Dead Certain

CHAPTER TWO

The manager of the five-star hotel where Raeburn had died was a small, neat man with a pencil mustache and an affable, but restrained manner. He ushered Carol and Anne to seats, then retreated behind his mahogany desk. “Well, Inspector, we both know that now and then…” He paused delicately, “… a guest may take the unfortunate step of…”

“Suicide.”

He seemed relieved the word was out. “Yes. And of course, we always cooperate fully with the authorities, whilst respecting the privacy of our guests.”

“What procedures are followed when someone dies?”

“Generally we call for a doctor to be certain that the guest is… deceased. There have been a few unfortunate cases where staff have reacted precipitately…”

Carol saw Anne hide a smile. Recently there had been an embarrassing incident where hotel staff had found an international pop star apparently dead in his suite, and one enterprising member of the management had leaked this scoop to the media, unaware that the guest was in a deep drug-induced coma, but still very much alive. The resultant publicity and threats of legal action by the star had necessitated swift damage control by the hotel chain and had blighted career prospects for several members of staff.

“… then, of course, we contact the police and, where appropriate, the next of kin. You’ll understand, Inspector, it’s always a time where discretion is vital.”

“I’d like a step-by-step outline of Collis Raeburn’s stay, right through to the removal of the body.” When the manager seemed about to protest, Carol added, “I’m quite aware you’ve been through this before, but I would appreciate it if you could outline it again.”

The manager repressed a sigh. “Naturally, Inspector, we want to cooperate fully.” He referred to notes in an embossed leather folder. “Let me see… Mr. Raeburn checked in at five-thirty on Saturday, asking for his usual room with a view of the Opera House and harbor. He arranged for room service to deliver a meal at seven-thirty.” He looked up. “Are you interested in what he ate?”

“Of course.”

“All he requested was a tuna salad and a bottle of white wine. No dessert, coffee only. I’ve spoken to the waiter who delivered the meal and he said that Mr. Raeburn seemed quite relaxed and happy.”

“Yes. We have a statement from him.”

The manager cleared his throat. “The last contact the hotel had with Mr. Raeburn was just after nine o’clock. He called to order a large pot of coffee, and also asked that no calls be put through to his room until further notice. The waiter-the same one who’d delivered the meal-saw the DND on the handle, and, naturally, didn’t knock, but left the tray with the coffee outside the door.”

“How long would a Do Not Disturb be honored?”

“Normally until after checkout time, which is noon, unless other arrangements have been made. If at this point the person didn’t respond to a telephone call from the desk, a decision to enter the room would be made at the discretion of the Duty Manager. This didn’t apply in the case of Mr. Raeburn because he was booked in for several days. What happened here was that the room attendants reported to the Housekeeping Supervisor that they couldn’t enter the room to make the bed and change the towels. This was logged in the housekeeping department, and brought to the attention of the Duty Manager when the evening shift came on the next night.”

“None of your staff had noticed any activity from the point where Raeburn ordered the coffee at nine?”

“Nothing. There were no calls in or out, no messages taken, and no one made any inquiries at the desk.” He looked professionally regretful. “I’m afraid Mr. Raeburn was very careful not to be disturbed during his last hours.”

“The tray with the remains of the tuna salad wasn’t in the room. When would that have been collected?”

The manager gave a suggestion of a shrug. “Presumably Mr. Raeburn put it outside his room. Any staff involved in room service are instructed to clear trays immediately when they see them.”

“We know the tray wasn’t there when the coffee was left by the door.”

A glimmer of impatience showed on the manager’s face. “It may have been collected earlier, or later-there’s no record kept of such things.”

As Anne flipped a page of her notebook, Carol said, “Anyone could have gone to the room without checking in at the desk.”

“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.”

“Thank you. Now, you said on the phone you had information about Mr. Raeburn’s death. When did you see him last?”

His response to her brisk tone was an unexpectedly charming smile. “So I’ve no hope of disarming you with compliments?”

“It’s unlikely.”

“Then I won’t persevere, Inspector.” He found a paper clip, and began to bend it out of shape. “Saw Collis on Friday afternoon. My place in Glebe.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to expand on this, Carol said, “At the end of this interview it would be helpful if you’d give Sergeant Newsome a detailed schedule of your movements from Friday to Monday.”

“Don’t tell me I need an alibi for Collis’s suicide?” he exclaimed in mock horror. “Frankly, I don’t have one.” He shot a glance at Anne. “Note that I spent the weekend working alone, Constable.”

“Noted,” said Anne with the hint of a smile.

He turned back to Carol. “And Inspector, don’t bother to say these questions are just routine. It’s such a tired old line.”

“Why did Mr. Raeburn come to your place on Friday?”

“We were discussing a current project of mine.”

“Dingo?”

“Well, well! You have been doing your homework.”

Ignoring his facetious tone, she said, “I’ve been told there was some conflict about your new opera. In fact, that Mr. Raeburn didn’t want to sing in it.”

Welton shrugged elaborately. “That’s what comes from listening to gossip, Inspector. You don’t get the story straight. It’s true Collis had some initial concerns, but they’d all been ironed out, so no matter what anyone might tell you, there were no ongoing problems. He was contracted to sing the lead male role, and he was perfectly happy to be doing it.”

