The Naked Room by Diana Hockley Page B

allocated the medium-sized second bedroom, decorated with an African veldt mural with sunset waterhole scene as our music room, having coaxed our current boyfriends into helping line the walls with egg cartons to deaden the sound.
    Jess hovered just inside the door. My upright piano and Pam’s music stand took up most of the space on one side, a filing cabinet packed with sheet music, another full of CDs and a black vinyl collection occupied a good deal of the room.
    ‘I could fit my stand there—’ Jess pointed a contemplative finger at the only spot left. We smiled as though approved for an honour by the Queen, then bowed and scraped our way to the kitchen for coffee. A flushed glance of agreement and we invited her to move in. Jess settled in and we all mucked in together, but it wasn’t long before we discovered that she was a compulsive cleaner. This was great to start with but later we felt guilty because we knew we disappointed her with our grottiness.
    Jess wasn’t always easy to fathom. We three could spend hours practising in our music room, sharing confidences about study and socialising—a euphemism for clubbing and hunting men, but Jess had a barrier which she seemed unable to overcome. We knew she had emotional problems left over from childhood and couldn’t seem to sustain a relationship for long, but despite our support, she could never confide any worries.
    A year later I won a highly prestigious competition and was offered a scholarship to study at Trinity College, Cambridge. I left for London on a bleak day in March; Pam and Jess arrived a few months later. We found, after much searching, a flat we could ill-afford and nowhere near the standard of the one we enjoyed in Brisbane. But there we lived lives which alternated between desperation and joy.
    Desperation. You didn’t know the meaning of the word, you idiot.
    But you do now.
    ‘Hey, wakey, wakey, Ally!’ They’re back. He kicks my leg, which is hanging over the edge of the stretcher. I keep my arms wrapped around my head and face to protect them. Please God, help me.
    ‘Ally, right about now your dad’s wonderin’ how he’s gunna raise that money,’ Scarpia announces, joyfully. ‘Bet you’re the one fuck he wishes he’d never had!’

CHAPTER 11
    Someone Like Her
    Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott
    Monday: 7.30am.
    The car park reeked of rubber and exhaust fumes. I almost fell over the disgusting bucket into which the smokers put their stubs. I’m sympathetic, but there’s a limit. Chocolates are my addiction of choice.
    A group of media were clustered in reception. ‘The word must be out,’ I muttered, as I scuttled across the foyer to the lift, keeping my face averted. Fortunately, they were engrossed in trying to bully the imperturbable counter staff. I breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed. As the lift lifted me to CIB, I brooded over last night’s conversation with my husband, Harry, and feeling guilty over my irritable response.
    Ally Carpenter’s face is startlingly familiar. He speculated endlessly during dinner and throughout the evening. ‘Susan, she reminds me of someone. Where did her family come from, originally?’ he asked for the umpteenth time, as we prepared for bed.
    ‘I don’t know. And if you had met someone like her, you’d remember. Now for goodness sake, go to sleep, Harry. We’ve both got early starts in the morning.’
    His hurt expression tugged at my heart strings. I leaned over to kiss him, but at the last minute he turned his head away and my lips bounced off his ear.
    ‘I’m sorry I snapped, love. I’ll find out more about her tomorrow.’
    He looked at me for a long moment, his face expressionless, then pulled the bedclothes up around his ears and turned his back, effectively shutting me out. My guilt made sleep elusive; I felt washed out and not my usual self.
    Evan had already updated the whiteboard timeline documenting the movements of Ally Carpenter and her friends on