The Naked Room (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

It’s Blood

Ally

Monday: early morning.

I feel so sick. I had no water last night, only coffee, but I couldn’t taste anything strange. Time is meaningless, only broken up into morning and night when they come, and then it feels like an invasion of my privacy. I’ve been forced to make this room my own. After being trapped here, it has become my refuge. Even if an opportunity occurs and I get away, how long will be before they catch me? Where would I run? I’d be fresh kill to Scarpia’s leopard. But I must try.

I’m so cold. I want to pee, but the effort to get to the loo…got to get there before they come in. I feel squashed. My arm hurts. What—there’s a big bruise on the inside of my elbow with a large puncture mark. What have they done? Is that how they drugged me? No, I’d know about it.

I swing my legs awkwardly around to the floor. Uh, large, blackish-red spots on the floorboards. Blood? Has my nose bled again? It’s so bunged up, I can’t smell the dried blood on my top and skirt. Fear rises in my throat. I grope around the stretcher for my glasses, put them on to touch a splotch and hold my finger right against my nostril. Yes, it’s blood.

I place my spectacles carefully against the wall, then sweep my hair back and start to plait it. My hands tremble, but I’m managing. Long strands fall and cling to the front of my clothes. A tug here and there and hanks come loose. A chunk of my hair has been cut just under the base of my skull.

Now I understand why my arm is sore. A man—my father, whom I do not know—will get a hank of my bloodied hair and a demand for three million dollars.

Terrific. He will be pleased.

I want to rip their throats out. How dare they keep me shut up in here? How dare they ruin my career and threaten me?

They’re coming up the stairs outside. I flatten myself against the wall next to the door, ready to attack and run. As it swings open, Scarpia stops in the entrance, just out of sight. I can’t get behind him.

‘Fucking hell—’ He lunges forward. I shove him, using every bit of my remaining strength, but it’s like trying to move a telephone pole. He whirls around and grabs me by the hair, almost wrenching it out of my head and then throws me onto the floor. The hard ridges of someone’s feet break my fall, biting into my back. My breath rasps as I try to suck air and roll to face them, but I am still anchored by my hair.

A shadow looms over me. The Cow swings her arm back to strike me.

The man stops her.

His boot swings toward me…my head explodes. I wrench my hair away from his grasp and curl myself into a ball, trying to protect my face as kicks land indiscriminately. I don’t how long it is before I find myself alone again. Blackness envelops me. I can’t open my eyes. My face stings and there’s blood in my mouth. It hurts to breathe and my head is aching so badly I can’t think straight. I put my hand to my face. My lungs wheeze in the silence, every breath a painful though hazy reminder of the assault.

Then it all comes back to me. I attacked him, he kept kicking me and she pulled him off. My hands. They’re okay, I think. I can feel my fingers, he didn’t cut them.

Now I can see light, just a little out of my left eye.

I’m so thirsty. I crawl to the wall and try to stand up.

The stretcher. Get to it.

It takes forever to drag the blanket around my body and over my head.

I can’t stop shaking.

Pretend, Ally. You’ve got to pretend you’re not terrified. Retreat into a place where they can’t touch you, where the pain can’t follow—the past.

My first piano was given to me by the postman’s wife on Masters Island. No one else wanted it and I loved it. Mum bought me some easy correspondence lessons for my sixth birthday. Pretty soon it wasn’t enough, and she had to find someone to give me proper tuition.

My time with my teacher, Mrs Minowski, feels as though it happened only yesterday. The first piece I played for her was Brahms Lullaby. ‘Ally Carpenter, you will take this slowly now. Brahms did not intend it should be galloped through. You understand?’

‘Yes, Mrs Minowski,’ I hear myself chant.

Mrs Minowski is Polish, a dumpy, bespectacled little old woman, much given to wearing an assortment of bright clothes which smelt strongly of camphor. She sported an armful of bangles, which sent us into fits of giggles as they clattered on the ivory keys of the piano.

An old-fashioned fox fur lived around her shoulders, it’s pathetic little feet clasped together with a hook made out of its own toenails. Beady little eyes glared watchfully out of its broad face, ears flattened to its skull. When I thought no-one was watching, I would touch the wet-looking nose and apologise for the animal’s indignity, repulsed by the barbarity of its artificial existence.

Mrs Minowski’s music room was cluttered with sheet music, text books and half-finished glasses of water which, rumour had it, held gin.

