The Naked Room (22 page)

CHAPTER 36

Just Routine

Brie

Friday: 4.00pm.

‘You knew her didn’t you luv?’ Mrs Schubel roared. With arms like Christmas hams, she heaved the biggest schnapper I’ve ever seen out of the freezer and slapped it down on the marble-topped bench with a resounding thwack. Its dead eyes and those of its relatives reminded me a little too vividly of Wednesday night.

‘Sssh!
Sandra, he was going out with her! They used to come in here all the time, remember?’ the girl on the till hissed. Her eyes flickered warningly in my direction. The line of women waiting to be served craned their necks and rustled expectantly. Rage built inside me.

‘Ah, yes, she did enjoy a nice piece of fish. I was forgettin’, sorry luv. So you must be pretty upset about her being murdered and all, then?’ Mrs Schubel shouted happily, not to be denied her moment in the sun. A collective gasp swept through the shop.

‘Yes. We’re all sorry.’ I snarled, politely. Shit. Why the fuck did I come in here?

‘Are you in the orchestra, darling?’ A little wizened up woman, ninety and “not-out,” peered up at me brightly, faded eyes sparkling with pleasure.

‘Yes, I am.’

I took out my wallet, as Mrs Schubel’s laconic husband slowly parcelled my order.

‘What do you play then, love?’ asked granny, standing on tip-toe to hear my reply.

‘The cello.’

‘The
what?’
she screeched, presenting me with her left ear, the better to hear.

‘The
cello!’
I bellowed.

She smiled and nodded. ‘It’s yellow!’ she informed the assembled populace.

My tightly wrapped bundle of fish was dumped into a plastic bag and handed over. As I paid and turned to leave, a couple of teenage girls waiting their turn to be served fluttered their eyelashes and burst into muffled giggles.

The thought of going into the butcher shop, with fresh cuts of meat in the display cabinet, had hardly been an option under the circumstances, but I needed to get some fresh food for myself and Cat. I felt safe in the record mart because it was too crowded for anyone to connect me with the photos of Ally or Jess in the daily paper, but coming in here had been a big mistake.

My mood didn’t get any better when I reached my car and caught the eye of a uniformed cop standing beside the front bumper. Having spent the last two days waiting for them to interview me about Jess, I wasn’t best pleased to see him turn away and start talking into his mobile, but he didn’t make any move to approach me.

I unlocked the car, slung the parcel of fish onto the back seat amongst the bags of fruit, milk, bread, tins of cat food and toilet rolls, got in and gunned the motor. As I pulled into the stream of traffic, I glanced at the rear-vision mirror.

He was still talking. We made eye contact; I broke first.

After I had driven about a block, a patrol car fell in behind me. I hadn’t heard from Pam since the previous morning and debated whether to drive to her place for a council of war or return home. It would take ten minutes to get there and all I really wanted was to practice for the night’s gig at the club, obsess over Ally and figure out how to get out of the mess we were in. Thinking of the fish, I sighed and took the next turn left, followed by a dedicated constabulary.

I swung into my street and the patrol car turned away. It wasn’t a surprise to find Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott and an off-sider parked outside the entrance to my block of units. The unmarked silver Ford sprouting a radio aerial out of its roof was a dead giveaway. I realised that if I hadn’t returned to my flat, the cop in the patrol car would have pulled me over and ordered me home or taken me in to the police station.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as the attractive lady cop climbed out, hitching the strap of a large, black, leather bag over her shoulder. The young bloke who interviewed us at orchestra administration got out of the driver’s side. They walked up to the entrance of my parking bay and stood, waiting patiently for me to acknowledge their presence. I left the bags in the car and turned, adopting a mask of indifference, but my heart started to beat faster. This was it.

‘Mr Mochrie, you might remember Detective Constable Ben Taylor? We would like to talk to you about the murder of Jessica Rallison.’

The young bloke flashed his card and they waited, obviously expecting me to either run for it or gather up my groceries.

‘Of course, Ms Prescott, if I can help I will.’

I scooped everything into the green bags, dragged them out and led the procession to the front door where I put the shopping on the ground and opened the door in ominous silence. Cat, who ran to greet me, reared back and fled down the short hallway ahead of us as I lugged the stuff inside. ‘She doesn’t like strangers much,’ I muttered, dumping the bags onto the kitchen bench. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘No thank you, Mr Mochrie, we only need to ask you a few questions. Just routine.’

