Claire McNab: Dead Certain

Carol waited while Anne overtook a lumbering truck, then said, “Why didn’t he leave a note?”

After considering the question, Anne said, “I’m not sure, but lots of people who suicide don’t leave notes. Perhaps he couldn’t be bothered, or he didn’t need to justify himself.” She had a sudden thought that obviously pleased her. “I know-he was killing himself for himself, if you see what I mean. He didn’t want to have revenge on anybody, or make them feel guilty, so there wasn’t any reason to leave a note behind.”

“Interesting thought,” said Carol, amused at Anne’s delight at her own hypothesis. “Now, what if it happened to be an accident, as Raeburn’s father and sister are insisting?”

Anne said immediately, “It would be the best possible scenario as far as most people are concerned. Just as a matter of course, Raeburn takes his sleeping tablets and painkillers along to the hotel with him. He’s feeling a bit low, so he buys a bottle of whiskey to drown his sorrows. He wants to be left alone, so he stops his calls and makes sure no one will knock on the door. His back’s hurting, he wants a good night’s sleep, so he takes some pills, but he’s been drinking steadily, first wine with his meal, and then whiskey, so he gets confused. Maybe he dozes off and wakes up again. Can’t remember what he’s taken, so he has some more. Unfortunately, the combination’s fatal, and he dies, like before.”

“Why does he have the television on so loudly?”

Anne glanced at her. “I don’t understand. Why not?”

“You say he’s tired and he wants to go to sleep. So why have the volume up so high? Why have it on at all?”

The sign indicating the Galston turnoff loomed on the right. Anne braked suddenly and turned at the intersection. Abashed, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were so close to the turn.”

You so remind me of myself at your age… wanting to impress by doing everything well . Carol said, “The television?”

“Maybe he meant to turn it off, but never got round to it.”

As they sped past a row of shops sitting in lonely isolation along the edge of a paddock, Carol said, “Do you have a third scenario?”

“Yes. Murder.”

“You almost sound pleased with the idea.”

Anne gave her a quick glance. “I’m not pleased, but if it is murder, it’s someone being very clever…”

Carol knew what she meant. “Matching wits, is that what you mean?”

Anne nodded. “I’ve imagined how I’d do it…”

“How?”

“All right, first I’ve got to have a motive strong enough to make me want to kill him. Sometime after he has his meal delivered, I go straight up to his room. I don’t ask at the desk because I know the number. He lets me in. Either I know he’s got the narcotics and painkillers with him, or I’ve brought them along with me. I might also have brought the bottle of whiskey. We talk, he orders a pot of coffee, I get him to take the tablets somehow or other. He’s drunk, confused. I feed him more drugs. When he’s unconscious, I turn the television volume up and leave. Sometime in the next hour or so he dies, and I’m well away from the place.”

She slowed down to turn onto a narrow road that was sign-posted with the name Raeburn, a statement that it was a private road and a threat that trespassers would be prosecuted. Carol said to her, “How can you be certain he’s going to die?”

Anne bit her lip. “Oh, God. Imagine staying there in the room, waiting… I couldn’t do it.”

“Maybe you could, if you hated him enough.”

An ornate sign declared grandly RAEBURN ESTATE. Set on several acres in the semi-rural area, the house was a two-story red-brick building with no character, no style. It sat morosely in a blank expanse of mowed lawn dotted with a few scraggly shrubs.

“It looks,” said Anne, “like it’s been picked up from a conservative suburb and plopped down here in the middle of a paddock.”

As they went to the front door Carol had to agree that this expensive house looked uncomfortably out of place, and totally alien to the environment in which it found itself.

The Raeburns’ housekeeper, Martha, was a barrel-shaped woman. “Inspector Ashton,” she said authoritatively when she opened the door, “I’m Martha Brownlye, the housekeeper. You look just like your photographs.” Before Carol could speak, she went on, “The family’s so pleased you’re looking after the case. And I am, too, of course. I’ve been with the Raeburns for thirty-five or more years, since just before Mrs. Raeburn died.”

Carol, murmuring the appropriate response, wondered in amusement if the woman would suddenly present her with a printed curriculum vitae and references. As they were ushered in, Carol said, “Ms Brownlye, I’d like to see you before I go. Would that be possible?”

Obviously flattered, Martha nodded, then resumed her monologue. “And the tragedy has broken the family. It’ll never be the same. I don’t know what’s to become of this house, for instance. It was built as a retreat for Collis, you see. It’s really a bit too far out from town, but it was essential for him to get away from the pressures. There’s a practice room, of course, and his voice coach came out here regularly-”

She stopped abruptly as a man appeared at the bottom of the hall. “Thank you, Martha,” he said softly, but with an emphasis that sent her hurrying off to the back of the house.

Carol’s first impression of Kenneth Raeburn was that he was a bantam rooster of a man. Shorter than Carol, he wore a dark suit and a burgundy bow tie and stood defiantly tall, his chin out-thrust, shoulders back, arms slightly bent and close by his body, giving Carol the impression that his heels were lifted so that he was poised on his toes. His iron-gray hair was still thick, and styled, she thought fleetingly, to add to his height. He had a hollow-cheeked, ascetic face, deepset eyes accented by heavy dark eyebrows and a nose that looked as though it had received severe punishment. His aura of pugnacity made Carol suspect that perhaps he’d been a boxer, who’d made up for his lack of height with ferocity.

He gravely shook hands with both Carol and Anne, then ushered them into a lounge room. The furniture had the same dissonance as the house, belonging, as did the house, to another kind of surroundings altogether. The spare lines and bright fluorescent green of the Swedish-style couch, chairs and low table did not suit the regency stripe curtains nor the elaborate embossed wallpaper and flowered carpet. A rosewood grandfather clock stood heavily in one corner.

Anne Newsome positioned herself at the other end of the couch, Raeburn sat opposite Carol. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“Inspector Ashton,” he said slowly. His voice was disconcertingly soft, and Carol had to resist the urge to lean forward to hear him clearly. Apparently waiting to ensure he had their complete attention, he paused until Anne Newsome had opened her notebook and looked up expectantly.

“I’ve been told you’re the best the Commissioner can offer me.”

Carol thought, You’re a controller .

Raeburn was watching her closely. Almost in a whisper, he said, “Collis died because of a dreadful accident. He was taking painkillers and sleeping tablets-he had a bad back, I suppose you know that-and he became confused, took too many, drank too much whiskey.”

Aware that her voice sounded loud next to his quiet tones, she said, “I’m preparing a report for the coroner, Mr. Raeburn, and I must tell you that the evidence seems to indicate at least the possibility of suicide.”

“No.” His soft voice was not emphatic, but very sure. “Suicide is impossible. Completely impossible.”