Dead Certain

by Claire McNab

  Carol gestured to Anne Newsome. “Constable, would you see Ms Raeburn out, please.”

  Left alone with Carol, Graeme Welton looked embarrassed. “Look, Inspector, I’m sorry about the way Nikky behaved. She’s really stressed by what’s happened…”

  “I understand that. Please sit down.” After he’d complied, Carol said, “Mr. Welton, during an investigation there are times when we have to ask very personal questions…”

  Looking resigned, he said, “Go on, then. Ask.”

  “I’d like some more details about your association with Collis Raeburn. Specifically, did you have a sexual relationship with him?”

  His hands, that had been weaving an elaborate dance with each other, stilled. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said.

  “Afraid?”

  Welton passed a hand over his face. “Collis was the most selfish person I’ve ever met. He put himself first, second, third and last-and all the places in between. Any relationships to him were there to bolster his ego.” He looked up at her, his piercingly blue eyes dimmed by unshed tears. “But when I heard he was dead, I didn’t think I could bear it.”

  “Were you surprised he’d killed himself?”

  The question elicited a mirthless smile. “Very. Collis was convinced that he was the most glorious thing he had ever known, so why would he destroy himself?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Carol sat in her office mentally reviewing the case as she absentmindedly played with her gold pen. She looked at its embossed metal shaft, thinking that it had been a birthday present from Sybil. She put it down gently. I’m not going to think about that now.

  Mark was always on time, but Anne hurried in a little late. Once they were seated, she said, “Okay troops. Report time.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Mark said.

  Carol gave him a brief smile. “We’re getting there, Mark. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

  “So it’s murder.”

  “It’s murder,” she said with confidence. “All right, Anne, what’ve you got?”

  As Anne Newsome opened a folder and cleared her throat, Carol remembered the feeling of importance she herself had felt the first time she’d been entrusted with a strand of an investigation. Anne’s reporting technique was admirably succinct as she briefly described her interview with Anita Burgess, Raeburn’s publicist. “They had a professional relationship, but she says she knows nothing about his personal life… If she actually does, she isn’t saying.”

  “You interviewed Corinne Jawalski’s flatmate?”

  “Yes, Beth Adkins. It’s just as we were told-Mr. Raeburn called about seven, asked for Corinne, who had just walked out the door. Beth called her back and she talked to him for a few minutes.” Anne’s manner made it clear she had something of significance to add. “One thing Jawalski didn’t tell us is that it was more an argument than a conversation. Beth says she doesn’t know what it was about, but it ended with Corinne slamming the receiver down, letting go with a few choice words about Raeburn, then stalking off.”

  Carol leaned forward. “And her movements after that?”

  “Just as she said: she went with a friend to the Town Hall for a performance of Elijah. He was a soloist in the oratorio, so he was up on the stage while Corinne was in the audience. The performance started at eight and he didn’t see her again until after ten-thirty.”

  Carol smiled at Anne’s anticipatory expression. “So what do you get from that?”

  “Why, that she had time to go to the hotel and see Collis Raeburn. She wasn’t sitting in the audience with anyone who knew her, and she could catch a bus, or taxi, or even walk-it would only take twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. She’d have plenty of time to go there, stay a while, then come back to join the audience again.”

  “Let me do the second interview with Corinne Jawalski,” said Bourke. “I’ll use my famous charm.”

  “Gosh,” said Anne. “Can I watch?”

  Carol was amused and pleased by this gentle mockery. She had always found the most effective teams had this combination of trust, good humor and, underneath it all, respect. “What else, Anne?”

