Dead Certain

CHAPTER FIVE

Edward Livingston’s personal assistant seemed accustomed to parrying irksome requests. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr. Livingston cannot come to the phone at the moment, and I’m not sure when he’ll be available. I’d be pleased to pass on a message.”

Carol said formally, “I’m investigating the circumstances of Collis Raeburn’s death. Information given to me in confidence regarding Mr. Livingston leads me to believe he can materially assist this investigation. For that reason I need to see him as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, but-” The voice broke off, to be replaced by a rich baritone.

“Inspector Ashton? Someone’s been gossiping about me, have they?”

So he’d been unable to resist the bait. Carol made arrangements to meet the controversial opera manager mid-afternoon.

“Look, Inspector, let’s make it neutral territory. How about the cafe on the broadwalk in front of the Opera House? We can sit out in the sun and share our secrets with the seagulls.”

She was leaning back in her chair considering the questions she intended to ask when Mark Bourke brought Pat James into her office, an embarrassed pride in his manner. Carol was warmed to see the affection on his face as he smiled at his future wife.

In a little over a week, Carol would be watching these two exchange their vows for a life together. What irony-the ceremony that would link Pat and Mark was the point of conflict that had driven Sybil to leave. Carol couldn’t separate the ache of loss from the confused anger she felt.

“Ready?” Pat said to Carol.

Pat James emanated the buoyant good health that Carol always, for some reason, associated with involvement with team games such as basketball or hockey, and, in general, to being a “good sport.” She was tall, close to the same height as Bourke, but whereas his solid build made him a definite, heavy physical presence, Pat’s light frame seemed springy and resilient.

She grinned at Carol. “Let’s blow the joint and do coffee, eh? Oxford Street?”

Collecting her things, Carol said, “Mark, we’ll be at the usual place. Pick Pat up when you’re ready for lunch.”

“I’m ready now.”

“You’re not, you know. I want more details on Edward Livingston and his financial situation… and I’d like you to come with me this afternoon, since I’ve pinned him down for an interview.”

Oxford Street was its usual busy mix of nationalities, sexual orientations and colorfully eccentric personalities. This first section of the busy street had a certain seedy enthusiasm, a bohemian acceptance of differences; however, after it flowed past the sandstone law courts in Taylor Square, the money of fashionable Paddington began to dilute and refine its raw vitality.

The coffee shop was Italian-clean, cramped and dominated by a fiendishly hissing coffee machine. After ordering black coffee for herself and cappuccino for Pat, Carol said, “What are people saying about Collis Raeburn’s death?”

“The arts world’s abuzz. Last night we had a cocktail party at the Gallery to launch a new exhibition of Asian artifacts, and believe me, Collis Raeburn was the main topic of conversation. Mind, no one has any hard information, but that little detail has never stopped gossip before.”

Wincing as Pat stirred three heaped teaspoons of sugar into her coffee, Carol decided that the word that best described Pat James was good-humored.

She smiled readily, and, when really amused, guffawed. She had an irreverent, frank approach that seemed at odds with the artistic and cultural world in which she moved because of her position at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

Pat took a sip of her coffee, made a face, then stirred it vigorously. “There’s very real grief at his death. He really had the most extraordinary voice…” A thought suddenly amused her. “Carol, like a bet? Ten dollars says someone at Raeburn’s funeral says, ‘We shall not see his like again.’ You on?”

“I never bet against sure things.”

Pat looked at her thoughtfully. “No doubt the Raeburn family are pulling strings. Kenneth Raeburn is a ruthless little bastard who likes to throw his weight around, although I have heard that his son was about to dump him.”

Astonished, Carol said, “Dump him how?”

“From the family company. Collis Raeburn employed his father and sister to run his career and handle the financial side of things, but Kenneth has a lot more arrogance than good sense, and Collis was talking of bringing in a professional manager. This could’ve been embarrassing for his father, since there’d be an audit. My guess is that Kenneth Raeburn’s business skills would have been found seriously wanting.”

“So Collis’s death would get him off the hook?”

