After Ariel: It started as a game (26 page)

Gathering her handbag, Jean Maxwell leapt up, glaring over her shoulder at Roger. Anthony opened the door just in time to prevent her smacking into it. Resigned, Ariel’s father – for in effect, that’s what he was – followed her, shoulders hunched as though to ward off a blow. Anthony murmured that he would get his car from around the back. I led the couple out to the front counter, asked the sergeant to advise Evan of where we were going and ushered them outside. We stood in silence, hunched against a stiff breeze.

I hate going to the morgue. No one spoke during the twenty minute drive from the city to the John Tong Centre where the horrific business of carving up the dead took place. I’ve never gotten used to the sights, sounds and smells in the always-full autopsy rooms. As soon as bodies left, more trundled in. We only had a “preliminary” on the girl we were sure was Ariel Maxwell. It could be a while before the final report was in, but I knew that John Lynch would get her through as fast as possible and keep us up to date with relevant information.

I had phoned ahead so there was no delay after we got there. The Maxwells crept up to the viewing window and peered through. It didn’t take the screaming collapse of Jean to confirm what we already knew. We helped the Maxwells away from the window, though Jean wanted to go inside. ‘You can’t, I’m so sorry. Once Ariel is released to you, then you can see her.’

They cringed. No doubt they had watched CSI and knew what that meant. There were papers to go through and forms to sign in connection with the identification, after which we asked the relevant questions – do you know this woman? What is her name, date of birth...it was a stressful time for
us
, let alone the parents. Then Roger Maxwell asked the inevitable question: ‘Was she raped?’

‘There is no evidence of that at this time. She was fully clothed when she was found, Mr Maxwell.’

The relief on their faces was followed by the next – how had she died? We fudged over that, saying that until the forensic report was in we couldn’t be sure, but after they insisted, we admitted that it appeared she had been smothered while being kissed, but not that her chest had been crushed.

‘What do you mean,
kissed
?’ Roger leapt to his feet, overturning his chair. ‘That’s not possible! How can someone be kissed to death?’ Shaking violently, he leaned against the wall, perspiration pouring down his face. His wife stood and scrabbled in her bag, coming up with a bottle of pills. ‘He’s got to take these. It’s the stress.’ She managed to get a tablet down him aided by a glass of water. Anthony picked up the chair and we coaxed Maxwell to sit down again. He wiped his face with a large white handkerchief. ‘Are you sure that’s what happened?’

‘We can’t be sure. It certainly appears so, but we will let you know as soon as we do.’

I wished I could have given the couple a stiff brandy each, but they managed to cope long enough to give us a list of all Ariels friends, girls and especially the males, plus work mates and her employer. A separate list of relatives was compiled with phone numbers and occupations; we would chase them up on the morrow.

‘What relatives are close by?’ Anthony asked.

‘My sister, my parents. Roger’s family, they’re all in Brisbane.’

‘Now that you’ve identified your daughter, you need to let the family know or get someone to ring around family and friends. We’ll need to release the photo you brought with you to see if we can find someone who saw Ariel on Friday afternoon and if we’re lucky, who she was with. We will also need access to your home. We will need to search for evidence in case she brought someone back with her. Would you be able to go to your sister or parents for the night? Tomorrow we’ll need to take your fingerprints and those of your sons in order to eliminate them from our enquiries.’

They turned pale, realising that perhaps those of their daughter’s murderer would be in their
home.
Roger started to protest, saying that he was damned if he was going to be driven out of his home, but his wife over-rode him. ‘No Roger. They’ll need to find out whether there was anyone in the house with Ariel.’ She was the stronger of the two, for all his bluster. He quietened down, but I was aware of the rage threatening to engulf us all. Jean took out her mobile and made a call, briefly telling the person on the other end that they wanted to call round. ‘We can go over there. I’m dreading telling them what’s happened.’ Her lips trembled.

‘Are there any pets you need to have seen to?’ Anthony asked her.

