Authors: Diana Hockley
CHAPTER 3
Preliminary Enquiries
Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott.
Saturday: 2.30pm.
The Ally Carpenter case came in at two o’clock. I had almost cleared my current “paperwork” and was looking forward to getting home in time to attend a much-anticipated classical concert that evening. A large masculine frame loomed in the entrance to my cubby-hole of an office.
‘Yes?’ I asked, without raising my eyes from the computer screen. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, you can, Susan.’
Superintendent Courtland Greaves stepped in carrying a file, waved me to stay seated and took a chair, which creaked under his sturdy figure.
‘DI Peterson’s tied up with the Hetherington murder, so I’ve got an urgent one for you, Susan. Might not come to anything, but a young woman went missing last night at approximately eleven o’clock from Traynor’s nightclub in the Valley. The AC wants her found, fast. Cleared with Peterson,’ he added, referring to my immediate superior who was away for a rare weekend with his family. He laid the file on my desk. ‘She only went missing last night?’
I was reluctant to put aside the folder from which I was working.
‘She’s an important person, a celebrity concert pianist, no less. I’ve actually met her at a few social events, dinners and a couple of receptions.’ Greaves looked sheepish, a tinge of red beginning to show above his pristine collar.
You old rogue, you fancied her.
‘What on earth was a concert pianist doing at Traynors?’
‘It’s not forbidden, Susan. Young classical pianists like to have fun too. Apparently she trotted off to the ladies toilet, and then disappeared.’
‘So tell me about her, and who’s pushing the barrow out here? Why not give this to Missing Persons?’
‘The Pacific Symphony Orchestra. Ally Carpenter is their star turn for the big concert tonight. The conductor, Sir James McPherson and one of the directors, James Kirkpatrick hounded the Commissioner to have it fast-tracked. That’s why I’ve brought it here—well, to CIB. Technically she’s not missing yet.’ He leaned back, fingers steepled and peered at me over the top of his bifocals.
‘Is she the one who’s performing at the Concert Hall tonight?’
He nodded.
‘My husband is taking me to that concert. He’s been looking forward to this evening for months.’ Bloody hell, couldn’t the woman have chosen another night to go missing?
Greaves hauled himself to his feet. ‘I don’t know how they’ll cover her absence if she doesn’t turn up by then. It depends on whether something happened to her or if she’s gone off with a boyfriend. Must say she didn’t seem the type to do that, but you never can tell about young women these days.’
Would they jump to the conclusion that if a man disappeared he had run off with a girl? Of course not, but Ally Carpenter is female and automatically flighty. I grit my teeth to keep from biting him; chomping into a Superintendent is hardly a career enhancer.
Oblivious, he tootled on. ‘A substitute will be obtained, of course. If you’re free, attending the concert tonight’ll be in the line of duty, get the feel of the orchestra.’ We understood that if we found the pianist’s body, then I, a Detective Senior Sergeant, wouldn’t be going anywhere.
‘One of her friends who was at the club last night is coming in to make a statement and look at the surveillance discs. We need to get this under way.’
‘Right Sir, I’ll get onto it.’
Sighing, I read the preliminary report. In my opinion, a twenty-five-year-old pianist would be most unlikely to jeopardise her career by running off with a boyfriend the night before a major concert. I clicked onto Google, brought up the girl’s name and went into Wikipedia where there was a considerable amount of basic information on her childhood, mother, education and the beginning of her career. There was no mention of her latest concert round with the Pacific Symphony, so the site was not up to date. I didn’t have time to search the internet for more about Ally Carpenter; I could do that later. I clicked off and went in search of assistance.
Detective Sergeant Evan Taylor, my work partner, lurks in a cubbyhole overlooking the river, amid a rat’s stash of files, apple cores and scum-ringed coffee cups. He’s comfortably padded, genial and deceptively lazy. My knock jerked him out of an afternoon nanny-nap. The file he was pretending to study slid off his chest onto the floor.
‘Bloody hell, Susan, now look what you’ve done,’ he grumbled, stretching down for it.
‘Courtland Greaves gave me an urgent one,’ I replied, slumping into the only chair not covered in files. He made preliminary notes as I brought him up to scratch.
‘I’ll get over to her house and take a look. She might have lost her memory, gone for a walk and be injured somewhere. On the other hand, she could have shot through with a boyfriend. Do you want forensics on it yet?’ Bloody men are all the same. Even the nicest ones can’t get their minds off the sex angle.
