Dead Certain

CHAPTER THREE

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.”

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.”

“He usually stayed at a hotel in the city when he had rehearsals or a performance?”

“Always. Collis found it too tiring to drive from here, so there was nothing at all unusual about that, Inspector.”

“Your son called the hotel desk about nine o’clock and was very emphatic that no phone calls be put through and that he not be disturbed for any reason at all.”

“So? That only means he didn’t want to be interrupted.”

“You were here? He didn’t call you?”

A look of pain crossed Kenneth Raeburn’s face. “I was here most of the time, but Collis didn’t telephone.”

“There was a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook in the room.”

“Yes?” An irritated click of his tongue. “Every second person’s bought a copy, it seems to me. The Handford action made sure of that. Collis was interested in the case itself.”

He was referring to a case currently before the courts. A university lecturer, diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s disease, had used a suicide method detailed in the handbook-tranquilizers and a plastic bag over the head-to successfully kill herself. The Handford family were in the process of suing both the publisher and the author for substantial damages, holding The Euthanasia Handbook wholly responsible for the death of their beloved family member.

For the first time Raeburn broke eye contact. He glanced at the constable, who was studiously writing, then said jerkily, “Inspector, you haven’t mentioned murder. I don’t for one moment believe that Collis was murdered, but are you considering it?”

Intrigued by his agitation, she said evenly, “It’s one possibility.”

“I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill Collis. He was respected, loved. His death is a grievous blow, not only to Nicole and myself, but to everyone who treasured his voice.”

That sounds like a set piece you’ve carefully rehearsed. “Nevertheless, there are some people who seemed to have grudges against your son.”

“Indeed?” His voice was suddenly louder. “I imagine, if that’s so, that Welton and Livingston are the two you have in mind.”

“Why do you say that?”

He frowned impatiently. “I presume you do your job competently, Inspector. Then you would know that Graeme Welton has written an opera that is set to be an unmitigated disaster.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Dingo, I believe it’s called,” he said scathingly. “It was specifically written for Collis and Alanna Brooks, and the two of them were incautious enough to sign undertakings to take part in the premiere. I can assure you that when they realized the quality, or lack of it, they both were reluctant to be involved.”

Carol decided that this was a good time to use some interesting items Anne Newsome had turned up in her investigation of the complicated web of Raeburn family finances. She said, “And you were involved, as well.”

“What?”

“I’ve been advised you invested in the forthcoming opera. Was it on your own behalf?”

His eyes narrowed at her question. “I was Collis’s manager,” he ground out. “I handled all the financial aspects-investments, property purchases, and the like. It was perfectly normal to put money into a project he’d be singing in.”

It was almost a pleasure to needle him. “You said yourself you thought it likely to be a disaster. Did you mean artistically, or financially?”

He moved impatiently. “Both. I’m not trying to hide the fact I had poor judgment in this case, but I put the money in before I realized what a turkey Dingo was going to be.”

“You expect to lose your entire investment?”

“Very possibly. I can’t get it out, as Welton had his accountants tie it up.”

“Did your son resent that?”

Raeburn ducked his head, and suddenly his softer voice was almost inaudible. “Doubt if he even knew we had money invested there. Collis wasn’t interested in the financial side of things. Details bored him. That’s why I handled the money, and Nicole looked after all the bookings, the tour arrangements, etcetera.”

“Did he agree with you that the opera was unlikely to be a success?”

This question elicited an unexpected response. Raeburn became animated, his voice becoming louder as he said, “Agree? He was the one who told me. Said he’d seen the libretto and the music, and it was amateurish, embarrassingly bad. Collis had it out with Welton. Said he wouldn’t ruin his reputation singing such rubbish. They fought over it, because Collis had signed a contract to sing the premiere, and Welton was holding him to it.”

He paused, seeming to realize he was talking too loudly, and brought his voice back to its customary softness. “I’d decided we had to break the contract. I had the lawyers working on it when Collis died.”

There’s something here… “Graeme Welton says he had a meeting with your son on Friday, and everything was smoothed over. You didn’t know anything about this?”

He glared at her. “Collis would have told me if that had happened, and he didn’t. That makes Welton a liar.” He added quickly, “Don’t misunderstand, Inspector. I should have said that Graeme Welton’s made a mistake. He’s a friend of my daughter’s, and I suppose he wanted to have the conflict resolved for her sake, so he saw this discussion with Collis in a much rosier light than it deserved.”

