by Claire McNab
Clancy’s smile disappeared. “He was heading for the very top. Superstardom, internationally. It wasn’t just the voice, plenty of singers have that. What made Collis different was his drive, his determination, his eye for the main chance. Oh, and a theatrical sense. His PR person didn’t hinder him, either.”
“Who is that?”
“Anita Burgess. You’d have heard of her.”
Carol had. Ex-wife of a prominent politician, she had used every contact he had made in public life to establish her public relations consultancy as one of the most successful small agencies in Australia.
Clancy went on, “And success like Collis’s made a lot of people very envious. Some wanted to pull him down, some wanted to hitch a ride on his coattails…”
“What did you want to do?” asked Carol blandly.
He gave her a mocking look. “Why, Inspector, surely you realize I’m a success in my own right?” He added, “You might like to think of us as twin rockets, our careers ascending to the skies.”
“Is that how you saw it?”
“I envied Raeburn’s success,” he said soberly. “It was unfortunate that my career coincided with his, because it seemed inevitable that he would overshadow me. But that’s all it was-envy. I didn’t wish him harm, and on a professional level we got along perfectly well. I can say quite sincerely that I regret his death deeply, because he had a magnificent voice, and he’d hardly begun, in operatic terms, to realize his potential.”
“You mention a professional level. How about a personal level?”
A cynical smile. “Hated his guts,” said Lloyd Clancy.
Douglas Binns was apologetic. “Alanna Brooks has come down with a severe migraine headache. She’s in her dressing room, but I don’t know if she can give you an interview.”
The prima donna’s dressing room was the twin of Lloyd Clancy’s, but the curtains had been drawn to shut out the light and the beauty of the harbor. Alanna Brooks’s full-figured body was huddled in a chair, her head resting on one hand. The fair, translucent skin of her face was drawn. She said, her voice husky, “Inspector Ashton, I’m sorry, but I’ve asked Douglas to call a cab. When I get one of these migraines, it’s the full disaster-pain, vision disturbances and nausea. The only thing that helps is to lie down and go to sleep. I realize you need to speak with me, but I’m afraid it’s impossible at the moment.”
“Would you just tell me when you last saw or spoke to Mr. Raeburn?”
Alanna Brooks groped around in a bag and found a pair of sunglasses. As she put them on, she said, “God. I feel terrible.”
“Ms Brooks?”
“Yes, Collis… I saw him on Saturday afternoon, here in the dressing room. He didn’t say or do anything to make me think he was going to do what he did.”
Douglas Binns knocked. “The cab’s here.”
The diva stood carefully. “I think my head’s going to explode… Inspector, can I call you tomorrow? I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Handy headache?” said Carol to Anne Newsome as they walked to the car.
“Perhaps she needs time to counter the less than flattering comments Corinne Jawalski continued to make after you’d left us,” said Anne. “She was reasonably civil about male singers, but mention a rival soprano and she’s in for the kill.”
“It’s becoming obvious to me that opera’s just like the Police Service,” observed Carol. “You have to watch your back, because your colleagues can be dangerous.”
She ignored Anne’s surprised expression, wondering herself why she’d expressed this thought in words.
Changing to a strictly-business tone, she said, “Did you ask Corinne about her personal relationship with Raeburn?”
“Her actual words,” said Anne with a smile, “were that they were close friends and colleagues.”
“Believe her?”
Anne shook her head. “Underneath all that venom,” she said, “I think there’s a real grief. It’s possible she loved him.”
“Yes, and let’s follow that up. I’ve got something else for you to do. The Euthanasia Handbook is shrink-wrapped in plastic and anyone buying a copy has to be over eighteen. Most bookshops ask for a current driver’s license.” She caught Anne’s unenthusiastic expression, and smiled. “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but I would like a check made of bookshops where Raeburn might conceivably have bought a copy in, say, the last couple of months. He’s very well known, particularly from television, so it’s possible someone will remember him. And if we can find that he definitely did buy the handbook, that will strengthen the possibility of suicide.”