Pat grinned sardonically. “Although Mark won’t tell me anything about the investigation, the word around the traps is that you’ve been put on the case because you have high credibility and if you say it was all a nasty accident, who will contradict you?”

Carol wanted to say, Do you really believe I’m for hire? That I’d compromise myself that way? But to put it into words would be to imply she believed Pat might think it possible…

“It’s manifestly clear,” said Pat scornfully, “that a nice, clean accidental death would be the best result for the family, especially one that only involves prescription drugs.”

“Meaning?”

“Collis was supposed to be a very good client for drugs, principally cocaine. It seems a popular theory that he accidentally killed himself with a cocktail of illegal substances. Then there’s the clique that just knows he died from unrequited love.”

“For whom?”

“Carol, I do admire your grammar!” She took a sip of coffee, then grew more serious. “Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with Corinne Jawalski, but some people think it was a smokescreen for his real affair with Graeme Welton. And, to add a little spice to the pot, it’s rumored that early in his career he had quite a steamy romance with Alanna Brooks.”

Signaling for two more coffees, Carol said, “Surely a tenor having a romance with his prima donna is standard public relations stuff. Doesn’t have to be true, but it adds piquancy to the duets.”

“Who would have thought you such a cynic!”

“Who indeed,” Carol said with a grin. “Was there any comment about Edward Livingston? He’s doing his best to avoid seeing me.”

“Edward Livingston-impresario extraordinaire! If he were only half as good as he thinks he is, the Eureka Opera Company would be as highly regarded as the Australian Opera.” She grinned at Carol’s questioning expression. “No, I haven’t got a personal grudge, it’s just that he takes himself so seriously, and when something goes wrong with one of his magnificent schemes to revitalize opera, it’s never his fault-it’s always somebody else who’s spoilt it for him. For instance, he was bitterly angry when his loony television version of Madame Butterfly slumped in the ratings after he’d promoted it like a football match. Naturally, he had to blame someone, so he turned on Collis and accused him of sabotaging the whole thing by singing the role of Pinkerton, extraterrestrial, so badly.”

Thinking how much she’d hate to work in an atmosphere of such high drama, Carol said, “I’ve been given the impression that the clash of personalities is fairly common in the opera world.”

Pat chortled. “Egos are not in short supply. Even so, successful artists, whatever field they’re in, have to be professional, or they don’t last long. Means there’s often thunder and lightning, but not much rain. It’s always been different, though, with our Edward. He’s one of the great grudge-bearers of the twentieth century, and Collis had crossed him once too often.”

“They were in open conflict?”

“Very. There’ve been veiled references to the stoush in all the newspaper arts’ columns for weeks now. Livingston’s penchant for suing for defamation made sure that no one actually named him, but everyone knew they’d fallen out and Collis was going to do his best to get out of his contract with Eureka.”

Carol took a reflective sip of coffee. “I’ve also heard about conflict with a rival. What about Lloyd Clancy?”

“Ah,” said Pat enthusiastically, “what about Lloyd Clancy, indeed? One society matron, whose name would surprise you, confided to me that in her circle it’s understood that Lloyd assisted Collis to join the heavenly choir in the sky.”

“Murdered him, or helped him suicide?”

“Either. And before you ask for a motive, bear in mind that opera is a high pressure, demanding world, where you make sweet music on stage, and play management politics off it. Only winners really prosper. The also-rans end up in the chorus, are doomed to subsidiary roles, or skitter off to less demanding singing careers. Lloyd’s older than Collis, and he’d established his career, but he was slowly but surely being overhauled.”

Carol played with a sachet of artificial sweetener. “Are you seriously suggesting that’s an adequate motive for a murder?”

Pat laughed. “Carol, you know I’m never serious, but if I were, I’d point you in the direction of Nicole Raeburn. If ever anyone burned with incestuous love, she did.”

“If that’s so, was it returned?” asked Carol, remembering the sister’s disturbing intensity.