In the silence the faint sound of Anne’s pen seemed to remind him that his words were being recorded. He looked over at her, then back to Carol. She delayed until he fidgeted uncomfortably, then she said, “And Edward Livingston? You mentioned him as having a grudge against your son…”

“Livingston’s impossible. Sooner or later everyone finds that out. Collis didn’t like him. Livingston has no idea how to handle artists. Big, splashy productions are his style. No aesthetic taste, but he gets to the masses.”

“This makes Mr. Livingston an asset to Eureka Opera?”

He frowned impatiently. “If you’re talking dollars, Inspector, then yes, he is valuable to the Company. If you’re referring to aesthetics, to artistic direction… well…”

“Was there some specific conflict between your son and Mr. Livingston?”

Again he clicked his tongue irritably. “It was Welton’s bloody opera again. It was bad enough that it was unsingable, but on top of that, Livingston’s planning to stage it in his usual ludicrous way. Ayers Rock on stage, trained dingoes and kangaroos…” His face was twisted with bitter amusement. “Can you imagine it, Inspector? An artist like Collis singing arias in the middle of a zoo? The whole idea was ridiculous, farcical.” He stood up and began to stride around the room. “I would not permit Collis to be associated with such a production.”

“But,” said Carol mildly, “he would have had to sing in it, if his contract couldn’t be broken. Isn’t that so?”

Raeburn was checking his watch. “Inspector, I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly, his agitation abruptly under control. “I have an urgent appointment. My daughter, however, is very keen to see you. I’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, but Martha will look after you.”

“There is one important matter…”

He said curtly, “Yes? What?”

Carol said with deliberate bluntness, “Your son was HIV-positive.”

“I don’t have time to discuss this now.”

You don’t have time to discuss that your son had the AIDS virus? “I’m sorry, but we do need to talk about it.”

He was already at the door. He turned back to say harshly, “First, I don’t accept that Collis had… the virus. It was a mistake with the blood test, or whatever. Second, I’ll take legal action against anyone…” He paused for emphasis, “… anyone mentioning HIV-positive and my son’s name in the same sentence.” Again he reminded Carol of a bantam rooster swollen with arrogant authority. “I’ll instruct Martha to get Nicole for you.”

Carol stood. “Before you go, Mr. Raeburn, would you mind if we took a look at your son’s room?”

“Your people have already been through his papers.”

Carol nodded, but remained silent. You like calling the shots and you don’t want to accede to any request I make.

After a moment he said impatiently, “All right. I can’t see any harm in it.”

The heavy tick of the grandfather clock seemed much louder after he had gone. Carol was able only to exchange a glance with Anne Newsome before Martha appeared with a tray which she set down at the central coffee table. “Thought you’d want refreshments. He’s so upset. Did you realize that? The funeral, too, it’ll be a dreadful ordeal. They say there’ll be thousands there. Will you be going?‘’

Before Carol could respond, a woman came into the room. “Thanks, Martha. I’ll look after everything.”

As Carol stood, she noticed Nicole Raeburn’s extreme slimness. Her wrists and ankles seemed to be fragile, breakable joints, her neck too thin to support her head with its abundance of chestnut hair.

Carol shook hands, the bony fingers barely brushing hers before being withdrawn. Anorexic? she thought, considering the narrow shoulders and concave chest. Or sick? Asthma, maybe?

When it became obvious that Nicole Raeburn was going to sit beside Carol on the sofa, Anne Newsome rose unobtrusively and went to a chair. Carol waited until she was settled, then said, “Of course you’ve been interviewed before, and I’m afraid I’ll be asking the same questions you’ve already answered.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, I was the one who suggested to Daddy that he get you put in charge.”

Carol noted the childishness of the “Daddy,” the breathless little-girl delivery, and the shrewd look behind the manner.

“Kind of you to suggest me.”

Carol’s dry tone won a beguiling smile. “You’re annoyed with me, I know it. But the Minister of Police-Auntie Marge-she’s not really an aunt, but she’s such a good friend. You don’t blame me for pulling a few strings, do you?”

What would you say if I asked why you and your father should expect special concessions? thought Carol. She said, “What can you tell me about your brother that would help me?”