“His fingerprints were on the book.”
Carol caught at a thought she hadn’t put into action. “Yes, Anne, the fingerprints. The book was marketed sealed in plastic, so it could be expected that his would be the only prints on it. I’m interested in exactly where he touched the handbook-it seems such a convenient prop for a suicide scene.” She smiled as she added, “And in case you have time to spare, I’d like you to see Raeburn’s publicist, Anita Burgess. Also, see if you can speak to Corinne Jawalski’s flatmate. I’d be interested to know if she did have a call from Raeburn, and when.”
“Want to speak with Pat?” said Bourke as she walked in. “I’m taking her to lunch, and I asked her to be early in case you were in the market for first-hand opera gossip.”
Because of the engagement, Carol had become friendly with Pat and found herself growing genuinely fond of her, not only because of her frank, open nature, but also because she had so obviously made Mark Bourke happy. “When will Pat be here?”
“Half an hour or so.”
“Great. I’ll take her out for coffee and you can pick her up from there.” She added mischievously, “I suppose this a wedding-talk lunch?”
“Don’t think I can cope,” he said, laughing. “I just can’t believe how many arrangements have to be made just to get hitched.”
Carol was about to make a snide comment about first-time grooms but caught herself. Bourke had been married before, had lost his wife and child in a boating accident. It was something he’d never spoken about to her, but she knew the tragedy must have cast a permanent shadow over his life. She imagined what it would be like if her own son were to die. She loved David unconditionally. He was the only individual she had ever permitted herself to love so totally, and she was still bitterly regretful that she had ever allowed herself to be persuaded to give him up.
“Getting married’s easy,” she said mockingly. “It’s what happens afterwards that’s hard to cope with.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost.” He handed her a telephone message. “Madeline Shipley called. She wants you to ring her back as soon as possible.”
Carol was surprised by the twinge of excitement she felt at Madeline’s name. “Did she say why?”
He snorted. “We both know why. She’s part of the feeding frenzy over Collis Raeburn, and she’s going to use the fact she knows you personally the best way she knows how.”
One of Australia’s most successful television personalities, Madeline Shipley hosted the consistently high-rated Shipley Report, strip-scheduled early evening where the competition was ferocious, in an attempt to snare viewers for the rest of the night. Television’s demands, as far as female presenters were concerned, made it mandatory that Madeline Shipley be physically attractive and personally charming, but she was much more than this: intelligent, inquisitive, and when necessary, ruthless. Her slight build held a willpower like tungsten and a tenacity that had defeated the most difficult interviewees.
And, for Carol, Madeline held one other potent attraction-she was one of the few people Carol could relax with concerning her private life. She not only knew about Carol and Sybil, she also understood-being so firmly in the closet herself-the tightrope act of balancing professional and private lives. She shared with Carol the same conviction: “Announce publicly that you’re a lesbian, and to your face people will say how brave you are to stop living a lie and how much the
y admire you. Then you wave goodbye to your career.”
As she dialed Madeline Shipley’s private line, Carol realized that she was actively looking forward to hearing Madeline’s voice, her lazy, beguiling laugh.
Madeline answered at the third ring. “Carol? Why haven’t I seen you lately? How’s Sybil?”
It was a loaded question, though Madeline couldn’t know this. “Sybil’s fine.”
A slight pause, then Madeline said with an indefinable note in her voice, “That’s good.”
Carol could visualize Madeline’s quizzical expression. Wanting to short-circuit any further personal questions, she said, “What can I do for you?”
Madeline chuckled at Carol’s businesslike tone. “No time for idle chitchat, eh? Well, Carol, you know very well what you can do for me. You may know we’ve been preparing a TV special about Collis Raeburn and the Eureka Opera Company. Deadlines have become rather more urgent with his death, so I’m asking for absolutely every gruesome detail you can give me.”
“This is where you get the standard reply.”