“Who knows? But whether it was or not, that woman’s unbalanced. It’s hardly an exaggeration to say that Collis was a god to her.”

“Then she wouldn’t want him dead,” said Carol mildly.

“If she happened to be jealous enough, she might,” said Pat with conviction. “And there’s none so ferocious as an acolyte scorned.”

Feeling positively awash with coffee, Carol refused more when Edward Livingston joined her at the round white table shaded by a central umbrella. The early days of spring hinted at the lazy summer days to come, the sun having a warm weight that tempered the chill of the breeze off the water. Seagulls were preoccupied with noisy courtships, or with harassing anyone who had food. The other tables were occupied by assorted tourists who basked in the sun, took photographs or rested weary feet. Behind the broadwalk the spectacular curved roofs of the Opera House soared, pale against an azure sky. In front of them the harbor danced with light and activity and to their left the gray skeleton of the Harbour Bridge spanned the gulf from south to north like a gigantic metal coat hanger.

“Nice weather,” said Livingston.

“Almost like summer,” replied Carol accommodatingly.

He chuckled at her tone. “Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s get down to business. Just what stories have you heard concerning me?”

Controversial he might be, Carol thought, but he looked very like the stereotype of an accountant. He wore a conservative charcoal-gray suit with a deep green silk tie, his brown hair was cut neatly short, and, apart from a thin white scar that zigzagged down one cheek, his face was unremarkable. His most notable feature was his voice, a deep resonant baritone that he swelled and faded like an instrument, although even short acquaintance with his vocal technique had begun to irritate Carol.

She said, “When was your last contact with Collis Raeburn?”

“Oh, I don’t know… a week before he died, probably.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “It surprises me you can’t be a little more exact. Sudden death generally sharpens memories of final meetings.”

“Of course I bow to your superior knowledge in these matters, Inspector, but frankly I’m very busy, I really can’t recall. My assistant may have the information in my appointment book…”

“If his death shouldn’t turn out to be suicide, would that surprise you?”

“Is there any doubt Collis killed himself?”

Countering with another question, Carol said, “Do you have any doubt?”

Livingston had kept very still up till this point, but now he began to run his fingers up and down the scar on his cheek. “Collis was an artist. Being unstable comes with the territory.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Seeming to force himself to appear relaxed, he leaned back in his chair as he made an open-handed gesture. “Inspector, I deal with these people every day of the week. To their adoring public they’re larger-than-life personalities with the world at their feet, but to me they’re children, demanding attention, showing off, wanting the limelight.”

Privately wondering how many cliches Edward Livingston could pack into one sentence, Carol said,

“Collis Raeburn certainly wasn’t lacking attention and limelight.”

“Yes, but that’s what drove him to success,” said Livingston almost smugly. “Collis was never, ever satisfied. He couldn’t have too much recognition-fame was like a drug to him. The more he got, the more he wanted.”

She didn’t let her impatience show, although she was convinced she was hearing a well-worn routine that Livingston had used many times before. “So why would he kill himself?” she said baldly.

Livingston pursed his lips judiciously. “Collis’s professional life was outstandingly successful. His personal life, however, was not.”

Carol waited.

“Inspector Ashton, you must appreciate that grand opera creates a hothouse atmosphere. Emotions, hatreds, passions-all exaggerated, larger than life. Alanna Brooks has partnered Collis for many years, and they were good friends. But then, a younger, and very talented, soprano appears on the scene…”

“Corinne Jawalski,” said Carol, obligingly filling in his pause.

“Corinne quite cold-bloodedly set out to have an affair with Collis, so that she could talk him into replacing Alanna with herself as his diva. Unfortunately, Collis fell for Corinne in a big way. Frankly, I tried to warn him, but he brushed me aside. I said she was just using him as a convenient way to leapfrog any rivals, but he was so besotted with her he was furious with me for criticizing her.”

“Would she be able to supplant Alanna Brooks so easily?”

He gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, Corinne was sure of it, but it was unlikely, as I had the final say.”

“I got the impression that someone of Raeburn’s stature would have some clout…” She waited to see how he would respond.

