After Ariel: It started as a game (25 page)

He shuffled to the bathroom, bent like an old man where he used the facility and stood gazing at his reflection, holding the back of the toilet trying to remain upright. No one looking at him would guess he’d actually...
killed
...no, not really
killed.
It was an accident. Truly, an accident. Both of them.

He stuffed Ariel and Marigold Humphries back in their box and pushed the baby in after them.
Tennnine...eightsevensixfivefourthreetwo one
...carefully folded his clothes into his bag, taking extreme care to make sure the edges were perfectly aligned, and that blue lay next to red, white next to black – and that the number of garments were even in number. There was no point in staying at the hotel anymore; he might go to his own unit that afternoon.

Dingo showered and dressed – jeans, black shirt, joggers and a hoodie. Carefully counting the stairs, he went down for breakfast, feeling as though he’d been run down by a Mack truck. Fivefourthreetwoone... he placed his backpack against the wall behind the corner table where his back was protected, and headed for the cereal. He had to turn up at the orchestra headquarters soon. He could use one of the practice rooms there and let off some steam before he exploded. Not having been able to play his music for the last couple of days was sending him crazy. No musician worth his salt would miss practice if he could still breathe.

He scooped cornflakes into a dish, gathered up utensils and turned to help himself to milk and sugar, only to come face to face with a pile of newspapers.

“
Who Killed Goldie
?”

A striking photo of the photo-journalist took up most of the page. Underneath he recognised a smaller one of Pam, obviously taken during the concert Saturday night. He let out slow breath. Those shoes were enough to give a bloke a restless night on their own.

Five...four...three...two...one...
he took a deep breath, set his plate down, slowly poured milk over his cereal and then sprinkled one teaspoon of sugar on top. Keeping the memory of those shoes at bay was hard work. He moved swiftly back to his table, trying not to make eye contact with the few people still savouring their coffee and newspaper.

In the far corner, a woman in a suit sat at a table facing him, eating her breakfast. He sensed the interest in her gaze and slowly turned his back to avoid any possibility of eye contact. With great effort, he focused on the morning to come, enumerating in his mind the sequence of events in store. Check out and catch a taxi to the Pacific Orchestra headquarters and speak to the manager about the next concert...it would be good to be back there. Then he would head back to the Concert Hall.

The Pacific Orchestra headquarters was built to last, but had an elegant entrance with the name of the company embossed on the front. A tall potted plant with thin dark leaves stood in the corner of the modern reception area. On a notice board were lists of names and some flyers advertising forthcoming concerts.
Down Ariel...ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

A girl with long dark hair, heavily made-up eyes and a t-shirt just skimming the top of her lightly tanned breasts, sat behind the desk. He could see the demarcation line of what was either orangey make-up or artificial tan just above the satin ribbon banding the edge of the fabric. Beaded chunky turquoise earrings dangled from short rounded lobes. His eyes widened as her pointed pink tongue flicked over her bright red lips and disappeared, leaving them gleaming in the fluorescent overhead lighting.

She was the goods, all right. Sensing his presence, she glanced up under her lashes and flicked the tip of her pink tongue over her lips again. Before he could speak, she stood up, twitched her t-shirt down over her slim hips and walked into a back office. Her tiny skirt barely covered her arse.

Initial excitement turned to disappointment and then, a snake poised to strike; rage gathered inside. He placed his backpack on the floor.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five...
if she didn’t come back by the time he got to ten...
so what will you do, Dingo? Shut up, Ariel.

She came back, smiling this time, well aware of the shit-storm she’d stirred. The plastic label on the front of her t-shirt proclaimed “Cynthia.” ‘Hi, you’re back! And –’ she looked over his shoulder – ‘and if I’m not mistaken, here’s our new percussionist. Hi fellas! Mr – ?’ She focused on the newcomer who grinned and gave his name, Craig Douglas.

Cynthia ticked it off and glanced flirtatiously back at Dingo as if to reinforce the notion that she was irresistible
.
It didn’t work. He was too busy keeping Ariel and Goldie from getting out of their boxes. 

