The William S Club

by Riley Banks

  ‘You’d think so, right? My friend tried to track him down. Searched birth records for the whole of 1915. There’s nothing. Zilch. In fact, prior to walking into that real estate shop, there isn’t a scrap of data about him. It’s like he just appeared.’

  ‘People don’t just appear out of nowhere. They have to come from somewhere. Maybe he changed his name... Hang on. Quantum physics. Isn’t that the study of…’

  ‘Time travel.’ Mark did a spooky rendition of The Twilight Zone music.

  Under normal circumstances, Charlotte would have scoffed at his ridiculous premise but she had no better theories.

  Mark might have stumbled onto the biggest story of the modern age.

  Or it could be nothing.

  ‘We need proof.’

  ‘That’s where you come in? This is your forte, not mine. I’ve never run an investigation in my life.’

  ‘You just did.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh yeah. I suppose I did. Anyway, I’m in way over my head.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? I never know what I’m doing or even what I’m going to write until I sit down and get it on paper. That reminds me.’

  She reached into her purse, removing the USB stick. Mark had definitely proved himself.

  ‘It’s nowhere near as sensational as your info but I think I know what got Miranda Evans killed.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight:

  Standing in the middle of Charlotte’s empty room, BJ could feel the walls close in around him.

  It was his father’s speech - those goddamn taunting words replaying over and over in his head like an anti-motivational speech on continual loop.

  ‘She’s not interested. Get over it. She spread her legs faster than butter on hot toast. Moaning like a whore on Ecstasy. They’re probably in bed right now.’

  He didn’t want to believe it but how could he fight the obvious? It was after midnight and she wasn’t here. Her absence screamed guilt like a scarlet letter tattooed on her chest.

  Was Dad right? Is Charlotte with Barclay now? Is she moaning like a whore?

  His hands curled into fists as he tried to force the images out of his brain. But it was futile. He had watched the video of Charlotte and his brother so many times that imagining her in the throes of passion had become effortless.

  A suitcase sat open on the bed, its contents scattered across the crisp, arctic white bed linen, as if she had been searching for something in a hurry.

  He rifled through her clothes, tossing aside the cumbersome outer garments – dresses, jeans and sweaters –until he struck pay dirt – her underwear - soft, silky creations mostly of the thong variety.

  BJ picked out a pair of lacy white panties, rubbing the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger, aroused by the tactile sensation it created on his fingers. He was tempted to keep them as a memento but they were far too virginal to encapsulate Charlotte.

  Now that’s more like it, he thought as he spied a pair of slutty panties; blood red with only the tiniest triangle of silk to protect her non-existent modesty.

  He slipped the trophy into his pocket, feeling his cock buck like an unbroken stallion.

  What else did she have that he could keep?

  He tipped up the suitcase, rummaging through her belongings, his fingers closing on cold glass.

  A purple perfume bottle.

  How ironic. She wears Poison.

  He removed the lid, inhaling its hypnotic scent. The smell equal parts spicy and sweet, exotic yet familiar – just like the woman who wore it.

  A mental image of Charlotte danced in front of him. She was naked but forever out of his reach, tempting him, taunting him, driving him wild with the need to possess her.

  It brushed passed him, whispering into his ear. ‘You’re dad was right. I am fucking Mark. Why wouldn’t I? He’s ten times the man you are.’

  And then the mirage threw her head back, melting into a series of low guttural moans as she climaxed, her fingers delving down between her legs to touch the sweet wetness. ‘That’s as close as you’re ever going to get.’

  BJ threw the perfume bottle, the ballooned glass shattering into a thousand purple fragments against the wall.

  ‘And that’s all you are – poison - a filthy poisonous slut.’

  Oily residue spread across the wall like toxic waste, the heady aroma spreading through the room like a Hiroshima mushroom cloud, triggering something deep inside him that detonated with all the destructive power of an atomic bomb.

  Damon searched everywhere for Charlotte, up and down side streets, standing on tip-toes to peer above the crowds, even walking inside a dozen restaurants under the guise that he just wanted to peruse the menu.

  She was nowhere to be found. He’d have had better luck searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  Then he did what he hadn’t done in a long, long time. He prayed, begging every entity known to man, calling out for divine intervention.

  And miraculously, someone up there was listening.

  There was just one problem: when he found her, she was huddled at a table for two with Mark Barclay. Seeing the two of them together tripped his green-eyed monster, inciting a jealousy Damon had never experienced before.

  How could she get over him so fast?

  He had half a mind to storm their love nest and demand answers but what did he really know about Barclay, beyond the dossier his grandfather had prepared? And how reliable was that, given his grandfather had also prepared the file on Zac Wilson?

  For all he knew, Barclay was in cahoots with the William S Club.

  Besides, they weren’t touching. They weren’t holding hands or whispering sweet nothings to each other. In fact, if he was really honest, it looked like they were discussing business.

  Damon needed to be patient, not jump to wild conclusions.

  And so he waited, standing with his back to the two of them, peering over his shoulder every minute or so to make sure they were still there; hoping – no, praying – that he wouldn’t have to witness anything physical between the two of them.