“No it isn’t,” said Madeline with conviction. “I’ve got something to trade. Have dinner with me tonight after the show and I’ll tell you some very interesting things.”
Carol found herself smiling. I really want to see her. “How do I know it’ll be worth my while?”
“One little phrase should do it,” said Madeline. “How about ‘HIV-positive’?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Edward Livingston’s personal assistant seemed accustomed to parrying irksome requests. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr. Livingston cannot come to the phone at the moment, and I’m not sure when he’ll be available. I’d be pleased to pass on a message.”
Carol said formally, “I’m investigating the circumstances of Collis Raeburn’s death. Information given to me in confidence regarding Mr. Livingston leads me to believe he can materially assist this investigation. For that reason I need to see him as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry, but-” The voice broke off, to be replaced by a rich baritone.
“Inspector Ashton? Someone’s been gossiping about me, have they?”
So he’d been unable to resist the bait. Carol made arrangements to meet the controversial opera manager mid-afternoon.
“Look, Inspector, let’s make it neutral territory. How about the cafe on the broadwalk in front of the Opera House? We can sit out in the sun and share our secrets with the seagulls.”
She was leaning back in her chair considering the questions she intended to ask when Mark Bourke brought Pat James into her office, an embarrassed pride in his manner. Carol was warmed to see the affection on his face as he smiled at his future wife.
In a little over a week, Carol would be watching these two exchange their vows for a life together. What irony-the ceremony that would link Pat and Mark was the point of conflict that had driven Sybil to leave. Carol couldn’t separate the ache of loss from the confused anger she felt.
“Ready?” Pat said to Carol.
Pat James emanated the buoyant good health that Carol always, for some reason, associated with involvement with team games such as basketball or hockey, and, in general, to being a “good sport.” She was tall, close to the same height as Bourke, but whereas his solid build made him a definite, heavy physical presence, Pat’s light frame seemed springy and resilient.
She grinned at Carol. “Let’s blow the joint and do coffee, eh? Oxford Street?”
Collecting her things, Carol said, “Mark, we’ll be at the usual place. Pick Pat up when you’re ready for lunch.”
“I’m ready now.”
“You’re not, you know. I want more details on Edward Livingston and his financial situation… and I’d like you to come with me this afternoon, since I’ve pinned him down for an interview.”
Oxford Street was its usual busy mix of nationalities, sexual orientations and colorfully eccentric personalities. This first section of the busy street had a certain seedy enthusiasm, a bohemian acceptance of differences; however, after it flowed past the sandstone law courts in Taylor Square, the money of fashionable Paddington began to dilute and refine its raw vitality.
The coffee shop was Italian-clean, cramped and dominated by a fiendishly hissing coffee machine. After ordering black coffee for herself and cappuccino for Pat, Carol said, “What are people saying about Collis Raeburn’s death?”
“The arts world’s abuzz. Last night we had a cocktail party at the Gallery to launch a new exhibition of Asian artifacts, and believe me, Collis Raeburn was the main topic of conversation. Mind, no one has any hard information, but that little detail has never stopped gossip before.”
Wincing as Pat stirred three heaped teaspoons of sugar into her coffee, Carol decided that the word that best described Pat James was good-humored.
She smiled readily, and, when really amused, guffawed. She had an irreverent, frank approach that seemed at odds with the artistic and cultural world in which she moved because of her position at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.
Pat took a sip of her coffee, made a face, then stirred it vigorously. “There’s very real grief at his death. He really had the most extraordinary voice…” A thought suddenly amused her. “Carol, like a bet? Ten dollars says someone at Raeburn’s funeral says, ‘We shall not see his like again.’ You on?”
“I never bet against sure things.”
Pat looked at her thoughtfully. “No doubt the Raeburn family are pulling strings. Kenneth Raeburn is a ruthless little bastard who likes to throw his weight around, although I have heard that his son was about to dump him.”
Astonished, Carol said, “Dump him how?”