She was at the point of collapse. ‘No, our old dog died a short time ago and we haven’t replaced him.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘Ariel wanted to be a vet you know. She always loved animals and she was going to study at Tafe. Animal Care. She even had pet rats at one time.’ She stopped abruptly and scrabbled in her bag to produce a set of house keys. ‘You’ll be needing these for...’ Sobs claimed her.

We stopped at Jean Maxwell’s parent’s house in Holland Park and told them we would be sending a Family Liaison Officer to be with them and help with the media. We offered to come in with them, but they declined. We also advised that we would need to talk to everyone in Ariel’s life including
all
her relatives and that either parent would have to return and look around their home to see if anything was out of place or missing. We waited until they reached the front gate. We would be back in the morning. We got into our car and drove away quickly as the front door opened and the tall figure of a man, probably Jean’s father, appeared.

There’d be no sleep in that house tonight, and tomorrow would be even worse.

CHAPTER 26

An Unexpected Visitor

Pam

Monday, 5.30PM

I’ve spent my life in devotion to music, to a career which I love, but will it be enough to sustain me for the rest of it? When does slaving to achieve the pinnacle of your chosen profession become a habit which precludes a private life? As do most women knocking on the door of thirty, I am starting to wonder if I will ever find the one man – taller than me – who loves me enough to accept my transient lifestyle and work around it? I wondered who would want to marry a professional musician, apart from another musician. I know that to most people I’m rather dull. Music is my whole world, requiring hours of practice and rehearsals. I don’t have many hobbies other than walking and reading. I do paint a little, but because of my transient life-style don’t often get the opportunity. 

Just get over it, Pam
.
If it happens, it happens.
 

Coming back to my unit after a hard day’s work is akin to vanishing into my shell. This afternoon was no exception. I blundered into the tiny hallway, scraping the walls with my bags of groceries. Some hot soup would be good with the fresh, rich grain-bread which is my passion, followed by...well, I’d soon find something in the freezer. My head had been aching most of the day; Advil and a cup of coffee would go down well. I was worried about my mother whom I hadn’t seen yet and needed to ring John. I stacked Mozart’s Concerto for Flute and Piano and a favourite Schubert CD in my stereo and made coffee. I would practice after dinner.

My phone messages proved a mixed bunch. Aunt Fiona’s voice came over frail and furtive,  asking me if I was alright and apologising for Alex’ bad behaviour, ending with a hesitant invitation to join her for lunch in West End to discuss the funeral and Goldie’s house. I would bet a million Alex didn’t know she was ringing me and was certain he wouldn’t know about a meeting between us. I tackled that one first, gently putting her off for a couple of days.
Maybe the heat’ll have gone out of Alex’ anger by then.

Friends welcomed me back to Brisbane, some congratulated me on my successful concert and extending condolences for Goldie’s death. Fighting tears, I made a list of who’d rung, and played the rest. Lots from members of the Pacific Symphony offering condolences and support, one from Bill asking if he could come over that night – I would put him off, but suggest another time – and another from Rezanov, offering condolences, congratulating me on my performance Saturday night and saying he would catch up with me. Lance Macpherson’s voice cut out just into his message so goodness knows what he wanted. Probably condolences as well. The last was from a firm of solicitors asking me to call re a “matter of interest.”
Oh God, I hope I’m not getting Parry’s photo.

Feeling less than enthused by any of the men’s attention, I cleared my machine and rang Bill. He sounded disappointed, but was pleased to make a date for the next night. ‘If you don’t feel like going out for a meal, just let me know and I’ll bring the food to you.’ I agreed and then phoned everybody’s lover, the mad Russian. His message service picked up, so I just thanked him for his kind words. I would have expected attention from His Gloriousness might have given me more of a thrill...
perhaps I’m just exhausted from grief.

After that, I spent a good ten minutes on the phone with my stepfather and invited him to stay with me rather than camping in a cold, lonely motel. ‘My lounge pulls out into a sofa bed, John. You are most welcome, you know.’

‘I’ve already made arrangements to stay with my mate, Pat. We can live our glory days as coppers again over a glass of the good stuff, Pam. Thank you all the same, darling. Your mum’s asleep and seems quite comfortable, and she’ll be able to see you tomorrow. Visiting hours start at 10AM.’

