Dead Certain

compliments?”

“It’s unlikely.”

“Then I won’t persevere, Inspector.” He found a paper clip, and began to bend it out of shape. “Saw Collis on Friday afternoon. My place in Glebe.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to expand on this, Carol said, “At the end of this interview it would be helpful if you’d give Sergeant Newsome a detailed schedule of your movements from Friday to Monday.”

“Don’t tell me I need an alibi for Collis’s suicide?” he exclaimed in mock horror. “Frankly, I don’t have one.” He shot a glance at Anne. “Note that I spent the weekend working alone, Constable.”

“Noted,” said Anne with the hint of a smile.

He turned back to Carol. “And Inspector, don’t bother to say these questions are just routine. It’s such a tired old line.”

“Why did Mr. Raeburn come to your place on Friday?”

“We were discussing a current project of mine.”

“Dingo?”

“Well, well! You have been doing your homework.”

Ignoring his facetious tone, she said, “I’ve been told there was some conflict about your new opera. In fact, that Mr. Raeburn didn’t want to sing in it.”

Welton shrugged elaborately. “That’s what comes from listening to gossip, Inspector. You don’t get the story straight. It’s true Collis had some initial concerns, but they’d all been ironed out, so no matter what anyone might tell you, there were no ongoing problems. He was contracted to sing the lead male role, and he was perfectly happy to be doing it.”

Carol said, “Collis Raeburn was a friend as well as a colleague?”

“Yes. A close friend. We shared a great deal.” The staccato rhythm of his voice slowed as he went on reflectively, “Music, of course. I wrote much of my work with Collis in mind. But we also enjoyed many of the same things-test cricket, bodysurfing, gourmet French food…”

“You said on the telephone that you had something of interest to tell me.”

“Meaning that these musings aren’t of interest? Or perhaps you have other important interviews this afternoon?” When Carol didn’t respond, he went on, “Forgive me. I’m upset about Collis, of course. What I want to tell you concerns Edward Livingston. Know who he is?”

Carol gave a measured smile. “It would be difficult not to know, considering the amount of publicity he generates. I happened to be one of the many who watched the telecast of his production of Nabucco at the Sports Ground, complete with Jerusalem, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and a cast of thousands.”

Livingston was the controversial manager of the Eureka Opera Company. An Englishman, he’d been appointed over several qualified Australians vying for the position, and his abrasive manner and lack of reticence about his own abilities had ensured that his name was well-known even by people who had no interest in opera.

No one could ignore his productions. Either he was staging huge spectacles in outdoor sites, or taking popular operas and changing them, to traditionalists, in some shocking way. Carol remembered with amusement the stir he’d created a few months before by altering Madame Butterfly from a love story between a Japanese geisha and an American naval officer to an encounter between a call girl and an extraterrestrial. Simulcast with an FM radio station, the live telecast had initially attracted huge ratings, but as the program went on, more and more viewers switched to other channels. Collis Raeburn had made a handsome, if somewhat unconvincing alien, while Butterfly had been sung by the prima donna of the Eureka Opera Company, Alanna Brooks.

“He drove Collis to his death.”

It seemed he was waiting for some response to this statement. Eventually Anne looked up from her notes, and he said to her, “Suppose that sounds too dramatic, but it’s true. Hounded him, never let him alone.”

Carol said, “About what?”

Welton drummed his fingers against a rickety music stand. “About everything. Livingston was disappointed at his Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly. Said his acting wasn’t up to scratch. Collis always had doubts about himself, no matter how successful he was. He didn’t need criticism-he needed building up, trust, optimism. Livingston was bad for him.”

“You must be aware suicide is one possibility.” Carol waited for his acknowledging nod. “So are you suggesting Mr. Livingston’s attitude would be enough to push Collis Raeburn to the point of killing himself?”

“No, no. Of course not. But it helped. Believe me, it helped.” He smoothed his hair, tugged at his collar. “Livingston never let him alone. Always finding something to pick at, something to criticize.”

“Why?”

“Why? The man can’t help himself. Has to tear down anyone greater than himself. He was jealous of Collis. Of his fame, if you like.”

“But surely Mr. Livingston’s success depends on the talents of other artists. Isn’t it to his advantage that they be famous?”

Welton tapped a fist against the palm of his other hand. “Secondary to him. It’s all secondary to him. The artists, the music, the whole thing. He has to be first. Always him.”

His bitterness hung in the air. Carol waited. He didn’t continue. She said, “Do you have a personal grudge against Edward Livingston?”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Find someone who hasn’t!”

Carol had decided to use Sykes and his professed public relations expertise after all: she had rerouted all calls from the media through him. When her phone rang she picked it up quickly, expecting the caller to be Sybil.

“Mum?”

“David! What a nice surprise.” She could hear her voice becoming uncustomarily gentle. “Why are you ringing me at the office, darling?”

“About next weekend… Dad wants to talk to you.”

She frowned as she listened to the mumbled conversation as her son handed the phone to Justin Hart.

“Carol? How are you?” Her ex-husband’s loud, confident voice was as definite as he was in person. Without waiting for any response, he went on, “Look, sorry to do this with so little notice, but I’ve got a favor to ask. I’m going to a legal conference in Melbourne this coming weekend and through to Tuesday, and at the last moment it looks like Eleanor can come with me, so I was wondering if you’d be able to take David. Say if you can’t, of course. I realize you’re on the Raeburn thing-saw you interviewed.”

“I’d love to. Anyway, Aunt Sarah’s coming down from the Blue Mountains tomorrow night for a week, and she’ll be staying with us, so it’ll work out well.”

“Fine,” he said heartily. “Drop David over Saturday morning, then. That okay?”

Carol was smiling with the delight of having David to herself for several days. “I’ll pick him up from your place, if you like.”

“No, Carol. We’ll be on the way to the airport, so it won’t be any trouble. Hold on a moment…” She heard him say to David, “Go tell Eleanor it’s okay with Carol.” Back on the line, he said with a change of tone, “We do need to talk, sometime soon.”

She took a deep breath, suspecting what he was about to say. “What about?”

“About you. He has to know, Carol. And you have to be the one to tell him.”

She shut her eyes. “All right, Justin. After you get back, we’ll talk.”

His voice was again full of forceful certainty. “Great. Well, thanks for being so helpful. See you Saturday.”

Before she could ask to speak to David again, he’d broken the connection. She sat looking at the phone. What could she tell her ten-year-old son that he would understand?

As Carol was packing her briefcase, preparatory to a late departure for home, Anne Newsome came into her office. “No one named Oldfield works for the Sentinel, either permanently, or freelance. The closest names they could come up with are Oakley or Bradfield, but neither reporter had anything to do with the Raeburn story.”

“And the morgue?”

“Couldn’t get anything out of them. Of course their policy is to give no information to the public, so it’s not surprising that no one remembers a call from an Oldfield.”