Claire McNab - Dead Certain

Noting the thread of malice under the conversational tone, Carol wondered if she had been jealous of the other soprano. “They’ve been singing together for some time?”

“I suppose so.”

Carol probed a little more. “They were friends?”

Corinne flushed slightly. “What has this got to do with anything?”

Carol said mildly, “I was wondering how he told her about this new arrangement.”

She shrugged. “I’ve no idea if Alanna knew. Frankly, I don’t know if he told anyone else, but that’s what he was going to do. I mean, these things happen, don’t they? Things change.”

Carol said pleasantly, “Forgive me-I don’t understand the ins and outs of your profession, but I would have thought decisions about casting would not be left to the singers…”

Corinne’s tone was equally agreeable. “In most cases, of course not. But Collis could ask for anything… and he got it. It’s one of the perks of fame, Inspector Ashton.”

“Why was he thinking of replacing Alanna Brooks with you?”

The question elicited a complacent smile. “I don’t like to sound immodest, but Collis believed we would make a better team. I mean, Alanna’s had a great career, and she’s not that old for a singer, but…”

“She’s past it?” said Anne.

The young singer swung her attention to the constable. “Brutal,” she said with a faint curve to her lips, “but pretty accurate. Alanna had it to begin with-there’s no doubt of that-but her high notes are getting hard, the bloom’s off her voice. She should have years of singing left, but…” She added with unconvincing regret, “Faulty technique, probably.”

Such casual cruelty . Carol said, “When did you last speak with Collis Raeburn?”

The question jolted the young woman. Her expression of private triumph melted into misery. She dropped her head, saying almost inaudibly, “That evening.”

“He called you from his hotel?”

“Collis didn’t say where he was, but it must have been from the hotel. It was about seven and I was on my way out when my flatmate took the call. Beth called me back, but I was in a hurry, so we only had a short conversation.”

“Why was he calling?”

“Why was he calling,” Corinne repeated.

Repeating the question gives you time to think. What is it you need to think about ? Carol looked over at Anne, and was pleased to see that she was watching Corinne Jawalski intently.

The young soprano put her hand to her mouth, then said with an attempt at nonchalance, “Nothing important. Just some stuff about Graeme Welton’s latest little epic.”

“ Dingo ? Were you to sing in it?”

“I wasn’t tied to it legally, if that’s what you mean. Poor Collis was packing death at the thought of the whole thing. Didn’t want to be involved, and couldn’t see how he could get out of it.”

“Did Mr. Raeburn sound depressed?”

“Well, he wasn’t very happy. I got the feeling Alanna was giving him a hard time.”

“Because you were to replace her?”

The singer gave an offhand gesture. “Don’t know. Could’ve been anything. Alanna’s always taken the role of temperamental prima donna as far as she can to give her an excuse to bitch about anything and everything.”

Carol looked up to see Binns approaching. She got to her feet. “Ms Jawalski, I’d appreciate it if you give Constable Newsome full details of the conversation-anything you can remember verbatim would be a help.”

Binns was beaming. “Lloyd Clancy’s in his dressing room right now. Can I take you down?”

Confident the young constable could complete the interview efficiently, Carol said to Corinne, “Please excuse me. Constable Newsome will have a few more questions for you and will make arrangements for a statement.”

Plainly irked to find Carol leaving her midway through the interview, she said tartly, “There’s a lot more you should know, Inspector.”

“I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

Carol followed Binns as he plunged into a low-roofed wide corridor. Brightly lit, filled with the muffled hum of air-conditioning and carpeted with gray-brown carpet chosen to blend in with the widest range of stains, it seemed identical to all other corridors she had seen in the Opera House. “Do you ever get lost?”

He was delighted with her question. “No, but I can see how you might think that. It’s the white birch ply.” At her raised eyebrows, he elaborated, “This blond wood you see everywhere. It’s in all the passageways, the rooms. Native wood of New South Wales, white birch. Makes everything look the same.”

As they came to a halt outside a pale door labeled Mr. Clancy , Binns pointed to a row of huge wicker containers that filled half the corridor. “They’re called skips. It’s traditional to transport all the costumes and props in them.”

The door opened to his diffident knock. Carol had seen Lloyd Clancy in photographs and on television, but she wasn’t prepared for the full weight of his engaging personality. Rather heavily built and with an imposingly hooked nose, deeply set dark eyes and a rougish smile, he radiated a cheeky informality. He was wearing ancient jeans and a navy blue shirt. “Come in, Inspector Ashton,” he said with an elaborate sweeping gesture. “I find it very reassuring that you’re on the case.”

“Indeed?”

“Absolutely indeed!” He was chuckling at her skeptical tone as he ushered her down a tiny hallway with a cramped bathroom on one side and a walk-in wardrobe on the other. The dressing room itself was quite small, one side of it taken up with makeup mirrors ringed with lights. Set into another wall was a control panel from which music and singing whispered. “The rehearsal,” he said, as she glanced at it. “I’m due back for the next act, so I’ll know when I have to be there.” Seating her on a rather battered lounge, he said to Binns, “Douglas, coffee would be wonderful. Could you?”

The dressing room had the ubiquitous gray-brown carpet and pale cream woodwork and walls. The window was a long oblong laid on its side through which an expanse of water danced in the sunlight. Seeing her watching a catamaran ferry swishing past, he said, “Lovely view, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I hardly have time to appreciate it, and besides, one can become accustomed to too much beauty, don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps, although the harbor’s changing all the time.”

The amusement disappeared from his face. His voice was washed of laughter as he said, “Yes, everything changes. You want to see me about Collis.” He’d taken one of the three-wheeled swivel-backed chairs from the makeup mirror, swung it around so the back faced him, and had straddled it. Now he sat, hands folded along the top of the backrest, watching her closely.

“Let’s start with how he was the last time you saw or spoke with him.”

Clancy’s initial levity had vanished. He said pensively, “I can’t believe we’re sitting here discussing Collis’s death. It’s such a pity…”

“When did you see him?” Carol prompted.

“Would have been about midafternoon on that final day. He was here, in this dressing room. Wanted to check something about next month’s schedule. Seemed preoccupied, but not depressed. Of course, you couldn’t always tell with Collis. He was an intensely private man.”

“Did you get on well?”

This question earned a rueful smile. “To be honest, not particularly.” He seemed to make an effort to be jocular. “I mean, it’s no secret we were rivals. Tenors often are.” He added disarmingly, “In opera we have all these noble, heroic parts, you see. And all this drama spills over into our lives.”

What are you really feeling? Are you happy that your challenger has gone ? She said lightly, “So the stereotyped perception of the opera world is correct? It is seething with professional jealousy?”