 ‘Please tell her I’ll be up there then. Do get some rest tonight, John. You need your strength for Mum’s recovery. It’s been pretty rough on you too!’

We said goodnight. I was fortunate to have such a lovely stepdad. I have never known my father who was killed before I was born, climbing mountains of all things. I’ve photos of him of course, but nothing can conjure up a living, breathing man who, I certainly hoped, would have been a good dad.

The seven o’clock news was about to come on and although my mind and heart cringed at the thought of Goldie being on there, it was like watching an accident about to happen – irresistible.

I bracing myself for the usual awful happenings and thinking about what to have for dinner, when the doorbell rang. Cursing, I turned the low on the TV and headed for the front door. My hand was stretched out when I got a hold of myself. ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Senior Sergeant Hamilton, Miss Miller.’

All thought fled.
Oh my goodness.
I threw the door open so fast that it gave us both a shock. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt which emphasised the muscles of his broad chest, set off by a denim jacket, he looked
down
into my eyes. ‘I was just passing and wondered how you were getting on...coping...’ His voice petered out. Was that a tinge of red around his cheeks?

‘Come in!’ I jumped back, giving his massive shoulders more than enough room to get past me into the hallway, slammed the door behind him and set the chain across. He glanced back. ‘You didn’t have that on when I got here!’

‘Er...I forgot.’ He scowled and then halted, his head cocked to one side. ‘Schubert, the Impromptus?’

Speechless, I just gawped at him. He’s into classical music?
Wow!
‘You know Schubert?’

He smiled. ‘I have five sisters and two of them are at the Conservatorium here in Brisbane, a violinist and a percussionist. It would be more than my life’s worth
not
to know! ’

‘What do the other three do?’

‘One’s a teacher, one runs an Art Gallery in Cairns and the youngest is a secretary at the Concert Hall at Southbank.’ Thoughts flew around my mind, like silverfish sprinting from a cupboard full of old clothes. Trying not to witter, I scuttled ahead of him. ‘Is her name Joan?’

He looked surprised. ‘Yes, do you know her?’

‘No, but she escorted me to the dressing rooms on Saturday morning when I went to the rehearsals.’

He grinned. ‘She’d be happy to meet you. She reckons meeting the artists is the best part of the job.’

I picked up a mug. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, thank you. I shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to see if you are all right. You’ve been through a lot.’
He pulled a chair out and settled down, showing all the signs of a truly practised “kitchen sitter.”
My heart-rate went into orbit. I fidgeted, unable to concentrate on making the drinks.

He leaned his powerful, tanned forearms on the table and steepled his fingers. ‘Come and sit down; coffee’s the least of my requirements.’ His handsome face creased into what might be construed as a smile. A mouse to his python, I slid into the chair opposite, unaware I was still holding the coffee and spoon. He reached across, gently took them from me. ‘You do realise that as you are still technically involved in the investigation I shouldn’t be here with you, so how about we keep this visit between us?

‘Will – would you get into trouble if they knew?’

‘Deep shit. No doubt about it.’ Anthony’s eyes twinkled and his gorgeous, firm mouth curved into an honest-to-goodness smile. ‘I can’t stay long, but I just wanted to spend a little time with you.’
Oh blimey!
I felt all hot inside.

‘Aren’t I a suspect?’

‘You have an alibi, remember? Your cousin was murdered before you left the city, possibly even while you were fetching her car to drive to the house.’

‘Ah.’ I’d forgotten about being pulled up by the uniformed cop on the way home. ‘What happened at the park?’

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then said quietly, ‘A young girl was murdered.’

‘As well as Goldie?’

‘Yes. We believe the girl was killed on Saturday morning. A man walking his dog found her.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘We only discovered who the girl is...was... a few hours ago, so we’ve kept her face out of the papers until her relative could be traced. Your cousin and you have taken over the news, but her death’ll be reported in the papers tomorrow.’

Oh my God.
The poor, poor parents...
the pain and fear when I found Goldie came flooding back. My stress levels were through the roof, what with Mum’s operation and Alex’s hostility on top of everything. My head throbbed harder.