‘Not unless you find something. Organise one of the girlfriends to meet you at Carpenter’s house. She may know if any clothes are missing.’ I handed a sheet of paper over on which was written Pamela Miller’s phone number. ‘Apparently a neighbour at number six has a key, but Ms Miller’s probably got one too. I’ll get someone to call at Traynors and pick up all the CCTV footage from last night. Uniform will do a door knock around the club.’
We locked eyes and shared a moment of understanding. What if it’s the worst case scenario? Evan got to his feet, swung his coat over his shoulder and ambled out the door after me.
Saturday: 5.00pm.
I was reading some publicity material on Ally Carpenter, when one of the team appeared.
‘Susan, Ally Carpenter’s friend, Pamela Miller went through her clothes and said there doesn’t appear to be anything missing, except what she wore last night. Her car is still in the garage. Nothing untoward at the house. Seems to be a normal, messy young woman.’ He smiled, obviously thinking of his teenage daughter’s room. ‘No signs of wild partying or drug use. We’ve sent out an allpoints bulletin and the Traynor’s employees were questioned. The doormen maintained she left with a man in a white car at about 10.00pm, a four-cylinder Toyota Corolla. He said the bloke called her Ally.
Oh no, what if Evan and Greaves are right?
‘Well, she’s innocent until proven guilty,’ I snapped. He stared at me, astonished. I softened my tone, achieving something professional. ’We can’t assume anything, so expect the worst for now. The hospitals have been alerted. Her phone’s not answering and her email’s full. Keep trying.’
He nodded and vanished. I studied the photo of Ms Carpenter, speculating on the familiarity of her face. The telephone rang. ‘Ma’am, a Mr Mochrie from the Pacific Symphony Orchestra is here to see you.’
Evan met me at the lift, and we descended to the ground floor where a covey of young female police officers and clerical staff twittered in the corridor.
‘Excuse me, ladies.’ They turned flushed, smiling faces to me.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. Someone giggled.
He slouched against the wall, around 195cm of rampant testosterone, with superbly styled, gleaming black hair and designer stubble, enhanced by smooth olive skin. Graceful and model-gorgeous, he was every parent’s nightmare. And who’s going to protect him from me?
‘He’s got more than his fair share of hair,’ muttered follicularly-challenged Evan. I suppressed a smile. But was Briece Mochrie as careless with women’s hearts as his looks might suggest?
‘Mr Mochrie?’ We shook hands; he had a grip like a boa constrictor. Fear lurked in his eyes—
because Ally Carpenter was missing, or because he was responsible for that?
‘Come through, please. A cup of tea for you?’ He nodded and followed me into an interview room. Evan sent a probationary constable to the canteen, while we got the business of obtaining his personal details out of the way.
‘When did you last see Ms Carpenter?’
‘At about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. We finished cutting the final track to a recording for the Pacific Symphony and planned to celebrate at the club.’ His voice reminded me of melted rum and raisin chocolate.
Tongue back in, you old fool.
‘What is her car rego?’ I waited, pen poised. It would save time if he knew.
‘1994 Ford Capri convertible, dark blue.’ He dredged into his memory and gave us the number.
‘She got a ride with Pam last night and I was going to take her home.’
That would be Pamela Miller. I made a note. ‘Okay. Now, first of all, have you ever known Ally Carpenter to miss an important concert or rehearsal before this?’
‘Once. A couple of years ago, apparently sh—’
‘Why?’ I couldn’t wait for him to beat about the bush.
‘Appendicitis,’ he snapped.
‘Well, she’s obviously a reliable person. Now, Mr Mochrie, tell me what happened last night at Traynors? Take your time. We need to know everything you can remember, however insignificant.’
His account was quite straightforward, but we took him through the events of the past evening twice, focusing on his conversation with the doorman. When we finished, a constable rolled in a trolley with viewing equipment, which he positioned and plugged into the wall socket. I decided to push Mochrie a little. ‘So, you didn’t try to find her this morning? Go to her flat?’
‘No!’ he snapped, slamming his styrofoam cup onto the desk. Tea slopped over the top. I handed him a tissue to wipe it up. ‘Of course not! I thought she’d gone off with someone else.’
Good grief, why would you dump this hunk?
