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Carol shook hands, the bony fingers barely brushing hers before being withdrawn.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.