After Ariel: It started as a game (3 page)

Strangely, I have never met Rezanov who had studied at the Queensland Conservatorium a couple of years ahead of me. A somewhat Godly figure, he had been revered by all, surrounding himself with the most attractive of the students. Then he began to make a name for himself by winning the Sydney International Piano Competition which enabled him to enjoy the more glamorous aspects of what society had to offer and it wasn’t long before he headed off permanently overseas to further his career. By the time I arrived in London, he had established himself on the international stage, and since then his fame had grown. Recordings, concerts – he’d played for the highest in every land.

‘We’re supposed to be rehearsing the Haydn tomorrow morning. If you can’t come then, there might be a chance after the concert, but from what I’ve heard on the grapevine he’ll be crotch-deep in groupies.’ My sarcasm drew a startled glance from Goldie as we pulled up in front of her parent’s house.

  ‘I have things to do in the morning. What a bummer!’ She shrugged and turned off the engine.

‘You can come backstage after the concert and I can introduce you then, if we can find the bugger.’ If Goldie accompanies me to the concert, I don’t like even
her
chances of storming his citadel. My agent, Ann, said:
‘He’s a sexual predator. You girls should keep a safe distance from that young man,
’ When I told my friend, Ally, she screamed with laughter. ‘Thirty centimetres would be about right! Anyway, eighteen to twenty year old teenies are his preference. We’re too old, Pammie!’
Twenty-eight is too old for another twenty-eight year old?

Rezanov tends to remain in his dressing room until the last possible moment before his performance and vaporizes immediately the curtain falls on his last bow, if his agent and the management don’t catch him and haul him out to meet his fans. No doubt the sponsors get a tad restless from time to time. I must admit I’m curious about this woman-magnet who apparently dispenses his favours liberally. From his publicity photos, I can see what they’re raving about. Gorgeous, two metres tall and brilliant, from all accounts he’s a sexual hurricane. I promise Goldie I will do my best to introduce her.

‘Please God, the idiot won’t bring another artist along with him,’ I muttered, remembering a celebrity percussionist who spent all his free time frolicking with his partner, a blonde clarinettist whose boobs had the eyes of all the men in the orchestra – even the gays – sticking out like the proverbial organ stops. We women couldn't figure out how she managed to get her arms in front of her to play, but the unkindest cut of all was the undeniable fact that she is a fine musician.

‘Now you’re talking!’ Grinning with anticipation, Goldie leapt out of the car, slung her handbag over her shoulder, snatched her exotic shopping bags and headed for her parent’s front gate. ‘Mum’s expecting us to have coffee and then we can go home or out to the pub. Whatever you like! We’ll leave your things in the car for now.’

I retrieved my flute case and laptop before some weasel stole them. The front door opened and my uncle and aunt surged out to greet us. All talk of Rezanov and the concert was put on hold while we had coffee and scoffed the cakes for which Goldie’s mum is renowned. Comfortably round, my mother’s younger sister fits neatly under the armpit of her husband. Every time I look at her face under strong, dark brows, hazel eyes and thick, fair hair, I see my mother staring back at me.

‘Pam...
Pam?
’

‘No more, thanks, Fiona,’ I started to gather up crockery, which she took from me with a no-nonsense wave of her hand.

 As Goldie and her father argued amiably about nothing in particular, I took the opportunity to look around. It was a long time since I had visited and nothing had changed. The wall was still covered with decorative plates painted with everything from portraits of the Royal Family, to flowers, landscapes and kittens. I am reasonably sure the curtains over the windows were the same lace rose-embossed ones. A huge urn of dried leaves stood in a corner.

Millicent, Fiona’s beloved cat slept on a footstool, her long tabby legs dangling over the side. From time to time, she half opened her eyes, flexed her front paws and looked toward the kitchen. When my aunt came back, Millicent, who always has an eye to the main chance, staked her claim to a comfortable lap.

My mind returned as always before a concert, to the program I am to perform. Haydn’s Flute Concerto would be my major work, but the Schubert – Shepherd on a Rock – was to be performed with Rezanov. Hopefully, the audience would call for at least one encore, and for that I’d chosen Dance of the Blessed Spirits, a huge favourite not only of mine but audiences as well. Fiona returned and interrupted my thoughts by joining in with my cousin and her father’s discussion about Goldie’s next job and whether she will ever go back to a war zone. It was not long, however, before their attention turned back to me.

