Dead Certain

CHAPTER SEVEN

Collis Raeburn’s singing teacher lived in an old suburb that had once enjoyed more gracious days. Her house, an undistinguished dark brick, sat stolidly in a neglected garden. Carol shivered as she got out of the car. The day had begun with icy wind and sudden, spiteful showers of rain, as a reminder that it was only very early spring.

Earlier, the sharpness of the day had been echoed by the coldness between her and Sybil. “Carol, there’s been something wrong between us for a long time. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and the way you want to live isn’t enough for me anymore.”

Restraining her anger, Carol had said, “Is running away the best thing to do?”

“We need to have some distance between us… I need some distance…”

“Don’t do this, darling.”

Sybil’s face had tightened at this brisk entreaty. “Carol, we always do it your way-this time it’s going to be different…”

Anne Newsome broke into her somber thoughts. Gesturing at the house, she said, “Being a singing teacher doesn’t seem very profitable. Must be in it for love.”

Love? thought Carol bitterly.

As they opened the sagging gate and walked up the overgrown path, a voice, warm as sunshine, poured out the open window. The sung phrase curled in the air, then faded. A pause, and it was repeated.

Carol knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a woman whose face was familiar from the Collis Raeburn television special. “Inspector Ashton? You’re a little early. I’m just finishing a lesson. Won’t be long.”

As they were shown into an alcove off the front room, Carol glimpsed the polished flank of a grand piano and the slight figure of a young woman standing beside it. She and Anne settled down into lumpily uncomfortable lounge chairs upholstered in dusty brocade.

The lesson recommenced. The young woman would sing a phrase, the dark liquid of her voice caressing the notes, only to be interrupted by an impatient comment and a command to do it again.

“No! No! Listen to yourself. Where’s your control? Remember, your voice is supported by a column of air… Put your hands against your ribs, here, fingers touching… Now, breathe in! Let the air force your hands apart.”

A pause, apparently for the student to comply. Anne caught Carol’s glance and smiled. The teacher’s impatient voice demanded, “You feel that? Do you? Do it again!… Now, you must always remember that the muscular arch of your diaphragm is the foundation of your voice. Singing is only air passing over your vocal cords, so you must control that column of air completely.”

There was a soft comment from the student, followed by an impatient exclamation from the teacher. “Most people are lazy and breathe shallowly. You must learn to use every part of your lungs-they are the bellows of your voice.” A chord was struck violently on the piano. “Don’t sing the note-hum! Louder… louder. Now! Swell it… fade it. You feel your upper lip vibrating? Yes? Remember that feeling. That’s where your voice must be placed to get that clear, beautiful, sustained sound.”

“Seems like hard work,” whispered Anne.

The teacher had begun a piano introduction. The music was unfamiliar to Carol, but it filled the room with an aching melody that intensified as the young woman began to sing. Her voice-tawny and supple-delighted Carol. She shut her eyes and let it curl around her. This time there were no interruptions. The song ended with a few soft notes, then the voice of the teacher saying grudgingly, “That was better. But you must practice. Practice!”

The lesson over, the student was bustled out the front door and Carol and Anne were taken into the main room. “Your student’s got a beautiful voice,” said Anne.

The teacher grunted. “Oh, yes, God’s given her the voice. But that’s just the first step. It’s what she does with it now, that’s important. She could be the next Kathleen Ferrier-if she works hard, and gets the breaks. It’s never enough to have raw talent. Luck has a lot to do with success.”

“Collis Raeburn was lucky?” said Carol.

The woman’s stern face softened. “Yes, Collis was lucky, but he also had a voice that only occurs once or twice a century. He was sent to me early, before he could learn shortcuts and bad habits-tenors often develop them, I’m afraid-and I realized immediately what he was.” She grew grim. “That is all the more reason why it is a dreadful tragedy that he’s dead.”

“You said on the phone to me that you believed someone had killed him.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed at Carol’s bland tone. “I can see you doubt me, but I know someone did.” She gave a theatrical shrug. “You’ll be thinking I’m overdramatizing, no doubt. But I knew Collis better than anyone, and there is no way he would have killed himself. He had an arrogance, bordering on narcissism, that would make it absolutely impossible for him to even consider destroying himself. Suicide, no matter what, could not be an option.”

