Dead Certain

by Claire McNab

  “It’s all right, really it is. Just so we can get everything straightened out. So no one will think that Colly killed himself.” For a moment she rested a thin hand on Carol’s arm. “It had to be an accident. He’d never do that. Colly had so much to live for…” Her voice strengthened. “And he never would have gone that way, without leaving a letter to me. We were so close. More than just brother and sister.”

  Carol found herself raising a mental eyebrow. Surely Nicole Raeburn wasn’t hinting at incest?

  Apparently the same interpretation had occurred to Nicole. “I mean,” she said hastily, “we were companions, friends. We shared everything. Personally. Professionally. If we didn’t see each other, we spoke every day on the phone, no matter where he was-interstate, in another country, anywhere.”

  “He slept here, at home, on Friday?”

  “Yes, but he had rehearsals and things for Aïda, so he said he’d check into the hotel from Saturday onwards.”

  “Did he contact you after he left on Saturday morning?”

  Clearly she wanted Carol to believe she would have been astonished if her brother hadn’t called. “Oh, yes, of course he did. Quite early in the evening after he’d checked in.”

  “Did he seem upset?”

  “No, he was just as usual. That’s why I’m sure it was an accident, a stupid, pointless accident.”

  “He wasn’t slurring his words, or anything like that?” At Nicole’s frown, she added, “I’m trying to establish when he first might have been affected by the drugs or alcohol.”

  Lips trembling, she said, “He was my Colly just like he always was.”

  “And you were here, at home, Saturday and Sunday?”

  Nicole looked at her knowingly. “You’re asking that for a reason, aren’t you?”

  Carol sighed to herself. “It’s a routine question,” she said pleasantly. “Were you here?”

  “Yes I was. And so was Daddy.” There was calculation in her wide-eyed stare. “You’re thinking someone wanted to hurt Colly?”

  “Can you think of anyone who might wish him harm?”

  Even though Carol had spoken in a mild tone, Nicole reacted with dramatic urgency. Her thin fingers closing around Carol’s wrist, she exclaimed, “Murder? You’re not thinking of murder? You’re not thinking of that?” She released her, put a hand to her mouth. “Murder…”

  Extraordinary. She likes the idea.

  Nicole grew purposefully calm, twisting a strand of thick chestnut hair around her fingers as she said, “There were some people who were jealous of Colly.”

  “Any obvious conflicts?”

  “Well, there’s Livvy. You must know about him.”

  “Edward Livingston?”

  “Yes. But he fights with everyone. And his stupid Madame Butterfly wasn’t as successful as he hoped, so he blamed Colly, when it was absolutely obvious Alanna Brooks was the one not up to standard.”

  As Carol noted that Alanna Brooks didn’t rate a diminutive, Nicole went on, “And Lloyd Clancy hated Colly because he knew it was only a matter of time before Colly eclipsed him totally. I mean, he was all right as a tenor, but next to my brother’s voice… lead next to gold.”

  The way she said the last phrase convinced Carol that she was quoting someone else. “How about Graeme Welton?”

  Nicole smiled, a brilliant rectangular smile that stretched the skin of her face and suggested to Carol the skull beneath. “Welty! He loved Colly. He loves us all. He’s just one of the family.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a problem with the opera he’s written for Alanna Brooks and your brother.”

  “Dingo? It’s the name, Inspector. It sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I’ve seen the score and it’s beautiful music.”

  “You’re musical yourself?”

  Nicole glanced down modestly. “Violin. Perhaps I could’ve pursued a concert career…” Left unsaid were the words: But I sacrificed it all for my brother.

  “Did you happen to mention to Graeme Welton that I was in charge of the case?”

  Nicole pouted slightly. “Yes I did. Was that wrong of me, Inspector?”

  “Of course not. I just wondered when he contacted me how he had found out that I’d been put in charge.”

  “Oh, I tell him everything. Next to Colly, he’s my best friend.”

  “Would your brother have told Mr. Welton about his blood test?”