‘So, you’re ready for the concert tomorrow night?’ Alex fished out a massive handkerchief with which he proceeded to clean his spectacles. Millicent turned around in Fiona’s aproned lap, puddling her paws while her mistress waited for her to settle.

‘Yes, I have to go over there in the morning and rehearse. It’s only a matter of running through the program and rehearsing one piece with the pianist.’ I hoped no one would ask me about him.

Fiona looked concerned. ‘You really
are
over your stage fright, aren’t you, dear?’

‘Yes, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Of course, I’ll always be nervous before a performance, but at least I can get onto the stage without throwing up.’

‘Fancy being able to fix something like that!’ For my aunt, hypnosis comes under the heading of witchcraft. ‘Who’s on the program with you? I know you told me, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.’

After I mentioned Rezanov, she looked at me with concern. ‘You mean the one who’s always on the tellie and in the paper with models hanging off him? Only last week, he had that Princess who was over here opening something – whatever her name is – besotted with him.’ She waved her hands, as she tried to remember the name of some minor royal.

‘Yes, Fiona, but don’t worry, I’m too old for him. He only likes teenagers.’

‘Oh dear, one of those is he?’Alex chimed in. The expression on his face said he was not sure whether to be relieved that I am too old or disgusted because the man in question likes younger women.

‘He’s not a dirty
old
man; he’s a dirty
young
one! He’s only the same age as me.’

‘Have you spoken to your mother lately?’ Fiona changed the subject. Something in her voice alerted me to a hidden agenda. ‘Er...no, not for a week or so. Why?’I knew mum was about to undergo an operation for cancer.

‘Well, you should because I think she’s sicker than she’s letting on. It’s not what she said, more what she didn’t say. I know my sister and when she’s covering something up.’

 ‘We know she’s having the op on Monday, but could it be worse than she’s saying? Or is something wrong with John?’ My mother married a widowed, retired Senior Constable only six months previously and had never been happier.

‘I don’t know, but the sooner you get home to her the better, dear. Are you two coming back here for tea, Goldie?’

My cousin glanced at me. ‘Want to come back for tea or shall we go to the pub?’

I let the idea run through my mind. Knowing Goldie’s capacity to hold liquor, I decided discretion was the better part of valour. ‘Thanks for the invite, Fiona, but I need to get up early and I’m rather tired.’ I turned to Goldie. ‘Perhaps we could get a takeaway and knock off a bottle of ‘Red Ned’ at your place?’

She lived a few streets away from her parents in a refurbished workman’s cottage. I would be staying for a couple of nights until my own unit became vacant on Saturday morning.

*

Goldie’s 1930s cottage was more of a two-storeyed home, painted a pale lemon, topped by a dark grey roof and with leadlight windows, behind a small lawn surrounded by tall shrubs. Because she is gone for months at a time, she prefers to keep her garden simple, knowing that her parents will be looking after it. She opened the glossy dark grey front door, stepped over the threshold and hurled her keys into a wide, shallow pottery dish on a side table. The natural light of a summer evening showed that nothing had changed since my last visit. 

Goldie’s decor revealed her penchant for all things big and garish – like herself, but in a comfortable way. The snug lounge room was, as always, strewn with newspapers and books, her small piano stood in the corner near the window next to a desk on which her laptop sat open, surrounded by papers and piles of what appeared to be photographs. A few crudely carved souvenirs of donkeys and camels decorate the tops of bookshelves. Of her numerous awards, there was no sign. Family photos adorn the walls and the top of a dresser. On the wall above the fireplace is a stunning portrait of Parry Reynolds.

He was large enough to make my cousin appear petite, and I knew him to have been beautiful outside
and
within. My heart ached for her, as I tore my gaze away from his twinkling dark eyes and smiling, perfect mouth. Their love for each other was supposed to keep them safe. Goldie’s gaze travelled to Parry’s photo then swung back to me. ‘I’ll never find what Parry and I gave each other, Pammie. Sometimes I wish I could just lift that slab and melt down into the coffin with him.’ Great tears tumbled down her cheeks, falling to her shirt front. 

