The Naked Room (11 page)

CHAPTER 19

A Surfeit of Old Goats

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

Tuesday: 9.30am.

Eloise Carpenter’s phone call shook me. Her daughter goes missing and one of her closest friends is murdered three nights later? Sure, I believe in the occasional coincidence, but this latest event was pushing things a little far for comfort. My team was following what clues we had, but nothing useful had come to light and the Commissioner prowled with intent.

Early this morning, footage in the news showed Masters Island, with Eloise’s pretty, spacious cottage and three Scottish Highland cows tossing their horns and peering fiercely through hairy faces at the cameras. The media had made the connection between Ally Carpenter’s disappearance and the murder of Georgie Hird, whose cottage and studio were shown perched near the lighthouse. I “googled” Eloise but apart from a few mentions of her as secretary of the local RSPCA and some basic stuff, most of the information was about Ally. Ally’s pages were more fruitful, with snippets of her contract, program of concerts and gossip. The last entries were more hysterical, documenting her non-appearance at her concert and rife with speculation.

I sat at my desk, anxious, isolated from the necessity of answering telephones and being constantly interrupted for decisions on other cases. At least three very well-prepared people were involved in the Carpenter case, but something about the video tugged at my memory. I picked up the telephone.

‘Ben? Bring me the Traynors Night Club CCTV footage, please.’

The in-house CCTV footage for the whole of Friday evening was being scanned by a team of young, eager, police recruits to pin point the moment when the alleged abductors entered the club.

Less than a minute later, DC Taylor popped up in front of me, tape in hand.

‘There’s something about this which puzzles me. I need young eyes to help me out here.’

‘Right, ma’am,’ he replied, taking the tape out of its cover to slip it into the video player in the corner of my office. ‘Any idea what we’re looking for?’

‘I have a feeling we’ve overlooked something.’ I squinted through my bifocals at the whizzing images as he re-wound the tape.

‘Ma’am, if you missed it, so did we,’ he said gallantly.

We leaned forward as the footage slowed, stopped and then started to run. The car, its license plate angled to the ground, slid into position beside the kerb, the driver in shadow, his face hidden by the sun visor.

The man and the apparently drunken girl wrapped in the black coat, came into view, their backs to the camera. The woman behind them kept her head down and held what Briece Mochrie had identified as Ally Carpenter’s handbag. She slipped ahead and held the back door open as they neared the car. The man pushed the girl a little ahead of him, almost shoved her into the rear seat and dived in after her. As he did so, there was the slightest movement, a possible other person in the back. Ally Carpenter, if indeed it was her, would be sandwiched between two people. Not good.

The woman got into the front seat and the car pulled away, a slick,
four-
person operation, only lasting seconds.

‘Hang on a moment, Ben. Run it back and try to zoom in a little. Not too much, or it’ll blur.’

I leaned closer.

‘Stop.’

I pointed at the hand of the man escorting the woman in the black coat. ‘What do you think that is?’

‘What, ma’am?’

‘Is his hand painted?’ I asked.

Benjamin narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen. ‘No, ma’am, I think he’s wearing a surgical glove. And look at the driver’s hand when he brings it back onto the steering wheel. It’s too white and smooth.’

Damn, how could I have missed it the first time around? Innocent people do not wear surgical gloves on a night out. Forensics would need to view this. A lot rested on whether the plan had been to target Ally or if she was chosen at random.

Remembering Eloise Carpenter’s outlandish behaviour the morning Evan and I interviewed her, kidnapping for ransom had to be considered. However, though Ally Carpenter made excellent money, it was hardly enough for kidnappers to put themselves so deeply in jeopardy. Research on her relatives and friends confirmed that none of them were worth a kidnapper’s while. But what if her father was alive and rich? Eloise’s statement that he was dead had been unconvincing to say the least. There was no proof of his continued existence, so we had to go with the theory that if Ally Carpenter’s abductor was a kinky sexual predator, time was indeed running out, if it hadn’t already. Dear God,
please…protect this young woman.