  Nicole Raeburn balked at the question. “Don’t know what you mean.” She sank back into the couch, turning her head away.

  Carol kept her voice bland. “I’m sorry. I understood that you’d been told…”

  “Colly didn’t have AIDS!”

  Anne shifted slightly at the agitation in Nicole Raeburn’s voice. Carol said, “We know his doctor arranged the blood test for insurance purposes. It was totally unexpected when the results showed he was HIV-positive, and his doctor told him face-to-face and arranged for counseling.”

  Her stubborn certainty snapping her upright, she stared challengingly at Carol. “The whole thing is a mistake. Anything else is impossible.” When Carol didn’t respond, she added with intensity, “And I expect you’ll prove that, if you do your job properly.”

  Martha opened the door to Collis Raeburn’s bedroom with a reverent expression, her voice hushed as she said, “Everything’s as he left it. I tidied up after your police officers had finished going through his things, that’s all.” She paused irresolutely, then added, “I’ll leave you to it, then…”

  The room was luxuriously appointed. The bedroom was a generous size and off it ran a dressing room, each wall a mirror, and a black-tiled bathroom with a sunken tub. The carpet was pale beige, the bedspread and upholstered chairs a matching, but deeper, shade. The French windows opened out to a small balcony over which eucalyptus gums crowded. A massive rolltop desk sat solidly in one corner. The walls of the bedroom were covered with framed photographs, opera posters, brochures and programs, all jostling each other for space. Collis Raeburn, dressed in a series of magnificent costumes, stared majestically from frame after frame, only occasionally sharing the space with another person. Carol recognized Graeme Welton in several, solemnly staring at the camera. On a wall apart from the rest was a little island of family photographs showing Raeburn at various ages from early childhood. Carol noticed that he was always in the front, always striking a pose.

  “That’s Alanna Brooks,” said Anne as she indicated a publicity shot for La Bohème with Rodolfo and Mimi locked in an embrace that took care to give them enough room to allow their voices to soar together in a love duet. She surprised Carol by adding, “I saw that production. It was the first opera I ever went to… my Dad used to sing himself-not opera, though-and he likes that sort of thing, so he took me.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Anne made a face, as though opera was something she felt obliged to reject. “I did, sort of… I mean, it was romantic and dramatic and had a sad ending. Bit like a soap on TV, but with everyone singing their lines.”

  Carol was curious. “What did you think of Collis Raeburn? Did he make an impression on you?”

  “He was wonderful,” she said simply. “Everything became electric when he was on stage, and even 1 could tell his voice was something special.”

  Carol looked at the crowded walls. Frozen there were triumphs, but the man who had had an incomparable, thrilling voice had apparently locked himself away in the anonymity of a hotel room and taken his own life. “I don’t believe he killed himself,” she said.

  Anne, alert but silent, waited. At last she said, “If it wasn’t an accident, who murdered him?”

  Carol gestured at the jam-packed photographs. “Someone up there,” she said.

  Martha welcomed them into the kitchen, which, like the rest of the house, combined disparate styles. There was a heavy scoured table, obviously antique, a scattering of polished copper pans on one wall, modern cupboards in pale wood and black metal chairs that proved to be as uncomfortable as they looke
d. Unasked, Martha slapped mugs of coffee in front of them. “Don’t drink it if you don’t want it.”

  Without preliminary fencing, Carol said, “Do you know any reason why Collis Raeburn should kill himself?”

  “He wouldn’t. It had to be an accident.”

  “He took sleeping tablets regularly?”

  “Had trouble sleeping. He did his back in when he had a bad fall in Tosca last year. Constant, nagging pain, but he didn’t want anyone to know. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Inspector, but an opera singer has to be fit. Not just the voice, but the whole body. Until the accident he worked out every day-there’s a gym room here-swam laps at North Sydney Pool twice a week for breath control, and watched his health. Lately, he’d been putting on weight, and that worried him.”

  “He was on a diet?”