‘And did you go home as soon as you left the club?’ I asked, looking him straight in the eyes. He stared right back at me.
‘Yes…er, no. I took Jessica Rallison to her place first and then I went to my flat.’
‘Did you go inside with Ms Rallison before you left? For coffee or anything?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ He reddened, clearly uncomfortable. I had him on the back foot.
I wonder what’s going on there?
‘Did Ms Carpenter ever talk about another man? Have you seen her talking to a persons or people you aren’t acquainted with?’
He stared at me for a moment, before shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t recall anyone except business acquaintances. She has friends outside the orchestra, mainly from her student days, but there’s really been no time for her to make any new ones, apart from neighbours perhaps. She only got back from the UK a couple of months ago. Since that time the orchestra has done an outback tour and I know she’s been busy working on her programme for tonight’s concert.’
I questioned him about the tour. ‘Did she socialise with anyone in particular? Go to people’s homes?’ A yahoo bushie from out West could not be discounted.
‘She went to parties and receptions, but she didn’t go anywhere without people from the orchestra.
Aha, without you, I think sweetheart! Bet you didn’t want to let her out of your sight. A control freak?
Time to change tack. ‘What time did you get home, Mr Mochrie?’
He blinked. ‘Around 12.30am, maybe a bit later.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘No.’
‘No-one?’
‘Unless you can count the cat,’ he replied, looking irritated.
‘If it can talk, I will. Is Jessica Rallison a friend of yours? Or of Ally Carpenter?’
He wriggled. ‘Both of us. I had a relationship with Jess for a short time earlier this year.’ He was clearly embarrassed. Okay, Jessica was out and may not have been happy.
‘So, you’re sure you didn’t call at Ally Carpenter’s house on your way home? Or perhaps park outside?’ I persisted.
Mochrie glared. His lips turned down at the corners. ‘No, I definitely didn’t go anywhere near Ally’s house. I wouldn’t want to!’ Jealous enough to hurt her?
‘Do you know of anyone who didn’t like Ally and who might want to harm her? Or perhaps a fan who might be too devoted?’
His eyes widened. ‘You mean someone she knows?’
‘Maybe.’
‘No. I can’t think of anyone who would pull a stunt like this, and if a fan was stalking her surely we’d have known about it.’
No, you might not, and she wouldn’t necessarily be aware of it either.
I let him off the hook for the moment, closed the interview and switched off the recorder. ‘Right. Now we’d like you to look at last night’s CCTV from Traynor’s.’
We watched the group of three friends arrive and settle at a table. Michael Whitby went toward the bar and the girls put their heads together. The music would have been head-bangingly loud; I wondered how classical musicians would be able to stand it. No one approached them. I gestured to Evan, who fast-forwarded the tape to where Whitby returned with a tray of drinks. Again we fast-forwarded to when Jessica and Ally stood up and went off together, then switched to the disc which focused on the ladies’ restroom. Jessica emerged and returned to the table—
‘Wait a minute! Go back, I want to look at that again—’ I stabbed at the screen with my finger. Evan re-wound the disc; we watched her nod to someone she passed. ‘Do you recognise anyone?’ I asked the cellist.
‘No. No, I don’t.’
‘Okay, keep it rolling.’ Ally Carpenter left the restroom. She fought her way through the crowd and then someone engaged her in conversation. The dancers surged forward, obscuring her. No matter how many times we ran the section, we couldn’t see who she or Jessica Rallison had spoken to. Eventually we left that one and rolled forward. Briece Mochrie arrived, sat down and talked to the group. Ally was still absent; Jessica Rallison was present, sitting between Pamela Miller and Mochrie. Whitby sat beside Pamela with an empty chair, obviously Ally Carpenter’s, between himself and Mochrie.
We watched as Mochrie fought his way to the bar, stopping to speak to someone on the way whom he identified as his mechanic. He said they had talked for around twenty minutes, so we rolled the disc again. Mochrie arrived with a tray of drinks, then left in search of Ally Carpenter. The friends certainly looked genuinely anxious. Michael Whitby went toward the back of the nightclub and Mochrie headed for the entrance in a circular direction to disappear from view. He explained that he’d been talking to the doorman, then clawed his way back through the crowd and waylaid a young woman who appeared to kiss his ear. They spoke for a moment, faces close together, after which he broke free and went back to their table. I noted the angry expression on his face.