by Claire McNab
She smiled as she said aloud, “Courage, Carol. You’re not a virgin.” And maybe, she thought, Madeline’s only offering a drink…
“Whiskey?”
“Please.”
Carol seated herself in a lounge chair and looked around the room with feigned interest. Madeline handed her a cut-glass tumbler and sat down opposite. “Tell me about Sybil.”
Carol’s chin came up. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Of course there is, but you don’t want to say it. That’s all right. It would help, that’s all.”
Before Carol could give the acerbic reply that would deliver a verbal slap, Madeline added, “Me, Carol. It would help me.”
“Help you? How?”
Her eyes were intent. “I’d know the situation. What I was up against.”
“I don’t want to play games.”
Abruptly, Madeline was on her feet, pacing. “It isn’t a game, Carol. I’m very serious.”
Taking a gulp of her drink, Carol thought, I should go… but I don’t want to. Madeline had moved behind her chair. Without turning her head, Carol said flippantly, “You aren’t going to attack me, are you?”
She heard the click as Madeline put her drink down, then the light touch of hands on her shoulders. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
Looking up at her, Carol said severely, “I’m taller than you and I outweigh you. And I’m a police officer. You haven’t got a chance.”
Madeline’s copper hair brushed her cheek. No, Carol thought as she willingly lifted her mouth to the kiss. She broke away to say, “I’ll spill my whiskey.”
There was a tremor in Madeline’s voice. “Drink it, Carol. I want to taste it in your mouth.”
“This is-”
“Right. You were going to say this is right?”
Carol half laughed, half groaned. “You’re implacable. Is it any good putting up a resistance?”
“Only if it’s a token one.”
Go for it? thought Carol, knowing already the decision was made. She put down her drink, stood, opened her arms.
Madeline kissed her lightly, withdrew. “Do you like to be teased?”
“No.”
“Of course you do. You’re just not used to it.”
Carol was focused on Madeline’s curved lips. She wanted to kiss her aggressively, forcefully. To have her respond with compelling ardor. To have her heart race as hers was racing…
Madeline stepped back. “Come to bed.”
In a dream of passion Carol followed her. She was her center, her focal point, her target. Nothing else mattered.
Madeline was half-laughing, dominant. “Don’t undress, Carol. I’m going to make love to you first with your clothes on… slide my fingers into your hidden places… set you on fire.”
Carol, her voice husky, said, “I’m that already.”
Madeline chuckled softly, her voice a caress. “It’s only a little flame, darling. I’m going to make it a bonfire, so that you’re consumed entirely.”
She pushed Carol gently against the wall, leaned into her, a knee between her legs, slowly began to unbutton her shirt.
This is so different, thought Carol, shutting her eyes. She suddenly felt free to do anything, say anything, be anything. “Madeline…”
“It’s all right darling. Let me show you what you really want, what you’ve always wanted.”
Her breath caught at Madeline’s touch. The barrier of her clothes was at once an impediment and an excitement. Madeline’s mouth was hot against her throat. Hands sliding under her bra, tantalizing with the lightest of contacts. Carol made an inarticulate sound.
“Don’t hurry me,” said Madeline. “I won’t be hurried.”
Her touch was soft, maddening, provoking-but never quite enough.
Carol could hardly speak. “This is cruel.”
“This is what you want.”
Madeline’s fingers burned as they entered her. The compulsion of desire licked at her thighs, flamed in her groin. “I’ve got to lie down.”
“No, Carol, you’ve got to stand up.”
Never like this. She couldn’t see, could only feel-surging, scalding waves of sensation. “I’ll fall.”
Madeline’s commanding voice whispered against her cheek, “Be brave, darling. You can do it.”
Knees locked, head back, moaning with the delight of the pulsing ache that transfixed her, Carol abandoned herself to her body’s hunger. And with that submission came deliverance. Held tight in Madeline’s arms she shuddered with release. “Oh, God.”
“Now you can lie down,” said Madeline.
CHAPTER TEN
Carol called an early morning meeting with Bourke and Anne. It was a relief to concentrate on her work: whenever she relaxed her guard, burning thoughts of Madeline, of her own startling abandonment, dislocated her steadfast image of herself. And Sybil-she didn’t want to consider the conflicting emotions of guilt and resentment that resonated there.
“Have you both read The Euthanasia Handbook? Yes? Tell me how you’d make absolutely sure your suicide would be a success.”
Anne said, “I’d do everything Collis Raeburn did, except I’d take something to settle my stomach, to make sure I didn’t vomit and so not absorb enough drugs to kill me.”
“Plastic bag,” said Bourke.
Carol nodded. “The author makes the point several times that unless a doctor’s actively involved, things can go wrong with drugs. You might fall unconscious before you take enough, or vomit before they’re absorbed properly, or you might have some tolerance that means you’d lie there for days until someone finds you still alive.”
“So what you do,” said Bourke, “is wait until you’re almost asleep, pop a plastic bag over your head, tie it round your throat and doze off. Then you suffocate, but you don’t know anything about it.” He added jocularly, “It’s the best way to be dead certain.”