  “I told him-salads. He complained it was rabbit food, but he always listened to me. Always brought his problems to me.” A spasm of grief washed across her face. “I’ve known him since he was a little boy. That’s how I know he didn’t kill himself.”

  “He confided in you…” Carol let her voice trail off to entice a response, but was still surprised at the frankness of Martha’s response.

  “You mean about the HIV? Yes, he told me. He knew I’d never repeat it, and he was absolutely devastated. He had no idea, you see. It was a blood test for an insurance policy, and when the results came in and the doctor told him, he came home to me and he cried.”

  How would I tell something so terrible to people I loved? “Did he tell his father and sister?”

  “I don’t know. I certainly didn’t discuss it with them.”

  Phrasing her next question was a problem. “Did he say-”

  “How he got it?” Martha interrupted. “No. I supposed it was drugs-sharing a needle.”

  “You know for a fact he took drugs?” asked Carol. The autopsy report had indicated there were no needle marks on the body. She made a mental note to follow up on the blood tests.

  Martha’s tone was indulgent. “Mr. Collis was a high-flier. He moved in circles where cocaine and such like are commonplace.”

  “So he definitely used drugs?”

  “I didn’t say that! I just said he might have used them. How else could he have contracted the virus?” To Carol’s silence, she said sharply, “He wasn’t queer, if that’s what you think.”

  “He wouldn’t have to be,” said Carol flatly. “Was he going out with anyone in particular?”

  Martha shook her head. “No. He played the field, when he had the opportunity. You must remember, Inspector, singing was his life and it took all his time and energy. There wasn’t much room for anything else.”

  Thinking of the deadly virus he had unwittingly carried, Carol said, “You can’t name any specific romantic interest?”

  “He’s always had a soft spot for Alanna Brooks. I like her and I used to hope they’d get together, but nothing ever came of it. Lately he’s supposed to be having a relationship with that young one, Corinne Jawalski, but that was all gossip. He never brought her home here, anyway.” Her smile had a slightly malicious tinge as she added, “Not that he’d have wanted to, with his sister the way she is…”

  Raising her eyebrows didn’t elicit anything further, so Carol prompted, “The way she is…”

  “Possessive,” said Martha. “They’re a close family-a very close family.”

  “Outsiders might not be welcome?”

  Carol had gone too far. Martha’s face closed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Were you here during the weekend?”

  “No. I had Saturday and Sunday off. Went to stay with my sister at Bondi Beach. Mr. Collis gave me a lift into the city and I caught a bus out to the beach.”

  “Can you remember what he was wearing?”

  The housekeeper looked at her with surprise. “What he was wearing? Something casual-jeans and some sort of white top, I think.”

  “Looking back now, can you remember anything that might have indicated he was thinking about killing himself?”

  Her eyes suddenly overflowing, Martha said, “He would have said something to me if he was going to do that. He’d know I’d understand. We’d talked about how he felt he had a death sentence hanging over him, but he was determined to fight it.” She anticipated Carol’s next question. “No, he wasn’t so depressed that he’d do something drastic. He wasn’t.”

  She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. “Sorry. I get a bit emotional.”

  “One thing,” said Carol, watching her closely, “that may point to his death being accidental is that he didn’t leave a note in the hotel room.” She paused, then said in a tone of polite inquiry, “Don’t suppose he left anything here?”

  Martha lifted her chin. “You think he left a suicide note here? Your people went through all his papers. If there was one, they would have found it.”

  “If it was still there,” said Carol mildly.

  Indignation struggled with grief on the housekeeper’s face. “You believe I’d destroy a note, do you? Why would I do that?”

  “To protect the family… Collis Raeburn’s name… any number of reasons.”

  She blew her nose a final time, then faced Carol resolutely. “There wasn’t anything. No note-nothing. He kept a journal, wrote in it most days. If he was going to say anything, it would have been in that.”

  “Where is this journal?”

  “Your people must have taken it, I couldn’t find it when I looked.”

  “Why were you looking for the journal?”

  Offended, Martha said, “Nicole asked me to… I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It was kept in the rolltop desk in his bedroom?”