  He was tired. Bone breaking, eyes pried open with toothpicks tired. Not that the warm, salty air helped.

  Twenty minutes, thirty, forty...

  At quarter past one in the morning, Barclay pushed his chair back, placing a handful of coins and scrunched up notes on the table. He slung a battered backpack over his shoulder, passing so close Damon could have reached out and grabbed him.

  Charlotte stayed at the table, making no effort to move, ordering another coffee, lost in thought.

  He was about a metre away when she looked up, catching his eye. He had expected surprise, maybe even disbelief. He never expected anger. Or fear.

  She stood up, shoving the papers into her bag with shaky hands. ‘What are you doing here? Did you follow me?’

  ‘Charlotte, I…’

  ‘I told you to leave me alone.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb with me, BJ. It was a mistake. It never should have happened.’

  ‘Charlotte, it’s me. Damon.’

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. Unable to speak – searching his face as if looking for the lie.

  ‘I was so worried. Why didn’t you return my calls?’

  ‘Damon? Is it really you?’

  He pulled her into his arms, breathing in the smell of her hair and skin but any comfort was swallowed up by the questions that screamed inside his head. He held her at arm’s length. ‘Wait, you thought I was BJ. What shouldn’t have happened?’

  She looked at the pavement, unable to meet his eyes. He tilted her chin upwards. ‘What happened?’

  Her breath caught and a choking sob rushed out. ‘I’m so sorry...’

  ‘Sorry? What are you sorry about?’ He was gripping her arms too tight but she was scaring the shit out of him. All his worst fears were coming true. ‘Did you...’

  She dropped her head again; staring at the ground as if she hoped it would open u
p and swallow her.

  A sentiment Damon now shared. ‘When?’

  He was picking at a raw wound but he needed to know. How soon after he left did she fall into bed with his brother? Was it Dubai? It had to be. That’s when she had stopped taking his calls.

  Charlotte shook her head, tears sparkling like rhinestones on the end of her long lashes. ‘I don’t know what happened. We went riding in the desert... I knew he was interested in me but I thought I could use his interest to get information... We had champagne and then...’

  ‘You slept with him.’ He couldn’t hide the bitterness; the disgust.

  She flinched, her face blanching white. From shock or in denial, he couldn’t tell.

  And then her head was shaking. ‘No,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Damon should have been elated but Charlotte’s body language was all over the shop. What was she trying to tell him? What was worse than sleeping with him?

  Oh God.

  He groaned. ‘Did he... did he force himself on you?’

  White hot rage exploded in him as her lower lip trembled.

  I’ll fucking kill him.

  But then she was shaking her head again.

  His lungs filled with air and hope sparked inside his chest. ‘Then what is it?’

  She looked away, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze and then he got it.

  ‘You wanted to sleep with him, didn’t you?’

  A nod as tears splashed down her cheeks, leaving a briny trail across her smooth skin.

  Thinking about her in BJ’s arms hurt far more than he thought it would but what was he supposed to do about it? He couldn’t stomp his foot and act like a jealous boyfriend. They’d had little more than a glorified one night stand, even though a one night stand was the very last thing on Damon’s mind. He had fallen for Charlotte. Harder, it seemed, than she’d fallen for him but he wasn’t about to lay a guilt trip on her. If she wanted BJ, he’d step aside. Be the bigger man.

  But first, Charlotte needed to have all the facts at hand. Maybe BJ didn’t know. Maybe they could ride off into the sunset together and be happy.

  ‘Just forget it. I didn’t fly ten thousand miles to discuss who you want to sleep with.’ It came out harsher than he’d intended but it was too soon to be magnanimous. ‘Anita is awake.’

  ‘That’s... ah that’s fantastic. You must be thrilled.’ She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘I am but that’s not why I’m here either.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ She seemed genuinely tormented by his presence.

  ‘To give you information. I would have done it over the phone but...’ He let the sentence hang, hating that everything kept circling back to that.

  ‘What information?’

  ‘You’re in danger.’

  ‘We already knew -’

  ‘I’m not talking about Wilson,’ he said, cutting across her, frustrated that something so simple was taking so long to say. ‘I’m talking about the murder of my mother.’

  Her eyes opened wide but Damon had a feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d heard the accusation.

  ‘How did you... who told you?’

  ‘So you knew?’ There was fire in his voice – accusation too.

  ‘I only just found out. Miranda sent me an email – the night Zac... I would have told you sooner but I just read it.’

  ‘Zac was there for a reason.’

  ‘He was there for me.’

  ‘No. He was there because Miranda got too close to the truth. Too close to figuring out who really had my mother killed. Anita figured it out first, which is why Zac went after her too.’

  ‘Are you saying Zac had your mother killed? No, wait. Your mum died years ago. Zac would have been a child.’

  ‘Not Zac. He was just the messenger – the scapegoat for my father.’

  ‘Your father? What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying he killed my mother or at the very least, that he ordered her death.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a mighty big accusation. Are you sure?’

