The Naked Room (19 page)

CHAPTER 32

Shredding the Witnesses

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott

Thursday: 7.30am.

Six days since Ally Carpenter’s abduction and the media was screaming for police blood. We had eliminated a lot of possibilities, but so far the only positive note was that her body had not turned up—yet.

I was stunned to hear the news that Jessica Rallison, first violinist with the Pacific Orchestra, had been found murdered. Apparently her manager arrived at her house for a breakfast meeting and, unable to rouse her, panicked and called the police. When they broke in she was found on the kitchen floor, stabbed to death.

I asked Evan if they knew when it might have happened.

‘Last night,’ he replied. ‘Apparently she was talking to her manager about six o’clock and said she was going out to dinner with a friend. It’s a nasty one, Susan.’

‘Does he know who the friend was?’’ I croaked, ‘and where are you?’

‘ I’m at the scene now. Are you coming now?’

‘Depending on the traffic, I’ll see you shortly.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Evan loved a good murder to get his teeth into and this looked a real doozy.

I turned the car toward the West End. The bad-tempered, morning traffic was heavy as usual, so it was like wading through treacle to get to the cul-de-sac where Jessica Rallison lived. The way things were going, the Scenes Of Crime Officers—SOCO—would be there long before I was.

A police car was parked outside, ensuring I had no trouble finding the address. It was fronted by a group of women, several of whom were in dressing-gowns and fluffy slippers. One was enjoying a cup of coffee in a thermal mug. A few small children, an assortment of dogs and a huge marmalade cat made up the contingent excitedly awaiting developments.

I found a park close to the action and poked my ID under the nose of the teenage constable guarding the front gate, who immediately snapped from “here comes a nosy member of the public” stoicism to deference.

Jessica’s cottage was a style of small, originally cheap home popular in the 1900s, and which were now trendy among the so-called glitterati. The tiny verandah held no pot plants, chairs or table, only a shoe rack holding a pair of untidy, white sandals. ‘A prickly, lonely girl,’ was how I described Jessica to the team, after the unproductive interview Evan and I conducted with her late on Monday afternoon.
Jessica, Jessica, what did you know that you weren’t telling? Has it cost you your life?
I checked in with the uniformed constable who was guarding the front door, keeping the crime scene log.

A tall, square van pulled into the slot held vacant for them outside the gate. The street audience rustled with anticipation as the forensic team climbed out, carted their cases to the lawn and proceeded to kit themselves in jump suits.

‘Morning, Susan, another nasty one, then,’ said pathologist John Lynch, referring to a gruesome murder we had been investigating for the past couple of weeks. ‘I believe this one’s a musician of some sort. Have you been inside?’

‘No, just arrived. I interviewed her on Monday in connection with Ally Carpenter’s disappearance.’

‘Any news on her yet?’

‘No, no leads, but this throws up some very interesting questions,’ I replied, trying hard not to burst into a paroxysm of coughing. My face felt like a puffer fish about to explode.

He clucked sympathetically, picked up his case and winked. ‘Nasty cold you’ve got there.’

‘I’ll come in and have a gander,’ I said, accepting a pair of overshoes. Leaving me spluttering, he trundled hastily inside, followed by his overalled, masked troops. They looked like blue Ghostbusters.

Evan detached himself from the crowd where he joined ‘uniform’ in soliciting statements. ‘Nothing to report. We’ve sent her manager home. The bloke’s in shock, but he’s coming in to make a statement later today.’

‘My—’ I sneezed so loudly that everyone outside turned to look and someone sniggered. I dabbed delicately at my raw nostrils with a handful of tissues. ‘Sorry, I can’t help it.’

We discussed our strategy, Evan at a safe distance, after which he left to organise a doorknock of the surrounding houses.

The next door neighbour arrived full of information and pushed his way into the conversation between one of the constables and a woman carrying a small child on her hip. ‘He gives me the creeps’ Jessica had told me, shivering. He was also the reason she installed extra heavy blinds to prevent him peering through the windows. Her killer must have been delighted. If the neighbour had worked out that he was a suspect, he showed no sign of it from his demeanour. We might well wipe the sanctimonious expression off his face by hauling him into the station for questioning.

I smiled viciously, as I donned a pair of latex gloves, identified myself to the officer keeping the log and stepped into the hallway. The overpowering stench of blood and faeces ensured I maintained shallow breathing.

