After Ariel: It started as a game (12 page)

‘Oh come on, Rezanov. It would be worse if
no one
bothered to wait for you, wouldn’t it? Then you’d have something to
really
pout about.’

He glared at me. ‘You love this, don’t you? The applause...the...’ words appeared to fail him.

‘Of course I do. If it weren’t for these people I wouldn’t have a career and neither would you, mate!’

He was silent for a moment then snapped, ‘Are you dating that idiot?’

‘Which idiot are you talking about? Is there another one in the building other than  yourself?’

‘Seymour.’

‘Is he an idiot per se, or have you got it in for him because he called your bluff when you threw a tantie this morning?’

He had the good grace to look sheepish and a tinge of red darkened his gorgeous face. ‘Ah, no, of course not.
Are
you going out with him?’

‘I’ll go out with him if he asks me. Not that it’s any of your business!’ The lift doors slid open and we stepped in. I leaned against the back wall, concentrating on the level numbers – as you do.

‘Is what Seymour said about you true?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That you could have taken my place in the concert tonight?’

I didn’t want to admit just how long ago it was since I’d chosen the flute professionally instead of the piano and that now I only accompanied other musicians or played for fun. ‘Well, I
have
given a few piano recitals, but I’ve heard Seymour himself could have played the concert if he wanted. He joins an ensemble from time to time.’

He stared into my face for what felt like forever, then grunted and broke eye contact. I thought I saw a smidgeon of relief on his face. Hiding a smile, I stepped ahead of him into the foyer to the applause of what seemed like hundreds of people. Within seconds we were swamped by well-wishers anxious to discuss the performance and obtain autographs.

Ally and Brie arrived at my side and we hugged until our breath left us. Ally was so excited that her words tumbled over each other. They congratulated me and Ally screamed enthusiastically over my dress. Brie rolled his eyes when his wife chortled over my shoes. ‘You were wonderful, Pammy! You’re still
coming to supper in the city after this aren’t you? We’ve been looking forward to it.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ve been looking forward to it too. When did you get here? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming to
this
concert?’

‘We didn’t want to spoil the surprise, Pammy darling.’

‘Where’s the brats?’ I asked referring to their over-active two year old twin sons.

‘Oh, Brie’s parents have them for the night!’

I thought about that for a moment. Ally and Brie’s identical twins are reminiscent of Kipling’s Bandarlog – much given to pelting each other with fruit and falling to fighting amongst themselves. Ally’s eyes twinkled. She knew me well. ‘Don’t worry, Lara’s there too. We’ll wait for you to finish up here and take you in with us.’

I laughed. Brie’s sister is more than a match for the boys. ‘I have Goldie’s car tonight. I’ll just ask her if she wants to come as well,’ I said, casting my eyes around the room.

With a cheery wave, the two of them vanished to the bar. Signing what appeared to be the last of hundreds of programs, I was still looking for my cousin, when Goldie materialised at my side. ‘Pammy, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. Harry had to leave at the beginning because they found a body in West End in the park near your place. I went with him. Will you forgive me?’
Harry?

A tiny intake of breath nearby alerted me to something not quite right, but Goldie touched me on the arm to keep my attention and continued. ‘A young girl. Harry Brown, my mate on the Courier Mail, got the heads-up from one of the cops that they think she might have been
crushed
to death.’ Horror lurked in her eyes, but I knew that Goldie, ever the reporter, couldn’t have resisted going with him.

‘I hope they find out who did it. Her poor family.’ We shared a moment of sorrow, before I was distracted.

‘Pam, can you come with me, please? The directors want a photo with you and Vlad.’ Bill Seymour was suddenly standing beside me, looking from Goldie to me in confusion. I hastened to introduce them. He was very gracious, but he led me away before I could say anything more. 