“From the family company. Collis Raeburn employed his father and sister to run his career and handle the financial side of things, but Kenneth has a lot more arrogance than good sense, and Collis was talking of bringing in a professional manager. This could’ve been embarrassing for his father, since there’d be an audit. My guess is that Kenneth Raeburn’s business skills would have been found seriously wanting.”
“So Collis’s death would get him off the hook?”
Pat grinned sardonically. “Although Mark won’t tell me anything about the investigation, the word around the traps is that you’ve been put on the case because you have high credibility and if you say it was all a nasty accident, who will contradict you?”
Carol wanted to say, Do you really believe I’m for hire? That I’d compromise myself that way? But to put it into words would be to imply she believed Pat might think it possible…
“It’s manifestly clear,” said Pat scornfully, “that a nice, clean accidental death would be the best result for the family, especially one that only involves prescription drugs.”
“Meaning?”
“Collis was supposed to be a very good client for drugs, principally cocaine. It seems a popular theory that he accidentally killed himself with a cocktail of illegal substances. Then there’s the clique that just knows he died from unrequited love.”
“For whom?”
“Carol, I do admire your grammar!” She took a sip of coffee, then grew more serious. “Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with Corinne Jawalski, but some people think it was a smokescreen for his real affair with Graeme Welton. And, to add a little spice to the pot, it’s rumored that early in his career he had quite a steamy romance with Alanna Brooks.”
Signaling for two more coffees, Carol said, “Surely a tenor having a romance with his prima donna is standard public relations stuff. Doesn’t have to be true, but it adds piquancy to the duets.”
“Who would have thought you such a cynic!”
“Who indeed,” Carol said with a grin. “Was there any comment about Edward Livingston? He’s doing his best to avoid seeing me.”
“Edward Livingston-impresario extraordinaire! If he were only half as good as he thinks he is, the Eureka Opera Company would be as highly regarded as the Australian Opera.” She grinned at Carol’s quest
ioning expression. “No, I haven’t got a personal grudge, it’s just that he takes himself so seriously, and when something goes wrong with one of his magnificent schemes to revitalize opera, it’s never his fault-it’s always somebody else who’s spoilt it for him. For instance, he was bitterly angry when his loony television version of Madame Butterfly slumped in the ratings after he’d promoted it like a football match. Naturally, he had to blame someone, so he turned on Collis and accused him of sabotaging the whole thing by singing the role of Pinkerton, extraterrestrial, so badly.”
Thinking how much she’d hate to work in an atmosphere of such high drama, Carol said, “I’ve been given the impression that the clash of personalities is fairly common in the opera world.”
Pat chortled. “Egos are not in short supply. Even so, successful artists, whatever field they’re in, have to be professional, or they don’t last long. Means there’s often thunder and lightning, but not much rain. It’s always been different, though, with our Edward. He’s one of the great grudge-bearers of the twentieth century, and Collis had crossed him once too often.”
“They were in open conflict?”
“Very. There’ve been veiled references to the stoush in all the newspaper arts’ columns for weeks now. Livingston’s penchant for suing for defamation made sure that no one actually named him, but everyone knew they’d fallen out and Collis was going to do his best to get out of his contract with Eureka.”
Carol took a reflective sip of coffee. “I’ve also heard about conflict with a rival. What about Lloyd Clancy?”
“Ah,” said Pat enthusiastically, “what about Lloyd Clancy, indeed? One society matron, whose name would surprise you, confided to me that in her circle it’s understood that Lloyd assisted Collis to join the heavenly choir in the sky.”
“Murdered him, or helped him suicide?”
“Either. And before you ask for a motive, bear in mind that opera is a high pressure, demanding world, where you make sweet music on stage, and play management politics off it. Only winners really prosper. The also-rans end up in the chorus, are doomed to subsidiary roles, or skitter off to less demanding singing careers. Lloyd’s older than Collis, and he’d established his career, but he was slowly but surely being overhauled.”
