Claire McNab: Dead Certain

As Carol was packing her briefcase, preparatory to a late departure for home, Anne Newsome came into her office. “No one named Oldfield works for the Sentinel , either permanently, or freelance. The closest names they could come up with are Oakley or Bradfield, but neither reporter had anything to do with the Raeburn story.”

“And the morgue?”

“Couldn’t get anything out of them. Of course their policy is to give no information to the public, so it’s not surprising that no one remembers a call from an Oldfield.”

Carol snapped her briefcase shut. “Some reporters would have an inside working relationship with staff at the morgue-it’s the way things work. When you get a spare minute follow it up, but it’s not urgent, okay?”

As she drove across the Harbour Bridge, mind in neutral, a conviction swam up into her consciousness. She felt a sudden thrill, as though she’d caught a glimpse of her quarry. Someone killed you. Cold-bloodedly. Carefully. And I’ll find out who …

Over breakfast, Sybil handed her a stiff rectangular card. “Forgot to show you this last night. It came addressed to both of us, so I opened it.”

The embossed invitation requested the company of Carol Ashton and Sybil Quade at the wedding of Patricia James and Marcus Bourke at Balmoral Beach and afterwards at the Bathers Pavilion Restaurant at the same location. Carol smiled at the “Marcus,” wondering why Mark had let it through.

“Carol? We’re going?”

Don’t push it . Carol looked at the familiar lines of Sybil’s slim figure, the dusting of freckles across her nose, her direct, frank gaze, and felt a rush of anger. “Mark’s my friend. He wouldn’t understand if I didn’t go.”

“That’s not what I mean. We’ve been asked together.”

Carol flicked the card onto the kitchen bench. “Pat knows we live in the same house. It’d be stupid to send separate invitations.”

“Carol…”

Slamming her open palm on the bench top, Carol said, “As far as I’m concerned, we’re not going together -we’re going at the same time.”

“Why?”

“You know why. Colleagues, superiors will be there. To all intents it’ll be a police wedding.”

“And you can’t be seen with me.”

“Not the way you want to be. I can’t do it, Sybil. You don’t understand. It’d stuff my career if I was openly a lesbian.”

Sybil was as bitterly angry as Carol. “What do you think I’m going to do? Wear overalls and a Lesbian Nation T-shirt? Kiss every woman in sight passionately? Wave a placard telling everyone we’re lovers?”

“Stop trying to manipulate me!”

“Manipulate you? I wouldn’t know how to begin. You’re set like concrete, Carol. You won’t even listen, will you?”

“Give me a break!”

A pause, then Sybil said quietly, “This is too important to be yelling about. We should talk about it.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m sick of talking. You know what the situation is as far as my work’s concerned. Outside that, okay. But this wedding is work , Sybil.”

“So that’s it?”

To herself, Carol’s voice sounded cold and final. “That’s it.”

“Murder?” repeated the Commissioner, heavy brows frowning. “I’ve seen Bannister’s initial report. Don’t see where you get that scenario, and I certainly don’t want it mentioned in the press meeting we’re having this morning.”

The Commissioner hadn’t offered her a seat. Carol put her hands into the jacket pockets of her navy blue suit. “I thought you should know I think it’s a possibility.”

He grunted, surveyed her soberly. “There’s going to be a State funeral for Raeburn next week. Are you going to hold up release of the body?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Homicide will complicate things.”

“Yes, I know.”

He smiled briefly. “Warned the Minister you’d run it your way. Told her if she wanted someone amenable, there were others who’d be a better bet.” He stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Do what you have to do, but keep me informed every step of the way. I don’t want any surprises.”

“There’s something else…”

“Important?”

“Very. Collis Raeburn was HIV-positive. If during the interviews it becomes obvious that the person’s had unprotected sex-”

“You say nothing,” he interrupted. “The lid’s got to be on this, at least at the moment.”

“What if someone unknowingly infects another person?” Carol asked, her anger evident.

“All right, I see your point. You can advise the appropriate health authorities and let them deal with direct notification, if necessary. I don’t want AIDS or HIV linked to the investigation in any way, so neither you nor any of your team are to warn anybody. Is that clear?”

As she reached the door, he added, “I’ll see you at ten for the press conference… And Carol, I’m willing to back you on this case, but be careful. We’re talking a lot of politics here.”

Simon Sykes hovered anxiously around Carol and the Commissioner as the microphones were set up. “I’d be the last to advise you, Carol, but this is a delicate situation, and the Minister will be watching…”

Carol fixed him with the coldest look she could muster. “Go away,” she said. He went.

Under the warmth of the television lights and to the accompaniment of clicking shutters from the press photographers, Carol went through her paces. Yes, she was in charge of the investigation of Collis Raeburn’s death. No, she was unable to comment in detail because she was new to the case. The fact that she’d replaced Detective Sergeant Bannister was an administrative decision which was outside her area. No, she couldn’t comment on the possibility of suicide-her team was making a full investigation.

She parried questions on the Raeburn family’s response to the tragedy; whether or not she was an opera fan; if there was any possibility of foul play; had Collis Raeburn left a note; did rivalry in the singing world have anything to do with his death; the predictable rumor that he had had throat cancer and was facing a silent future; did she have a personal opinion, or even a hunch, regarding his death…

Afterwards, the Commissioner’s comment was a sardonic accolade. “Vintage Inspector Ashton,” he said. “You charmed the pants off them, Carol, but told them bugger all.”

Anne Newsome drove with her usual competence to the Raeburn estate at Galston, Carol beside her. As they entered the more rural areas of Sydney’s north, the vitality of early spring became obvious. Everything was washed with a green, glowing patina, and to Carol the feeling of renewal was exhilarating.

She glanced at the young constable beside her. “Anne, you’ve read through everything on Collis Raeburn’s death, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” A grin. “Why do I feel you’re about to ask me something I can’t answer?”

“Describe the possible scenarios, as you see them.”

Her eyes on the road, Anne said, “His death looks like suicide, and if Mr. Raeburn hadn’t been so famous, I imagine that wouldn’t have ever been questioned.”

Carol leaned back and relaxed. She felt the pleasure of a teacher with a promising student. “Go on.”

“Okay. He finds out he’s HIV-positive and he can’t face what that will mean. Besides that, he’s never formed a permanent relationship with anyone, so it’s possible he feels alienated and lonely anyway. He decides to kill himself. There’s been plenty of publicity about The Euthanasia Handbook so he buys a copy to get reliable information. He discovers he already has the necessary drugs, puts the pills in his luggage, buys a bottle of Johnny Walker, and checks himself into his favorite hotel. He has a last meal, orders coffee, stops any telephone calls and puts a Do Not Disturb on the door. He takes a handful of pills, drinks whiskey and falls unconscious on the bed. Before he can die of the combination of drugs and alcohol, he vomits while unconscious, and chokes. He wouldn’t know anything about it and the effect is the same. He’s dead.”