The directors and sponsors stood with their Gucci-clad, bejewelled wives in the centre of the foyer, beaming with triumph and alcohol-fuelled good will. Rezanov, who had also been rounded up, was standing beside the young conductor, Lance MacPherson; both looked about to bolt. Their eyes latched onto my waist as Bill gently guided me toward them. Rezanov snorted and glared at us; Lance glanced at him thoughtfully and then back at me. The Russian opened his mouth, but thankfully, before trouble could break out, the directors were upon us and we were shunted into position for the official photo, which would no doubt appear in the Sunday paper supplement.

I couldn’t wait to get away from the fuss, so when Goldie rushed up to me and said she was off home – she would catch up with Ally and Brie tomorrow – and would catch a taxi I was relieved. Now I could leave too. She was gone before I could suggest she take her car; I would get Ally and Brie to take me back to the house after supper.

Autograph hunters and members of the orchestra distracted me. When I finally came up for air, Rezanov, Seymour and Macpherson had left, presumably womanising in the city.

CHAPTER 12

Unravelling

Dingo

Saturday, 11PM

It was the photographer! He looked closely at the beautiful woman talking to the flautist, a great lump of ice forming in his chest, travelling into his belly. Had she recognised
him
? No, all her attention had been on Pamela Miller. They looked like sisters – perhaps they were. Whatever, Pamela obviously knew the woman well and now he had that to worry about too. Long schooled at hiding his feelings, he kept his expression under control, but before he had decided what to do, she headed for the front doors of the complex. Goldie was her name; at least he’d gotten that much information.

Sliding through the crowd, Dingo hurried after her, trying
not to look as though he was in pursuit. What if she had a car?
Out of my way, you old bags!
Restraining the urge to push a gossiping pair of matrons aside, he dashed down the steps after her.
Must keep back, she’ll see me.

That the woman might have downloaded the photos of the park didn’t occur to him; all he could think about was how he could get the camera. He realised that he was getting too close, but just as he was about to let her get ahead, she hailed a taxi. Thinking quickly, he held his program up, angled so that the streetlight fell across it, as though trying to read the print.

Her words came clearly through the night. ‘13A Geroge.’ With that, she climbed into the cab and was gone. He couldn’t believe it. On the one hand, he’d lodged in Geroge Street as a student. It wasn’t far from the hotel and about two kilometres from where Ariel lived
– had lived.
On the other, it was
number thirteen
. Terror swept through him. How could he possibly...
tennineeightseven
...he had to take hold of himself, regardless of the number. It was just a number, right?

Adrenalin pumped through his veins. He saw a bus coming toward him. From living in the area previously as a student, he knew that route would take him to the bottom end of the suburb. He whipped his bow tie off and stuffed it in his pocket, undid the top two buttons of his shirt and ruffled his hair. At least he looked as though he’d been out for the night, perhaps to dinner or the pub.

There were only two people on the bus, but he kept his head down, ostensibly reading the program in his hand. The bus driver had been talking to someone outside the window as he got on and hadn’t even seen him use his Go Card. He had to talk his way into the photographer’s home and get that camera.

In spite of his compulsive obsessive disorder – or because of it – Dingo was able to compartmentalise his thoughts. He was proud of that. Ariel, as per his therapist’s instructions on how to handle problems, was now neatly packaged into a box he called “Grief,” to be dealt with if or when it arose again. The foremost box which required attention was the matter of the photos, which would put him with Ariel just before she...got into her box.

Murderers always return to the scene of the crime, he’d read somewhere, but he had no urge to do so. Right then, his concentration was on keeping control of himself and of the situation.
As long as there was an even number of everything in his immediate surroundings, he could cope.
He put his head down and walked as fast as he dared, careful not to attract attention.

Ten minutes later, he stopped a short way from the photographer’s two-storey, ‘tarted-up’ workman’s cottage. The street light was out, but he could see the chocolate-box-pretty building very well. Standing in the shadow of a tall shrub on the footpath beside the front gate, he thought about how to tackle his mission. Go straight up and ring the front door bell? Maybe wait until the lights went out and then break in. Did she have a pet? That could be a problem. He didn’t know what to do about a dog, because he couldn’t bear to hurt one.

