Dead Certain

by Claire McNab

  How did Welton know so quickly that she had been put in charge of the case?

  Shrugging, she turned to the post mortem report. Collis Raeburn, who had been rapidly attaining international superstardom, had been reduced by the State Morgue to a case number and a concise recital of facts. Everything about him seemed relentlessly average: height, weight, physical condition. His extraordinary talent, the glorious voice that had captivated so many people, had been diminished by the pathologist’s scalpel to healthy vocal cords and a superior lung capacity. He had ingested, the report stated succinctly, amylobarbitone, pethidine and alcohol in sufficient quantities to cause his death, although what had actually killed him was suffocation, as, after he had slid into unconsciousness, he had choked on his own vomit. His stomach contained the partly digested remnants of a light meal. Time of death was difficult to establish, first, because it wasn’t possible to determine exactly when he ate the meal, and second, because the air-conditioning in the room had been set on full, which affected rigor mortis. All things taken into consideration, the forensic pathologist was willing to set the parameters at somewhere between nine on Saturday night and one o’clock on Sunday morning.

  She shuffled through the photographs taken at the scene, pausing over a close-up of Raeburn’s long, sensitive fingers slightly curled as they brushed the thick carpet. The overturned tumbler glinted in the flash, the stain of spilled whiskey was faintly visible, scattered tablets fanned near his relaxed hand.

  Mark Bourke put his head around the door. “Carol? Got something for you.”

  “Look at this photo, Mark. It looks staged to me.”

  “Raeburn was the theatrical type.”

  “You think he arranged the glass and the pills like this, then managed to fall unconscious with one hand draped artistically as part of the scene?”

  Bourke sat down and stretched his long legs. “Just the way it happened. Takes your aesthetic eye, Carol, to see the artistry.”

  “And I don’t like the fact there’s no suicide note.”

  “Carol, there often isn’t.”

  “It doesn’t feel right. As you say, he was theatrical. It seems to me he’d have wanted the last word.”

  Bourke’s smile was cynical. “Sure there wasn’t a note, and it was embarrassing, so it’s disappeared? Wouldn’t be the first time a little judicious tampering occurs at the scene of a suicide.”

  “The two who discovered him didn’t mention seeing a note.” She handed him the preliminary report. “Have you read this?”

  “Yes. To me it’s classic suicide, and efficient, except he forgot to take the precaution of adding a nausea tablet to stop himself from vomiting. The nicely lethal combination of sleeping tablets, a narcotic and alcohol means he wasn’t making a staged cry for help. He was deadly serious.”

  “There was a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook in the room.”

  He spread his hands. “Well, there you are, then. He has a textbook to check he’s doing it right.” He grinned wickedly. “Maybe the publishers can use it in their advertising-a famous satisfied customer’s always good for business.”

  “It’s too neat. I don’t like it.”

  He shook his head. “If you’re suggesting murder, you’ll open an awfully restless can of worms. He was HIV-positive. That alone will galvanize the media if they get wind of it-and the longer his death’s a news item, the more likely it is that someone will dig it up. Isn’t your job to get this off the front pages as quickly as possible?”

  “I’m not altogether sure what my job’s supposed to be, Mark. What I do know is that there’s some hidden agenda, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  “You’ve got another complication. The word’s around that Bannister, the guy you replaced on the case, isn’t happy. Says it’s political influence.”

  “It is.”

  “Yes, we all know that. But he’s still bitching. Actually, I think he’s put in an official complaint.”

  Impatient, Carol threw the photograph down. “The Commissioner appointed me because the Minister for Police told him to, so where’s a complaint going to get Bannister?”

  Bourke was smiling at her vehemence. “Calm down, Carol. Don’t take it personally. I’d take it through channels too, if I were him. Just thought you should know that Bannister would be delighted to find something to hang a real complaint on, so watch your back.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  His smile faded. “No, I’m not. Bannister’s new to the South Region, but I’ve had a bit to do with him over the years. He causes trouble, and none of the dirt clings to him. Efficient, ambitious and resentful. Probably the worst he could do is cause some aggravation, but it might be worth keeping an eye on him.”

  She began to twist her black opal ring. “I don’t need this.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “So, Carol, forgetting Bannister who’s just an irritation, what’s your professional opinion as opposed to your instinct? Is it suicide, murder or an unfortunate accident?”

  “Probably suicide-but I was brought in for a purpose, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m supposed to be good at PR.”

  “Wanted someone with a higher profile than Bannister?”

  “Could be. Which means the aim might be more publicity, not less. Why would that be, do you think?”

  “Want me to do some digging?”

  “Please. But be subtle, Mark.”

  His grin had returned. “Subtle,” he said, “is my middle name.”

  After he had gone she read through the statements of the hotel staff and closely studied the photographs of the room. Collis Raeburn had checked into his usual luxury hotel near Circular Quay and had gone up to his room at 5:30 P.M. He’d unpacked his clothes and put them away, called room service and ordered an early meal and a bottle of wine. About nine he arranged for a large pot of coffee to be left outside the door and had instructed the desk to not put through any calls to his room. The person who’d delivered the coffee to his floor remembered seeing the DO NOT DISTURB sign. He didn’t knock, but left the coffee by the door. Several of the room photos showed the silver coffee pot and a cup and saucer sitting on a low table near easy chairs arranged at the window to take advantage of the beautiful view of Sydney Harbour.