“There was no plastic bag,” said Anne, “and he choked to death on his own vomit.”
Carol spread out the scene-of-crime photographs. “Two things,” she said. “First, look how clean he is. The post mortem says there was some half-digested food in his mouth and trachea, but there’s nothing on his face or on the pillow. He was unconscious, so how come he’s so neat? Second, look at this necktie on the carpet by the end of the bed. What’s it doing there? Everything else has been put away and Raeburn’s wearing casual clothes, so he doesn’t need a tie.”
Bourke was frowning over the photographs. “So the murderer uses Raeburn’s necktie together with a plastic bag to make sure he dies-but why not leave it over his face? After all, it makes the suicide look even more convincing.”
“I don’t know,” said Carol. “Maybe it looked so bizarre, so horrible, that whoever it was took the plastic bag off once he was dead.”
“Tender feelings,” said Bourke, “for someone willing to wait around and watch someone slowly die.”
Carol could see it in her imagination as vividly as a movie: the grotesque figure on the bed, head bagged and tied at the neck, sucking in the plastic with each struggle for breath…
“Okay Anne,” she said crisply, “what’ve you got to report?”
“Nothing on the handbook. We’ve shown photos to staff at all the likely city bookshops, and the problem is that most people recognize Collis Raeburn, but they’re not sure if they’ve seen him in the shop or in the media. The same with the others. For example, many knew Edward Livingston because he’s always getting himself interviewed on TV.”
“Glad I’m not famous,” said Bourke. “I’d hate to be asked for my autograph as I was fleeing the scene of a crime.”
“On that very subject,” said Anne, “I showed the set of photographs to all the hotel staff who were on that weekend. That was a no go either, though one guy on reception said he vaguely thought he’d seen one of them during that Saturday evening and he had the impression it was a male. I asked him to go through the photos again, but he couldn’t say who it was. L
ooked down his nose as he told me he sees so many famous people in his job he hardly notices them anymore.”
Carol was about to ask for Bourke’s report when Anne said, “There’s one more thing. I went to the morgue to follow up your idea that someone might have called to check if Raeburn’s body had been brought in. Drew a blank, but one of the guys did make a suggestion I’ll chase up. He said if he’d been after the information, he’d have called the press reporters rostered on for the night. They cover accidents, hospitals, the morgue, all as a matter of course and they have good contacts who’ll tell them what’s going on.”
Mark Bourke’s report was succinct. “Haven’t turned up Berringer yet, but we will. While we’ve been looking for him, one thing of interest’s come up-the name of the man who may have given Raeburn HIV. Raeburn had an intense relationship with him for some time a few years ago, then the guy, who was an officer in the army, was posted overseas.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harris. But it doesn’t matter, Carol,” said Bourke. “When we chased it up we found he never came back to Australia-died of AIDS six months ago.”
Lloyd Clancy lived in an apartment overlooking Manly’s modest harbor beach and ferry wharf. He gestured that Carol and Anne should sit on the balcony while he got coffee from the adjoining compact kitchen. The white wrought iron chairs and round table were cold to the touch, but the light breeze was enticingly warm. Looking across the shimmering blue water of Manly Cove, they could see Monday morning commuters thronging the wharf, newspapers and briefcases at the ready, waiting to board the sleek jetcats or one of the stately older ferries for the trip to Sydney.
“What a great way to start a working day-half an hour of sitting in the sun on a ferry looking at the scenery.”
As Clancy poured the coffee he smiled at Anne’s enthusiasm. “It is most of the time, but you should try it when there’s been a storm and your ferry hits the swell coming in from the Heads.”
Carol said, “We won’t keep you long.”
“Meaning you want to get down to business, Inspector?”
Watching him closely, Carol said, “Have you ever been to the hotel where Raeburn died?”
He considered the question calmly. “Yes I have, at least a couple of times. Once was a dinner, the other when I was visiting friends. Why?”
“Recently?”
He seemed unconcerned. “Not recently.”
“If it were necessary, would you object to a line-up?”
“Not at all. I’m happy to be in an identification parade, but I must remind you, Inspector, that both I and my colleagues are very well known. We might be identified because someone’s seen us on television, for instance.”
As he sat back, apparently pleased with this riposte, Carol said, “Is it true that Alanna Brooks is bringing an action against you?”
He straightened. “I’ve had reporters ringing me all weekend asking that question.”
Curbing her impatience, Carol said, “I’d appreciate the answer.”
He played with his spoon, then looked up to meet Carol’s steady gaze. “I’ve tried to speak to Alanna, but she’s not taking my calls. It’s some misunderstanding about last Saturday night.”
“At the Museum of Modern Art? You were both there for Andrew Rath’s exhibition and reception, weren’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I had too much to drink. I knew I was catching the Manly ferry home and wasn’t driving, so I didn’t watch how much I had.” He chuckled ruefully. “I said some unfortunate things about Alanna, and I’m sorry now, but I suppose it’s too late.”
“Could you be more explicit?”
“Have you spoken to her?”
Carol let her impatience show. “We’re speaking to you.”