Nicole Raeburn’s eyes filled with tears. “My brother…” she whispered.

“I’m sorry it’s necessary to intrude at such a time,” said Carol, cynically aware of how many occasions she had said these words by rote.

“It’s all right, really it is. Just so we can get everything straightened out. So no one will think that Colly killed himself.” For a moment she rested a thin hand on Carol’s arm. “It had to be an accident. He’d never do that. Colly had so much to live for…” Her voice strengthened. “And he never would have gone that way, without leaving a letter to me. We were so close. More than just brother and sister.”

Carol found herself raising a mental eyebrow. Surely Nicole Raeburn wasn’t hinting at incest?

Apparently the same interpretation had occurred to Nicole. “I mean,” she said hastily, “we were companions, friends. We shared everything. Personally. Professionally. If we didn’t see each other, we spoke every day on the phone, no matter where he was-interstate, in another country, anywhere.”

“He slept here, at home, on Friday?”

“Yes, but he had rehearsals and things for Aïda, so he said he’d check into the hotel from Saturday onwards.”

“Did he contact you after he left on Saturday morning?”

Clearly she wanted Carol to believe she would have been astonished if her brother hadn’t called. “Oh, yes, of course he did. Quite early in the evening after he’d checked in.”

“Did he seem upset?”

“No, he was just as usual. That’s why I’m sure it was an accident, a stupid, pointless accident.”

“He wasn’t slurring his words, or anything like that?” At Nicole’s frown, she added, “I’m trying to establish when he first might have been affected by the drugs or alcohol.”

Lips trembling, she said, “He was my Colly just like he always was.”

“And you were here, at home, Saturday and Sunday?”

Nicole looked at her knowingly. “You’re asking that for a reason, aren’t you?”

Carol sighed to herself. “It’s a routine question,” she said pleasantly. “Were you here?”

“Yes I was. And so was Daddy.” There was calculation in her wide-eyed stare. “You’re thinking someone wanted to hurt Colly?”

“Can you think of anyone who might wish him harm?”

Even though Carol had spoken in a mild tone, Nicole reacted with dramatic urgency. Her thin fingers closing around Carol’s wrist, she exclaimed, “Murder? You’re not thinking of murder? You’re not thinking of that?” She released her, put a hand to her mouth. “Murder…”

Extraordinary. She likes the idea.

Nicole grew purposefully calm, twisting a strand of thick chestnut hair around her fingers as she said, “There were some people who were jealous of Colly.”

“Any obvious conflicts?”

“Well, there’s Livvy. You must know about him.”

“Edward Livingston?”

“Yes. But he fights with everyone. And his stupid Madame Butterfly wasn’t as successful as he hoped, so he blamed Colly, when it was absolutely obvious Alanna Brooks was the one not up to standard.”

As Carol noted that Alanna Brooks didn’t rate a diminutive, Nicole went on, “And Lloyd Clancy hated Colly because he knew it was only a matter of time before Colly eclipsed him totally. I mean, he was all right as a tenor, but next to my brother’s voice… lead next to gold.”

The way she said the last phrase convinced Carol that she was quoting someone else. “How about Graeme Welton?”

Nicole smiled, a brilliant rectangular smile that stretched the skin of her face and suggested to Carol the skull beneath. “Welty! He loved Colly. He loves us all. He’s just one of the family.”

“I’ve heard there’s a problem with the opera he’s written for Alanna Brooks and your brother.”

“Dingo? It’s the name, Inspector. It sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I’ve seen the score and it’s beautiful music.”

“You’re musical yourself?”

Nicole glanced down modestly. “Violin. Perhaps I could’ve pursued a concert career…” Left unsaid were the words: But I sacrificed it all for my brother.

“Did you happen to mention to Graeme Welton that I was in charge of the case?”

Nicole pouted slightly. “Yes I did. Was that wrong of me, Inspector?”

“Of course not. I just wondered when he contacted me how he had found out that I’d been put in charge.”

“Oh, I tell him everything. Next to Colly, he’s my best friend.”

“Would your brother have told Mr. Welton about his blood test?”

Nicole Raeburn balked at the question. “Don’t know what you mean.” She sank back into the couch, turning her head away.