Playing for time and composure, I made them wait while I stuffed the perishables into the refrigerator, before inviting them into the lounge room. Cat, disappointed, sat down and licked her furry, well-padded arse.

Crunch time had arrived.

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

Friday: 4.30pm.

It was a typical bachelor flat, but I was surprised to see it was tidier than most I visited, until I spotted the overflowing garbage bin through the window by the back door, indicating frenzied activity had recently taken place. Briece Mochrie’s demeanour was icy, and judging by his darting glances sideways, he was desperate to get to the telephone. Ben sat on a straight-backed leather chair, took out his notebook and waited with pencil poised. Mochrie swept a pile of sheet music from a stool and perched. I took up residence on the sofa.

We allowed the seconds to tick away before launching into the interview. Mochrie’s glorious good looks had waned since he had come to the station to identify Ally Carpenter on the CCTV footage; a rooster with his plumage plucked. Finally, I took out a notebook and plunged right in.

‘Mr Mochrie, did you kill Jessica Rallison?’

His face whitened and he almost leapt off his chair. ‘No! No. Of course not.’

‘Where were you on Wednesday night, between five and midnight?’

I could see the wheels turning as his mind squirreled frantically. ‘I was with Pamela Miller. We had dinner, and then spent some time watching TV.’

He was game, but he wasn’t much of an actor. His reply was too hasty, and his relief at getting the information across without making a mistake, too obvious.

‘What was on TV at the time you were watching?’

‘Er…the…we watched Send in the Dogs, then one of those airline programmes where everybody shouts at the booking staff.’

‘I think you should consider your answer very carefully, Mr Mochrie.’ He zeroed in on me, flaring his nostrils, narrowing his eyes and looking thoroughly dangerous. As a sexual turn-on it was spectacular.
Oh no, my lad, I’m immune to the likes of you!
Well, I hoped I was.

‘Ah…I don’t think it was the airline one, actually. I think we switched to ABC 1’s film.’’

He obviously wasn’t aware that the movie on ABC 1 had been cancelled on Tuesday in favour of a political bun-fight. I knew, because Harry had been waiting to see it and been pretty cranky when they changed the program.

I made a note and changed tack. ‘How well did you know Jessica? Apart from when you had the relationship with her?’

Mochrie took his time, carefully orchestrating his answer. ‘We went out for a couple of months and broke up in March. I saw her as a friend, with Ally,’ His voice wavered ever so slightly when he mentioned Ally, then returned to normal. ‘Pamela and Michael Whitby as well, but I told you this last time you asked.’

‘Do you know if Jessica had been having a relationship with anyone recently?’

‘She was having a relationship with Michael, but I heard she was slee—seeing someone else at the same time. I don’t know who.’

After probing some more I sat quietly, attempting to re-build a stressful silence. I had no intention of telling him about Jessica’s pregnancy. The less information he could give his friends, the better. We couldn’t expect the DNA results for some time, but with any luck I could shock the chief protagonists into admissions. A surprise for Mr Whitby? Or, if he was lying, Mr Mochrie.

His gaze zeroed in on Ben, who was scribbling in his notebook. I watched the expressions flitting across his gorgeous face.

Did you murder her? Did you find her dead or dying?
Call it woman’s intuition or ESP, he knew more than he was letting on. ‘Mr Mochrie, you do realise that tampering with evidence at a crime scene is punishable by law?’

‘Yes, of course. I watch The Bill, Ms Prescott,’ he replied, uneasily.

I would have taken it further with him, but I wanted to get Whitby first and let Mochrie dig himself in deep. I contemplated our surroundings to gain an impression of his background. Dozens of music text books, composer’s biographies and some crime, interspersed with photos of mum and dad. There was a large one which included a brother and three pretty young women who were obviously his sisters, standing side by side, nursing armfuls of cats. A warm, close family. Strange. There were none of Ally, whom we had been assured he was mad about.

‘Mr Mochrie, may I use your bathroom, please?’