  Anne had gleaned no further information on whether anyone had tried to find out whether Raeburn’s body had been brought to the morgue, but she had spent some time with the scene-of-crime fingerprint expert. Raeburn’s fingerprints appeared in the appropriate places, including the whiskey bottle and the glass he had used. The pattern of prints on Raeburn’s copy of The Euthanasia Handbook, however, was particularly interesting. His palm print appeared along the spine, as though he’d held it rather awkwardly in one hand and opened it with the other. His thumb print appeared on the page detailing the necessary drug dosages to cause death. Among several other smudged prints on the cover of the paperback, some were definitely identifiable as Raeburn’s. Anne said, “The book’s quite new and looks as though it’s hardly been touched. When he was reading it he must have turned each page by the very edge. If you try it yourself, I think you’ll find most people turn over each page at the top right-hand corner, and leave at least partial prints on both sides.”

  Bourke yawned and stretched. “Think it could be a setup, Anne?”

  “Maybe. Or Raeburn knew exactly which page he wanted, so he went straight to it and kept it open with his thumb while he read it.”

  “What do you think, Carol?”

  “I don’t think he bought the book and I don’t think he read it. Of course, proving that’s a little harder. Incidentally, have both of you read the handbook right through?” When they shook their heads, she said, “I haven’t done anything other than glance at the relevant pages either, and there might be something we’ve missed.”

  “Oh good,” said Bourke. “I need a little light reading.”

  “Anne,” Carol said, “I don’t suppose you’ve turned anything up on where the book was purchased?”

  “It’s negative for all the bookshops near the hotel, but if Raeburn had been planning this for some time he could have bought it anywhere.”

  “It may be necessary to cover the bookshops again with photographs of possible suspects. I think the book was a prop to add one more convincing touch to a suicide scenario.”

  “You really do think it’s murder?” said Bourke.

  “Sure of it.”

  “Told the Commissioner?”

  Carol smiled wryly. “I’ve already told him I think murder’s a possibility, but I’m damned sure he won’t welcome anything more definite than that.”

  “Care to tell us why you’re so certain?”

  “Little things, but they add up. He didn’t leave a note. The whole scene in the hotel room looked theatrical and staged. His daily journal’s missing. He had a colossal ego that should reject suicide. The handbook looks like an obvious prop and the pattern of fingerprints on it seems odd. He sticks to his diet, even though it’s going to be his last meal.”

  “And,” said Bourke, “he wasn’t universally loved by those who knew him well. In fact, he was pretty well hated.” He started ticking the names off on his fingers. “Alanna Brooks is about to be supplanted by his latest love, Corinne Jawalski; Corinne herself is in conflict with him, but we don’t know why; Lloyd Clancy’s a rival tenor, and coming off second best in the career stakes; both Edward Livingston, as manager-producer, and Graeme Welton as composer, have a lot tied up in Dingo, but Raeburn was set to wreck everything by bailing out of his contract; Nicole Raeburn’s a loony where her brother is concerned; Kenneth Raeburn’s playing fast and loose with the family company.” He sat back with an air of satisfaction. “There you are, Carol. At least seven people might have had an interest in terminating Collis Raeburn’s illustrious career.”

  “The motives you give are enough to have someone think about killing him-but to actually do it asks for a lot more than dislike or even hatred. Raeburn’s murder was carefully planned and just as carefully carried out. Whoever did it had a motivation much stronger than anything that’s obvious so
far.”

  “How about the AIDS angle?”

  “You’re right, Mark. It could be someone we haven’t turned up yet… or it could be a lover who Raeburn’s infected.”

  Mark looked grim. “But why kill Raeburn so mercifully, Carol? If he’s HIV-positive it’s likely that he’s doomed anyway… as is the hypothetical lover. And even if Raeburn survives, and doesn’t develop full-blown AIDS, he has all the mental torment of waiting to become terribly ill, not to mention what the publicity will do to his career.”

  “Yes,” said Carol. “The publicity. I think that might be a key to whole thing.”

  The Commissioner’s bass voice boomed in Carol’s ear. “Nicole Raeburn’s got to the Minister, and the Minister’s got to me. Seems Ms Raeburn doesn’t find you very cooperative, Carol.”

  “By that I think she means I didn’t say what she wanted to hear.”

  “Any developments?”

  “Only that I’m convinced it’s homicide.”

  “Oh, shit,” said the Commissioner.