Carol kept her voice bland. “I’m sorry. I understood that you’d been told…”

“Colly didn’t have AIDS!”

Anne shifted slightly at the agitation in Nicole Raeburn’s voice. Carol said, “We know his doctor arranged the blood test for insurance purposes. It was totally unexpected when the results showed he was HIV-positive, and his doctor told him face-to-face and arranged for counseling.”

Her stubborn certainty snapping her upright, she stared challengingly at Carol. “The whole thing is a mistake. Anything else is impossible.” When Carol didn’t respond, she added with intensity, “And I expect you’ll prove that, if you do your job properly.”

Martha opened the door to Collis Raeburn’s bedroom with a reverent expression, her voice hushed as she said, “Everything’s as he left it. I tidied up after your police officers had finished going through his things, that’s all.” She paused irresolutely, then added, “I’ll leave you to it, then…”

The room was luxuriously appointed. The bedroom was a generous size and off it ran a dressing room, each wall a mirror, and a black-tiled bathroom with a sunken tub. The carpet was pale beige, the bedspread and upholstered chairs a matching, but deeper, shade. The French windows opened out to a small balcony over which eucalyptus gums crowded. A massive rolltop desk sat solidly in one corner. The walls of the bedroom were covered with framed photographs, opera posters, brochures and programs, all jostling each other for space. Collis Raeburn, dressed in a series of magnificent costumes, stared majestically from frame after frame, only occasionally sharing the space with another person. Carol recognized Graeme Welton in several, solemnly staring at the camera. On a wall apart from the rest was a little island of family photographs showing Raeburn at various ages from early childhood. Carol noticed that he was always in the front, always striking a pose.

“That’s Alanna Brooks,” said Anne as she indicated a publicity shot for La Bohème with Rodolfo and Mimi locked in an embrace that took care to give them enough room to allow their voices to soar together in a love duet. She surprised Carol by adding, “I saw that production. It was the first opera I ever went to… my Dad used to sing himself-not opera, though-and he likes that sort of thing, so he took me.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Anne made a face, as though opera was something she felt obliged to reject. “I did, sort of… I mean, it was romantic and dramatic and had a sad ending. Bit like a soap on TV, but with everyone singing their lines.”

Carol was curious. “What did you think of Collis Raeburn? Did he make an impression on you?”

“He was wonderful,” she said simply. “Everything became electric when he was on stage, and even 1 could tell his voice was something special.”

Carol looked at the crowded walls. Frozen there were triumphs, but the man who had had an incomparable, thrilling voice had apparently locked himself away in the anonymity of a hotel room and taken his own life. “I don’t believe he killed himself,” she said.

Anne, alert but silent, waited. At last she said, “If it wasn’t an accident, who murdered him?”

Carol gestured at the jam-packed photographs. “Someone up there,” she said.

Martha welcomed them into the kitchen, which, like the rest of the house, combined disparate styles. There was a heavy scoured table, obviously antique, a scattering of polished copper pans on one wall, modern cupboards in pale wood and black metal chairs that proved to be as uncomfortable as they looked. Unasked, Martha slapped mugs of coffee in front of them. “Don’t drink it if you don’t want it.”

Without preliminary fencing, Carol said, “Do you know any reason why Collis Raeburn should kill himself?”

“He wouldn’t. It had to be an accident.”

“He took sleeping tablets regularly?”

“Had trouble sleeping. He did his back in when he had a bad fall in Tosca last year. Constant, nagging pain, but he didn’t want anyone to know. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Inspector, but an opera singer has to be fit. Not just the voice, but the whole body. Until the accident he worked out every day-there’s a gym room here-swam laps at North Sydney Pool twice a week for breath control, and watched his health. Lately, he’d been putting on weight, and that worried him.”

“He was on a diet?”

“I told him-salads. He complained it was rabbit food, but he always listened to me. Always brought his problems to me.” A spasm of grief washed across her face. “I’ve known him since he was a little boy. That’s how I know he didn’t kill himself.”

“He confided in you…” Carol let her voice trail off to entice a response, but was still surprised at the frankness of Martha’s response.

“You mean about the HIV? Yes, he told me. He knew I’d never repeat it, and he was absolutely devastated. He had no idea, you see. It was a blood test for an insurance policy, and when the results came in and the doctor told him, he came home to me and he cried.”