I soon learned if I made mistakes, it would prolong my lesson and save me from the school thugs who circled like piranhas in the playground, lying in wait for the four-eyed island parrot. My teacher was not fooled for long. ‘What is this, child? I know you are a pianist far advanced for your years. Today you are playing as a two-year old!’

She twirled the piano stool around so I was facing her. For a long moment we eyeballed each other, before she glanced out of the window, nodded as though satisfied of something important and spun me back again to face the keyboard. ‘We will finish your lesson, and then you will play a duet with my next pupil, who you know well. Then we go together across to the classroom! This is the way it shall be from now on.’ Her lips folded in a determined line. Thank you thank you thank you, God.

‘Thank you, Mrs Minowski!’ I sighed with relief, safe for the foreseeable future. A knock came at the door and my best friend, Pam entered, flushed and panting.

‘Aha! Pamela! You are on time. Good.’ She pushed me forward, beaming from ear to ear, teeth clacking as she chewed the menthol cough lozenges to which she was addicted. We fell to giggling and pushing each other. Mrs Minowski clapped her hands and admonished us to behave.

Pam got her flute out of its case and Mrs M’s eyes glittered with excitement. She grabbed Pam by the sleeve of her uniform blouse and propelled her into position beside me at the keyboard.

‘Now, the Lullaby. One, two, three!’

Brahms Lullaby filled the room; Mrs Minowski clasped her hands, tears welling.

‘My wee ones,’ she sobbed, ‘so beautiful. Never have I had two so talented children at once, never! You will be famous, I know it.’ I still send her my CDs when they come out and receive voluminous letters in return, which contain a great deal of advice, much of which I am grateful for.

Pam and I were accepted into the Conservatorium of Music. Our mothers leased a three-bedroom flat for us which, unbeknownst to them, had been previously occupied by two call girls. The lavish décor, an African jungle motif, should have alerted us to something untoward, but we only discovered this from the neighbours after we had lived there for a couple of weeks.

We needed another girl to help out with the rent, but despite advertising and asking around, it was about three weeks before tall, slim and self-contained Jessica Rallison, also from Townsville, stood on our doorstep. Her olive skin glowed; her long, black hair fell in a thick, glossy plait. She oozed over the threshold and sauntered through the unit, eyeing our photos, furniture and general mess.

Pam and I fluttered behind her like acolytes to a priestess, trying to resist the temptation to snatch cardigans, books and clutter and stuff it under cushions. If we had worn white robes and crawled on the floor behind her, we couldn’t have grovelled any harder. All that was left was to make a sacrifice in her honour.

We designated the smallest bedroom for a third flatmate. A momentary wrinkle sullied her perfect forehead when she saw it, but her eyes gleamed when she was shown the bathroom. The call girls had obviously designed and installed it for their pleasure. It was our pride and joy too.

A deep, claw-footed tub under a shower, chequerboard tiles and faux gold fittings were complemented by a set of cupboards running the full length of the wall. These were supported by a wide bench top, with a huge mirror screwed to the wall. The full length makeup bench, inset with two deep hand basins was polished granite.

We allocated the medium-sized second bedroom, decorated with an African veldt mural with sunset waterhole scene as our music room, having coaxed our current boyfriends into helping line the walls with egg cartons to deaden the sound.

Jess hovered just inside the door. My upright piano and Pam’s music stand took up most of the space on one side, a filing cabinet packed with sheet music, another full of CDs and a black vinyl collection occupied a good deal of the room.

‘I could fit my stand there—’ Jess pointed a contemplative finger at the only spot left. We smiled as though approved for an honour by the Queen, then bowed and scraped our way to the kitchen for coffee. A flushed glance of agreement and we invited her to move in. Jess settled in and we all mucked in together, but it wasn’t long before we discovered that she was a compulsive cleaner. This was great to start with but later we felt guilty because we knew we disappointed her with our grottiness.

Jess wasn’t always easy to fathom. We three could spend hours practising in our music room, sharing confidences about study and socialising—a euphemism for clubbing and hunting men, but Jess had a barrier which she seemed unable to overcome. We knew she had emotional problems left over from childhood and couldn’t seem to sustain a relationship for long, but despite our support, she could never confide any worries.

A year later I won a highly prestigious competition and was offered a scholarship to study at Trinity College, Cambridge. I left for London on a bleak day in March; Pam and Jess arrived a few months later. We found, after much searching, a flat we could ill-afford and nowhere near the standard of the one we enjoyed in Brisbane. But there we lived lives which alternated between desperation and joy.

