Poison Orchids: A darkly compelling psychological thriller

by Sarah A. Denzil

  She placed the picture down. What good did it do to start feeling sorry for the criminal?

  Bronwen pried open the top drawer of the bedside table and tried not to focus on the sex toys and lube inside, instead she went straight to the back of the drawer where there were a few papers, White’s passport, and Chapstick. She grabbed the papers and the passport first.

  There was nothing unusual about White’s passport, except that he was an ugly brute of a man with stubble and multiple chins. Looking at his photograph she found herself imagining what those two girls went through. Though she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop her mind thinking about what it would be like to have White forcing himself on top of her, pawing at her body, tearing her clothes. She could smell him, putrid and sour, leftover ketchup on his face, mustard on his dirty vest, BO emanating from him like toxic gas.

  Those poor girls.

  The scraps of notepaper didn’t appear to be anything interesting, but she bagged them anyway. There were a few scrawled phone numbers that could lead to something. Bronwen imagined that White had friends in low places.

  Next, she flipped the mattress, tossing stale bedding and cushions onto the ground. Nothing. She placed her hands on her hips and tried to imagine she was Rodney. Where would a piece of shit like him keep a secret item? As she stood there, her gaze fell back on the photograph of Rodney’s mother. She chuckled to herself. Could he be that much of a cliché?

  She strode back to the table, grabbed the frame and slid the back out. Now this was interesting. Two keys taped to the cardboard, both similar to the kind that come with a padlock. And a note, faded and crumpled. When Bronwen laid it flat, she was absolutely sure that the writing had once been a full address.

  Well, she thought, at least that part was easy.

  6

  Bronwen

  Bronwen and Joe continued on with their bird-shit marked car. They had another place to check out today.

  It wasn’t often that Bronwen was completely sure of someone’s guilt, but this guy had been an obvious pervert. However, it was clear there was more to this case than just Rodney and his perversions, and Bronwen had decided to pay a visit to Tate Llewellyn’s mango farm to see if the man recognised the girls.

  If she could pinpoint a timeline, perhaps she could figure out what was going on.

  They drove towards Deep Springs—a remote place about an hour north, close to the Kakadu National Park. From what Bronwen had discovered about Tate Llewellyn, he was the multimillionaire son of a guy who owned a major pharmaceutical company. When she asked around the town, most people reiterated the same thing—he offered lodgings, food, and a wage to backpackers willing to pick fruit on his farm. The farm was spread out over a hundred acres and was situated in a picturesque location between waterfalls and lush vegetation just outside Pine Creek, not far from the Kakadu National Park. It was paradise for travellers, and many passed through the farm from year to year.

  As they approached Llewellyn's place, Joe let out a low whistle. “How much money does this guy have?”

  “Millions. All family money though. Lucky bastard.”

  “I'm not jealous at all,” Joe said, staring up at the three-storey house with a glass front.

  “What do you mean? What about that sweet police pension we'll get in thirty years?”

  Joe smirked. “Yeah, you're right. We're really winning at life.”

  Despite the jokes, Bronwen couldn't help but be impressed with the place. The house was stunning, reflecting the mango fields in its long windows. The building lay in the midst of the fields, with a myriad of outhouses and greenhouses around it. It was more like a luxury hotel than the residence of a farmer.

  She pulled the car into a small carpark close to the glass building, leaving it under the shade of a tree. It seemed that Llewellyn must have a garage somewhere, because the carpark had only delivery vans and pickup trucks parked within the bays. You'd imagine that a man like Llewellyn would have at least a few expensive sports cars.

  Bronwen pulled at the collar of her shirt as she slammed the car door shut. As always, she was on high alert, scanning the area for anomalies, danger, anything that stood out, but this place was unlike any other she'd been to. This kind of wealth was unusual everywhere, but it was especially alien to her, having grown up in a single-parent household with a mum who worked two jobs to make ends meet.