  On the telephone Kenneth Raeburn’s soft voice sounded slyly intimate. “Inspector Ashton, I really would like to see you as soon as possible. I know it’s Saturday tomorrow, but I’ll be in the city, so I wonder if we could have lunch?”

  She had no intention of letting him have the advantage of choosing the venue for their meeting. “I’m sorry,” she said crisply, “but I have very little time because of the investigation. If it’s convenient, perhaps you could come here tomorrow afternoon. Would that be possible?”

  As she put down the receiver she frowned. The Raeburns were using their clout to bring pressure to bear on her to get the result they wanted. But why? Was it simply because suicide was unacceptable, unthinkable? That they honestly believed he had accidentally killed himself?

  Carol was well aware that the coroner would be willing to suppress Collis Raeburn’s HIV status if her investigations indicated accidental death, but should her report canvass suicide or murder, then this embarrassing detail was very relevant and would be given full weight, with the attendant publicity.

  She picked up the phone and punched in Bourke’s extension. “Mark? I’m seeing Kenneth Raeburn tomorrow afternoon. Please apologize to Pat, so close to the wedding, but I’d like you to be there, and would you bring as much financial information on the Raeburn family company as you can get.”

  The wedding. Sybil will be there… We can talk on neutral territory.

  Carol had arranged to pick up Madeline Shipley at the television studio at seven-thirty after her program aired. She waited in the visitors’ lounge with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension as if, for some reason she didn’t understand, this meeting would be significant.

  She tried to be objective when she saw Madeline approaching. She was slightly built, came only to Carol’s shoulder, and moved with definitive grace. She was wearing her burnished hair loose and had replaced the heavy studio makeup with a trace of lipstick and eyeliner. She had deeply gray eyes, and a curved, sensual mouth.

  “Carol!” she said, the charisma that had such potent force on a television screen muted, but still striking. “Shall we embrace, or would that be too confronting for a Detective Inspector?”

  “Far too confronting,” said Carol, matching her flippant tone. “Perhaps we should shake hands.”

  Madeline linked her arm through Carol’s. “I’m absolutely starving. Don’t try to get a word out of me until I’ve eaten.”

  In the car she lightly touched Carol’s knee. “Hey, lighten up. Won’t hurt you to relax and let down that formidable barrier you hide behind.”

  Carol, disconcerted by the ripple of sensation caused by Madeline’s fingers, concentrated on her driving. After a moment she said, “Put your seatbelt on.”

  Madeline, curled up to sit sideways on the seat, snorted derisively. “I hate seatbelts.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Carol could see that she was smiling. Carol said, “Madeline, this is ridiculous. You’re breaking the law.”

  “So what’re you going to do, Officer? Arrest me?” She chuckled. “You could handcuff me. That sounds promising.”

  Carol sighed. “Are you going to be in this mood all night?”

  Madeline wriggled around to click on her seatbelt. Abruptly serious, she said, “What’s wrong, Carol? Are things okay between you and Sybil?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  Her hand on Carol’s shoulder had the same disconcerting effect as her earlier touch had had. Carol almost said, Don’t touch me. She smiled as she considered what Madeline’s response would be.

  “Okay Carol, I’ve made you smile at last. What did I say, so I can do it again?”

  “I was just thinking of something.”

  “That’s your trouble-you think too much. Why don’t you, just for once, take a chance? Do something outrageous?”

  Carol turned smoothly into the restaurant carpark. “I may order dessert tonight,” she said. “That outrageous enough?”

  The restaurant had achieved the elusive mix of attentive service and circumspection. Carol and Madeline sat in a private island, attended by unobtrusive waiters and plied with expensive wine and exquisitely presented food.

  “Looks far too good to eat,” said Madeline as her order, cornets of trout, was placed in front of her. Carol smiled an agreement. Her own dish was flawless miniature vegetables grouped reverently around veal cutlets.

  “It’s the secret of my occasional culinary success.” said Madeline. “I can’t cook my way out of a predampened paper bag, but I can sure present things so they look good. And that fools people, you know. They think if it looks good, it must taste the same.”