Carol said mildly, “Just hypothetically, what if he’d been suffering from something like cancer…”

“You don’t have to pussyfoot around. I knew about the AIDS.”

Hiding her surprise, Carol said, “What did he tell you, and when?”

“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.”

“I don’t listen to gossip,” he assured her quickly.

“It’s not gossip I’m interested in, but your personal impressions. And of course, anything you say will be treated in confidence.” He looked both flattered and wary as she went on, “As an outsider I’m at a disadvantage, so I need the insights you can give me.”

She thought, Have I laid it on too thick? but was reassured by Douglas Binns’s proud little smile.

“Well, yes, Inspector, of necessity I must know what’s going on…”

It was easy after that. He freely discussed the complicated web of allegiances, alliances, rivalries and open conflicts that, he assured Carol, characterized most artistic communities. He answered her specific questions about Collis Raeburn’s relationships with a frankness that seemed to surprise him. “Inspector, I hope you don’t think I discuss these matters on any other occasions. Even my wife doesn’t know these details…”

Bells rang to indicate that Aïda would soon commence and in obedience to their gentle insistence, people began to straggle towards the entrances to the opera hall.

Binns was obviously rather taken with Anne in her metallic green dress. “Almost fifteen hundred and fifty seats,” he said to her as he led them into their box high on the dull black left wall.

Out of habit Carol surveyed her surroundings carefully. A swelling murmur filled the opera theater as people crowded in, their animated conversations competing with discordant sounds from the cramped pit as the orchestra tuned up. Red seats with armrests in the familiar blond wood rose in tiers with no central aisle, so those in the center had to shuffle sideways past patrons already seated. The lighting was subdued, the banks of floodlights dark as they stared blankly at the heavy curtain masking the stage.

Binns was gazing around with proprietary pride. “Acoustics in the opera hall are very satisfactory,” he said. “One point four reverb time!” He looked from Carol to Anne, as though expecting an admiring response. “You know, of course, that the singers use no electronic amplification.”

“Why doesn’t the orchestra drown them out?”

Anne’s question pleased him. “I imagine,” he said with a faintly superior smile, “that most-if not all-popular singing is very much the product of microphones and sound engineers, so that even a thin voice can be given weight and timbre electronically. This is not the case in grand opera. The voice is an instrument, and the singer must provide the controlled power and resonance to be in partnership with the orchestra, and often to soar above it.”

Anne looked impressed. “They don’t only have to compete with an orchestra, they have to act and sing in a foreign language, all at the same time. What happens if they get confused?”

Binns was clearly delighted with her appreciation of the rigors of opera. “Singers do have a little help,” he said. “When the curtain goes up, you’ll notice a little hood center stage front. It hides the prompt, who sits suspended over part of the orchestra pit in a space so small it’s like sitting in a racing car.”

The flutter of programs and the hum of voices stilled as the conductor entered. He acknowledged the applause, then turned to the orchestra. As the soft violins that introduced the prelude continued to soar above the threatening bass line, Carol consciously relaxed the tight muscles in her shoulders, determined to escape into the music.

The curtain slowly rose to show a vast columned hall with pyramids and temples in the background. Spontaneous applause broke out at the designer’s achievement and at the hypnotically splendid Egyptian costumes. Carol was fascinated to see Lloyd Clancy stride to center stage. Gone was the cultured rogue with the ready smile and the wry humor she had encountered in the dressing room. He had been transformed into a young soldier, Radames, chosen by the goddess Isis to lead the Egyptian armies to victory against the Ethiopians. He sang with youthful joy the meltingly gorgeous “Celeste Aïda.” Carol found herself holding her breath. “Wow,” said Anne beside her as the last notes died to a rumble of applause.

A subtly glowing strip above the stage contained the subtitles, a continuous translation of the Italian into English as phrases were sung. “Ritorna vincitor!” sang the chorus with thrilling force: “So conquer and return!” the subtitles declared. At first Carol found the continuous translation distracting, but soon she seemed to absorb the words automatically, so that it was almost as if she understood Italian.