‘Come with me, gentlemen. Mr Gregson is waiting for
you
.’ Throwing a barbed glance at Dingo, Cynthia turned her attention to Douglas, beckoning him to enter the office through a side door. Swinging her hips and well aware of their gaze on her skinny backside and long, tanned legs, Cynthia led the way down a side hallway to the Human Resources office where two older women working on computers glanced up briefly, smiled and went back to what they were doing. 

‘Someone will be along to take you on a tour of the building, show you where everything is and then you’ll come back here and receive your swipe card for entry into the place. You’ll need to read information on the emergency exits and things.’ Briefly, she glanced at Dingo, before switching her attention back to his companion.

He fumed. His business with the Pacific Symphony manager was far more important than the orientation of an additional musician. Of course, he realised Douglas was new cannon fodder for her to try her wiles on having been unsuccessful with himself the previous season.  He forced himself to relax.
Don’t show them you’re upset...

Just then the new manager, Gregson, arrived and introduced himself to Craig Douglas, advising that he would be the guide for the newcomer’s orientation. ‘We’re not due to meet until tomorrow actually, but I’m glad I could be here to show you around.’

Gregson’s face lit up when he saw Dingo; he moved across to shake hands.

‘Pleased to meet you. How can we help?’

‘I was hoping to use a rehearsal room.’ 

‘Ah, sure. Cynthia, a rehearsal room available?’

Cynthia’s pout and nod indicated just what she thought of Dingo. ‘It’s free until twelve o’clock, Mr Gregson.’ She shot a come-hither glance at the newcomer, Douglas.

Gregson glanced at his watch. ‘We have a meeting, so can you amuse yourself for a while with Cynthia, Craig? I won’t be long.’

Douglas’ eyes lit up; Cynthia licked her lips again.

Chuckling, Gregson flicked an amused glance at Dingo and they headed for the manager’s office.  Dingo followed reluctantly, counting the steps it took to get there, longing to finish their business and head for the practice room for it was though his music that he could find peace and maintain his equilibrium. After that, he’d have to get over to the Concert Hall and behave normally.

Control was everything.

CHAPTER 25

Aftermath

Susan

Monday, 3.45PM

Hamilton was just pulling into a park when I arrived at West End station. We walked in together, immediately identifying the middle-aged couple standing in front of the counter.

‘She didn’t answer the phone at home, Roger, and her handbag’s there. She wouldn’t leave home without it, but her mobile phone’s gone.’  Judging by the long-suffering expression on the face of the man who was standing beside her, she’d been saying it ad infinitum. Tall and hefty, with silver hair, the husband stood with his hands in his pockets and a belligerent expression on his face.

‘Now look here, Jean, you’ve made your point. She’s just being irresponsible, that’s all. She’s taken her mobile and gone out somewhere, probably with her girlfriends.’ He looked apologetically at the desk sergeant with a “bloody women but what can you do?” roll of the eyes. I wanted to punch him out.

 ‘I’m sorry we’ve troubled you. We’ll go home and wait for her to ring. It was a mistake to come in here.’ He put his hand on his diminutive wife’s arm, obviously preparing to pull her out of the building. It was time to make my move.

 ‘I’m Detective Inspector Prescott and this is Detective Senior Sergeant Hamilton. May we help you?’

The woman almost fell on us, repeating over and over what we’d just heard her say. My heart sank. I had a strong feeling that they were our Jane Doe’s parents. Before I could ask for a photo of their girl, the desk officer flashed me a significant look and passed over an A4-sized, framed photo. 

 
Oh yes.
Years of successful policing left me poker-faced. I glanced at the sergeant, who nodded. ‘Number 4, Ma’am.’
Don’t envy me, do you. Nothing but devastation for them.

I turned to the couple and invited them to follow me through the cattle grid, thankful that Anthony Hamilton loomed behind me, a huge comforting figure. Something about the male Maxwell made me uneasy.