  After Rodney’s disgusting abode, the glass mansion was a stark contrast. It was one extreme to the next in this occupation.

  “So, where do you reckon we find the boss around here?” Joe asked, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto his face. The gravel crunched under his hefty boots.

  Bronwen looked around, searching for some sort of reception or at least someone who appeared in charge, but all she could see were young people carrying piles of mangoes through the fields, laughing, and a few others boxing up fruit ready to pack into the utes. There was a relaxed atmosphere about the place. It all seemed too wholesome to be a business. How was Llewellyn making money on this place? Maybe he was some sort of eccentric millionaire who wanted a hobby and this was it. Or maybe Bronwen didn't have much of a clue about farming.

  There was a tattooed teenager with a deep tan, those Thai trousers that travellers always seemed to wear, and his long hair pulled up into a top knot, walking through the carpark carrying a box of mangoes.

  “Hey,” Bronwen called to him. “Where can I find Tate Llewellyn?”

  “That greenhouse over there,” he replied, adjusting the box to his left arm in order to point towards a glass greenhouse adjacent to the main house. There was an awful lot of glass on this farm.

  “Thanks.”

  Bronwen and Joe made their way over to the greenhouse closest to the house and entered through the door into a fragrant room bursting with colour. It was the tallest of the greenhouses, with a whirring air-conditioning unit and narrow panes of glass letting the sun in above. Long tables ran the length of the building, each one filled with orchids of different colours. It was like walking through a rainbow, with the stunning flowers leaning over towards her. Bronwen had never been a flowers-and-chocolates kind of woman, but she couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of these.

  In the centre of the greenhouse, a dark shadow amongst the rainbow of colours, was a man leaning over a purple flower holding a pair of secateurs. He was younger than Bronwen had imagined, no older than thirty-five, with jet black hair and a growth of designer stubble along his jaw. He wore a casual grey shirt tucked into chinos and seemed to be humming to himself.

  Joe cleared his throat.

  “Mr Llewellyn?” Bronwen raised her chin as she approached. “Detective Bronwen McKay and Detective Joe Kouros.” She flashed her Northern Territory police badge. “We're here to ask you a few questions about two backpackers who worked at your farm a few months ago.”

  Tate didn't lift his head until Bronwen was half a step away from him. “Good afternoon, detectives. My apologies, I really must finish up here. It won't take a moment.” He had long fingers, pianist's fingers, that caressed the luscious green leaves of the orchid plant. After hesitating for a moment, he clipped one of the leaves and stood back with one finger on his chin, examining his handiwork.

  Bronwen watched him with interest, taking in his fluid motions and his intensely dark eyes. He was a pretty boy, there was no doubt about that—a man who would fit in well in Hollywood. He did not look like a farmer at all.

  Eventually, he turned to Bronwen and offered his hand to shake. “I'm sorry if I seem rude. Orchids are tricky to maintain. I like to take my time; it seems to help.”

  “Of course. We appreciate you giving us your time.” Bronwen smiled thinly. She’d seen these kinds of delay tactics before when a person was confronted with a police officer at their premises. Some tried so hard to act naturally that they either came across as obnoxious, or they went the other way and practically bowed at her feet. Llewellyn was clearly the obnoxious kind. She pulled two photographs from her p
ocket and handed them to him. “Do you recognise either of these girls?”

  Llewellyn examined the pictures with a frown. “Yes, I do. Let me think.” He pointed to Hayley. “She was English, wasn't she? Hayley was it?” He lifted his head and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “We get a lot of young people who work on the farm for a few weeks and then leave so I don't always remember names.” He slipped a hand into the pocket of his chinos and Bronwen made a note of the more relaxed pose. Perhaps he was getting used to their presence now. Or perhaps he really did care that much about trimming an orchid.

  “That's all right,” Bronwen said. “Whatever you remember is useful to us.”

