Claire McNab: Dead Certain

“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.”

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!”

Sybil 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.”

“Any idea how long he’d been carrying the virus?”

Bourke looked as though he’d eaten something bitter. “As far as I know, Raeburn wasn’t showing any physical signs, but it varies so much from person to person. Could have been months, years even.”

Carol began to doodle arrows on a scratch pad. “How’d he take it? Depression? Anger?”

“The doctor says he was reasonably calm. He listened to all the medical stuff, took the name of an AIDS counselor-who, incidentally, he never contacted-told his doctor he’d beat the virus and he was convinced a cure was around the corner, and went off into the sunset. His doctor never saw him again.”

“He may have gone to an AIDS clinic where he’d have specialist medical help.”

Bourke ran his hand over his hair. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what it’d be like to walk in, thinking everything was okay, and be told you had a death sentence?”

Carol wondered what she would do. “It’d be rough, and all the worse when you had to tell friends or lovers that you might have infected them.”

Sounding almost angry, Bourke said, “You say he told Martha Brownlye, but as far as I can see, that’s it. Either he didn’t warn anyone, or they’re keeping quiet about it. The doctor told Raeburn he must warn any sexual partners, whether he practiced safe sex with them or not… it’s not always that safe.”

“There were no needle marks on the body, but he may have used intravenous drugs in the past.”

Bourke’s usually mild voice was harsh. “He was told to contact anyone he’d shared needles with, if he ever had.”

Puzzled by the suppressed anger in Bourke’s voice, Carol said, “Mark, there’s something here I don’t understand. Have you got a problem with this?”

“Sort of.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want this to go any further.” He looked up at her murmur of protest. “I’m sorry, Carol. It’s just that it’s a little close to home. Pat’s younger brother, actually…” He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “The first he knew is when he got sick, really sick. He’s progressed to early-stage AIDS and his immune system’s stuffed. Tony had pneumonia a few weeks ago, although he seems okay at the moment.”