After Ariel: It started as a game (20 page)

It was there two checked caps appeared. The elder of the officers took out his notebook. ‘Is she up to answering a few questions? We won't keep her more than a minute or two.’ The medics nodded, so he took out his notebook with a purposeful air, introduced himself and swung into procedures. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his colleague talking to the nurse, Kathleen.

I gave my name and address. ‘I’ve just moved back in there. Well, I’m going back there this afternoon.’

Understandably, the officer looked a little confused. ‘You mean you’re not currently living at your unit, but you’re going to be there from this afternoon?’

‘Yes, that’s what I meant to say. I’ve been away touring. I’m a musician and I just got home on Friday from Sydney. The tenants only left yesterday and the household organisers are – well, were – moving my belongings back in some time this morning.’

The cop nodded and made notes in his book. ‘From the look of the cut you have on your head and size of the lump coming up, you’re not going back anywhere today. Do you feel up to answering some questions? You can make a full statement later.’

I nodded gingerly.

‘Now, did you see who attacked you?’

I explained the sequence of events and then described the hooded man as best I could. The ferocity of the pain made thinking difficult. The officer pressed a little, but when I was unable to add to my statement, he closed his notebook. ‘Maybe it will come to you,’ he said comfortingly. ’That's all for now, Ms Miller. Would you like us to ring someone for you? A relative or friend?’

I panicked. Fiona and Alex were traumatised already, my mother was facing her operation  and John worried about her. Anthony Hamilton? No, I couldn’t ask him to leave his job and chase after me. Then I remembered Ally and Brie. ‘Yes, please. The number’s in my purse.’

The officer scuffled through my bag and brought out my purse. With a glance for permission, he sorted through the pockets until I identified their business card.

‘This it?’

‘Yes, please could you ring them?’ I closed my eyes while he phoned and then advised that Ally would meet me at Emergency.

‘Wait!’ The cop turned back, putting his notebook into his pocket.

‘I don’t know if this is important or related, but my cousin, Goldie – Marigold – Humphries was murdered on Saturday night.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Shocked, he turned to his partner, who was already reaching for his mobile phone.

I raised my head. ‘Tell DI Susan Prescott...’ It hurt too much. I flopped back onto the stretcher.

The paramedic looked concerned. ‘Can you hurry it up? We want to get going.’

The cop on the phone shot her an apologetic glance and then, apparently being given an instruction, snapped the mobile shut and nodded to the paramedics who immediately trundled me into the ambulance. I raised my hand and touched my right temple. It had swollen to the size of a ping pong ball. My skin twitched and my teeth chattered. The medic who rode in the back with me added another blanket to the foil cover. As we pulled into the forecourt of the Emergency Department of Royal Brisbane hospital, my body started to shake uncontrollably. My stretcher became a trolley again, but I had just enough time to see a tall, hooded man getting out of a nearby car.
No!

I blacked out again.

CHAPTER 21

The Watcher

Pam

Monday, 8AM

Overnight stays in hospital are not my idea of comfort and good fun. The endless wait for the CT scan, then the wait for the doctor to stitch my wound, followed by the night-time clatter and laughter of the nurses. The torchlight shining in my eyes, not to mention the constant monitoring of my blood pressure, nearly drove me mad. Of course, I was grateful for the care which was second to none, but exhaustion and grief were threatening depression.

‘You can’t go home until doctor's been and had a look at you,’ announced the nurse, when I whined to leave. I would catch up with my stepfather if I could just get out in time and I was desperate to get home and practice my music.

‘That’s quite a knock you’ve had, dear.’ The lump on my temple throbbed, the stitches stung. Why would a stranger deliberately hit me with a rock? A mistake? But how could you mistake a 183cm female musician for someone else? Another 183cm musician? There aren't too many of us around. I remembered the hand tugging at the strap of my handbag. Maybe it was ‘just’ a common or garden mugging. Perhaps Goldie’s murder was a burglary gone wrong...just random chance...wrong place, wrong time. I’d tried to put speculation behind me.