  “The other girl was with her. Australian girl. Think she might have been from Sydney, but I'm not sure. I tend to chat to as many of the travellers as I can, but I don't run the day-to-day operations here. I have staff for that.” His smile was apologetic, as though he felt embarrassed by his wealth. “I don't remember her name, though, I'm afraid.”

  “Do you remember how long they stayed here for?” Joe asked, leaning his hip against one of the tables. This didn't go unnoticed by Llewellyn, who frowned at Joe but didn't say anything. “Do you or a staff member keep a log of who works at the farm?”

  “Yes,” Llewellyn replied. “Speak to my assistant, Sophie. She'll give you all the details. The computer system records everyone working here.”

  “And how are the workers paid?” Bronwen asked.

  “Mostly via a standard bank transfer, but for some, especially those travelling from unusual places, we pay cash or cheque.”

  Bronwen nodded and made a note in her book. There was a lot of opportunity for evading the system here. What if assistant Sophie was asked not to log a worker? What if those being paid cash gave a false ID? It'd be an easy place to hide if you didn't want to be found. She wondered how often Llewellyn’s farm was checked out.

  There were certainly plenty of air-conditioning units in this greenhouse, currently regulating a balmy temperature in the greenhouse, but certainly capable of chillier temperatures. An eccentric millionaire like Tate Llewellyn would have more than enough resources to create some sort of cold room. But searching the place would mean obtaining a warrant. Besides, it was a leap to think this man and this place was involved in what happened to the girls, especially as the girls had not indicated they were linked in anyway. She reined in her thoughts, keeping an open mind.

  “Can I show you something?”

  Bronwen lifted her eyes from the notebook to see that he was looking right at her with those disconcerting dark eyes. “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps it was Tate Llewellyn’s arresting gaze, the heat of the greenhouse, a combination of the two, or the fact that the man didn’t seem to blink, but for some reason, she felt her face flush. This was work, and Llewellyn had hardly suggested that the two of them should dance horizontally together, but the man was magnetic, and she couldn’t help but respond to it. All of this was a strange new feeling for Bronwen, seeing as she didn't particularly like rich pretty boys. But she had to admit that the pretty boys she’d known at school—like Dom Kelly and those sweet blue eyes of his—didn’t have a patch on farmer Brad Pitt here.

  “Sure,” she answered.

  Ignoring Joe's eye roll, Bronwen followed Llewellyn further into the greenhouse until they reached a section that had been partitioned away from the rest of the plants. Llewellyn unzipped the plastic partition and opened a flap to allow them through. Bronwen stepped through, not entirely sure what to expect, before holding the plastic open for Joe to follow.

  Once they were inside, she got a good look at why this particular section was separate from the rest of the greenhouse. There was just one flower here, growing inside a tray that was connected to various tubes. She saw that some of the tubes intermittently sprayed the plant with water. The flower was another orchid, but rather than being colourful, like the ones in the rest of the greenhouse, this one was almost completely devoid of colour. Its petals were velvety black, like the sleek fur of a panther, with its eye a pastel pink in the centre. She'd never seen a flower like it, and for the first time she understood exactly why other people loved giving and receiving flowers so much. She had never seen anything so beautiful.

  “The rare black orchid, part of the Bulbophyllum genus. This one is native to Papua New Guinea and extremely difficult to grow. The conditions must be just right. There are times when I come here just to stare at it. To drink in its beauty.” Llewellyn paused, staring at the orchid right at that moment. Then he pulled himself out of the spell. “I like to show visitors because chances are they've never seen a black orchid before.”

  “It's certainly very beautiful,” Bronwen admitted.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” He smiled, his eyes flitting between Bronwen and Joe. “Sophie is usually on the ground floor of the house. We have a couple of office rooms in there. She'll get you everything else you need.”

  Bronwen tensed. She didn't like the way Llewellyn was dismissing them, not the other way around. Somehow, though she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, the power had shifted into Tate's hands. Rich people were slippery buggers to deal with.

