After Ariel: It started as a game (30 page)

Tuesday, 11.30AM

I drove to the Solicitor’s office in the West End CBD much lighter of heart. A newspaper stand with a photo of a pretty dark-haired girl on the cover: “
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?”
in banner headlines above it, was the first thing I noticed as I parked the car. A large photo was at the bottom of the page with a small one of me beside it. The caption, Celebrity  Journalist’s Cousin Says...’
Bloody hell!

The article went on to say that: “Pianist, Pamela Miller, fresh from her triumph at the Concert Hall on Saturday night stated that she had no idea who might have murdered her cousin. ‘I just found her after the concert,’ she said.’ I’d said no such thing. I wanted to find the reporter and rip his throat out. All artists like publicity but this was sick. Forcing back tears, I turned my attention to the young girl. The longer I examined her face, the more familiar it became. Had she been at the concert the other night? Perhaps she’d asked me for an autograph.

The offices of Sytch, Grimly and Sytch were quite a glamorous arrangement. Numerous oil paintings adorned the walls; a couple of vases packed with brightly coloured flowers caught the eye. A likely contender for the Miss World title, who didn’t look as though she was prepared to finish talking on the phone any time soon, occupied the reception desk. I sat in one of the armchairs and took out my Kindle. When she finally stopped talking, I ignored her, a ploy which didn’t go down very well.

‘Can I help you?’
If you stop yapping long enough you can.

I introduced myself without getting out of the chair.

‘Oh yes, your appointment is for ten thirty. I’ll see if Mr Sytch is available to see you now, Ms Miller,’ she announced coldly. She’d hardly finished speaking when a short, elderly man galloped into the room. A monk’s habit, complete with sandals and he could have played Friar Tuck.

‘Miss Miller! Come in, come in!’

He rushed me into his office, where he settled me into a comfortable chair and bounced around the back of the desk. Having asked if I would like coffee and how, he pressed a button on the intercom and requested Miss World to bring some in. ‘And those nice peanut and chocolate biscuits, too please, Sarah.’

Having offered his condolences on Goldie’s death, he opened a folder on the desk in front of him. ‘Your cousin thought a great deal of you, Miss Miller.’

‘Please call me Pam, Mr Sytch,’ I interjected.

‘Er, thank you, er Pam. She told me that though she only actually met you three years ago, you’d become as close as sisters.’ He coughed, turned a page and after a few more comments, began to read Goldie’s wishes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing – her house, her car, all her possessions, including a pile of investments,  apart from some bequests to her parents and close friends – she’d left to me. ‘But what about her parents?’

‘Oh don’t worry about them, er – Pam. Your cousin was a very rich woman and she made sure they were very comfortably provided for from her superannuation. There is one special request she makes of you...that the portrait of Parry Reynolds –’ He looked over his spectacles at me – ‘be given to his sister, Elizabeth. Apparently he was very close to her.’

I almost collapsed with relief. ‘Oh yes, I would be happy to do that. I really liked Elizabeth though I only met her once. She’s lovely. ’

Mr Sytch beamed. ‘That she is. Right, now we’ll get down to business, shall we?’

The coffee, delivered by the sulky Sarah was very welcome, but I hoped she hadn’t spat in mine. The solicitor explained that Goldie had expressed a wish to be cremated and that her parents arrange the funeral service and wake, jobs I was relieved to have them do.

Mr Sytch went on to ask about Goldie’s and my families, expressing surprise and pleasure when I told him that we had lived in Townsville and the close connection I had with Ally and Master’s Island. Thorough, but kindly questioning brought out most of my childhood in minutes. ‘Oh yes, my wife and I are great fans of Ally Carpenter. We went to the concert she and her husband put on in London last year.’ He took a great gulp of coffee. ‘We have several of their recordings. I have a couple of yours too, er Pam, the Tranquillity and Wandering with Schubert.’

To say I was astounded would be an understatement,

‘And may I add that Iris and I enjoyed
your
concert on Saturday night very much?’ He coughed. ‘It’s such a pity that the night ended that way. Are you recovering from the attack in the park?’He looked pointedly at the dressing peeping out from under my hair.