How would I tell something so terrible to people I loved? “Did he tell his father and sister?”

“I don’t know. I certainly didn’t discuss it with them.”

Phrasing her next question was a problem. “Did he say-”

“How he got it?” Martha interrupted. “No. I supposed it was drugs-sharing a needle.”

“You know for a fact he took drugs?” asked Carol. The autopsy report had indicated there were no needle marks on the body. She made a mental note to follow up on the blood tests.

Martha’s tone was indulgent. “Mr. Collis was a high-flier. He moved in circles where cocaine and such like are commonplace.”

“So he definitely used drugs?”

“I didn’t say that! I just said he might have used them. How else could he have contracted the virus?” To Carol’s silence, she said sharply, “He wasn’t queer, if that’s what you think.”

“He wouldn’t have to be,” said Carol flatly. “Was he going out with anyone in particular?”

Martha shook her head. “No. He played the field, when he had the opportunity. You must remember, Inspector, singing was his life and it took all his time and energy. There wasn’t much room for anything else.”

Thinking of the deadly virus he had unwittingly carried, Carol said, “You can’t name any specific romantic interest?”

“He’s always had a soft spot for Alanna Brooks. I like her and I used to hope they’d get together, but nothing ever came of it. Lately he’s supposed to be having a relationship with that young one, Corinne Jawalski, but that was all gossip. He never brought her home here, anyway.” Her smile had a slightly malicious tinge as she added, “Not that he’d have wanted to, with his sister the way she is…”

Raising her eyebrows didn’t elicit anything further, so Carol prompted, “The way she is…”

“Possessive,” said Martha. “They’re a close family-a very close family.”

“Outsiders might not be welcome?”

Carol had gone too far. Martha’s face closed. “I didn’t say that.”

“Were you here during the weekend?”

“No. I had Saturday and Sunday off. Went to stay with my sister at Bondi Beach. Mr. Collis gave me a lift into the city and I caught a bus out to the beach.”

“Can you remember what he was wearing?”

The housekeeper looked at her with surprise. “What he was wearing? Something casual-jeans and some sort of white top, I think.”

“Looking back now, can you remember anything that might have indicated he was thinking about killing himself?”

Her eyes suddenly overflowing, Martha said, “He would have said something to me if he was going to do that. He’d know I’d understand. We’d talked about how he felt he had a death sentence hanging over him, but he was determined to fight it.” She anticipated Carol’s next question. “No, he wasn’t so depressed that he’d do something drastic. He wasn’t.”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. “Sorry. I get a bit emotional.”

“One thing,” said Carol, watching her closely, “that may point to his death being accidental is that he didn’t leave a note in the hotel room.” She paused, then said in a tone of polite inquiry, “Don’t suppose he left anything here?”

Martha lifted her chin. “You think he left a suicide note here? Your people went through all his papers. If there was one, they would have found it.”

“If it was still there,” said Carol mildly.

Indignation struggled with grief on the housekeeper’s face. “You believe I’d destroy a note, do you? Why would I do that?”

“To protect the family… Collis Raeburn’s name… any number of reasons.”

She blew her nose a final time, then faced Carol resolutely. “There wasn’t anything. No note-nothing. He kept a journal, wrote in it most days. If he was going to say anything, it would have been in that.”

“Where is this journal?”

“Your people must have taken it, I couldn’t find it when I looked.”

“Why were you looking for the journal?”

Offended, Martha said, “Nicole asked me to… I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you mean.”

“It was kept in the rolltop desk in his bedroom?”

“Yes, with his other papers.” She gave a sad smile. “It was bound in black leather with his name in gold lettering, a present from Nicole a couple of years ago. You know, Inspector, Collis was always collecting photos, articles, reviews, programs, all the time. I used to cut things out of papers, save them for him. Said it would make it easier for his biographer when the time came…”

“Did you ever notice a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook?”

Martha was adamant. “Never! And I’d have said something if I had. It’s God’s will when we die.”

Although she had several more questions, Carol filed them away for when she would have a better background and could therefore interrogate more effectively. She smiled agreeably as she said, “I’d appreciate a list of his friends and acquaintances, especially those he saw in the last month or so of his life.”

Martha nodded soberly. “If one of them killed him,” she said slowly, “I want them dead.”