Desperation. You didn’t know the meaning of the word, you idiot.

But you do now.

‘Hey, wakey, wakey, Ally!’ They’re back. He kicks my leg, which is hanging over the edge of the stretcher. I keep my arms wrapped around my head and face to protect them.
Please God, help me.

‘Ally, right about now your dad’s wonderin’ how he’s gunna raise that money,’ Scarpia announces, joyfully. ‘Bet you’re the one fuck he wishes he’d never had!’

CHAPTER 11

Someone Like Her

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

Monday: 7.30am.

The car park reeked of rubber and exhaust fumes. I almost fell over the disgusting bucket into which the smokers put their stubs. I’m sympathetic, but there’s a limit. Chocolates are my addiction of choice.

A group of media were clustered in reception. ‘The word must be out,’ I muttered, as I scuttled across the foyer to the lift, keeping my face averted. Fortunately, they were engrossed in trying to bully the imperturbable counter staff. I breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed. As the lift lifted me to CIB, I brooded over last night’s conversation with my husband, Harry, and feeling guilty over my irritable response.

Ally Carpenter’s face is startlingly familiar. He speculated endlessly during dinner and throughout the evening. ‘Susan, she reminds me of someone. Where did her family come from, originally?’ he asked for the umpteenth time, as we prepared for bed.

‘I don’t know. And if you had met someone like her, you’d remember. Now for goodness sake, go to sleep, Harry. We’ve both got early starts in the morning.’

His hurt expression tugged at my heart strings. I leaned over to kiss him, but at the last minute he turned his head away and my lips bounced off his ear.

‘I’m sorry I snapped, love. I’ll find out more about her tomorrow.’

He looked at me for a long moment, his face expressionless, then pulled the bedclothes up around his ears and turned his back, effectively shutting me out. My guilt made sleep elusive; I felt washed out and not my usual self.

Evan had already updated the whiteboard timeline documenting the movements of Ally Carpenter and her friends on Friday night. Shots from the security cameras were pinned on a separate board, beside an enlarged photo of the victim. My investigating team trickled through the door clutching their notebooks and slumped into chairs, seemingly in slow motion.

‘Good morning. Is everyone here?’

A desultory chorus replied. To be fair, most of them had worked throughout the weekend, but I needed everyone on the ball. Two days and three nights since the girl was snatched; I didn’t hold out much hope of finding her alive.

‘Right, now let’s sum up what we know so far, which is damn all. Detective Sergeant Taylor will take you through what we have so far.’

Evan stepped forward. ‘First of all, the media are on the rampage and a conference will take place shortly with DI Patterson and Senior Sergeant Prescott. We’ve advised the management of the Pacific Orchestra to make sure their members and admin staff refrain from speaking to journalists. Hospitals and taxi companies have been checked for sightings of Ms Carpenter, and cadets are viewing CCTV footage of bus and train stations. Facial imaging didn’t pan out, the features of the mob in the Toyota Corolla weren’t clear.’ He cast a beady eye on his nephew, DC Ben Taylor. ‘What did Traynor’s staff have to say?’

‘Well, Sarge, the barmen don’t remember her, but the doorman said she left with a man just before ten. He didn’t see them get into the car, but they would have turned up to the city or onto the Storey Bridge.’

‘It could just have easily headed down Brunswick to New Farm,’ said Evan, frowning severely at Ben. ‘Or gone up Ann Street and gone right to the western suburbs. Ma’am, over to you.’

Before I could speak, a uniformed constable handed me a message. ‘Ma’am, uniform located a white Toyota Corolla sedan which fits the description of the wanted vehicle from Traynor’s Friday night, abandoned in bushland at Gumdale.’

‘Right, I nodded to a pair of my team. ‘Off to Gum-dale with you. Get forensics to go over the car. Here—’ I passed the paper.

‘No sign of forced entry at Miss Carpenter’s house. No sign of a struggle or abduction from the premises. Her friend, Pamela Miller maintains there are no clothes missing. Her passport is still in the house as well as jewellery and medications, iPod. Her emails have been checked, Facebook and Twitter pages, but no sign of stalkers or threats. Her answering machine only has a couple of messages on it from friends who are being checked now and her mobile phone records show no calls from unknown numbers. Pamela Miller verified most of the calls, the others checked out as work related. Sergeant Taylor and I will talk to Rallison, Whitby, Miller and Briece Mochrie again. At this stage, we’re going with predator snatch.’