  Carol fanned out the photographs and considered them again. Too neat. Too theatrical. And there should be a note.

  She frowned over a series of shots of the room, bed and body taken from different angles. Collis Raeburn was casually dressed: jeans, a loose cotton sweater and sports shoes. The investigating officer on the scene had noted that Raeburn had unpacked his suitcase and put his clothes away neatly, yet two of the photographs showed a necktie on the carpet near the foot of the bed, crumpled as though it had been carelessly tossed there.

  In one extreme close-up of Collis Raeburn’s face, his cheek was nestled deep into the comfort of a pillow, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. She remembered vividly the last time she had seen this dead face full of life: a television special hosted by the diminutive but formidable Madeline Shipley. The program traced his life and career, starting with his first singing experiences as a boy soprano in a church choir and interviewing important people in his life. Raeburn had sung some of his most famous arias, his mouth curved in a half-smile that his singing teacher, a pragmatic middle-aged woman, described clinically to the camera as, “Essential to the production of a clear, forward tone.” Popular far beyond opera circles, his voice caressed, warmed, captivated. And the joy with which he sang vitalized the most hackneyed song, the most familiar aria. Only in his early thirties, he was approaching his prime as a singer, his best years still ahead of him when his voice would mature and darken to suit the most demanding roles of grand opera.

  Still staring at his face, she absently picked up the phone on its second ring. “Carol Ashton.” She leaned back, smiling. “Darling, I’ll be late too. I’ve been landed with the Collis Raeburn case. Let’s get a pizza delivered when we both make it home.”
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  As she replaced the receiver her imagination vividly held Sybil’s red hair, the line of her jaw, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. But there were darker things-the note of impatience so often in Sybil’s voice, the tension that had grown between them lately, the resentments that Carol tried to ignore.

  She shrugged. She didn’t want to think about that now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The manager of the five-star hotel where Raeburn had died was a small, neat man with a pencil mustache and an affable, but restrained manner. He ushered Carol and Anne to seats, then retreated behind his mahogany desk. “Well, Inspector, we both know that now and then…” He paused delicately, “… a guest may take the unfortunate step of…”

  “Suicide.”

  He seemed relieved the word was out. “Yes. And of course, we always cooperate fully with the authorities, whilst respecting the privacy of our guests.”

  “What procedures are followed when someone dies?”

  “Generally we call for a doctor to be certain that the guest is… deceased. There have been a few unfortunate cases where staff have reacted precipitately…”

  Carol saw Anne hide a smile. Recently there had been an embarrassing incident where hotel staff had found an international pop star apparently dead in his suite, and one enterprising member of the management had leaked this scoop to the media, unaware that the guest was in a deep drug-induced coma, but still very much alive. The resultant publicity and threats of legal action by the star had necessitated swift damage control by the hotel chain and had blighted career prospects for several members of staff.

  “… then, of course, we contact the police and, where appropriate, the next of kin. You’ll understand, Inspector, it’s always a time where discretion is vital.”

  “I’d like a step-by-step outline of Collis Raeburn’s stay, right through to the removal of the body.” When the manager seemed about to protest, Carol added, “I’m quite aware you’ve been through this before, but I would appreciate it if you could outline it again.”

  The manager repressed a sigh. “Naturally, Inspector, we want to cooperate fully.” He referred to notes in an embossed leather folder. “Let me see… Mr. Raeburn checked in at five-thirty on Saturday, asking for his usual room with a view of the Opera House and harbor. He arranged for room service to deliver a meal at seven-thirty.” He looked up. “Are you interested in what he ate?”

  “Of course.”

  “All he requested was a tuna salad and a bottle of white wine. No dessert, coffee only. I’ve spoken to the waiter who delivered the meal and he said that Mr. Raeburn seemed quite relaxed and happy.”

  “Yes. We have a statement from him.”

  The manager cleared his throat. “The last contact the hotel had with Mr. Raeburn was just after nine o’clock. He called to order a large pot of coffee, and also asked that no calls be put through to his room until further notice. The waiter-the same one who’d delivered the meal-saw the DND on the handle, and, naturally, didn’t knock, but left the tray with the coffee outside the door.”

  “How long would a Do Not Disturb be honored?”

  “Normally until after checkout time, which is noon, unless other arrangements have been made. If at this point the person didn’t respond to a telephone call from the desk, a decision to enter the room would be made at the discretion of the Duty Manager. This didn’t apply in the case of Mr. Raeburn because he was booked in for several days. What happened here was that the room attendants reported to the Housekeeping Supervisor that they couldn’t enter the room to make the bed and change the towels. This was logged in the housekeeping department, and brought to the attention of the Duty Manager when the evening shift came on the next night.”