Initially Carol thought Alanna Brooks too mature and heavily built for the role of the young Aïda, but the moment she began to sing, her voice, pure and piercingly beautiful, overrode this impression. She was Aïda, daughter of the king of Ethiopia, sold into slavery to the pharaoh’s daughter, Amneris, who loved, as did Aïda, the young soldier, Radames.

After the Grand March an overwhelming mass of choral sound arose as the solo singers strove to be heard above the chanting of the priests, the cries of the captives and the shouts of the crowd. The descent of the curtain and the buzz from the audience as the lights came up for an interval was an unwelcome intrusion into the intoxicating world that the opera had created.

Resenting the return of reality, Carol remained almost silent, as Binns and Anne chatted about the gratifying fact that, for once, Edward Livingston had not tried to modernize or change the opera. As she sipped the champagne Binns had provided with somewhat self-satisfied facility, Carol wondered if the love triangle in Aïda had disturbing parallels with her own life. Unwillingly she thought of Madeline and Sybil as two points of a triangle of which she was the third. But wasn’t she just romanticizing what was merely a disconcerting physical response to Madeline Shipley? Her thoughts moved on to the investigation. Had Collis Raeburn been one point in a romantic triangle? Was the key to his death held by a jealous lover?

As the third act began, Carol was preoccupied with the motives that might lie behind Collis Raeburn’s death. Who, male or female, had loved, and then hated him enough to murder him? A sudden thought intruded: could he have actually killed himself in remorse for unknowingly infecting someone he loved with AIDS?

She was swept back into the music. In the moonlight on the banks of the Nile by the Temple of Isis, Alanna Brooks began to sing an exquisite lament. “Oh native skies… never shall I see thee more,” declared the subtitles. Carol shut her eyes, surrendering to the sensuous beauty of the melody.

Later, following Binns through the warren of corridors with Anne, the magical world created by the performance was dissipated. Robed priests, who a few minutes before had been singing sonorous condemnations as they lowered the slab of stone that would forever entomb Radames and Aïda, were now a motley crowd engaged in mundane conversation as they made their way back to the dressing rooms.

The cream-colored door to Alanna Brooks’s dressing room was open, with noise and people spilling out into the wide corridor. Binns efficiently, and officiously, shepherded everyone out, and then ushered Carol and Anne in.

The earlier meeting had been so brief that Carol had formed only a faint impression of Alanna Brooks, so she was fascinated to meet her now, particularly after seeing the ravishing performance she had given in the opera.

The diva sat at a mirror taking off her makeup. Seen close up, the illusion created on the stage dissolved. Shorter than Carol had remembered, she was big-busted and a little thick around the waistline. Her hair was reddish-brown and her skin pale and lightly freckled. Although laughter lines fanned from the corners of her eyes and her skin had coarsened a little, she had an amused confidence that made her seem much younger. “Inspector Ashton. At last! I’m so sorry to have been so difficult about this interview.”

Carol was struck by the dark, husky timbre of her voice. Obviously Anne was too, as she said to Alanna, “You have a deep voice…”

“And I sing so high.” She smiled warmly. “People often mention that. Speaking voices don’t always indicate a singer’s range. I started as a mezzo-soprano, and then, with training, extended my upper register. It’s not that unusual-Joan Sutherland wasn’t a soprano to begin with, either.”

Carol wanted to get down to business. She glanced at Anne, who took out her notebook. After refusing a drink, Carol made the appropriate compliments about the opera, then said directly, “Can you tell me anything about Mr. Raeburn’s death?”

“Poor Collis. That was a dreadful thing for him to do.”

“Did you have any suspicion he might suicide? Did he say or do anything in the days before it happened?”

Alanna had turned back to the mirror and was creaming her face. “No more than usual. Collis was always moody.” She turned to smile at Carol. “We opera singers are all a little crazy, you understand. We spend our working time plotting, killing, being raped, deserted, murdered and/or suffering the pangs of unrequited love, so is it any wonder we’re unbalanced at times?”

Carol didn’t return her smile. “Are you saying Mr. Raeburn was unbalanced?”

Her smile vanished. “Of course I’m not!” A pause, then, “Well, he must have been… to do that.”

“You’re assuming it was suicide.”

Alanna stared at her. “Wasn’t it?”

Carol said, “We don’t know… yet.”

