Claire McNab - Dead Certain

“About a week before he died he came to see me here. Said he’d tested positive. He was angry and upset, but he wasn’t about to kill himself over it. Collis was a fighter. Wouldn’t have got where he did in his career if he was the sort to throw up his hands and give up. He told me he was determined to beat the virus. That he could afford the best advice, the latest drugs… and he firmly believed a cure was probable within the next few years.”

Carol said bluntly, “Did he have any idea how he caught it?”

She glared. “All he said was it was someone he knew. Said he’d get even, any way he could.”

“Any idea if it was a man or woman? Did he give a name?”

“No. And I didn’t ask, Inspector.” Her face contorted with grief and anger. “Wish I had, because whoever it was killed him to keep him quiet. I’m sure of it.”

As Anne drove them back into the city, she said rather smugly to Carol, “I think I know why he told the housekeeper and his singing teacher, but no one else.”

“He may have told several people, but they’re not saying anything.” Anne looked subdued by this comment, so Carol prompted, “What’s your theory?”

“Well, since Collis Raeburn’s mother died when he was very young, and the housekeeper and his singing teacher are sort of middle-aged, I think they might be mother-substitutes for him.” She flushed slightly. “That’s just off the top of my head.”

“It’s an interesting point, Anne. And it could lead somewhere, or not, but it’s worth saying.”

After an awkward pause, Carol said, “Who was Kathleen Ferrier?”

Anne grinned. “Luckily I can answer that, because my father had all her records. She was an English contralto with the most beautiful voice. She died young from cancer, and her records are all mono recordings, but they’re still wonderful.”

Singers live on in their recordings , thought Carol. What will I leave behind ?

Back in her office, Carol closed the door and dialed home. “Sybil? Have you changed your mind?… Darling, please…” She listened, her face blank, then said, “Are you taking Jeffrey with you?”

Ridiculously, the mention of Sybil’s fat ginger cat brought her closest to tears. She blinked, keeping her voice steady as she said, “I’m glad you’re leaving him with me. Sinker would be lonely without his company-”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted, but she knew Sybil wanted to end the call anyway. They’d said everything that could be said last night. Her voice still calm, with no hint of the gray desolation that filled her, she said goodbye and replaced the receiver deliberately.

Bourke opened the door. “Carol, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve seen Amos Berringer, the would-be expose king.”

She gestured for him to sit, resolutely pushing her despair about Sybil out of her mind. “Was he selling a genuine story?”

“Not really. He’s a sleazy little bastard, skating around the edges of the gay scene and picking up married guys cruising for a quick thrill. His m.o. is to take a photograph or two on the sly, then try a little blackmail for, as he calls it, gifts. Seems the photos of Raeburn were pure luck-he recognized him in the bar and decided to take a few snaps for future reference. He’s dropped the claim he was Raeburn’s ex-lover, and now says he just moved in the same crowd.”

“So why the story that Raeburn was HIV-positive? How could he have known he was?”

Bourke shrugged. “It might just be Berringer’s lucky guess. He probably thought, too, that it would make a stronger story for sale to Madeline Shipley.”

Carol was finding it an effort to concentrate. Forcing her thoughts away from Sybil’s angry words-“Everything’s got to be on your terms, Carol. Everything.”-she asked if Bourke had traced anyone else in the photographs.

“Not yet, but we’ve got the name of the bar and I’ve got Ferguson chasing up any names we got from Berringer.” He paused, irresolute, then said, “Remember you asked me to pick up on what was being said on the grapevine? You won’t like it, Berringer but the general impression seems to be that you’re in the Commissioner’s pocket on this one and the result-accidental death-is a foregone conclusion. Bannister, of course, is helping this along, although I’ve managed to point out to a few people it’s sour grapes on his part.”

“There was a call on my answering machine last night-no name, of course-advising me to find that Raeburn’s death was an accident. It was whispered, but possibly a man.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the threat of exposure. She didn’t want Mark Bourke’s sympathy, or his understanding. I can pretend it hasn’t happened - but that won’t make it go away .

Mark said dryly, “It’d be a lot less trouble if it was an accident.”

She nodded wearily as her phone rang. “It sure would.” Hoping it was Sybil calling back, she snatched up the receiver.

“Inspector Ashton? This is Alanna Brooks.”

“I would like to see you as soon as possible.”

“And I you, Inspector, but unfortunately it’s the opening night of Aïda , and, having missed so much yesterday, I’m tied up with rehearsals almost right through. I do, however, have a suggestion I hope you might accept. I’ve two tickets for one of the boxes, and I’d be delighted if you saw the performance tonight, then joined me in my dressing room afterwards. I’d be more than pleased to answer all your questions then.”

Carol thought of her house, lonely without Sybil, and accepted the invitation.

The wind had dropped, so the night was cool, not cold. The Opera House looked its spectacular best. The patrician curves of the floodlit cream-tiled roof shells were a counterpoint to the dark heaving water of the harbor, the ribs of the Harbour Bridge and the garish vitality of the city.

Carol met Anne Newsome in the foyer. The stark concrete curved in buttresses to support the soaring roofs, the walls were curtains of glass that allowed the city’s changing pattern of lights to provide a background to the crowds thronging around the circular central bars.

Mark Bourke had reacted with horror at the idea of attending an opera, but Anne had been delighted. “I know you don’t have to really dress up for opening nights anymore,” she had said, “but it’s a great chance to get your glad rags out!”

Aware that she would be interviewing Alanna Brooks, and, as always, wanting to create a controlled impression, Carol had selected a severe black dress and discreet gold earrings. Anne had been rather more daring. Looking impossibly glamorous, in comparison to her working garb of plain, serviceable clothes, Anne was a vision in metallic green. “Startling, eh?” she said, as Carol blinked.

“Arresting,” said Carol, her lips twitching.

Douglas Binns had been waiting anxiously for them. “Inspector! Please come this way. Miss Brooks has asked that you be given some refreshments before the performance begins.”

Carol sipped her glass of champagne and considered Binns over the rim. “Mr. Binns, I presume you’d know everything that goes on in the opera company?”

He made haste to deny this. “By no means, Inspector. You must remember, I work for the Opera House itself. The Eureka Company is here for a season only.”

Giving him her most charming smile, Carol said, “Nevertheless, I would like you to answer a few questions.” Before he could voice his protest, she went on, “And I do appreciate your position, Mr. Binns.”

“Well, of course, if I can be of any help…”

She asked a few mild questions about his work responsibilities, then, when he had relaxed, she said, “You’re in a unique position, Mr. Binns, to give me unbiased information about the interrelationships in the Eureka Opera Company.”