  Over coffee, Carol said, “Okay, I’ve been patient.”

  “Was Collis Raeburn HIV-positive?”

  “Tell me why you think he might have been.”

  As Madeline smiled, Carol noticed that one of her teeth was slightly uneven. Somehow such imperfection in one of such polished comeliness was endearing.

  “Carol, how do I know you’ll give me an exclusive if I tell you what I know?”

  “Trust me. And tell me anyway, because you’ll be obstructing justice if you don’t.”

  “I love it when you’re tough.”

  “Madeline…”

  “Okay, okay. The channel, or, more specifically, my program, was approached by a guy who claimed to have a story for sale about Collis Raeburn’s HIV status. He’d obviously heard we were preparing a special and thought we might be in the market for some scandal, so he demanded twenty thousand for the story, fifty if we put him on camera.”

  Carol sat forward. “Who is he?”

  “Says his name’s Amos Berringer. Claims to be an ex-lover who’s got the dirt on Raeburn’s clandestine activities.”

  Wanting to appear casual, Carol leaned back in her chair. “Suppose you’ve checked him out?”

  “Surely that’s your job,” said Madeline, grinning.

  “So you’re paying him twenty thousand on spec?”

  “Of course not. We checked him out.” She made a face. “Grubby little number, who seems to have made some spare cash gently blackmailing married men who fancied a dabble in gay sex.”

  “I’ll run him-see if we have anything on an Amos Derringer.”

  Madeline shrugged. “Doubt if you will. The word we have is that Derringer’s careful of his marks. They’re always the sort who’d pay rather than run any risk of publicity.”

  Carol felt somehow disappointed that Collis Raeburn would have anything to do with someone like Derringer. “Did he show you any hard evidence, or was it all colorful description?”

  “He swears Collis Raeburn was HIV-positive and that he got it from unprotected gay sex.” She paused to see if Carol would respond, then said, “Well? Was he a candidate for AIDS?”

  Carol felt a thrill of anticipation. This was an approach to Raeburn from another angle, and information
gained here might dovetail with other apparently unrelated pieces to form a coherent picture. She said matter-of-factly, “Just tell me what you’ve got.”

  Madeline opened her purse and handed Carol an envelope. “A brief report on Derringer and copies of a couple of photos he gave us. They’re nothing startling, just Raeburn in what looks like a gay bar. Derringer’s playing coy and won’t say where it is, because, he says, he doesn’t want anyone else selling us the story.”

  The photographs clearly identified Raeburn in a crowd of men, many dressed in leather and all apparently having a good time. He wore jeans and a denim shirt and was laughing in both photographs: in one toasting a startlingly handsome young man; in the other apparently sharing a joke with a group notable for bare chests, leather and studs.

  “Straights have been known to go to gay bars, just for the novelty,” Carol said. Then, “I don’t want you to run this story.”

  “It’s too thin anyway, unless we get more from Derringer. Frankly, we’re stringing him along so he doesn’t offer it anywhere else, but if it looks like anyone in the media has it, we’ll go to air straight away.”

  “Will you tell me if you’re going to do that?”

  Madeline smiled lazily. “For you, anything.”

  Half an hour later, walking back to the car, Madeline said, “Do I get an exclusive, now that I’ve cooperated so fulsomely with you?”

  Carol looked at her sideways. “I won’t promise anything. You know that.”

  “Ah,” said Madeline with a soft laugh, “but you’re full of infinite promise, Carol.”

  They were silent on the drive to Madeline’s. Carol again felt the disturbing combination of anxiety and anticipation. She tried to rationalize it away-the anger and disappointment she felt about Sybil was fueling this disturbance to her usual equilibrium.

  Madeline’s house was set back from the road and extensively landscaped for privacy. Carol turned into the driveway and drew up smoothly at the shallow sandstone steps.

  She said, her voice deliberately cool, “Good night… and thank you for the information.”

  “Would you like to come inside?”