Carol said, “Collis Raeburn was a friend as well as a colleague?”

“Yes. A close friend. We shared a great deal.” The staccato rhythm of his voice slowed as he went on reflectively, “Music, of course. I wrote much of my work with Collis in mind. But we also enjoyed many of the same things-test cricket, bodysurfing, gourmet French food…”

“You said on the telephone that you had something of interest to tell me.”

“Meaning that these musings aren’t of interest? Or perhaps you have other important interviews this afternoon?” When Carol didn’t respond, he went on, “Forgive me. I’m upset about Collis, of course. What I want to tell you concerns Edward Livingston. Know who he is?”

Carol gave a measured smile. “It would be difficult not to know, considering the amount of publicity he generates. I happened to be one of the many who watched the telecast of his production of Nabucco at the Sports Ground, complete with Jerusalem, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and a cast of thousands.”

Livingston was the controversial manager of the Eureka Opera Company. An Englishman, he’d been appointed over several qualified Australians vying for the position, and his abrasive manner and lack of reticence about his own abilities had ensured that his name was well-known even by people who had no interest in opera.

No one could ignore his productions. Either he was staging huge spectacles in outdoor sites, or taking popular operas and changing them, to traditionalists, in some shocking way. Carol remembered with amusement the stir he’d created a few months before by altering Madame Butterfly from a love story between a Japanese geisha and an American naval officer to an encounter between a call girl and an extraterrestrial. Simulcast with an FM radio station, the live telecast had initially attracted huge ratings, but as the program went on, more and more viewers switched to other channels. Collis Raeburn had made a handsome, if somewhat unconvincing alien, while Butterfly had been sung by the prima donna of the Eureka Opera Company, Alanna Brooks.

“He drove Collis to his death.”

It seemed he was waiting for some response to this statement. Eventually Anne looked up from her notes, and he said to her, “Suppose that sounds too dramatic, but it’s true. Hounded him, never let him alone.”

Carol said, “About what?”

Welton drummed his fingers against a rickety music stand. “About everything. Livingston was disappointed at his Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly. Said his acting wasn’t up to scratch. Collis always had doubts about himself, no matter how successful he was. He didn’t need criticism-he needed building up, trust, optimism. Livingston was bad for him.”

“You must be aware suicide is one possibility.” Carol waited for his acknowledging nod. “So are you suggesting Mr. Livingston’s attitude would be enough to push Collis Raeburn to the point of killing himself?”

“No, no. Of course not. But it helped. Believe me, it helped.” He smoothed his hair, tugged at his collar. “Livingston never let him alone. Always finding something to pick at, something to criticize.”

“Why?”

“Why? The man can’t help himself. Has to tear down anyone greater than himself. He was jealous of Collis. Of his fame, if you like.”

“But surely Mr. Livingston’s success depends on the talents of other artists. Isn’t it to his advantage that they be famous?”

Welton tapped a fist against the palm of his other hand. “Secondary to him. It’s all secondary to him. The artists, the music, the whole thing. He has to be first. Always him.”

His bitterness hung in the air. Carol waited. He didn’t continue. She said, “Do you have a personal grudge against Edward Livingston?”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Find someone who hasn’t!”

Carol had decided to use Sykes and his professed public relations expertise after all: she had rerouted all calls from the media through him. When her phone rang she picked it up quickly, expecting the caller to be Sybil.

“Mum?”

“David! What a nice surprise.” She could hear her voice becoming uncustomarily gentle. “Why are you ringing me at the office, darling?”

“About next weekend… Dad wants to talk to you.”

She frowned as she listened to the mumbled conversation as her son handed the phone to Justin Hart.

“Carol? How are you?” Her ex-husband’s loud, confident voice was as definite as he was in person. Without waiting for any response, he went on, “Look, sorry to do this with so little notice, but I’ve got a favor to ask. I’m going to a legal conference in Melbourne this coming weekend and through to Tuesday, and at the last moment it looks like Eleanor can come with me, so I was wondering if you’d be able to take David. Say if you can’t, of course. I realize you’re on the Raeburn thing-saw you interviewed.”

“I’d love to. Anyway, Aunt Sarah’s coming down from the Blue Mountains tomorrow night for a week, and she’ll be staying with us, so it’ll work out well.”

“Fine,” he said heartily. “Drop David over Saturday morning, then. That okay?”

Carol was smiling with the delight of having David to herself for several days. “I’ll pick him up from your place, if you like.”

“No, Carol. We’ll be on the way to the airport, so it won’t be any trouble. Hold on a moment…” She heard him say to David, “Go tell Eleanor it’s okay with Carol.” Back on the line, he said with a change of tone, “We do need to talk, sometime soon.”

She took a deep breath, suspecting what he was about to say. “What about?”

“About you. He has to know, Carol. And you have to be the one to tell him.”

She shut her eyes. “All right, Justin. After you get back, we’ll talk.”

His voice was again full of forceful certainty. “Great. Well, thanks for being so helpful. See you Saturday.”

Before she could ask to speak to David again, he’d broken the connection. She sat looking at the phone. What could she tell her ten-year-old son that he would understand?

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…