The Pacific Orchestra Board of Directors, administration, cleaning staff, concert night doormen and Ally Carpenter’s friends, both in and out of the musical profession, maintained there had been no indication of stalking by fans, former boyfriends or outstanding professional jealousy.

My partner, Evan, arrived.

‘Got some response to the paper this morning,’ he reported. ‘Not a lot, but it’s more than we’ve received so far. A couple said they thought the young woman was drunk and her family had come for her. Two callers say the car was a white Toyota Corolla, which we now know is the case and the other couldn’t remember the colour, but saw the incident and dismissed it as a family matter at the time. Of course, none of them can describe the suspects.’

‘Right, thanks Evan. Bring the tape to briefing, Ben.’

An officer handed me a printout of a forensics report as I reached the incident board.

‘Good morning, everyone. Some updates, firstly the fingerprints on the outside of the car were no help at all, but—’ I glanced at the report just handed to me, ‘—a strand of long red hair has been retrieved from the back seat of the abandoned car. We’ll get a sample from Ally Carpenter’s house and have a DNA done.’ Now, something new for you.’ I showed the team what we had just discovered.

‘We know the gang were wearing gloves, the likelihood of getting any fingerprint matches is zilch. The car was reported missing on Friday morning in East Brisbane, wasn’t there when they were going to work, left it outside the night before because they couldn’t get into their driveway. A car was parked across the entrance.’ I exchanged a telling glance with the members of my team.

‘Has Carpenter got a boyfriend?’ asked one of the team. Predictably, the male detectives guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? Did ya look at her face? Too right,’ they chorused enthusiastically. My female colleagues and I rolled our eyes.

‘There’s to be a media conference at ten o’clock for full-blown newspaper and television coverage, appealing for people to come forward with relevant information. I am interviewing one of the directors, James Kirkbridge, at 11.30 this morning and the conductor, Sir James McPherson, late this afternoon. Ben, I want you with me for that. Any questions?’

There weren’t.

A seething mass of over-excited journalists and accompanying cameramen filled a downstairs conference room. The disappearance of a celebrity is hot stuff and a welcome change from pontificating politicians.

I braced myself, smiled at DI Peterson who was to make the statement, took a deep breath and opened the door.

Tuesday : late morning.

James Kirkbridge dwarfed DC Ben Taylor and me, at well over 195cm. He herded us into the sumptuous boardroom and seated himself at the head of the table, making sure we saw him glance at his watch. As practised, power-laden theatrics it was highly skilled, but his attempt to intimidate us, futile. I have traded glares with some of the most dangerous criminals in the country. After them, Kirkbridge was chicken feed.

I fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare, allowing the silence to drag until he leaned back, crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms across his chest. I sensed, rather than saw, his foot swinging under the table.
Good, you’re not as calm as you pretend, Cuddles.

‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Kirkbridge.’ As soon as we got his preliminary information out of the way, I started. ‘We understand the directors mixed with the orchestra on a social level?’

He nodded.

‘So, what is your relationship with Ms Carpenter?’

‘I knew her as the guest pianist under contract, Senior Sergeant. As a working director, I am involved in the running of the orchestra. I help organise events, tours… it’s very much a hands-on commitment. I am also a major financial sponsor and run my own business interests. I know Ms Carpenter only in that capacity.’

I watched him calmly, maintaining eye contact. He assessed me coldly for what proved to be a very long moment, before resting his elbows on the highly-polished wood and steepling his fingers. He answered my questions in note-form, in his clipped English public school accent.

‘He didn’t know of any religious leanings of Ms Carpenter and doubted she belonged to a cult; yes, she had several close friends in the orchestra, including Briece Mochrie. He had last seen her on the Friday afternoon during the recording session with the orchestra.’

‘I believe there was a considerable amount of social mingling with the orchestra members, so you must have known her quite well personally, Mr Kirkbridge?’ I repeated.

His eyes flickered, before he shifted slightly in his seat. The faintest flush swept over his features.
You old goat, you fancied her.

‘Er, yes. She was very popular, Senior Sergeant,’ he acknowledged. He might have been hiding something, but I suspected the chilly demeanour was normal. I pried and probed for as long as I could.