  Damon nodded. He’d never been more certain of anything. His father had been ruthless for years but the cold, callous way he’d cut Damon out of his life – for simply trying to protect Anita – proved beyond a shadow of a doubt the lengths he would go to protect his secret. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. I’m sure your father was great but mine... You have never met him. You have no idea what he is capable of.’

  ‘I met him tonight.’

  ‘He’s here?’ Panic strangled Damon from the inside out. He’d hoped he had more time but his father’s arrival in Sydney changed everything, made him say things he never planned to say.

  He crushed her to his chest, clinging to her with all the desperation of a drowning sailor. ‘You can’t go back there. I can’t lose you. I - I - I love you too much.’

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘I know it sounds mad. We barely know each other but I can’t help it. I do love you.’ He smiled, despite everything that was going wrong in their lives.

  But then Charlotte’s fingernails dug into his arm and he watched her face drain of blood, her warm brown eyes becoming hard lumps of coal in a hate filled face.

  ‘Get away. Stay the fuck away from me.’ She squirmed out of his grip but Damon didn’t want her to leave. Not like this.

  And then someone’s fist connected with his chin and he hit the ground, the last thing he saw as he fell was Charlotte racing away, looking over her shoulder as if she was fleeing the devil himself.

  Chapter Forty-Nine:

  ‘Mr Highgrove, I’ve got Dylan O’Grady on line three for you.’

  ‘Put him through, Lucy.’

  Highgrove paused mid-file, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling, hoping a change in focal lengths would stop his eyes swimming. ‘What did you find, O’Grady?’

  There was a stilted laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘Right, straight to the point then. Spoke to the coroner. I have the real report in my hot little hand. Took a little convincing but once I mentioned having the body exhumed, he was quick to cave.’

  ‘The real report? So this one’s a fake?’

  ‘Not fake but let’s just say the coroner might have been persuaded to leave a few things off the original.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Jacqueline Harvey’s tox screen. She was flying solo around Jupiter when her car went over.’

  ‘In English.’

  ‘She was doped to her back teeth.’

  ‘High profile vic. Why leave it off the report?’

  ‘Money. Blackmail. I’ve got no idea what his price was but Harvey bought him.’

  ‘Why come clean now?’

  ‘Guy’s got terminal fucking cancer. You know how they get. Want to stave off hell by confessing their sins. Now he’s trying to convince himself he was doing the family a favour – saving them from a media circus.’

  ‘So essentially, her death is still accidental?’

  ‘Not so fast. Coroner had a few more pearls of wisdom to impart. There was no history of drug abuse. No track marks, no liver damage, no nasal lesions. Nothing to indicate she was another rich bitch with a powder habit.’

  ‘There’s always a first time. What’s to say she didn’t get wasted at a party and drive home?’

  ‘She was three months pregnant.’

  ‘Another thing conveniently left off the original report.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Coroner gave me the name of the mechanic – Jacques Montpellier. He swears black, blue and green Jacqueline’s car – and all the other cars - were kept in tip top shape.’

  Highgrove picked up the accident report. ‘He can’t have done too good a job. Says here the brakes failed.’

  ‘Yep but he says he replaced the brakes on Jacqueline’s Porsche himself just two days before the accident. No way in hell those things failed – not without someone else tampering with them. Said he mentioned as much to Har
vey. Get this – a week later, his garage has been bought out. Guess who bought it?’

  ‘Bill Harvey.’

  ‘Bingo. And according to Montpellier, three eyewitnesses told him Jacqueline Harvey was unconscious before her car went through the barrier.’

  ‘You found all this out in three hours? You made a mistake leaving, my friend.’

  ‘Nah. The pay’s shit and the hours suck donkey balls. The Mrs is much happier now I work a standard 9-5 job.’

  ‘Well thanks for coming out of retirement for me. I definitely owe you one.’

  ‘You can pay up next time you’re in Nice. Are you gonna publish this?’

  ‘I’ve got to speak to my journalist first. Appreciate your discretion until I do.’

  ‘Sure thing. Talk soon mate.’

  Drugs and dodgy brake lines. Burke was right. Someone had murdered Jacqueline Harvey and made damned sure they covered their tracks.

  ‘Victoria. Come back. We need to talk.’ Baker started down the stairs after his daughter but a hand snaked out, grabbing his ankle.

  He went down fast – too fast to break his fall with his hands. His chin took the brunt of the impact, driving his teeth through his tongue.

  Blood filled his mouth and his eyes flickered like a light bulb about to blow, his brain struggling to remain conscious. Then someone had him by the front of his singlet, dragging him to his knees.

  Blood streamed from Harvey’s nostrils and his blue eyes were filled with cold fury.

  Baker took another swing but Harvey was quicker this time, ducking under the punch. He brought his forehead crashing down with a resounding crunch on Baker’s nose.

  ‘What the fuck was that for? Get your fucking hands off me,’ Baker demanded.

  ‘Not until you calm down.’

  Baker had a good mind to swing another punch but he could hear someone on the phone to the police. The last thing he needed was to get picked up now.

  ‘I’m calm,’ he said, holding his hands up to show he was no threat.

  Harvey let go, wiping his dripping nose with the back of his sleeve. ‘That’s better. I think you’ve got the wrong woman, mister.’