The clear morning light pitilessly revealed the dark circles under his eyes, the deep lines that bracketed his mouth, the tremor in his hand as he picked up his coffee cup. All the vitality that Carol had seen on the stage and in his dressing room seemed to have drained away. He cleared his throat. “From what I remember, and what I’ve been told, I suggested, among other things, that Alanna got to be prima donna by a series of underhand maneuvers, including calling in favors and paying off Livingston and other members of the board of Eureka Opera. I said she was worried Corinne would displace her, so she took action to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Why would anyone take this seriously? You said you’d had too much to drink…”
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “It was who I spoke to, rather than just what I said. Andrew Rath’s an institution in Australian art, so every cultural critic was there at some time in the evening. I managed to find four critics who were having a lively discussion and make them the audience for my comments about Alanna. No one was stupid enough to print it, thank God, but obviously the word’s finally got back to her.” He gave a tired smile. “To say the least, she’s not happy, and she’s threatening to sue me for slander.”
Carol frowned. “Does this seem to be an overreaction to you?”
He leaned back, shaking his head. “Collis’s death has upset everyone. We’re all under pressure. I’ve tried to talk some sense into Alanna, but…” His shrug conveyed her lack of cooperation.
Anne said, “Won’t that make it difficult when you sing in the same opera?”
Amusement flickered across his face. “You’d be surprised how many love duets are sung by people who loathe each other. From a professional point of view, the audience should never know what we really feel.”
“What do you really feel?”
Carol’s terse question sobered him immediately. “About what?”
“Alanna Brooks.”
He spread his hands. “I don’t know… resentful, I suppose, that she should take what I said so seriously.”
I’ve been told you were lovers.“
He didn’t react for a moment, then he said, “It wasn’t Corinne that said this, was it? She’s always got an ax to grind.”
“It wasn’t Ms Jawalski.”
“Well, it’s not true, Inspector.” He paused, apparently to see whether Carol would respond. She didn’t. He said uncomfortably, “Look, I don’t want to embarrass Alanna, but she made it clear a while ago that she was interested in me. I didn’t return her feelings, and told her so as gently as I could.”
“Was this before or after she had an affair with Collis Raeburn?”
He flushed. “I don’t know anything about that, but I can’t believe that she did. Alanna’d have better taste.” He sat forward. “Who’s been telling you this?”
“I’m sorry…”
Lloyd Clancy laughed contemptuously. “Don’t tell me-you can’t reveal your grubby little sources! Do you believe every bit of gossip anyone tells you?”
“No,” said Carol. “Only the ones that check out.”
Walking back to the car, Anne said, “Who was your grubby little source?”
“Douglas Binns the night we saw Aïda, and he doesn’t strike me as grubby at all…”
As soon as she walked into her office she was given a series of messages, each more urgent than the last, all from Nicole Raeburn. Feeling a mixture of irritation and curiosity, she was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.
“Carol Ashton.”
“What have I done to deserve that sharp tone?” said Madeline.
In spite of herself, Carol heard her voice mellow as she said, “I thought you’d be on your way to Brisbane by now.”
“The plane’s delayed, so I’m still at the airport. Queensland, the California of Australia, will have to wait a little longer for me.” Carol heard her take a breath, then she said, “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Fine.”
Madeline laughed. “Only fine? What happened to fantastic, terrific and wonderful?”
Her body tingling with an echo of passion, she said calmly, “All those too, of course.”
“I should wrap up the Queensland segments by next Mon
day. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Yes, okay.”
Her amusement plain, Madeline said, “Don’t bother sweeping me off my feet with enthusiasm, Carol. I have enough for both of us.”
A light blinked on her handset. “I’ve got another call, Madeline. I’ll have to go.”
Nicole Raeburn’s voice shrieked in her ear. “Inspector! I’ve been trying to get you all morning. There are two things I must know. The first is about your report. When’s it going to be finished?”
“The investigation isn’t complete yet.”
Carol’s patient tone obviously inflamed, rather than calmed. “That’s what you said last time I asked! All you have to say is that he died accidentally! It’s the best thing for everyone, and it’s true!”
Carol was tempted to break the connection, but she held her temper and said neutrally, “What was the second thing, Ms Raeburn?”
Nicole’s voice suddenly developed a cajoling tone. “Actually, Inspector, it’s about Colly’s journal. I wondered if you’d found it?”
Carol’s negative reply pushed Nicole’s voice a notch higher. “You have to find it!”
“Ms Raeburn, why is the journal suddenly so important?”
Her tone became confidential. “Actually, I don’t want this to get out, but I’m talking to a well-known writer about Colly’s biography, and he says he needs everything personal, though of course I’ll decide what goes into the book. And there’ll be a lot from me, too…”
Collis wasn’t the only one in the family with a monstrous ego. “You and your brother were very close…”
This gained a complacent agreement.
“Would he have minded if you’d glanced at his journal?”
There was a pause. “I did, once.”
Carol waited.
“Inspector Ashton, I hope you don’t think…”
“Of course not.” Her soothing words were an encouragement.
Nicole said, “Colly wrote what he really thought about people, and the secrets they told him they didn’t want repeated…”