After a CT scan was pronounced clear, I was taken on a trolley to a side ward, part of Emergency, and put to bed. Two police officers came to take a formal account of what had happened, taking me through my statement slowly and gently, showing no impatience when I had difficulty remembering details.  After half an hour, they left me a card and asked me to call if I thought of anything more...

‘Miss Miller? Or should that be
Ms Miller
?’

I opened my eyes, to see a rotund, grey-haired man dressed in a suit, standing at the foot of the bed. I squinted at my watch, dismayed to see that I had missed seeing Mum. John would be upset and wondering why I hadn’t turned up this morning before she went into theatre.

‘I’m Doctor Phillips. I see you’re a celebrity. We’ve had to ward off the press on your behalf.’

‘Really?’ There hadn’t been any sign or word that my presence in the hospital had become news.

‘We like to protect our patients, Ms Miller. How are you this morning?’  He frowned and took my chart handed to him by an attendant nurse, who looked at me curiously.

‘Fine, thank you. Can I go home today?’ I asked eagerly. I would run upstairs and see if I could find John at the Oncology Unit before finding a sneaky way out of the hospital.

‘We'll see. You had quite a bump, you know. The CT scan showed nothing damaged, but you're going to be very sore for a few days,’ he added, stating the obvious. The doctor peered over the top of his bifocals and prodded gently around the wound with a glove-covered forefinger. I tried not to gag at the fog of cigarette clinging to his body and clothes.

‘Hm. The swelling’s gone down considerably. Good. Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He made it sound as though I was a vagrant.

‘I meant, do you have family or friends who can keep an eye on you for a day or two?’

‘Oh yes. I have a friend who will collect me and take me home to my unit.’ The night before in Emergency, Ally had told her to call the instant I was ready to leave.

‘Well, I'll let you go if you promise to rest. No nightclubs and carousing!’ Carousing? Did anyone use that term anymore? I promised solemnly and he left. Ally promised to come and get me in about an hour and she would text me when she got to the front of the hospital. ‘Apparently the press know I’m in here,’ I explained.

‘Don’t worry; we’ll get you out in one piece.’

With the dregs of charge in my mobile phone battery, I called my stepfather. Speaking faster than a race caller, I told him what had happened and heard that Mum had gone into theatre around seven o’clock. He refused my invitation to come to my unit, as he wanted to stay at the hospital so he could be there when she came back from surgery. ‘I wanted to see her before she went in,’ I wailed.

‘Don’t worry, she was fine, love. You can see her tomorrow. She won’t be ‘with it’ when she comes out of theatre. I’ll give her your love, but I’ll leave it to you to sort work that out later. You have to look after yourself. Have you got someone to take you to your unit?’

‘Yes, Ally will come and get me, don’t worry. How did mum take the news about Goldie?’

‘Not well. She phoned Fiona and spent about an hour talking to her.’

I knew Mum would have been exhausted after that, so was glad that I couldn’t have called her the night before. I had a shower and dressed, just in time to see a text message from Ally who was on her way.

 ‘We’ve been in touch with the hospital Public Relations department and they’re sending someone to escort you.’ The nurse looked over my shoulder, smiling. ‘Here’s Sally to take you out the back way. Give me your friend’s number and I’ll text her where to meet you and how to get there.’

We turned to see an older woman walking toward us. Having introduced herself, she escorted me through a maze of hallways and tunnels until we arrived at a nondescript door somewhere in the bowels of the building. Outside was a small car park, blessedly empty of reporters. A couple of hospital personnel were smoking over by a hibiscus bush, but they didn’t look up as we emerged. Before I finished thanking the woman, Ally’s rented car stopped beside us. Within moments, I was helped in and Sally had disappeared.

It was a cool and overcast day and fortunately no one noticed us. Stopped at a set of traffic lights, a nearby newsagent stand had headlines shrieking at the front:
Famous journalist murdered!
Concert Pianist in Murder Death!

Murder death?
Puleeeeeeeese
.
Would the man who attacked me be able to find out where I lived? My phone number is ‘silent,’ but anyone could find out where I live. If the man who whacked me didn’t know who I was
then
, he certainly did now. I kept my eyes down and allowed my hair to flop around my face. Perspiration prickled my scalp and formed beads under my arms.