His mouth tightened. “Wishful thinking, in most cases. I’m always willing to accommodate reasonable requests, but Alanna is a guaranteed draw-card-Corinne’s still on the way up, and she may never make it to the top. More than that, there’s a difference in voice quality. Corinne has a brilliant, light soprano, with a wide range and a beautiful top register-but it’s a young voice. Alanna’s voice is mature, although her range may have contracted slightly. But offsetting this is the rich palette of tonal qualities she has available.”

“Does this mean you would favor Alanna Brooks?”

The question seemed to irritate him. “Probably,” he snapped.

Carol said mildly, “So the choice of diva was a point of conflict between you and Mr. Raeburn?”

“That’s too strong,” he said emphatically. “I told you, Collis didn’t like the criticism, that’s all.”

As he was speaking, Carol saw Mark Bourke approaching. She introduced him to Livingston, who smiled briefly, then ostentatiously checked his watch. “Inspector, Sergeant-I really don’t have much time…”

Bourke unzipped a thin brown briefcase. “Mr. Livingston,” he said pleasantly, “I wonder if you’d care to comment on some financial matters.”

Livingston looked astonished. “Financial matters?”

“Also some legal undertakings,” said Bourke. “We understand you’d had preliminary talks with your lawyers about a possible attempt by Raeburn to break his contract with Eureka Opera, and, more specifically, the legal obligation he had to sing the lead in Welton’s Dingo.”

“These were mere administrative matters.” Livingston’s full baritone swelled with indignation.

“He was Eureka’s major star, wasn’t he?” When Livingston reluctantly nodded, Bourke went on, “I imagine if he left the company, you would find it a financial, as well as a professional, loss?”

“I imagine so.”

Carol said, “We’ve been told he was very unhappy about Graeme Welton’s new opera.”

“Collis was a singer,” Livingston snapped, “not a composer. He was in no position to judge the success or otherwise of Dingo.”

“Kenneth Raeburn told me the opera was, to quote him, an unmitigated disaster,” said Carol, curious to see what impact the mention of Collis’s father might have.

“Kenneth Raeburn,” Livingston sneered, “is a jumped-up little prick who had the good fortune to have a son who could sing. And he’s milked it for all it’s worth. Why don’t you have a look at his financial dealings? Think you’ll find he’s been taking Collis for a ride for years.”

Bourke consulted some papers. “Would it be true to say that Eureka is close to bankruptcy?”

“No, it would not! Grand opera’s a massively expensive business, Sergeant, that’s why companies need government and sponsorship support. Eureka’s no different from any other artistic or cultural body in Australia in that respect.”

“But wouldn’t a battle in the courts with one of your major stars not only be expensive in terms of legal costs, but also affect future corporate support for the company?”

Glaring at Bourke, Livingston said, “There wasn’t going to be a battle! I spoke to Collis and we settled our differences. He was quite happy to sing the lead in Dingo.”

Carol made sure she sounded politely skeptical. “So all your problems with Collis were resolved?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t seem to have told anyone else about your agreement on these matters.”

Livingston made an impatient gesture. “He would hardly have had time, Inspector. We spoke on the day he died.”

“This astonishes me a little,” said Carol, “since only a few minutes ago you couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to him. You thought it was a week or so ago…”

Livingston straightened his silk tie. “Frankly, Inspector, ” he said with a tight smile, “I’d hoped to avoid any discussion of this fight with Collis. I mean, it didn’t reflect well on him, and after the tragedy I thought it wrong to bring up something that had, with his death, become quite academic.”

“So it was a deliberate lie?”

“Well, if you want to put it in those terms, yes. But not one that did any harm, you understand.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Livingston. If, as you say, this major area of conflict had been resolved, then that would have some bearing on his state of mind.”

“Inspector Ashton, you must forgive me,” he said, his change of tone indicating he was hastily making amends. “I’m very sorry if I’ve misled you in any way.”

“When and where did you speak to Raeburn?”