The old adage ‘Time heals all wounds’ flitted through my mind, but for once, I managed to keep my big fat mouth shut. ‘There’s nothing I can say to lighten the load, Goldie, but I’m always here to listen and give you a hug when you need it.’

Our hands entwined. We stayed motionless for a moment or two, before she pulled gently away. ‘Come on, let’s get you settled.’

We lugged my backpack and case up the narrow winding stairs to the guest room. Nothing had changed in the year or so since I last stayed there – the bedspread screaming red, the sheets black. The prints on the walls embody all that is animal and mineral; original wildlife paintings hang from the walls. The bathroom will be totally stark white and the black claw-footed bath deep and comfortable, and no doubt the towels would match the bedspread!

Resisting the impulse to throw myself onto the queen-sized bed and stare at the ceiling, I grabbed a change of clothing and my toiletry bag.

There was no premonition, no feeling of urgency – nothing, in fact, to warn me that a chain of events had been set in motion that would change my life forever.

CHAPTER 3

Suspicions

Detective Inspector Susan Prescott

Friday, 4.30PM

Grant Winslow went down in a shower of Kevlar vests and testosterone with a police dog hanging off his bum. We congratulated our hairy colleague as he swung joyfully on a wad of white cotton held by his grinning handler, after which my partner, Detective Senior Sergeant Evan Taylor, and I prepared to head back to Police Headquarters. We’d been down the street talking to an informant when the excitement broke out, and stopped to admire the capture.

Some people never learn and Grant, the shiny little Granny Smith of his wealthy parent’s eyes, is an excellent example. Having started his career in primary school roaming the streets after dark, stealing whatever he could get his hands on – car parts, hardware, from convenience stores – dear Grant graduated through partying, drunken brawling to ‘minor’ assault. No doubt he was into his fair share of drugs as well. The paramedics loaded him into an ambulance with an economy of long practice, ignoring his screaming invective, to cart him off to hospital where he would, no doubt, jump the never-ending queue of the honestly afflicted and be
ushered immediately into the care of emergency doctors.

Weariness and a deep feeling of futility swept over me. It had been one of those afternoons when you know you’re middle aged. How do you convey to idiots like Winslow that the path they have chosen will haunt them for the rest of their lives? He’d been given every opportunity, including numerous interventions and a prolonged spell at boot camp for juvenile offenders. The courts sympathised when they heard how a perceived lack of love from his devoted parents had twisted his tiny mind, so with the help of their money which hired a Rottweiler of a lawyer, and Grant’s ability to melt the hearts of magistrates with his angelic face, he had gotten away with his crimes because he was still technically a juvenile. One day he would go too far and kill someone and then Grant would be
my
team’s problem.

Robbery of a bottle shop was not going to be as easy to skim over. The un-sporting owner had put up a fight and in the process, fallen and hit his head on a chair. Grant grabbed as much of the money as he could and fled through a nearby park into a shopping centre. Such was his arrogance that the Dog Squad caught up with him strolling nonchalantly through the alley to the rear. Finally realising he’d been sprung he’d bolted up the side of a dumpster. Big mistake.

‘What do you reckon the little shit’ll get this time?’

Apart from the TV News vans, the mêleé in the alley had attracted quite a large group of office workers and retail staff. Many had paused on the overhead bridge, from whence they had a good vantage point across the main street. Mobile phone cameras recorded the drama, texting fingers flew; life had never been so exciting.

Evan rolled his eyes. ‘With any luck, a hundred years, but when have they ever had any success with that little drongo? A hundred days’d be better than nothing.’

‘Well, let’s see how Sinclair gets him off this one. Grant’ll be seventeen soon, so he won’t be able to get away with it for much longer! Let me out at the front of the shop, please Evan. I want to see Amanda before I go up.’ 

Evan pulled into the curb at the front doors of Police HQ and drove off to stash the car in the car park. I threaded through the myriad bustling for the railway station, dodging to avoid those vigorously texting, and scurried up the steps. The usual crowd of police and public had thinned. I had no trouble spotting my good friend, Amanda Sinclair, coming toward me through the ‘cattle-grid’ As she slapped her ID on the scanner and pushed through the turnstile, her eyes lit up. ‘Susan! I was going to ring you!’