Sybil, in jeans and a blue T-shirt, was leaning against the kitchen bench sipping a cup of tea. Carol sat down to unlace her running shoes. “Darling, I’m sorry I was late last night…”
Putting her cup down carefully, Sybil said, “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Her tone made Carol stop and look up. “Is it important?”
Sybil’s face was remote, contained. “I think I mentioned the tenants in my house aren’t renewing their lease. They left at the end of last week.”
Carol thought she knew what was coming. She stared at ginger Jeffrey, Sybil’s cat, who lay at her feet playing with one of her shoelaces. “You’re thinking of moving back there?”
“Just for a while. Until we can sort things out.”
Jeffrey was galvanized into evasive action as Carol abruptly stood up. Even Sinker, who had been sitting in a neat package under the chair, was prompted to move by Carol’s raised voice. “You’re going because of what I said over the invitation to Mark’s wedding? I don’t believe it!”
Sybil flushed with a corresponding anger. “Carol, of course it isn’t just that. It’s everything.”
A feeling of baffled rage swept over Carol, but she kept her voice even. “Why do you always pick breakfast to bring these things up? Is it because you know I have to go to work?”
Sybil’s reply was stinging. “It’s because,” she said, “it’s the only bloody time you’re not too tired or too preoccupied. And even then…” She broke off with a gesture of frustration. “This is pointless.”
“Darling…”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“You brought up the subject,” Carol protested.
Sybil gave her a weary smile. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Stupid, really, since I always know what the outcome will be.”
Ordinarily, Carol would have mentioned to Mark Bourke that she’d received his wedding invitation, but the subject was off-limits this morning. She frowned at him when he came jauntily into her office. “Yes?”
He raised his eyebrows at her tone. “Saw Raeburn’s doctor this morning, but if you’d like to see me later…”
At his mild rebuke she felt an irritated guilt. “Now would be fine.”
“First, I checked that the drugs Raeburn took in the hotel room were prescribed by his doctor-and they were, so there’s nothing suspicious there.” He referred to his notes. “Now, about the HIV. Raeburn wasn’t a blood donor, so I presume he wouldn’t have had any tests at all until the first signs of sickness turned up, except that his father was insisting that Collis take out a much heftier life insurance policy than the one he had.”
“Beneficiaries if he died?”
“The family company would get the lot. Of course, once the HIV result came in, there was no way the insurance company was upping the payout to the requested million and a half, so Raeburn’s life was insured for the original eight hundred thousand when he died. And you can see why his family want it to be an accidental death, because the existing policy has the usual clause voiding the contract in the case of suicide.”
Carol played with her gold pen, a present from Sybil. “Raeburn didn’t try to avoid the blood test?”
“Nope. The insurance company wanted a physical, including a blood test, before they’d increase the policy, so Raeburn went to his own doctor, apparently without the slightest idea there was any problem. His doctor says that he, himself, was astounded when the blood test indicated that Raeburn was HIV-positive. When he told him, Raeburn insisted on a second blood test. That showed the same result.”
“Any idea how long he’d been carrying the virus?”
Bourke looked as though he’d eaten something bitter. “As far as I know, Raeburn wasn’t showing any physical signs, but it varies so much from person to person. Could have been months, years even.”
Carol began to doodle arrows on a scratch pad. “How’d he take it? Depression? Anger?”
“The doctor says he was reasonably calm. He listened to all the medical stuff, took the name of an AIDS counselor-who, incidentally, he never contacted-told his doctor he’d beat the virus and he was convinced a cure was around the corner, and went off into the sunset. His doctor never saw him again.”
“He may have gone to an AIDS clinic where he’d have specialist medical help.”
Bourke ran his hand over his hair. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what it’d be like to walk in, thinking everything was okay, and be told you had a death sentence?”
Carol wondered what
Sounding almost angry, Bourke said, “You say he told Martha Brownlye, but as far as I can see, that’s it. Either he didn’t warn anyone, or they’re keeping quiet about it. The doctor told Raeburn he must warn any sexual partners, whether he practiced safe sex with them or not… it’s not always that safe.”
“There were no needle marks on the body, but he may have used intravenous drugs in the past.”
Bourke’s usually mild voice was harsh. “He was told to contact anyone he’d shared needles with, if he ever had.”
Puzzled by the suppressed anger in Bourke’s voice, Carol said, “Mark, there’s something here I don’t understand. Have you got a problem with this?”
“Sort of.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want this to go any further.” He looked up at her murmur of protest. “I’m sorry, Carol. It’s just that it’s a little close to home. Pat’s younger brother, actually…” He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “The first he knew is when he got sick, really sick. He’s progressed to early-stage AIDS and his immune system’s stuffed. Tony had pneumonia a few weeks ago, although he seems okay at the moment.”
“Oh, Mark…”
“He’s really still just a kid-he’s in his early twenties.” He added bitterly, “It was an older man, married. He told Tony everything was okay, that he was clean, that it was quite safe. After all, the guy said to Tony, I’m not
“He might not have known.”
Bourke’s face was flushed with anger. “That’s an excuse, is it? Tony’s going to die, Carol, unless some miracle occurs. He won’t ever see thirty. And it’s all because someone just like Collis Raeburn was too selfish or too stupid to take precautions.”
Carol wanted to cool his uncustomary anger. This new Mark Bourke had the uncomfortable shock of the unfamiliar. “Can we get back to Raeburn?”
“Sure.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Sorry-got a bit carried away there.”
“Not at all, Mark. Did Raeburn discuss with his doctor how he caught the virus?”
“Not a word. He listened to the medical advice, refused to answer any personal questions, established the protocol about confidentiality, and left.”
“We could try some of the AIDS clinics.”
“We could, but they have an absolute ban on providing any information that could identify an HIV patient.”
“See what you can dig up, Mark.”
He unfolded himself from the chair. “Okay. But you know no one’s going to want to talk. To lots of people HIV and AIDS are words that are the ultimate obscenities.”
“What’s more obscene,” said Carol, “is that there may be people he slept with who are infected, and don’t know it.”
Carol noticed that Anne Newsome seemed to be treating her with unusual deference. As their car was waved through the gate at the Sydney Opera House, she glanced over at the young constable. Her short curly hair and olive skin shone with health and suppressed energy. Carol said mildly, “Perhaps I’m wrong, but you seem to be treating me with rather elaborate courtesy.”
Anne didn’t bother to dissemble. Grinning, she said, “Thought you’d bite my head off if I didn’t.”
“That bad, eh?”
An anxiously obsequious official was waiting for them under the illuminated STAGE DOOR sign. This inappropriate appellation marked the cavernous entrance to the Opera House basement that was barred by a boom gate and flanked by a glass-walled room with uniformed security officers and an elaborate console of lights indicating the status of all areas of the building.
