Claire McNab - Dead Certain

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 looked. 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.”