“Kenneth Raeburn assures me it was an accident. He’s persuaded you of that too, has he?”

The hint of contempt in Alanna’s voice stung, but Carol merely said, “I didn’t realize you and Collis Raeburn’s father were friends.”

“Friends? Hardly, Inspector. He wanted Collis to ditch me for Corinne, and he was furious when Collis wouldn’t.”

“Ms Jawalski gave me the impression that she was sure she was going to replace you.”

Alanna threw back her head and laughed. “Gorgeous voice and a brain like a split pea-that’s our Corinne!”

Her amusement seemed quite genuine. Carol said, “Might it be possible that Mr. Raeburn was telling you one story and Corinne Jawalski another?”

Still smiling, Alanna said, “No. I’d had it out with Collis and he’d agreed to ring Corinne and tell her she had no hope of replacing me.” Carol’s skeptical expression made her add, “I knew Collis very well, Inspector. When he said he would do something, he did.” She smiled wryly. “Of course, the trick was to get him to commit himself. He could be slippery as an eel, but once he’d promised, he’d carry it through.”

“You knew him when you were both starting your careers.”

Carol’s statement brought a sudden stillness. “We knew each other when we were young.” She smiled in self-derision. “He was rather younger than me, actually.”

“You were lovers?”

Alanna Brooks cocked her head. “Just what are you getting at, Inspector? That’s old news. I hate to tell you how many years ago it was.”

“I’ve been told that rather recently you renewed the relationship.”

The diva made a derisive sound. “Sure, for publicity reasons. It always titillates the public to think we might be lovers off-stage as well as on. There was nothing in it at all. We both hammed it up for the media, not that they took that much notice, anyway.”

“So,” said Carol, “if your leading man had been Lloyd Clancy instead of Collis Raeburn, you would have been quite happy to play lovers for publicity with him?”

Alanna took a deep breath. “Not Lloyd Clancy, no.”

“What would be the difference? Publicity is publicity.”

“This doesn’t seem at all relevant.”

Carol let the steel show. “I’ll decide that, Ms Brooks. Am I to take it that you don’t like Lloyd Clancy?”

“Like him? I despise him.” She put up a hand. “All right, you’re going to ask me why. It’s a personality clash, nothing more than that.” Carol waited. Alanna went on reluctantly, her pale skin flushed, “I can see I’ll have to be frank, although it’s embarrassing for me. The fact is, I took a romantic interest in Lloyd that he didn’t return. He was quite brutal about it and…” She shrugged. “There you have it.”

Carol asked a few more questions about the relationship which Alanna parried with increasing composure. Carol said, “Have you read The Euthanasia Handbook?”

“No, but I was with Collis when he bought a copy.”

Anne’s head came up. Carol said, “When would that be?”

“About two weeks ago, I think. We were shopping together in the city and we went into several bookshops. I’m not sure which one it was, but Collis bought a copy. He said he was interested because of the court case.”

“Have you read it?”

Alanna looked puzzled. “Me? Of course not. Why would I be interested?” Her expression changed. “It’s strange, but Kenneth Raeburn asked me the same thing.”

“Why was that?”

“He came to see me before the performance tonight.” She moved her shoulders irritably. “Can’t stand the way he whispers, can you?”

Carol smiled faintly at this attempt to find common ground and so forge an ephemeral friendship, a tack familiar from many interviews. “Go on,” she said.

“He told me it was becoming quite clear that Collis had accidentally killed himself, but the fact that there was a copy of the handbook in the room was a problem. Asked me if I’d read it, and when I asked why, he said he thought it might have been mine, and I’d lent it to Collis to read.”

“Do you think he really meant that?”

“No,” said Alanna decisively, “he was telling me indirectly that he wanted me to say it was my book, Collis hadn’t gone out and bought it for himself. You see, Inspector, as soon as he’d made the comment, he began to talk about my career-how it could be helped or hindered.”

Carol was intrigued. “What did you read into that?”

“Why,” said Alanna, “that he was telling me if I cooperated it would be to my advantage, and if I didn’t, I’d be very sorry.”

“Did you take it seriously?”

“Of course,” said Alanna. “Kenneth Raeburn loves to pull strings… it’s Napoleonic, I think. If he’d been born taller, it’d have been easier for everyone.”