I paused for a sip of water.

‘However, the woman carrying Carpenter’s handbag could suggest she knew them. But if that’s the case, why didn’t she tell her friends she was leaving? The one thing you should all remember is that Ally Carpenter is a mature, professional concert pianist. Sir James McPherson and James Kirkbridge from the Pacific Orchestra insist she’s not given to taking days off or hysterical behaviour. The concert on Saturday night was a long-anticipated and well advertised event, which was part of a series of performances for which the Carpenter girl was contracted. She had put a lot of work into it. So it’s unlikely she went off with a boyfriend, as has been suggested. Her mother has arrived in town from North Queensland and Sergeant Taylor and myself are leaving now to interview her. Right, that’s all for the moment.’

The team got to their feet and trooped out of the room, muttering among themselves. Evan gathered his notebooks. ‘It’s not looking good,’ he commented, as we buckled ourselves into the car.

‘You’re telling me. If we can’t get anything concrete today, I’m not sure where we’re going to go next. Perhaps the mother can help.’

I cast a glance around the neighbourhood while we waited a good three minutes for the door to Pamela Miller’s unit to be answered. She lived in a block of four trendy faux-colonial flats behind a row of tall trees. A dog toilet nestled at the base of a collection of knee-high shrubs. The door was opened by Eloise Carpenter, a small attractive woman with terrified eyes and wild red hair, Her appearance took my breath away. I’d seen her, or someone very like her, before.

‘Have you found Ally yet?’ she blurted, as soon as we identified ourselves.

‘No, I’m sorry, Mrs Carpenter.’

Her shoulders slumped as she turned and ushered into a comfortable, airy lounge room. Newspapers were strewn on the floor, well-stocked bookshelves lined the walls and a portly tabby cat lay belly-up, purring, on the settee. A recess revealed a small upright piano with a computer on a desk beside it. Sheet music littered the floor, a radio played soft classical music and the aroma of brewed coffee and fresh baking wafted through the air. Our noses twitched like rabbits.

‘Would you like some coffee and scones?’ our hostess asked. She looked poised to bolt. Why? We replied in the affirmative, trying not to sound too greedy. It felt like a long time since breakfast. She waved us to the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen.

Before Evan got halfway across the room to follow her, she returned with a loaded tray which she put on the table and proceeded to pour coffee. I had no time to snoop, so I sat and rubbed my hand over the furry tummy of the cat, which wriggled happily then wrapped its paws around my arm and bit my wrist before jumping to the floor and stalking to the kitchen. Ungrateful little shit.

Evan chewed on a generous bite of scone, swallowed and then wiped cream and jam off his lips, with a handkerchief the size of the national flag.

‘First of all, Mrs Carpenter, is your husband, Ally’s father, with you?’ ‘We were estranged before she was born, Detective Sergeant.’

‘I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.’

She nodded, but made no further comment on that.

‘Have you had any problems with the media? Because–’

‘They don’t know I’m staying with Pamela, Detective, and the Orchestra has rung to assure me they’re not giving out any information to the press, apart from a formal statement. They said not to speak to anyone about it, except for you of course.’ She folded her lips, defensively.
Something’s going on here…

‘That’s good. Journalists can be very aggressive and the longer they’re out of the loop, the better.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner and she seemed to relax, just a little.

‘Mrs Carpenter, we need to ask you about Ally. We have the accounts from her friends, but we need to know her from your perspective.’

‘You think she’s run off, don’t you?’ Eloise Carpenter slapped her mug down on the tray. ‘Ally is not the sort of person who would do that. She’s a professional!’ Her eyes brimmed. She fumbled for a tissue from the box on the coffee table, finally tearing out a handful, most of which showered to the floor.

‘Mrs Carpenter–’

‘Ms Carpenter,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve never married.’

‘Oh. Ms Carpenter, we are well aware Ally is a dedicated artist who would never blow-off a concert. That’s why we are working on her disappearance without waiting for the stipulated time before embarking on a Missing Person’s investigation.’

Eloise Carpenter, between sobs, gave us an in-depth portrait of her daughter. Once she got back to Ally in her teens, I diverted her by enquiring about the one aspect her mother hadn’t yet touched upon, although we already knew the answer. It would be interesting to find out how much she had confided in her mother.