The unexpected request jolted him for a moment, but his innate good manners rose to the occasion. He pointed along the hallway then sat down to re-focus on Ben, who began subjecting him to a barrage of routine questions: when had he last seen or spoken to Jessica, enemies she may have made and relationships in the orchestra. The repetitious nature of these would annoy him, but we needed see if he kept his story straight. I trotted along the passageway, glancing into the various rooms as I passed. Spare room, bed made up, but not well. Someone had slept there recently by the looks of it. Who?

Next one, music room—ah, and then the master bedroom. The cover on the huge bed was pulled up roughly. Several pairs of shoes and a pair of joggers lay scattered on the floor; a heap of jeans and t-shirts strewn over a chair. A pile of books, some of which had pieces of paper marking the pages, were on the floor by the bed. He was a reader, not a poser. Photos of Ally Carpenter covered the dresser. In the largest one, Mochrie was wrapped around her, Uluru in the background. Pain twisted my heart, surprising me in its intensity. Now I knew her relationship to our family, desperation gripped. We had to find her. Fast.

I shot into the bathroom, had a quick pee—not being one to waste an opportunity—flushed, washed my hands and was back in the lounge room, hopefully before our host twigged what I was up to. I had, however, taken a lightning glance into his bathroom cabinet in which there nothing exciting, aftershave, toothpaste. No condoms, but there was no time to rifle the bedside drawers.

They looked up as I walked in. ‘Have you finished, Ben?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Settling myself down again, I treated Mochrie to a long stare, before smiling companionably at him. ‘Do you know Ally Carpenter’s mother, Mr Mochrie?’

‘I’ve never met her, ‘he replied easily. ‘I was away when the orchestra held its Meet The Family night.’

‘Do you miss Ally?’ I asked, curious to see how he reacted. He was silent for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes downcast, before answering quietly.

‘Of course I do, er, Senior Sergeant. She’s with me day and night.’

‘We’ve interviewed both of her parents,’ I said, in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘Have you met her father?’

‘Ally’s father died before she was born!’ he announced indignantly.

‘I can assure you, Mr Mochrie, we’ve not been talking to a ghost,’ I said. ‘Who told you he was dead?’

‘It’s common knowledge, Ms Prescott. All her friends know that.’ Mochrie leapt to his feet and stalked to the window where he stood with his back to the room, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders in shutout mode. Over-acting. He knows the father’s alive. I glanced questioningly at Ben, who raised his eyebrows in silent response, then concentrated on his notes, all in copybook Pitman’s shorthand.

‘Crikey,’ I breathed. ‘We’ve got a young genius here no less.’

He beamed at me proudly, knowing I was marking time. ‘Taught myself, ma’am.’

‘Really? How fast are you?’ I asked, glancing at Briece’s uncompromising back.

‘One hundred and fifty words per minute, ma’am,’ Ben followed my gaze, smirking as we watched Mochrie fuming. It was only a matter of time before smoke emerged from his elegant ears.

‘Well, when you get tired of the police, you can work up to court stenographer,’ I joked lightly, hastily smothering my smile as Mochrie turned to glare at us. Petulant are we? Not used to being ignored, even for half a minute!

I rose to my feet, Ben following suit. The street and telephone surveillance teams should now be in place at this flat and also Pamela Miller’s. Michael Whitby would be waiting for us back at the station.

I nodded to Ben, who opened his briefcase and whipped out a large evidence bag. ‘Now, Mr Mochrie, I would like the clothes and shoes which you were wearing Wednesday night, thank you. I’ll give you a receipt for them.’

His eyes widened and he went through the nostril-flaring routine again. For a moment, I thought he was going to protest, but he shrugged and led the way to the main bedroom. There he selected an obviously unwashed pair of jeans and t-shirt from the pile on the chair, swiped a leather coat off a hanger on the back of the door and dropped them all into the bag.

I took a receipt book out of my handbag and began to list the items. ‘Underpants too, and vest, if you wear one.’

He looked at me as if I were mad. I doubt anyone had asked him that since he was ten years old, but he rooted around in the pile of clothes on the chair, fished out a pair of black under-daks and dropped them into the bag. Ben secured it and produced a smaller one, into which he invited Mochrie to put the joggers he maintained he had been wearing the night of the murder.