for the hospital. I galloped back down the stairs. I had to put in some more practice that day no matter what.

  Something sprang to mind. I had nothing suitable to wear to Goldie’s funeral. Pam, if you wore black to my funeral I’d come back and haunt you! Goldie’s half-serious words, spoken after she’d been wounded sprang into my mind. Wondering if the shop where young Tia worked would have something suitable, I made a mental note to call in later.

  Just as I was about to leave, the phone rang.

  ‘Pam?’

  Lance MacPherson had never phoned me before. Curious, I stayed silent waiting for him to state his business.

  ‘How are you feeling? I heard you copped a whack on the head at Roma Street Parklands on Sunday?’

  How had he known that? So far the media hadn’t discovered the attack, probably because there were two far more exciting things to report. I bet Ally or Brie told him.

  ‘I’m fine, Lance. I have a few stitches, but nothing that won’t be healed in a few days.’ I fingered the new dressing carefully, feeling the drying stitches through the fabric. ‘I’ll be able to do Ipswich,’ I added, referring to my next concert.

  ‘Good girl! Superb concert on Saturday. You were terrific but I told you that, didn’t I?’ Oh yes, he’d kissed my hand and grandstanded along in fine form, just like his elegant father, Sir James.

  ‘Listen, a group of us are going to a late lunch at Silver’s in West End. Would you like to join us? I know it’s a bit soon after...you know...but it might cheer you up.’

  An invitation? What does he want? Gossip? ‘It just so happens that I need to do some shopping so yes, I’d like to come. Who’s going to be there?

  ‘Bill Seymour, Charlie Wilkins, Joy Martin...probably the Impaler if I can rake him out of whoever’s bed he’s currently in.’ He went on to name several more musicians whom I knew well and a few I didn’t.

  ‘Okay, thank you. What time?

  ‘Around 1.30 or thereabouts. I’ll book a table. It’s a sort of a welcome to the new percussionist, Craig someone or other.’ Typical conductor, didn’t know the name of a new musician. He couldn’t have that much going on in his handsome head. In fact, I doubt there’s much beyond music and women in there at the best of times.

  That would also give me time to go to the West End police station and make a formal statement about my attack and the man watching me from the street. After that I’d go to the hospital and then call at Goldie’s solicitor’s office. I’d thought to see Mum in the afternoon, but John had asked me to come in the morning. ‘She’ll be stuffed by the afternoon. All the carry-on in the morning with the doctors and medicines. She’ll probably sleep after lunch.’

  I finished up my breakfast, gathered up my bag and coat, and trotted out the door making sure before I did so that the windows, particularly the ones to my balcony, were locked. The thought that Anthony Hamilton might ring me, or that I might actually see him some time that day, sent a warm thrill through me. Thank God it didn’t go any further...well, it might have been nice.

  I pulled up outside the station, grabbed my bag and headed inside. It didn’t take long to get the statements organised and I was on my way again to the hospital to see mum. John met me when I got out of the lift and warned me that she was festooned with mac
hinery, but quite bright under the circumstances.

  It really hurt to see my mother with tubes sticking out of her throat and great swathes of metal clips in her neck confirming that her throat had, literally, been cut. Her eyes were quite bright, but owing to the patch of flesh taken from her arm and sewn into her mouth, her voice was muffled and weak. John kept dipping massive cotton buds into a glass of water and gently wetting her dry lips.

  ‘Mum! You look great,’ I assured her, as I sat in the chair which John pulled up for me.

  ‘Huh, that’s a laugh, Darling,’ she said slowly, the side of her mouth angling up in a wry smile. She looked worried when she noticed the dressing on my stitches, but happy to accept my reassurances that it was almost healed.

  John and I did most of the talking about the events of the last few days but we tried not to go into too much detail. ‘Have you heard from Fiona?’

  ‘She left a message at the desk. They said she’d be up in the next day or two, but Ros asked me to ring and tell her not to worry. She’s got too much on her plate right now.’

  We were silent for a moment, thinking of the terrible arrangements Fiona and Alex would have to make over the next week. I knew that Goldie’s body still hadn’t been released from the government mortuary. We steered the conversation to Fudge and the other animals at Emsberg, but before long, mum started to show the signs of exhaustion.

  ‘I’ll leave you to rest now, but I’ll be back tomorrow, Mum. Don’t worry, everything will work out in the end.’

  John followed me out of the ward. ‘Any change from Alex yet?’ he asked, his tone revealing just how he felt about his brother-in-law’s attitude.