Had he observed an obsessive fan hanging around the concert hall?

Had Ally herself or anyone else commented on someone taking an unhealthy interest in her movements?

Did she gamble?

A discarded lover who might be responsible for the snatch?

His negative response to all my questions was frustrating. ‘And are you a musician, Mr Kirkbridge?’

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I am a classically trained pianist, Ms Prescott, but of course, I am hardly the professional standard of Ms Carpenter.’

‘How long have you lived in Australia, sir?’

‘I have been here for six years and as you must be aware, I am now an Australian citizen.’ If looks could kill, I’d be flat on the floor. Why? It was a perfectly normal question, so what did he have to hide?

We parted on uneasy terms and I made a note for someone in the team check him out, hoping to find some skeletons rattling in his cupboard in the near future. Perhaps Sir James McPherson would be more approachable later in the afternoon.

Tuesday: 8.30pm.

I kicked off my shoes and slumped into my armchair in front of the fire, restless and dissatisfied. I wanted to unwind, but couldn’t bring myself to read, watch television or even fire up the oven and make a batch of scones. There’s something about kneading the butter through the flour, shaping the dough and the smell of freshly baked food at the end which soothes, but not this time.

Our dogs collapsed on each of my feet. My geriatric cat squeezed herself into the space between my hip and the armrest, and my eyelids drooped as my mind drifted back to the late afternoon interview with Sir James McPherson.

We arrived at 4.15 when the building which housed the headquarters of the orchestra was all but empty. Somewhere deep in its bowels, a cleaner whistled as he dragged his equipment around. The sound of our footsteps resounded off the walls as we walked along the deserted corridors. I resisted the compulsion to tip-toe.

The incredibly tall Sir James greeted us with English upper-class reserve and the charm of an Antarctic ice berg. I am not a small woman, but the top of my head just reached his armpit. Ben Taylor is tall, but his eyes were level with Sir James’s chin.

The conductor ushered us into a comfortable room lined with books and sheet music scattered over a grand piano, which took up most of the space. So he too, was an accomplished musician, as well as a celebrated conductor.

He waved us to upright chairs in front of his desk. ‘Well, Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott, I haven’t got much time to spare, so what can I do for you?’

Crushing a spurt of anger, which wouldn’t have helped my mission, I fired off the same questions we had put to Kirkbridge.

Sir James stared at me, obviously surprised by my confrontational attitude. He folded his lips as though he was going to refuse to answer, and then appeared to think better of it.

‘One thing at a time, if you don’t mind, Senior Sergeant. Let me see? First question: my relationship with Ms Carpenter is as mentor, conductor, her immediate boss, if you like. She is a brilliant concert pianist who will go far in her profession.’

He paused and I imagined him thinking,
‘If she’s alive to pursue it.’
He blinked, and made an obviously major effort to focus back on us.

‘I’m not privy to her social life. I do know she has several close friends in the orchestra.’

He went on to corroborate what everyone told us, but I sensed he was being deliberately evasive. As we rose to leave, pretending an after-thought, I asked him about his relationship with the pianist. I wasn’t surprised to see the familiar red tinge stain his cheeks. Was this another case of an old goat thinking he could get to base with a young chick? Well, a twenty-five year old would seem young to him, though he was only in his late forties.

We’d been searching through parks, paddocks, al-leys—everywhere possible—for four days. If the victim of abduction doesn’t turn up within the first forty-eight hours, they’re probably dead. Sorrow squeezed my heart. Somehow this young woman had touched me personally. Was it the feeling of familiarity I had when I looked at her? I closed my eyes and my mind of all but a prayer.
Please God, keep her safe.

A sharp crack jerked me back to the present. A piece of burning wood split in the heat and tumbled over the edge of the grate onto the hearth. I got up stiffly and dealt with it. Harry had flown to Sydney to try and obtain family information from his ancient cousin Emily, who was in a nursing home. If he verified our suspicions of who Eloise Carpenter really is, I might be obliged to withdraw from the case.