Jessica lay beside the kitchen table like a broken porcelain doll, her thick black hair glued in a pool of blood, her half-closed eyes opaque and arms resting by her sides.

‘Bled to death. Rigor mortis has set in, so she’s been gone at least three hours, but probably closer to ten or twelve judging by her eyes,’ John announced laconically, as he squatted outside the perimeter of the blood. ‘Someone grabbed her recently,’ he added, as I squinted at the smudge marks on her upper arms. Faint bruises showed on her mouth and cheeks.

‘Looks like he held his hand over her mouth while he did the deed, or else an accomplice did.’ John turned to his carry-case of specimen jars. ‘No apparent defence wounds, so either he was incredibly quick or she knew her attacker. Likely both.’ He secured plastic evidence bags over her hands and secured the openings at her wrists to retain any skin or hair samples which Jessica may have gotten from her killer.

A wave of sorrow for life lost made me want to cry.
‘No, I’m feeling fragile because of this cold…’

As I sidled around the side of the room toward the back door, the light from the window highlighted smear marks on the table. Someone had wiped the edge. Something lay on the floor, a piece of material. I bent down and peered closely. It was a blood-soaked handkerchief. Interesting.

It would be hours, if not the following day, before we could gain full access to the house. Jessica’s body wouldn’t be moved for some time. The initial tests, body temperature and an external examination of her fully-clothed corpse would be carried out where she lay. The house would be torn apart for blood stains and other evidence. Fingerprints would be taken. Her computer, her correspondence, diary—not a skerrick would be missed or a single aspect of her life left untouched.

Media vans were pulling into the street as I stepped out onto the verandah and was checked out on the crime scene log. I wondered who tipped them off, hoping it was one of the neighbours and not a member of my team. Turning my face away, I picked up pace, dived into my car and scooted out of there.

Townsville CIB was understandably astonished when I rang to give them the news of the latest tragedy.

‘Holy shit!’ breathed my opposite number, ‘We only just started on Georgie Hird’s murder and another one connected to your missing woman gets knocked off. Hardly a coincidence, is it? What are you doing to them?’ He snickered loudly, then proceeded to update me on the investigation into Ms Hird’s death, and advised me of Rosalind Miller’s absence. ‘We let her go down to Brisbane because she had business there.’

‘Wasn’t she supposed to be minding Eloise Carpenter’s place?’

‘Apparently the postmistress has organised someone else to do it. And the media’s swarming all over the island. Seems they’ve picked up on the connection between the Carpenter’s and Georgie Hird.’ It was only a matter of time before they discovered that.

Making a note to check with Pamela Miller on her mother’s visit to Brisbane, I brought him up to date on what little we knew of Jessica’s life. I didn’t envy him having to perform the unenviable job of telling her parents that they no longer had a daughter. After we’d finished speaking, I sat for a few minutes imagining how the mother would feel. I knew if it were one of my daughters, I would never recover. I gave myself a mental shake and walked over to Ben Taylor’s desk.

‘Benjamin? What are you working on at the moment?’

‘The pharmacy burglary, ma’am.’

‘Okay. Anything pending?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘You can come with me and help alert the management of the Pacific Orchestra to the fact that they’re going to be advertising for another violinist. We need to find out if any of them knew who Jessica Rallison was going out with last night.’

I stuffed an unopened packet of tissues into my bag and grabbed a bag of cough lozenges. On our way out, I gave a list of names to a hotshot young detective with instructions to find out everything about the people on it, fast, or I would make sure he played Santa at the next police family Christmas party.

All in all, it was sometime before we finally arrived at the orchestra HQ. The manager of the Pacific showed no sign of being overjoyed by our visit. He drew himself up to protest, but soon changed his tune when we told him why we were there.

‘No! My God, how? ‘ He was flabbergasted. ‘How
did
it happen?’

After I supplied the bare facts, his face turned ashen and he sat down abruptly. A frightened secretary rushed to pour him a glass of water and advised the directors were in the boardroom. I thought we had better get to them quickly, in case the whole building heard the news before they did.

The PA to the Chairman, a stalwart old biddy, tried to prevent us crashing the meeting, but when we flashed ID she backed off, sucking her teeth.

