Claire McNab: Dead Certain

“Yes, of course. There’s always movement in the lobby of a hotel. But the person would need to know the room number, otherwise he or she would ask at the desk and be told Mr. Raeburn was not to be disturbed.”

“And no one did ask, according to your staff.”

He raised his eyebrows fractionally. “They’re reliable, and professional. If they say no one asked, no one did.”

Carol said, “Collis Raeburn always had the same room?”

“Whenever possible. Do you want to see it, Inspector? We had permission from the detective in charge to clean the room, but we’ve booked no one into it…” He frowned. “Unfortunately we’ve had several requests to spend the night in the place where Mr. Raeburn died. It is not, of course, our policy to accede to such propositions.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” said Carol, straight-faced. “I don’t want to see the room, but I would like details about the discovery of the body.”

“The night audit staff were on-they work through the night and do a printout of departures and stay-overs for the next day. The Housekeeping Supervisor was concerned about Mr. Raeburn and she approached the Duty Manager. Constant attempts during the evening had not elicited any reply from the room, so the Duty Manager spoke to the assistant manager and it was decided to open the door, in case Mr. Raeburn had been taken ill.”

“Didn’t your staff consider he’d gone out and forgotten to remove the sign from the door?”

“Mr. Raeburn always left the key at the desk, without exception, so it was obvious he was still in his room. And, of course, if he had gone out and for once forgotten to leave the key, no harm would have been done by entering his room.”

“This is twenty-four hours since any contact with him?”

“Yes. Under other circumstances we might have done something sooner, but Mr. Raeburn was a regular guest and he liked his privacy, so staff were unwilling to impinge on that. When his body was discovered we immediately contacted the authorities.”

“Did you ring his father or sister?”

“No. We left that to the police. My staff called me, of course, and I came in at once to handle any problems that might occur with the media.”

“Were there any?”

The manager frowned thoughtfully. “At that point we’d contained the news. I did have one curious call, though…”

Carol felt a tingle of interest. “Why curious?”

“A very husky voice. Claimed to be a reporter with the Sentinel , and asked if it were true that Collis Raeburn had been found dead in his room.”

“A man or a woman?”

His frown deepened. “Whoever it was just gave a surname. I thought it was a woman, but it could’ve been a man.”

“Do you remember the name?”

Irritation flitted across his face. “I keep a record of all calls that are put through to me, especially at a time like this.” He consulted a note. “The name was Oldfield, or something close to it. The voice wasn’t very clear.”

“How did you respond?”

“The standard reply-that it was hotel policy to make no comment of any sort on any guest. Whoever it was then broke the connection.”

Carol glanced at Anne. “Check the name.” She looked back at the manager. “So someone wanted to know if Collis Raeburn was dead, but you weren’t any help. How was the body removed?”

The manager seemed offended at such bluntness. “We temporarily locked the guest elevators so they had to bypass the floor, then used the service elevator to take the body down to the loading dock at the back of the hotel.”

“Would anyone be able to see the body being removed?”

Again an infinitesimal shrug. “It was done discreetly early Monday morning, but I suppose someone could have been watching at some point.” His voice became sententious as he added, “However, I want to emphasize, Inspector Ashton, that we saw it our duty to continue to extend to Mr. Raeburn in death the privacy he requested in life.”

Carol asked when the staff who’d dealt with Raeburn on Saturday evening would be on duty again, and their names. “Sergeant Newsome may need to interview them briefly.”

“Of course, Inspector,” said the manager with the faintest of sighs.

As they got into the car in the hotel car park, Carol said to Anne, “Remember when you check out the Sentinel reporter who’s supposed to have called, he or she may be a freelance using the paper’s name for access. And I want you to contact the morgue and see if anyone rang them that morning about Raeburn. Someone was very anxious to be certain he was dead.”

As she turned into the busy street, Anne said, “His death was hot news, so there must have been a scramble to get information as soon as something leaked.”

“But that’s the point, Anne. The report of the pop star’s supposed death led to a couple of staff losing their jobs, so this time no one leaked anything. That means the person who called the manager knew ahead of time there was at least a possibility that Raeburn was dead.”

Anne considered this for a moment, then said, “Maybe Raeburn was suicidal, and someone close to him realized he was very depressed. Could have been a friend checking up.”

“An anonymous friend who claims to be a reporter?”

“People do odd things,” said Anne, smiling.

“Raeburn’s fingerprints were everywhere they should be, but if I were setting up a murder as suicide, I’d make sure of that anyway.”

“But how would you get him to take all those tablets?”

“That,” said Carol as they turned into Macquarie Street, “is where your creative imagination comes into play. Work out how you’d kill him, Anne, and while you’re about it, come up with a stunning motive.”

The Conservatorium of Music, affectionately known as the Con, sat in Macquarie Street at the edge of the splendid greenery of the Royal Botanic Gardens. A squat white building, modeled on the gatehouse of a Scottish castle, its turreted towers looked bizarre but appealing.

Carol and Anne Newsome were met at the entrance by Graeme Welton. He greeted them without enthusiasm, shaking hands briefly with Carol and nodding to Anne. His high voice and nasal twang seemed incongruous with his physical appearance. He was a bulky, thick-necked man with regular features and sparse mousy hair brushed forward, apparently to disguise his receding hairline.

“Thought I’d meet you at the door. Never find me otherwise.” As he spoke, his fingers tugged at the lapels of his wine-red jacket, drifted across his face, pulled at an earlobe, smoothed his hair forward, finally coming to impatient rest in front of him, where he played, apparently unconsciously, elaborate finger games. Carol could see Anne staring at Welton’s hands; she herself inspected his face. He had ruddy skin, rather small but piercingly blue eyes, a wide, full-lipped mouth and a deep cleft in his chin.

“I’m a little surprised,” said Carol, “that you knew I’d been put in charge of the case.”

“Just heard it on the grapevine, Inspector.”

It was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate. Carol said, “ Is there somewhere we could go, Mr. Welton?”

“Yes, of course. It’ll be cramped though. Practice room.”

He led them at a fast pace, striding down the corridor with heavy steps. “In here. Your constable’ll have to stand.”

The cramped practice room was untidy with music manuscripts, angular metal sheet music stands and ill-matched furniture. Welton perched on a high stool, Carol folded herself onto an ancient low leather chair, Anne Newsome stood against the dingy wall, notebook and pen ready.

After gazing at Carol intently, he announced, “Well, Inspector, I’m impressed. You’re even better looking than you are on television. Mind, I’ve always had a weakness for green-eyed blondes.”