Dead Certain

“There’s very little I can tell you, Ms Raeburn, at this point.”

Nicole stood, righteously angry. “Come on, Welty. This is a waste of time.”

“Mr. Welton, I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” said Carol, smoothly interposing.

Nicole pouted. “You can ask anything in front of me. We’re friends, after all.”

Carol gestured to Anne Newsome. “Constable, would you see Ms Raeburn out, please.”

Left alone with Carol, Graeme Welton looked embarrassed. “Look, Inspector, I’m sorry about the way Nikky behaved. She’s really stressed by what’s happened…”

“I understand that. Please sit down.” After he’d complied, Carol said, “Mr. Welton, during an investigation there are times when we have to ask very personal questions…”

Looking resigned, he said, “Go on, then. Ask.”

“I’d like some more details about your association with Collis Raeburn. Specifically, did you have a sexual relationship with him?”

His hands, that had been weaving an elaborate dance with each other, stilled. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said.

“Afraid?”

Welton passed a hand over his face. “Collis was the most selfish person I’ve ever met. He put himself first, second, third and last-and all the places in between. Any relationships to him were there to bolster his ego.” He looked up at her, his piercingly blue eyes dimmed by unshed tears. “But when I heard he was dead, I didn’t think I could bear it.”

“Were you surprised he’d killed himself?”

The question elicited a mirthless smile. “Very. Collis was convinced that he was the most glorious thing he had ever known, so why would he destroy himself?”

CHAPTER SIX

Carol sat in her office mentally reviewing the case as she absentmindedly played with her gold pen. She looked at its embossed metal shaft, thinking that it had been a birthday present from Sybil. She put it down gently. I’m not going to think about that now.

Mark was always on time, but Anne hurried in a little late. Once they were seated, she said, “Okay troops. Report time.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Mark said.

Carol gave him a brief smile. “We’re getting there, Mark. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

“So it’s murder.”

“It’s murder,” she said with confidence. “All right, Anne, what’ve you got?”

As Anne Newsome opened a folder and cleared her throat, Carol remembered the feeling of importance she herself had felt the first time she’d been entrusted with a strand of an investigation. Anne’s reporting technique was admirably succinct as she briefly described her interview with Anita Burgess, Raeburn’s publicist. “They had a professional relationship, but she says she knows nothing about his personal life… If she actually does, she isn’t saying.”

“You interviewed Corinne Jawalski’s flatmate?”

“Yes, Beth Adkins. It’s just as we were told-Mr. Raeburn called about seven, asked for Corinne, who had just walked out the door. Beth called her back and she talked to him for a few minutes.” Anne’s manner made it clear she had something of significance to add. “One thing Jawalski didn’t tell us is that it was more an argument than a conversation. Beth says she doesn’t know what it was about, but it ended with Corinne slamming the receiver down, letting go with a few choice words about Raeburn, then stalking off.”

Carol leaned forward. “And her movements after that?”

“Just as she said: she went with a friend to the Town Hall for a performance of Elijah. He was a soloist in the oratorio, so he was up on the stage while Corinne was in the audience. The performance started at eight and he didn’t see her again until after ten-thirty.”

Carol smiled at Anne’s anticipatory expression. “So what do you get from that?”

“Why, that she had time to go to the hotel and see Collis Raeburn. She wasn’t sitting in the audience with anyone who knew her, and she could catch a bus, or taxi, or even walk-it would only take twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. She’d have plenty of time to go there, stay a while, then come back to join the audience again.”

“Let me do the second interview with Corinne Jawalski,” said Bourke. “I’ll use my famous charm.”

“Gosh,” said Anne. “Can I watch?”

Carol was amused and pleased by this gentle mockery. She had always found the most effective teams had this combination of trust, good humor and, underneath it all, respect. “What else, Anne?”

Anne had gleaned no further information on whether anyone had tried to find out whether Raeburn’s body had been brought to the morgue, but she had spent some time with the scene-of-crime fingerprint expert. Raeburn’s fingerprints appeared in the appropriate places, including the whiskey bottle and the glass he had used. The pattern of prints on Raeburn’s copy of The Euthanasia Handbook, however, was particularly interesting. His palm print appeared along the spine, as though he’d held it rather awkwardly in one hand and opened it with the other. His thumb print appeared on the page detailing the necessary drug dosages to cause death. Among several other smudged prints on the cover of the paperback, some were definitely identifiable as Raeburn’s. Anne said, “The book’s quite new and looks as though it’s hardly been touched. When he was reading it he must have turned each page by the very edge. If you try it yourself, I think you’ll find most people turn over each page at the top right-hand corner, and leave at least partial prints on both sides.”

Bourke yawned and stretched. “Think it could be a setup, Anne?”

“Maybe. Or Raeburn knew exactly which page he wanted, so he went straight to it and kept it open with his thumb while he read it.”

“What do you think, Carol?”

“I don’t think he bought the book and I don’t think he read it. Of course, proving that’s a little harder. Incidentally, have both of you read the handbook right through?” When they shook their heads, she said, “I haven’t done anything other than glance at the relevant pages either, and there might be something we’ve missed.”

“Oh good,” said Bourke. “I need a little light reading.”

“Anne,” Carol said, “I don’t suppose you’ve turned anything up on where the book was purchased?”

“It’s negative for all the bookshops near the hotel, but if Raeburn had been planning this for some time he could have bought it anywhere.”

“It may be necessary to cover the bookshops again with photographs of possible suspects. I think the book was a prop to add one more convincing touch to a suicide scenario.”

“You really do think it’s murder?” said Bourke.

“Sure of it.”

“Told the Commissioner?”

Carol smiled wryly. “I’ve already told him I think murder’s a possibility, but I’m damned sure he won’t welcome anything more definite than that.”

“Care to tell us why you’re so certain?”

“Little things, but they add up. He didn’t leave a note. The whole scene in the hotel room looked theatrical and staged. His daily journal’s missing. He had a colossal ego that should reject suicide. The handbook looks like an obvious prop and the pattern of fingerprints on it seems odd. He sticks to his diet, even though it’s going to be his last meal.”

“And,” said Bourke, “he wasn’t universally loved by those who knew him well. In fact, he was pretty well hated.” He started ticking the names off on his fingers. “Alanna Brooks is about to be supplanted by his latest love, Corinne Jawalski; Corinne herself is in conflict with him, but we don’t know why; Lloyd Clancy’s a rival tenor, and coming off second best in the career stakes; both Edward Livingston, as manager-producer, and Graeme Welton as composer, have a lot tied up in Dingo, but Raeburn was set to wreck everything by bailing out of his contract; Nicole Raeburn’s a loony where her brother is concerned; Kenneth Raeburn’s playing fast and loose with the family company.” He sat back with an air of satisfaction. “There you are, Carol. At least seven people