  “None of your staff had noticed any activity from the point where Raeburn ordered the coffee at nine?”

  “Nothing. There were no calls in or out, no messages taken, and no one made any inquiries at the desk.” He looked professionally regretful. “I’m afraid Mr. Raeburn was very careful not to be disturbed during his last hours.”

  “The tray with the remains of the tuna salad wasn’t in the room. When would that have been collected?”

  The manager gave a suggestion of a shrug. “Presumably Mr. Raeburn put it outside his room. Any staff involved in room service are instructed to clear trays immediately when they see them.”

  “We know the tray wasn’t there when the coffee was left by the door.”

  A glimmer of impatience showed on the manager’s face. “It may have been collected earlier, or later-there’s no record kept of such things.”

  As Anne flipped a page of her notebook, Carol said, “Anyone could have gone to the room without checking in at the desk.”

  “Yes, of course. There’s always movement in the lobby of a hotel. But the person would need to know the room number, otherwise he or she would ask at the desk and be told Mr. Raeburn was not to be disturbed.”

  “And no one did ask, according to your staff.”

  He raised his eyebrows fractionally. “They’re reliable, and professional. If they say no one asked, no one did.”

  Carol said, “Collis Raeburn always had the same room?”

  “Whenever possible. Do you want to see it, Inspector? We had permission from the detective in charge to clean the room, but we’ve booked no one into it…” He frowned. “Unfortunately we’ve had several requests to spend the night in the place where Mr. Raeburn died. It is not, of course, our policy to accede to such propositions.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” said Carol, straight-faced. “I don’t want to see the room, but I would like details about the discovery of the body.”

  “The night audit staff were on-they work through the night and do a printout of departures and stay-overs for the next day. The Housekeeping Supervisor was concerned about Mr. Raeburn and she approached the Duty Manager. Constant attempts during the evening had not elicited any reply from the room, so the Duty Manager spoke to the assistant manager and it was decided to open the door, in case Mr. Raeburn had been taken ill.”

  “Didn’t your staff consider he’d gone out and forgotten to remove the sign from the door?”

  “Mr. Raeburn always left the key at the desk, without exception, so it was obvious he was still in his room. And, of course, if he had gone out and for once forgotten to leave the key, no harm would have been done by entering his room.”

  “This is twenty-four hours since any contact with him?”

  “Yes. Under other circumstances we might have done something sooner, but Mr. Raeburn was a regular guest and he liked his privacy, so staff were unwilling to impinge on that. When his body was discovered we immediately contacted the authorities.”

  “Did you ring his father or sister?”

  “No. We left that to the police. My staff called me, of course, and I came in at once to handle any problems that might occur with the media.”

  “Were there any?”

  The manager frowned thoughtfully. “At that point we’d contained the news. I did have one curious call, though…”

  Carol felt a tingle of interest. “Why curious?”

  “A very husky voice. Claimed to be a reporter with the Sentinel, and asked if it were true that Collis Raeburn had been found dead in his room.”

  “A man or a woman?”

  His frown deepened. “Whoever it was just gave a surname. I thought it was a woman, but it could’ve been a man.”

  “Do you remember the name?”

  Irritation flitted across his face. “I keep a record of all calls that are put through to me, especially at a time like this.” He consulted a note. “The name was Oldfield, or something close to it. The voice wasn’t very clear.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “The standard reply-that it was hotel policy to make no comment of any sort on any guest. Whoever it was then broke the connection.”

  Carol glanced at Anne. “Check the name.” She looked back at the manager. “So someone
wanted to know if Collis Raeburn was dead, but you weren’t any help. How was the body removed?”

  The manager seemed offended at such bluntness. “We temporarily locked the guest elevators so they had to bypass the floor, then used the service elevator to take the body down to the loading dock at the back of the hotel.”

  “Would anyone be able to see the body being removed?”

  Again an infinitesimal shrug. “It was done discreetly early Monday morning, but I suppose someone could have been watching at some point.” His voice became sententious as he added, “However, I want to emphasize, Inspector Ashton, that we saw it our duty to continue to extend to Mr. Raeburn in death the privacy he requested in life.”

  Carol asked when the staff who’d dealt with Raeburn on Saturday evening would be on duty again, and their names. “Sergeant Newsome may need to interview them briefly.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” said the manager with the faintest of sighs.

  As they got into the car in the hotel car park, Carol said to Anne, “Remember when you check out the Sentinel reporter who’s supposed to have called, he or she may be a freelance using the paper’s name for access. And I want you to contact the morgue and see if anyone rang them that morning about Raeburn. Someone was very anxious to be certain he was dead.”

  As she turned into the busy street, Anne said, “His death was hot news, so there must have been a scramble to get information as soon as something leaked.”

  “But that’s the point, Anne. The report of the pop star’s supposed death led to a couple of staff losing their jobs, so this time no one leaked anything. That means the person who called the manager knew ahead of time there was at least a possibility that Raeburn was dead.”

  Anne considered this for a moment, then said, “Maybe Raeburn was suicidal, and someone close to him realized he was very depressed. Could have been a friend checking up.”