Disheartened, Dingo found himself counting to keep his courage up. He’d got to two hundred when all but one of lights went out downstairs, and after a moment or two, the upstairs light went on. He craned his head and checked the height of the balcony against the brick wall on the right hand side. Yes, it was doable, but she needed to settle down first. His heart quailed at the idea of scrambling up the fence and climbing onto the roof. There had to be another way.

He slithered closer and peered along the garden fence, noting there was no gate into the back yard, only straight pathway all the way. A woman’s voice nearby startled him. Heart pounding, he shrank back into the shadows, fingering the tiny penlight in his pocket.
Always be prepared, my darling...
He squeezed the barrel of the torch.
Shut up
you old bag.

The voice faded and he realised it was coming from the block of units to the left of the cottage. A light in the downstairs unit went out and silence fell. Could he introduce himself as friend of Pam? Or perhaps as a member of the Pacific Orchestra who wanted to catch up with Pam? No, that wouldn’t work. What if she phoned Pam to ask...maybe the best way was just to walk up to the door and enquire if someone else lived there. Perhaps she’d ask him in? No, she wouldn’t invite a stranger inside her house at this hour. Then he had an idea. He walked swiftly to the front gate of the units to where rows of letterboxes lined the wall. Cupping his hand over the beam, he shone the tiny light onto the names: Henderson, Wright, Meadows, Matthews – any one of those would do.

He looked up and down the street; no one in sight. Both buildings on either side of the cottage were in darkness and there was no sight or sound of dogs.  He was pretty sure that if Goldie had a dog she would have let it out before closing up for the night. Right, Plan B –  knock on the door. He placed his hand on the front gate and his heart almost leapt out of his chest.
Number13!

What to do what to do
...? Dingo stepped back and fled behind the shrub. Had to be even or something terrible would happen! And
thirteen
as well...he squatted in the shadows and tried to calm himself.
Surely, he couldn’t be so unlucky.
When he felt able, he crept back to the gate.
Number 13A!
Where was 13B? He moved along the footpath keeping to the grass so that his shoes made no sound on the pavement. As he reached the boundary of 13A, a sigh of relief escaped him. Goldie’s cottage and the one next to it shared a driveway, so logic would have to indicate that it would be 13B – and twice thirteen was twenty-six! An even number; he was safe. It was okay to proceed.

He hurried back to the front gate and stepped inside the fence. There was a light on in the downstairs front room; the curtains were slightly ajar. He moved to the window and peered in. It was a comfortable room, with what appeared to be a luxurious three-seater lounge, a fireplace over which was the shadowy portrait of a man. A large screen TV stood across the corner near a glass-fronted cabinet full of china. A serving hatch opened into the dark room beyond, perhaps a kitchen or dining room.

His gaze alighted on a table at the far end of the room. A vase of flowers stood to one side and in the middle, a
camera.
He didn’t know anything about them, but this one looked very professional; a bag and tripod lay beside the instrument. Quivering with fear and excitement, he watched as the woman came into the room and froze, barely breathing as she gathered up the camera, folded the portable tripod and packed them both into the bag. A swift glance around and she went to a side table and dimmed the table lamp, gathered up the bag and left the room, closing the door after her. Realising she was heading for the stairs, Dingo leapt to the door and knocked.

He sensed her surprise and indecision. ‘Who is it?’

He cleared his throat and held his hand up to his mouth to muffle his voice. ‘It’s Kevin Matthews from the block of units next door. There’s been a prowler and I need to speak to you!’ 

He stood slightly to the side of the door, so she would be forced to come across the threshold. There was a long pause before the latch was unfastened and Goldie came forward to greet her neighbour.

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re –’
Oh yes, she recognised him!

Dingo slapped his hand over her mouth with one hand, grabbed her by the neck with the other and propelled her back into the house, kicking the door shut. The bag thumped to the floor behind her.

‘I won’t hurt you if you keep still!’ he hissed. She writhed and lashed at him with her feet. It was like holding a wildcat. He yelped as her teeth clamped onto his finger. Incandescent, all consuming fury exploded in his brain.