Her cool tone seemed to subdue him. “During the afternoon. I’m not sure of the exact time, but it was here, in the Opera House, before he checked into his hotel.”

“Before or after he spoke with Lloyd Clancy?”

Livingston fingered his scar. “I can’t tell you that.”

Carol thought Mark Bourke looked relaxed, disarming as he said, “And I suppose no one else was present?”

“No. No one.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone about this?”

“I would have done so, but when he died…”

“Ah yes, when he died,” said Bourke with polite regret. “Now let’s get this straight. You spoke to Raeburn on Saturday afternoon, and the earliest you could have known about his death was Monday. I don’t understand why you didn’t give the good news about Dingo to Graeme Welton.”

“I didn’t get around to it… And it was the weekend, too…”

“Would you say that you and Graeme Welton were good friends?”

Livingston stared at Carol. “Friends? More colleagues, I’d say. Why?” Before she could respond, he added furiously, “What’s he been saying about me? He’s a congenital liar, you know. Whatever story he’s fed you, it isn’t true.”

Ignoring his outburst, Bourke said, “Would you mind outlining your movements for Saturday and Sunday?”

“Why?”

Bourke sounded faintly surprised. “To assist our inquiries, of course.”

Nicole Raeburn, accompanied by a frowning, fidgeting Graeme Welton, and with Anne Newsome standing guard, sat waiting when Carol got back. Carol showed them into her office, then had a private word with Anne.

“Did you find the journal Martha Brownlye mentioned?”

“No. It isn’t with the papers taken from the house. I called Martha and asked her to check with Kenneth Raeburn, in case he took it, but he says he didn’t touch it. I got a full description in case we’d overlooked it in all the stuff brought in, but I’ve double-checked and it’s definitely disappeared.”

The anonymous public-service furniture and serviceable colors of Carol’s office provided a bland background to Nicole Raeburn’s bright candy-pink dress and her highly dramatic gestures. “Inspector Ashton! I just had to see you!” She added with a petulant frown, her heavy head of hair tilted on a too-thin neck, “They wouldn’t let us in, downstairs. Said it was security, or something, but I made a fuss and your constable came and got Welty and me. I like her. What’s her name?”

“Detective Constable Anne Newsome.”

Nicole giggled. “Did you use the title to remind us that you’re police officers?” she said archly. She turned to Welton. “Do you feel a little bit intimidated, Welty?”

Graeme Welton looked as though he was there on sufferance. He made an indeterminate sound and sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping a double tattoo on the armrests.

Nicole Raeburn was wearing what Carol categorized as a “little girl” dress, with many fussy adornments of ruffles and ribbons. Together with her extreme thinness, her attire made her seem very young and defenseless, although by Carol’s calculations she would be at least thirty.

“How can I help you?” said Carol, sitting down behind the familiar protection of her desk, conscious that she felt an instinctive aversion to Raeburn’s sister.

“We want to know what’s going on about Colly.”

Carol’s dislike made her cordial. She said gently, “My report will be seen by the Commissioner, and it will then go to the Coroner to assist him with the inquest into your brother’s death. None of it will be made public until that point.”

“I’m his sister! I have a right to know everything!”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to refer you to my Chief Inspector, or to the Commissioner.”

“I’ll tell Auntie Marge!”

Carol couldn’t imagine the new Minister for Police would welcome being dragged in to mediate. She let the childish threat hang in the air while she assessed Nicole’s state of mind. Her agitated movements and wide-eyed stare suggested hysteria, but Carol was convinced that this display was an attempt to manipulate the situation to her own advantage.

Welton was squirming in his chair. “Nicole, just get to the point.” Again, Carol was struck by the incongruity of such a high, light voice coming from such a powerful body.

His impatience had an effect on Nicole. She glared at him, then turned to Carol. “Inspector, I’d appreciate some kind of progress report about my brother.”

Carol said mildly, “Under the circumstances, I’d be prepared to answer your questions, if I can.”

She was wryly amused when Nicole appeared gratified by this seeming concession, as she had no intention of revealing anything other than the most general of observations.