The array of directors around the highly polished table looked like a gang of well-fed crooks from a gangster movie. Empty cups and the remains of scones, jam and cream littered the centre. The Chairman raised his eyebrows in a “what is this all about, we’re busy” way, and waited for me to state our business. I took petty pleasure in giving him the silent treatment from just inside the doorway. Finally, he rose with half-hearted courtesy and strutted over to block any further progress into the room.

‘Yeeees, er—?’ he drawled, running a hand through his sparse amount of hair, he flexed his meaty shoulders as though for battle.

‘We have some bad news, Mr Greenway…’ I didn’t beat about the bush.

He turned green and withered, Louie the Fly to my squirt of Mortein. His fellow directors, seeing their colleague at the point of collapse, lurched to their feet and surged toward us. Ben shooed them back to the table; I positioned myself where I could gauge individual reaction to the news.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, Jessica Rallison was found dead in her home this morning.’ I waited for the horrified buzz to die down. ‘She was murdered, but when or by whom we do not know as yet. I’m sorry.’

They were so shocked they forgot to try intimidating us. More than two hours passed, before we got all the staff statements sorted out. If anyone knew who Jessica’s date was for the previous evening, they weren’t telling. Some members of the orchestra were having a theory session downstairs. Her close friends were understandably devastated. Michael Whitby looked furtive. What did he have to hide? Note to self: check him out.

Pamela Miller, who looked as though she hadn’t slept for days, buried her face in Briece Mochrie’s shoulder and wept. I couldn’t think what puzzled me about Mochrie, who looked tired and unwell, but it would come to me. Catching my sceptical glance, he volunteered the information that he had a migraine. ‘Join the club, mate,’ I thought, wryly. Ally Carpenter’s abduction was probably getting to him, but I felt there was something more.

‘Ma’am, you really shouldn’t be here,’ said Ben, as we left the building. ‘You should go home to bed.’

Tell me about it!
‘I can’t, but thank you for your concern. Now let’s get back and see what we’ve got here.’

I flopped into the car and closed my eyes. Uncharitably, I wished Jessica Rallison could have at least waited to be murdered until I recovered from my cold.

SOCO phoned through the preliminary report just before five o’clock.

‘Susan, I’ve got some more information for you to go on with,’ announced John Lynch. ‘Going on room and body temperature, it appears she was probably killed between 6 and 10 pm last night. There’s no a blood stain or signs of a struggle in the other rooms. No defence wounds on her hands and nothing under her fingernails. Everything would indicate she was killed in the kitchen. The woman was excessively tidy and house proud, which was helpful.

He took a deep breath. ‘Someone placed his hand over her mouth, probably to stop her screaming for help while she died. She was stabbed with a serrated-edged knife. Cause of death was a severed renal artery and she would have bled out in ten to fifteen minutes. There was a carving knife and a number of other sharp knives in the cutlery drawer which we’ve taken for testing, but it’s likely her killer brought the murder weapon and then took it away. The angle of the wound indicated he, or she, was standing facing her, so a right-handed slash. As you saw at the scene, she had recently been held firmly by the upper arms as well and we have got fingerprints, but as yet, no match.’

He paused again, as someone with him asked a question. Paper rustled and some murmuring ensued before he continued.

‘Path results will show if there are toxic substances in her body or possible drug-use, though there was no indication of it. No evidence of rape, but she’d had recent sexual activity. Semen present was collected for future DNA comparison, and she was eight weeks pregnant.’

He paused for a moment to let the news sink in. My mind skittered around this new development. Had she confronted the father, Michael Whitby perhaps? Or Briece Mochrie? Was it the motive for the murder or was the killing connected to Ally Carpenter’s abduction?
God, let us get to Ally before it’s too late.

‘A man’s handkerchief was lying beside her head, covered in blood and a man’s partial shoe-print near the body with another superimposed over it, indicating someone stepped on the first print. It’s smudged, but we should be able to match it when you find the right jogger. We’re chasing up the brand-name. There were also skid marks in the blood, which someone attempted to wipe up. So, evidence that at least two people were present in the house. Now we get to the really interesting part. The Polilight showed someone wiped the sink and draining board, the kitchen benches, table and chair. Either that person or the other party vomited into the sink, so it and the drains yielded good samples for DNA.’