‘Ms Carpenter, has Ally a boy—err—man friend? Are you sure she wouldn’t go away for an impromptu holiday?’ Having just conceded her reputation precluded that possibility, I felt stupid, but it had to be asked.

Again, Eloise drew herself up defensively. ‘I have already told you, Ally would never miss a major concert. She is a dedicated, professional musician. She’s always had a lot of friends, both men and women, Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott,’ she snapped. ‘She does not go away for impulsive weekends or stay out late without letting someone know.’

She glared at us defiantly, lips trembling. I reached out and gently touched her hand. ‘Ms Carpenter, I am not implying otherwise. We need to know about all her friends, even though we have no reason to believe any of them had anything to do with her disappearance.’ Let’s not mention Madam Jessica, for now.

Eloise was mollified. ‘Well, I do know she’s formed a friendship with a cellist in the orchestra. Brieve or some name like that.’

‘Briece Mochrie,’ I supplied, ‘and Pamela Miller is your god-daughter?’

Eloise nodded.

‘What can you tell me about Jessica Rallison and Michael Whitby?’

She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up and snapped her posture into the ramrod position. ‘They’re close friends of Ally’s. Ally, Pam and Jess lived together in Brisbane, and then in London when they were students at Cambridge. She has friends outside the orchestra, here and overseas and from school. I can give you their names, but I can’t for the life of me see any one of them hurting Ally.’

‘Do you know of anyone, perhaps a fan, who might be a little too eager to know her? We need to know as much as we can about your daughter if we’re to find her.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean a stalker? Good heavens no! And I’m sure she would have told Pam or Jess if there was one. In fact, I am sure you would know by now.’

‘Her emails don’t reveal any sign of inappropriate behaviour on the part of the senders. We’ve asked her friends and colleagues, Ms Carpenter, and they all say Ally’s not mentioned anyone. What about her father, Ms Carpenter? Is he here with you?’

‘Excuse me.’ She jumped up and scurried off to the kitchen with a turn of speed which took us by surprise. Obviously we’d touched on delicate territory. Just then my mobile rang; Jessica Rallison had called in sick to the orchestra admin.

Evan smirked. ‘A convenience?’

‘Hm. We’ll pounce later. It’ll be a nice surprise for her.’

We sipped our coffee and ate the last few mouthfuls of scone while we awaited Ms Carpenter’s return. I scanned the room again. A scattering of photographs showed the two friends, young, smiling and gap-toothed, clutching musical instruments. A photo of Ally, Pamela Miller and Jessica Rallison, capped and gowned, waving their degrees stood beside it. Various family photos, many taken with a woman I assumed to be her mother littered Pamela Miller’s bookshelves. Some included Eloise.

She returned from the kitchen, once more under control. ‘I would rather not talk about Ally’s father. He’s dead.’ Her wide-eyed innocence and direct gaze said otherwise.
You’re lying. Why? Did he have something to do with Ally’s disappearance?
She folded her arms across her body. Lock down time again. Evan smiled reassuringly and tried another tack.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Carpenter, we didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said calmly, holding eye contact. ‘But we may need to talk about him in the near future.’ Eloise looked away first. We’d run a check on her when we got back to headquarters.

‘Do you know of any problems Ally had? Any arguments or differences of opinion with the orchestra?’ he continued.

She drew herself up. ‘There were none that I know of. You would do better asking her friends.’

He tried another angle. ‘We will, ma’am. Does she have any religious membership? In other words, could she belong to a cult who might have taken her?’

‘She doesn’t belong to any church group, Detective– er–Sergeant. There was one thing though—’ She hesitated. I cast an encouraging glance at her. ‘Ally and Jess weren’t getting on too well in London. My daughter was quite upset about it. I think it was professional jealousy on Jess’s part.’

Evan and I avoided looking at each other, not wanting the mother to know we were examining Jessica Ral-lison’s behaviour on the night in question.

‘Ally went to America for a short concert series and then flew back to Australia to join the orchestra here. She came home for a week to see me and to arrange for her things to be transported to Brisbane.’

‘Did you go to Ally’s house after you got down here?’

‘Pam took me over there, but it upset me. I couldn’t bear to stay in Ally’s house, so I’m staying with Pamela.’

She pressed her hand to her mouth. I touched her hand again, gently, and received a grateful, but relieved glance. I decided to explore the other avenue, perhaps the one Eloise Carpenter was afraid of and which might explain her extreme tension. ‘Has anyone contacted you since Ally disappeared?’ I asked.