‘Yes thank you, and I’m glad you enjoyed the concert.’

‘Yes, um...perhaps we’d better get on, eh?’

Exhausted by the time I had signed heaps of papers and the arrangements were explained about probate, I was only too happy to leave. Stunned at the generosity of my cousin, I couldn’t take it all in.

I drove back along the winding street past the park where remnants of checked police tape hung from a tree, but there was nothing else to show where the tragedy had occurred. In my mind, that part of the park would always be synonymous with death.

I had to circle the block umpteen times before a man driving a Jaguar pulled out of a space. I slid in, narrowly missing the tail-light of a Mercedes, and walked quickly to the dress shop where young Tia worked. Smells coming from the bakery next door almost side-tracked me. I paused to peer in the window, salivating at the gorgeous cream cakes and buns displayed. A particularly succulent-looking Bee Sting glistened under the lights. Knowing lunch was just around the corner, I shrugged and moved on. An interesting emerald garment occupied the display case where my glorious golden dress had flaunted itself.

 Loud voices alerted to an argument. I paused in the doorway, wondering whether to venture in but a high-pitched squeal sent me charging inside.

A tall scraggy youth stood over the small shop assistant. As I gaped in horror, he smashed his hand down onto her face.

I lunged for him.

He turned and charged at me.

I whacked him under the chin with my handbag.

He rocked back on his heels, came at me again, roaring at the top of his lungs. 

From nowhere came a long forgotten lesson in self-defence: I slammed the edge of my hand up under his nose.

Bone crunched.

He screamed and stumbled back into one of the elegant, Edwardian-style chairs holding his nose. Blood spurted through his fingers and dripped onto the brocade upholstery.

‘Do dodding bitch! Doov boken be nobe!’

Tough.

Tia looked at me, aghast. ‘Oh no, he’s hurt!’ Her face bore a livid mark where his fist had landed.

‘Is that so?’ I snarled, holding my hand behind my back so he couldn’t see it quivering with pain. My bones ached, but nothing like the agony the youth was going through. The girl came forward and I got a good look at her swollen eye and the large dark bruise on her cheekbone, signs of previous ugliness.

‘
He hit you
!’

She looked frightened. ‘He didn’t mean it!’

‘Oh didn’t he just. I’m going to call the police! He should be arrested for assault.’ I scrabbled in my bag for my phone, but Tia grabbed my arm, raising pleading eyes to mine and whispered, ‘Please Pam, don’t tell anyone. Grant gets so frustrated because he can’t get a job...he caught me talking to that Vladimir Rezanov down the street. All we said was hello and how’s things... but after that the boss’s son came in to fix the catch on the fitting room door and Grant caught me talking to him
as well
. Grant’s very protective...’

Protective?
I latched onto the most innocuous episode. ‘Grant
caught
you talking to the bosses’ son? You’ve got to be kidding. What sort of controlling behaviour is that? Of course you had to talk to him!’

I may as well have been addressing the wall for all the response I got.

Tia took a box of tissues off the counter and moved over to the abuser sitting in the chair, holding his nose, glaring malevolently.
It was no wonder he couldn’t get a job, covered in tattoos with rings in his nose, a silver stud in his cheek and plastic crosses inserted into the lobes of his ears. He needed a good wash and a haircut. But it was more than that. Grant just looked plain
bad
.

We made eye contact. Enraged by the sly hatred in his eyes and aware that only Tia’s presence and the fact that we were in a public place prevented him from attacking me, I stretched to my full height. ‘Come on, you stinking little ferret, just try something.
Anything.’
I swung my bag within his peripheral vision. His gaze flicked to it for a moment and then, muttering something foul, jumped to his feet and lurched out of the shop. I looked at Tia expecting signs of relief, but was disappointed. ‘What did you do that for? Now he’ll hate me!’ she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I put my arm around her and squeezed. ‘Come on, mate. He’ll get over it.’
With any luck he’ll step under a bus and save everyone grief.

She snuffled into a handful of tissues. ‘Oh no, he’s bled all over the chair!’ She flapped her hands, seemingly undecided how to tackle the problem.

‘Have you got any stain remover out the back?’