We stopped on the way home to collect my belongings from the locker at Roma Street Transit Centre and headed off, hoping that the media wouldn’t have worked out where I was. The house organisers were just leaving when we pulled into my park under the building. They stopped for a few minutes and exclaimed over my battered appearance, before leaping into their vans and waving cheerfully as they left.

Arriving home after a long time away, in this case I had been gone six months, it’s always a novelty to see one’s belongings again. The photos I’d forgotten, the ornaments I hadn’t seen, in some cases for years, even the familiar tea towels in the kitchen gave me comfort. The hall stand where I hung my coat was – in accordance with my sketch –exactly where it should be, the cushions on my lounge suite were slightly askew as though I had just vacated it. I couldn’t wait to go through my books again. Several magazines were on the table by the window; my stereo waited patiently for me to put on a CD.

‘Do you want something to eat or a drink?’ Ally asked, as she shut and bolted the front door behind us.

‘No, quite honestly, Ally, I just need to lie down. I felt fine at the hospital, but now I’m stuffed. Then I have to practice.’

‘Don’t be silly, Pam. You can’t practice in your state. At least wait until you feel a bit better.’

‘You of all people should know I have to keep it up. I haven’t done anything since yesterday. Look, I’ll lie down and rest before I do it, okay?’

‘All right, off to bed. Do you want a hand to get up there?’ She gestured to the three steps up from the lounge room where the bathroom, my bedroom and my music room opened off a small landing.

  ‘No, I’ll just take it slowly.’

She galloped ahead of me, carrying my bags which she put on the bench near the balcony door. The familiar pale blue walls, white trim and pretty patterned curtains billowing in the breeze calmed me. My favourite feather duvet, bottled water on the bedside table, bookshelf filled...what more could I want?
My cousin alive for starters.
Someone who would hold me in the night and comfort my wounded self would be nice too...
you’re full of self pity, Miller. Shake out of it.

I dutifully took my medication and Ally turned down my bed. ‘Now, rest,’ she said sternly. ‘I’ll bring you a frothy coffee and then make something for your dinner.’

‘Are you staying for the afternoon? I don’t want to be alone right now.’

‘Of course I can stay. The kids are with Brie at his parents place having a wonderful time being spoiled rotten!’ She closed the bedroom door and clattered downstairs. Moments later a Mozart Symphony wafted gently up the stairs.

I couldn't sleep. Frustrated, I thrashed around for about half an hour, then got up and moved restlessly around the room, picking things up and putting them down. As a diversion from the horrendous happenings of the last couple of days, it was a dead loss. The Sunday Mail lay on the table beside the books. I fumbled through my bag for my reading glasses, picked it up and looked at the front page.
International Photo Journalist Murdered!
screamed the headline. A photo of Goldie accepting an award was splashed across the front page. Grief squeezed my heart.
Oh, Goldie.
Further down the page, my own photo was set beside a small article explaining who I was and that I had found Goldie’s body, inferring that Pamela Miller was a “person of interest.”

Hastily turning the page, there was more tragedy. A girl’s body had been found in the park where Goldie and I had spent many happy hours walking, just a few streets away from my home and Goldie’s house. The police were calling for anyone who'd seen anything untoward to come forward. I recalled the roadblock on Montague Road on the way home Saturday night, just before I found Goldie. While I had been happily playing in the concert and dining with Ally and Brie, the worst had happened.

I turned the page and tried to read a feature about the antics of a minor film star, a right scrubber by all accounts, but it was no good. Tossing it aside, I examined the books, thinking that perhaps reading for a while would make me forget the trauma of the last couple of days. I sorted through them, an eclectic lot from which I chose the autobiography of a somewhat splendidly proportioned woman cook, half of a fun duo, who had been on television a few years ago.

I was about to call Ally and suggest we practice together, when a waft of cool air from the open window sent a chill over my bare arms. As I started to pull the sash down, something attracted my attention across the road.

It was all I could do not to scream the place down. Heart pounding, I closed and locked it, pulled the curtains across and groped for a robe and tottered down the few steps to the lounge room, clinging to the banister. Ally ran out of the kitchen, shocked, as I burst in. ‘Pam, what's happened, you're as white as a ghost!’