  “Yes, with his other papers.” She gave a sad smile. “It was bound in black leather with his name in gold lettering, a present from Nicole a couple of years ago. You know, Inspector, Collis was always collecting photos, articles, reviews, programs, all the time. I used to cut things out of papers, save them for him. Said it would make it easier for his biographer when the time came…”

  “Did you ever notice a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook?”

  Martha was adamant. “Never! And I’d have said something if I had. It’s God’s will when we die.”

  Although she had several more questions, Carol filed them away for when she would have a better background and could therefore interrogate more effectively. She smiled agreeably as she said, “I’d appreciate a list of his friends and acquaintances, especially those he saw in the last month or so of his life.”

  Martha nodded soberly. “If one of them killed him,” she said slowly, “I want them dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They had hardly spoken the night before, so when Carol came in from her usual morning run. through the quiet streets and the bushland skirting the calm water of Middle Harbour, she was determined to be affectionate and open.

  Sybil, in jeans and a blue T-shirt, was leaning against the kitchen bench sipping a cup of tea. Carol sat down to unlace her running shoes. “Darling, I’m sorry I was late last night…”

  Putting her cup down carefully, Sybil said, “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Her tone made Carol stop and look up. “Is it important?”

  Sybil’s face was remote, contained. “I think I mentioned the tenants in my house aren’t renewing their lease. They left at the end of last week.”

  Carol thought she knew what was coming. She stared at ginger Jeffrey, Sybil’s cat, who lay at her feet playing with one of her shoelaces. “You’re thinking of moving back there?”

  “Just for a while. Until we can sort things out.”

  Jeffrey was galvanized into evasive action as Carol abruptly stood up. Even Sinker, who had been sitting in a neat package under the chair, was prompted to move by Carol’s raised voice. “You’re going because of what I said over the invitation to Mark’s wedding? I don’t believe it!”

  Sybi
l flushed with a corresponding anger. “Carol, of course it isn’t just that. It’s everything.”

  A feeling of baffled rage swept over Carol, but she kept her voice even. “Why do you always pick breakfast to bring these things up? Is it because you know I have to go to work?”

  Sybil’s reply was stinging. “It’s because,” she said, “it’s the only bloody time you’re not too tired or too preoccupied. And even then…” She broke off with a gesture of frustration. “This is pointless.”

  “Darling…”

  “Let’s talk about this later.”

  “You brought up the subject,” Carol protested.

  Sybil gave her a weary smile. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Stupid, really, since I always know what the outcome will be.”

  Ordinarily, Carol would have mentioned to Mark Bourke that she’d received his wedding invitation, but the subject was off-limits this morning. She frowned at him when he came jauntily into her office. “Yes?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her tone. “Saw Raeburn’s doctor this morning, but if you’d like to see me later…”

  At his mild rebuke she felt an irritated guilt. “Now would be fine.”

  “First, I checked that the drugs Raeburn took in the hotel room were prescribed by his doctor-and they were, so there’s nothing suspicious there.” He referred to his notes. “Now, about the HIV. Raeburn wasn’t a blood donor, so I presume he wouldn’t have had any tests at all until the first signs of sickness turned up, except that his father was insisting that Collis take out a much heftier life insurance policy than the one he had.”

  “Beneficiaries if he died?”

  “The family company would get the lot. Of course, once the HIV result came in, there was no way the insurance company was upping the payout to the requested million and a half, so Raeburn’s life was insured for the original eight hundred thousand when he died. And you can see why his family want it to be an accidental death, because the existing policy has the usual clause voiding the contract in the case of suicide.”

  Carol played with her gold pen, a present from Sybil. “Raeburn didn’t try to avoid the blood test?”

  “Nope. The insurance company wanted a physical, including a blood test, before they’d increase the policy, so Raeburn went to his own doctor, apparently without the slightest idea there was any problem. His doctor says that he, himself, was astounded when the blood test indicated that Raeburn was HIV-positive. When he told him, Raeburn insisted on a second blood test. That showed the same result.”