  “Thank you for your time,” Bronwen said, stepping carefully back out of the plastic.

  Llewellyn remained with the orchid.

  “Well,” Joe said as they made their way out of the greenhouse and towards the main building. “He's creepy.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Had you wrapped around his finger.”

  Bronwen turned sharply towards Joe. “What the hell are you on about?”

  “Oh, come on. You were practically in a puddle on the floor talking to him. If you ask me, the guy’s all suave and no trousers. Seems like a total weirdo. Who puts this much effort into flowers?”

  Bronwen shook her head and pressed the buzzer on the main house. “All suave and no trousers? Where do you get these phrases from, Joe?”

  But her partner just shrugged.

  The receptionist, Sophie, confirmed that Hayley and Gemma had worked on the farm for a couple of weeks before leaving. There were pay slips for a couple of weeks but beyond that nothing. The girls hadn't given notice or any kind of resignation. Instead, they just hadn't turned up on the mango fields one day. Apparently, it was common for that kind of thing to happen, and they didn't usually think anything of it. Travellers were known for being flaky and spontaneous.

  They tried asking Sophie a few more questions but didn’t discover anything useful. Leaving the house, they walked under the burning sun back to where the greenhouses stood. Llewellyn was gone.

  It seemed clear that the girls had only had a brief stay at the farm. But Bronwen wanted to be sure, so when she spotted the tattooed guy with the top knot, she retrieved her photographs from her pocket and approached him again.

  “Excuse me, how long have you been working here?”

  “Oh, six months or so,” he said.

  “Have you seen these girls here?” Bronwen handed him the photographs.

  He leaned into the photograph and frowned. “I dunno, I recognise them, but…”

  Bronwen examined him and realised his pupils were far more dilated than they should be. Top-knot guy was high.

  “Hayley and Gemma,” he said. “I know them, but I’m not sure how I know them, do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really,” Joe said.

  Top-knot guy just shrugged. “Sorry, dudes. Gotta get back to it.”

  Bronwen looked at Joe and raised her eyebrows. “How is it possible to be so high you can’t remember where you know someone from, but at the same time know their names?”

  “Seemed weird,” Joe admitted.

  “I mean, people are never reliable when they’re high, are they? But, even still.” Bronwen watched top-knot guy pick up a crate of mangoes and walk towards a ute in the carpark. “Look. He’s capable of packing fruit. He’s not exactly drooling on the ground or incoherent. Why didn’t he just say the two girls
used to work at the farm?”

  “Want to question him some more?” Joe asked. “Or some of the others?”

  Bronwen turned back to the house to see Llewellyn watching them through the window on the second floor. He nodded once in recognition but didn’t move from his position. While they’d been talking to Sophie, he must have gone up there. Did that mean something? Had he finished in the greenhouse anyway? Or had he wanted to watch them?

  “I think if we linger, we might be overstaying our welcome,” Bronwen said. “Probably best to check with the boss to see what we can get away with without a warrant.”

  “Yeah, probably best,” Joe added. “These rich fellas always have connections.”

  Bronwen looked up at Llewellyn one more time before they made their way back to the car. Joe was right. Something did seem weird.

  7

  Hayley

  The air was dark and dry. When Hayley breathed in, her throat burned and her lungs ached. She was weak, and her head throbbed. She felt like she couldn't move her arms and legs. There were no shoes on her feet, and her hip was sore pressed against the floor, but every time she tried to adjust her weight, she found it impossible to get comfortable. The restraints prevented her from moving very far anyway. She licked her dry lips and longed to be anywhere else. Even back in that bar in Sydney with skeevy Sam, or on the street in Thailand with David standing over her, his angry, disappointed eyes making her feel ashamed.

  A small crack of light fell across her face as the door slowly opened. Her body reacted even before her mind did, as she huddled up as small as she could go.

  It was no good. She saw his shape move through the door. He was here, and he was going to hurt her again.