“Right. You were going to say this is right?”
Carol half laughed, half groaned. “You’re implacable. Is it any good putting up a resistance?”
“Only if it’s a token one.”
Go for it? thought Carol, knowing already the decision was made. She put down her drink, stood, opened her arms.
Madeline kissed her lightly, withdrew. “Do you like to be teased?”
“No.”
“Of course you do. You’re just not used to it.”
Carol was focused on Madeline’s curved lips. She wanted to kiss her aggressively, forcefully. To have her respond with compelling ardor. To have her heart race as hers was racing…
Madeline stepped back. “Come to bed.”
In a dream of passion Carol followed her. She was her center, her focal point, her target. Nothing else mattered.
Madeline was half-laughing, dominant. “Don’t undress, Carol. I’m going to make love to you first with your clothes on… slide my fingers into your hidden places… set you on fire.”
Carol, her voice husky, said, “I’m that already.”
Madeline chuckled softly, her voice a caress. “It’s only a little flame, darling. I’m going to make it a bonfire, so that you’re consumed entirely.”
She pushed Carol gently against the wall, leaned into her, a knee between her legs, slowly began to unbutton her shirt.
This is so different, thought Carol, shutting her eyes. She suddenly felt free to do anything, say anything, be anything. “Madeline…”
“It’s all right darling. Let me show you what you really want, what you’ve always wanted.”
Her breath caught at Madeline’s touch. The barrier of her clothes was at once an impediment and an excitement. Madeline’s mouth was hot against her throat. Hands sliding under her bra, tantalizing with the lightest of contacts. Carol made an inarticulate sound.
“Don’t hurry me,” said Madeline. “I won’t be hurried.”
Her touch was soft, maddening, provoking-but never quite enough.
Carol could hardly speak. “This is cruel.”
“This is what you want.”
Madeline’s fingers burned as they entered her. The compulsion of desire licked at her thighs, flamed in her groin. “I’ve got to lie down.”
“No, Carol, you’ve got to stand up.”
Never like this. She couldn’t see, could only feel-surging, scalding waves of sensation. “I’ll fall.”
Madeline’s commanding voice whispered against her cheek, “Be brave, darling. You can do it.”
Knees locked, head back, moaning with the delight of the pulsing ache that transfixed her, Carol abandoned herself to her body’s hunger. And with that submission came deliverance. Held tight in Madeline’s arms she shuddered with release. “Oh, God.”
“Now you can lie down,” said Madeline.
CHAPTER TEN
Carol called an early morning meeting with Bourke and Anne. It was a relief to concentrate on her work: whenever she relaxed her guard, burning thoughts of Madeline, of her own startling abandonment, dislocated her steadfast image of herself. And Sybil-she didn’t want to consider the conflicting emotions of guilt and resentment that resonated there.
“Have you both read The Euthanasia Handbook? Yes? Tell me how you’d make absolutely sure your suicide would be a success.”
Anne said, “I’d do everything Collis Raeburn did, except I’d take something to settle my stomach, to make sure I didn’t vomit and so not absorb enough drugs to kill me.”
“Plastic bag,” said Bourke.
Carol nodded. “The author makes the point several times that unless a doctor’s actively involved, things can go wrong with drugs. You might fall unconscious before you take enough, or vomit before they’re absorbed properly, or you might have some tolerance that means you’d lie there for days until someone finds you still alive.”
“So what you do,” said Bourke, “is wait until you’re almost asleep, pop a plastic bag over your head, tie it round your throat and doze off. Then you suffocate, but you don’t know anything about it.” He added jocularly, “It’s the best way to be dead certain.”
“There was no plastic bag,” said Anne, “and he choked to death on his own vomit.”
Carol spread out the scene-of-crime photographs. “Two things,” she said. “First, look how clean he is. The post mortem says there was some half-digested food in his mouth and trachea, but there’s nothing on his face or on the pillow. He was unconscious, so how come he’s so neat? Second, look at this necktie on the carpet by the end of the bed. What’s it doing there? Everything else has been put away and Raeburn’s wearing casual clothes, so he doesn’t need a tie.”
Bourke was frowning over the photographs. “So the murderer uses Raeburn’s necktie together with a plastic bag to make sure he dies-but why not leave it over his face? After all, it makes the suicide look even more convincing.”
“I don’t know,” said Carol. “Maybe it looked so bizarre, so horrible, that whoever it was took the plastic bag off once he was dead.”
“Tender feelings,” said Bourke, “for someone willing to wait around and watch someone slowly die.”
Carol could see it in her imagination as vividly as a movie: the grotesque figure on the bed, head bagged and tied at the neck, sucking in the plastic with each struggle for breath…
“Okay Anne,” she said crisply, “what’ve you got to report?”
“Nothing on the handbook. We’ve shown photos to staff at all the likely city bookshops, and the problem is that most people recognize Collis Raeburn, but they’re not sure if they’ve seen him in the shop or in the media. The same with the others. For example, many knew Edward Livingston because he’s always getting himself interviewed on TV.”
“Glad I’m not famous,” said Bourke. “I’d hate to be asked for my autograph as I was fleeing the scene of a crime.”
“On that very subject,” said Anne, “I showed the set of photographs to all the hotel staff who were on that weekend. That was a no go either, though one guy on reception said he vaguely thought he’d seen one of them during that Saturday evening and he had the impression it was a male. I asked him to go through the photos again, but he couldn’t say who it was. Looked down his nose as he told me he sees so many famous people in his job he hardly notices them anymore.”
Carol was about to ask for Bourke’s report when Anne said, “There’s one more thing. I went to the morgue to follow up your idea that someone might have called to check if Raeburn’s body had been brought in. Drew a blank, but one of the guys did make a suggestion I’ll chase up. He said if he’d been after the information, he’d have called the press reporters rostered on for the night. They cover accidents, hospitals, the morgue, all as a matter of course and they have good contacts who’ll tell them what’s going on.”
Mark Bourke’s report was succinct. “Haven’t turned up Berringer yet, but we will. While we’ve been looking for him, one thing of interest’s come up-the name of the man who may have given Raeburn HIV. Raeburn had an intense relationship with him for some time a few years ago, then the guy, who was an officer in the army, was posted overseas.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harris. But it doesn’t matter, Carol,” said Bourke. “When we chased it up we found he never came back to Australia-died of AIDS six months ago.”
Lloyd Clancy lived in an apartment overlooking Manly’s modest harbor beach and ferry wharf. He gestured that Carol and Anne should sit on the balcony while he got coffee from the adjoining compact kitchen. The white wrought iron chairs and round table were cold to the touch, but the light breeze was enticingly warm. Looking across the shimmering blue water of Manly Cove, they could see Monday morning commuters thronging the wharf, newspapers and briefcases at the ready, waiting to board the sleek jetcats or one of the stately older ferries for the trip to Sydney.