We trooped down the hallway in silence and I ushered the parents into an interview room. Cups of tea were sent for and then we encouraged them to tell their story. It seemed that they had gone to Mackay to pick up their youngest son, whose motorbike had broken down, leaving Ariel at home. ‘She’s almost eighteen, so we couldn’t see that it would be a problem,’ her mother explained. ‘Ariel was due to get in on the bus from Sydney – she’s been staying with her cousin, my sister’s daughter – and she was told to stay home on Friday night, no matter what.’ Jean Maxwell cast her eyes down. I knew the look of motherly guilt, having worn it myself often enough. An angry movement from her husband alerted me to how
he
felt. ‘Forgot to ring
her
daughter, didn’t she?’ he snarled. The words he didn’t say hung in the air –
stupid cow.

Her daughter?
‘Is Ariel not your daughter, Mr Maxwell?’

Before he could answer, his wife explained. ‘No, Roger married me when Ariel was a baby but he’s always been her father. Ariel’s father left me when I was pregnant, but she doesn’t know about it. She thinks Roger is her dad. The boys are Roger’s sons from his first marriage.’

‘I see.’ Bristling at Maxwell’s smug, self righteous expression, I tucked the urge to take his head off with a well-used “put down” into the “don’t go there” basket and concentrated on the mother. ‘So when
did
you ring home?’

‘The next morning but there was no answer. I got a text message from her saying she was going to stay with Heather.’
A cousin or girlfriend?

Another cranky reaction from her husband almost started an argument between them. Apparently there was acrimony over whether they should have come home from Mackay straight away. Jean Maxwell said she’d thought something was wrong, Roger insisted they stay and sort out his son and the motorcycle. ‘No point in worrying about the girl,’ he snapped. ‘Teenagers are always irresponsible.’ He folded his arms in the classic defensive position.

‘Wa –
is
Ariel an irresponsible person?’ Anthony chimed in, looking from one to the other.

‘Not normally, but that’s what they do isn’t it? I know she sneaks out to clubs and meets up with boyfriends.’

‘You never told me!’ Jean’s voice rose in outrage.

‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ Her husband was taking no responsibility for his misjudgement.

It was time to step in. ‘What caused you to think something was wrong? Apart from her not answering her phone, that is.’

Jean leaned forward, successfully blotting him out. ‘Inspector, Heather Quinn, Ariel’s friend, died in a car accident over six months ago. She wouldn’t be going to spend time with
her.’

‘She only said she was going to Heather’s, not that she’s going to see
her!
There isn’t only one Heather in the world for chrissakes!’  Maxwell threw us a man’s classic ‘my-wife-is-so-stupid-what-can-I-do?’ look and lifted his hands, palms facing us as though in surrender to the vagaries of Jean’s whims.
You total berk. Can’t you see she’s really frightened? And she’s every right to be this time.

‘Did you call her other friends to see if she’s with them?’

‘Yes and her friend Maggie said she missed a call from Ariel late Friday afternoon, but when she tried to phone back, Ariel’s phone was “switched off or out of range. Carol, her other  best friend said Ariel phoned in Friday afternoon and said she’d be at home on her own Friday night.’

So, who had she linked up with? A boyfriend? Or was it something more sinister? Knowing how incautious young girls can be, trilling their private business and movements when talking on their mobiles, I wondered if a stray male had overheard her. Anthony and I looked cautiously at each other. Who was going to tell them about Jane Doe? I recognised male terror.
You’re right. I should.

‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you that a girl matching Ariel’s description was found dead in a park in West End.’

Jean Maxwell sagged over the table. ‘It can’t be...not Ariel...’ Her husband, shocked, tried to get her to sit up. I stepped out the door and ran into Briony Feldman who sped off to get water. When I turned back, Roger Maxwell was confronting Anthony who was on his feet.

‘I don’t care what you say, it can’t be Ariel. She’s stupid, but not so silly she’d go off with a stranger!’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘She’s not a
bad
girl.’

‘Mr Maxwell, I didn’t say she was and the person may not have been a stranger.’

He took a step backward. ‘But who –?’

‘We’ll need one of you to come with us to the John Tong Centre and view the body. Perhaps Mr Maxwell?’ The husband paled, but still insisted that it couldn’t possibly be Ariel.

His wife whirled to face him. ‘We have to go and look, Roger!
We
know it can’t possibly be Ariel, but we have to help out.’ She nodded decisively. ‘It’s our duty to help the police.’
Uh oh, denial.
It would go harder for her when she saw the body.