Her expression brightened. ‘Oh yes, we keep it for any spots that get on the dresses. You know people
will
touch them when they’ve been eating stuff.’ She made as if to dash out into the back room and then remembered her job. ‘I’m sorry, I can do that later.’ She picked up the chair and shoved it through the curtain into the back room. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I have to go to a funeral in a few days and I need something suitable to wear.’

She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried a watery smile. ‘Oh yes it’s your cousin. I’m so sorry, Pam. You’ve had such an awful time and here I am thinking about myself. Debbie and I are still talking about Saturday night. You were so gorgeous in that dress. I told Mrs Marchant, my boss, and she was really pleased with me.’ She looked so happy again that I figured she’d probably received a little extra something for the sale.

Ever the professional assistant, Tia sprang into action. ‘I’m sure we have a few outfits which might suit you.’ She began skimming dresses along the racks, red, green, blue, the complete spectrum.

As I started every woman’s nightmare, or happy hour depending on one’s perspective, I forced back tears. Goldie should have been here, sitting outside waiting to inspect each outfit, screaming ‘Get it off, it looks foul!’ Even thoughts of Anthony Hamilton couldn’t comfort me. I finally settled on a dark purple wrap-around dress and toning crystal earrings. Although I was tempted to buy new accessories, I decided to go with my good black pumps and handbag with the silver clasp. Unfortunately, the dress needed the hem raised just a bit.

‘When is the funeral?’ lisped Tia, through a mouthful of pins as she crawled around the floor, seemingly oblivious to the new swelling on her cheek. I wondered what her employer would have to say about her appearance, realising that Tia couldn’t have realised the implications of what it might do to her job.

‘I don’t know. Probably not until next week.’
Oh my God, I didn’t need to get involved in a brawl, today of all days.

‘We’ll have it taken up straightaway and it’ll be ready to pick up tomorrow afternoon.’ She processed my severely strained debit card, still sniffing. ‘You
will
come back sometime, apart from to collect the dress? Please?’

‘Of course I will. I’ll be going overseas soon for a concert series, but I live just around the corner, so to speak! I’ll see you again.’ I reached over the counter and took her hand. ‘And Tia, seriously consider shedding Grant. It’s not a relationship which is going to turn out well. He’s an abuser and it’s only going to get worse. Do you understand?’

She promised to think about it, but I could see I hadn’t made much of an impression. Regretting that I hadn’t insisted on ringing the police, I drove off to meet up with Lance Macpherson and the group. Something told me that things were about to go downhill for the girl.

CHAPTER 32

The Luncheon

Pam

Tuesday, 1.30PM

I ran my hand over the car, unable to believe that this beautiful piece of machinery – a GTI Golf, something I couldn’t have afforded in a fit –
was mine, thanks to the generosity of Goldie. How had she felt when she made out her will only a few months ago? Had she an inkling that it would be read so soon and that this vehicle would be the one referred to in her will as “my current car”? No, but a journalist whose everyday life involved ducking bullets, bombs and the Judiciary all around the world, would have been well aware that the next job could be the last.

Goldie’s stoic acceptance of Parry’s funeral flashed into my mind. As the graveside service ended, she’d taken one last look at the flowers piled beside the casket, its silver handles glittering in the pale morning sun, waiting for the vicar to press the button for the descent into the grave. She’d touched the gleaming wood lightly and then nodded. As soon as the casket with its sad cargo descended into the depths, she turned away. ‘Right, that’s it then. Let’s get through the wake as quickly as we can. I have to catch a plane tonight.’

I knew her bravado cloaked an agony so deep that she couldn’t express it, and as I watched her greeting his family and friends – and holding his weeping mother in her arms – without letting her facade crack once, I knew she would throw herself into the first war she could get to. I shivered, remembering a time a couple of years ago, when Goldie talked about that very thing. We’d been to dinner one freezing night in London, come home and sat in front of a roaring fire, talking about everything in our futures and of course, our pasts. Goldie had never spoken about losing the love of her life until then, but her tongue perhaps loosened by a bottle of Scotch she reminisced once about Parry’s passing, an event I remembered well.