“So when are you going to prove it was an awful accident? Daddy’s so upset about the publicity, and it’ll die down once you come up with the truth.”

“We haven’t completed our inquiries. In any case the inquest will determine what happened.” Obviously this answer didn’t satisfy Nicole, but before she could comment, Carol went on, “I’d like to ask if you ever saw your brother with a copy of The Euthanasia Handbook.”

“No.”

As Nicole sat tight-lipped after this bald reply, Carol tried another tack. “During my inquiries I’ve heard a rumor that your brother took cocaine…”

Welton’s tapping fingers stilled; Nicole gave a theatrical shrug as she said, “So?”

“He did use cocaine?”

It was clear Nicole considered the subject of little importance. “In the circles Colly moved, it was just taken for granted.” She added with a superior smile, “Like you’d use alcohol, with your friends.”

“Mr. Welton?”

He smoothed his hair. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“Welty, that isn’t true!”

He turned to Carol for understanding. “Inspector Ashton, you know there are always drugs around. Anything used was purely recreational. No one’s into it in any serious way, and Collis certainly wasn’t. He valued his voice too much to do anything to jeopardize it.”

“Do either of you know who supplied him?”

Her face twisted. “ I don’t! And what’s this got to do with him dying? Isn’t that the important thing?” Her eyes filled with tears; there was a rising note of hysteria in her voice. “I miss him so! You don’t know how I feel!”

She seemed to calm down when Graeme Welton leaned over to pat her hand. “Come on, Nikky, don’t upset yourself.”

Sympathy struggled with exasperation in Carol. “I’m sorry, Ms Raeburn. This must be very painful for you.”

Rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, Nicole said, “Have you seen Lloyd Clancy? Everyone knows he hated Colly.”

“Yes, I’ve interviewed Mr. Clancy.”

“Well? Where was he when Colly died? Do you know?”

Repressing a sigh, Carol said, “Because your brother’s body wasn’t discovered until some considerable time had elapsed, the time of his death is impossible to pinpoint accurately.”

“So alibis don’t matter?”

The shrewdness under her childish persona still surprised Carol. “We’re trying to narrow the possible time frame. For example, your telephone conversation with him in the early evening establishes that he was still conscious at that time.”

“Does it matter, since it was a dreadful accident?” she demanded peevishly.

Carol’s reply was matter-of-fact. “If it was an accident-probably not. If murder-yes.”

“Murder? It was an accident! It couldn’t have been anything else. When are you going to see that?” When Carol didn’t respond, she demanded, “Why won’t you give me straight answers? I’m entitled to know!”

“There’s very little I can tell you, Ms Raeburn, at this point.”

Nicole stood, righteously angry. “Come on, Welty. This is a waste of time.”

“Mr. Welton, I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” said Carol, smoothly interposing.

Nicole pouted. “You can ask anything in front of me. We’re friends, after all.”

Carol gestured to Anne Newsome. “Constable, would you see Ms Raeburn out, please.”

Left alone with Carol, Graeme Welton looked embarrassed. “Look, Inspector, I’m sorry about the way Nikky behaved. She’s really stressed by what’s happened…”

“I understand that. Please sit down.” After he’d complied, Carol said, “Mr. Welton, during an investigation there are times when we have to ask very personal questions…”

Looking resigned, he said, “Go on, then. Ask.”

“I’d like some more details about your association with Collis Raeburn. Specifically, did you have a sexual relationship with him?”

His hands, that had been weaving an elaborate dance with each other, stilled. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said.

“Afraid?”

Welton passed a hand over his face. “Collis was the most selfish person I’ve ever met. He put himself first, second, third and last-and all the places in between. Any relationships to him were there to bolster his ego.” He looked up at her, his piercingly blue eyes dimmed by unshed tears. “But when I heard he was dead, I didn’t think I could bear it.”

“Were you surprised he’d killed himself?”

The question elicited a mirthless smile. “Very. Collis was convinced that he was the most glorious thing he had ever known, so why would he destroy himself?”