Ridiculously, the mention of Sybil’s fat ginger cat brought her closest to tears. She blinked, keeping her voice steady as she said, “I’m glad you’re leaving him with me. Sinker would be lonely without his company-”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted, but she knew Sybil wanted to end the call anyway. They’d said everything that could be said last night. Her voice still calm, with no hint of the gray desolation that filled her, she said goodbye and replaced the receiver deliberately.
Bourke opened the door. “Carol, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve seen Amos Berringer, the would-be expose king.”
She gestured for him to sit, resolutely pushing her despair about Sybil out of her mind. “Was he selling a genuine story?”
“Not really. He’s a sleazy little bastard, skating around the edges of the gay scene and picking up married guys cruising for a quick thrill. His m.o. is to take a photograph or two on the sly, then try a little blackmail for, as he calls it, gifts. Seems the photos of Raeburn were pure luck-he recognized him in the bar and decided to take a few snaps for future reference. He’s dropped the claim he was Raeburn’s ex-lover, and now says he just moved in the same crowd.”
“So why the story that Raeburn was HIV-positive? How could he have known he was?”
Bourke shrugged. “It might just be Berringer’s lucky guess. He probably thought, too, that it would make a stronger story for sale to Madeline Shipley.”
Carol was finding it an effort to concentrate. Forcing her thoughts away from Sybil’s angry words-“Everything’s got to be on your terms, Carol. Everything.”-she asked if Bourke had traced anyone else in the photographs.
“Not yet, but we’ve got the name of the bar and I’ve got Ferguson chasing up any names we got from Berringer.” He paused, irresolute, then said, “Remember you asked me to pick up on what was being said on the grapevine? You won’t like it, Berringer but the general impression seems to be that you’re in the Commissioner’s pocket on this one and the result-accidental death-is a foregone conclusion. Bannister, of course, is helping this along, although I’ve managed to point out to a few people it’s sour grapes on his part.”
“There was a call on my answering machine last night-no name, of course-advising me to find that Raeburn’s death was an accident. It was whispered, but possibly a man.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the threat of exposure. She didn’t want Mark Bourke’s sympathy, or his understanding. I can pretend it hasn’t happened-but that won’t make it go away.
Mark said dryly, “It’d be a lot less trouble if it was an accident.”
She nodded wearily as her phone rang. “It sure would.” Hoping it was Sybil calling back, she snatched up the receiver.
“Inspector Ashton? This is Alanna Brooks.”
“I would like to see you as soon as possible.”
“And I you, Inspector, but unfortunately it’s the opening night of Aïda, and, having missed so much yesterday, I’m tied up with rehearsals almost right through. I do, however, have a suggestion I hope you might accept. I’ve two tickets for one of the boxes, and I’d be delighted if you saw the performance tonight, then joined me in my dressing room afterwards. I’d be more than pleased to answer all your questions then.”
Carol thought of her house, lonely without Sybil, and accepted the invitation.
The wind had dropped, so the night was cool, not cold. The Opera House looked its spectacular best. The patrician curves of the floodlit cream-tiled roof shells were a counterpoint to the dark heaving water of the harbor, the ribs of the Harbour Bridge and the garish vitality of the city.
Carol met Anne Newsome in the foyer. The stark concrete curved in buttresses to support the soaring roofs, the walls were curtains of glass that allowed the city’s changing pattern of lights to provide a background to the crowds thronging around the circular central bars.
Mark Bourke had reacted with horror at the idea of attending an opera, but Anne had been delighted. “I know you don’t have to really dress up for opening nights anymore,” she had said, “but it’s a great chance to get your glad rags out!”
Aware that she would be interviewing Alanna Brooks, and, as always, wanting to create a controlled impression, Carol had selected a severe black dress and discreet gold earrings. Anne had been rather more daring. Looking impossibly glamorous, in comparison to her working garb of plain, serviceable clothes, Anne was a vision in metallic green. “Startling, eh?” she said, as Carol blinked.
“Arresting,” said Carol, her lips twitching.
Douglas Binns had been waiting anxiously for them. “Inspector! Please come this way. Miss Brooks has asked that you be given some refreshments before the performance begins.”
Carol sipped her glass of champagne and considered Binns over the rim. “Mr. Binns, I presume you’d know everything that goes on in the opera company?”
He made haste to deny this. “By no means, Inspector. You must remember, I work for the Opera House itself. The Eureka Company is here for a season only.”
Giving him her most charming smile, Carol said, “Nevertheless, I would like you to answer a few questions.” Before he could voice his protest, she went on, “And I do appreciate your position, Mr. Binns.”
“Well, of course, if I can be of any help…”
She asked a few mild questions about his work responsibilities, then, when he had relaxed, she said, “You’re in a unique position, Mr. Binns, to give me unbiased information about the interrelationships in the Eureka Opera Company.”
“I don’t listen to gossip,” he assured her quickly.
“It’s not gossip I’m interested in, but your personal impressions. And of course, anything you say will be treated in confidence.” He looked both flattered and wary as she went on, “As an outsider I’m at a disadvantage, so I need the insights you can give me.”
She thought, Have I laid it on too thick? but was reassured by Douglas Binns’s proud little smile.
“Well, yes, Inspector, of necessity I must know what’s going on…”
It was easy after that. He freely discussed the complicated web of allegiances, alliances, rivalries and open conflicts that, he assured Carol, characterized most artistic communities. He answered her specific questions about Collis Raeburn’s relationships with a frankness that seemed to surprise him. “Inspector, I hope you don’t think I discuss these matters on any other occasions. Even my wife doesn’t know these details…”
Bells rang to indicate that Aïda would soon commence and in obedience to their gentle insistence, people began to straggle towards the entrances to the opera hall.
Binns was obviously rather taken with Anne in her metallic green dress. “Almost fifteen hundred and fifty seats,” he said to her as he led them into their box high on the dull black left wall.
Out of habit Carol surveyed her surroundings carefully. A swelling murmur filled the opera theater as people crowded in, their animated conversations competing with discordant sounds from the cramped pit as the orchestra tuned up. Red seats with armrests in the familiar blond wood rose in tiers with no central aisle, so those in the center had to shuffle sideways past patrons already seated. The lighting was subdued, the banks of floodlights dark as they stared blankly at the heavy curtain masking the stage.
Binns was gazing around with proprietary pride. “Acoustics in the opera hall are very satisfactory,” he said. “One point four reverb time!” He looked from Carol to Anne, as though expecting an admiring response. “You know, of course, that the singers use no electronic amplification.”