Claire McNab - Dead Certain

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.