by Livia Day
‘Could be nice inside,’ said Stewart.
‘Only cos you can’t see the outside from in there.’ There was a mountain view from the car park, at least, which made me feel better. It always does. ‘Exactly how many redheads are we likely to find in this hovel?’
‘Only the one, unless we’re very lucky.’ We got out of the car, and surveyed the building. ‘So,’ said Stewart, after a while. ‘How are we gonnae play this?’
‘You’re the plucky ace reporter. I drove the car.’
‘Psychological warfare?’
‘At the very least.’
Someone had beaten us to the psychological warfare. Claudina opened the door in a tatty old dressing gown and an oversized t-shirt nightie with a giant teddy bear on it. People who design women’s nighties these days should be beaten with a big stick.
‘What do you want?’ Claudina asked. She was a mess, her eyes too bright above dark circles. Whoever had convinced her to change her story for the police had done a real number on her.
I immediately changed my mind on how to tackle this. This woman didn’t need to be pushed any further. A cup of tea and a sympathetic smile would just about break her.
So I broke her.
My mother is one of those natural hostesses. Even in other people’s houses, she’s the one who takes over the kitchen, makes a cuppa, and ensures that everyone is comfortable and looked after. It’s a sneaky tactic, which leaves its victims befuddled and utterly vulnerable. I only channel Mum in dire emergencies.
‘I was hoping to talk to ye about the story ye gave me a few days ago,’ Stewart started. ‘It seems ye might hae changed —’
I cut him off. ‘Don’t bother her with that now, Stewart. The poor girl looks awful. Are you sick, sweetie? A good cup of tea, that’s what you need.’
Claudina stepped back in bafflement, and I took the opportunity to bustle right past her and into the flat.
It was exactly as grim inside as out, with mismatched share house furniture, coupled with lousy housekeeping skills. The carpet was actually that awful bristly stuff that they used to put in school corridors to stop the students making out on the floor.
‘You sit down,’ I said to Claudina. ‘When did you last get a decent night’s sleep?’
She moved slowly, as if she needed to be told what to do. ‘Sunday, I think.’
‘Three days?’ said Stewart. ‘Is something wrong?’
I made a face at him to shut up. Let me do the mothering. ‘Right, then. We need to pour a cup of something soothing down you. Do you have anything with chamomile in it? Sleepytime is my favourite.’ I headed for the kitchenette in a corner of the living room.
‘Please don’t bother,’ Claudina said weakly, but she did at least drop on to the couch.
‘We’re somewhat obliged!’ I called out while I inspected her inadequate tea-making supplies. ‘Stewart can’t interrogate you about changing your story for the police while you’re in this state, now can he?’
Stewart shrugged at Claudina and leaned against the wall, knowing when to leave me to my work. Good boy.
I emerged from the kitchen to inspect Claudina’s DVD collection. ‘What we need is a nice relaxing old movie. Aha!’ I snatched up The Philadelphia Story. ‘Perfect.’
Claudina tucked her feet up under her as I fiddled with the remotes, and got the movie going.
‘Uh, Tabitha…’ said Stewart, nonplussed by my brilliant interview tactics.
I threw my keys at him. ‘Given that there is nothing remotely non-caffeinated in that kitchen, I need you to fetch me some supplies. There’s a pink shoebox above the stove at my place, with my special tea stash in it. Also, we’re going to need biscuits.’
‘Anything else?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Maybe a Doris Day movie in case Cary Grant doesnae cut it?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ I said, blowing him a kiss. ‘You’re getting the hang of this.’
Stewart went out, muttering something. It was probably for the best that I didn’t hear the actual words.
* * *
Claudina and I were immersed in the angry banter between a bad-tempered socialite (Katharine Hepburn) and her wisecracking ex-husband (Cary Grant). We both jumped when there was a knock at the door, and Claudina looked afraid. I filed that away for future reference, even as I patted her reassuringly on the arm and went to let Stewart in.
‘I found the shoe box, but no biscuits,’ he said, handing over the box and (what a sweetie!) my Doris Day box set. I like a man who isn’t prepared to assume that I’m joking about stuff like that.
‘Not to worry,’ I said. ‘Scones will be ready in a couple of minutes.’
‘You baked scones?’ He really hadn’t known me very long. No one else of my acquaintance would be remotely surprised.
‘No, the scone fairy left some under the lampshade. Of course I baked scones.’ I rummaged through my box and came up triumphantly with my favourite teabags. ‘Claudina, I’m going to make you a cup of this, and get those scones out of the oven, and then maybe you can tell us what’s got you so worked up that you haven’t slept all week.’
Stewart dropped into an armchair, beaming. ‘Tabitha, I’m taking ye on all my interviews from now on.’
‘Still no coffee,’ I told him.
‘I think ye fail to appreciate how excited I get about homemade scones.’
I made the tea—Irish Breakfast for Stewart and me, and Sleepytime for Claudina. I found butter and half a jar of jam, and brought the hot scones out of the oven.
As I carried the makeshift tea tray into the living room, I saw something that made my whole body tense up. Stewart saw my distress, and leaped up to take the tray out of my hands. By all means, let’s save the scones first. ‘Tabitha, what’s wrong?’
I marched across the room, and found a ping pong ball, wedged in the crack between the carpet and the wall. I poked it with a finger gently to check it, then pulled it out and flourished it at Claudina. She stared at me as if I were pointing a gun at her. ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s been going on,’ I said. ‘Really, truly.’
‘I can’t,’ Claudina said in a whisper, barely even a sound.
I started pulling at drawers and cupboards, panicking. ‘Where are the rest of them? Where did —’ The words choked up in my throat as I pulled on one of the desk drawers, and saw that it was piled edge to edge with ping pong balls. I poked at them one at a time, and eventually found one that zapped my finger. ‘Bloody hell.’
Stewart came and took my arm, and led me over to sit beside Claudina on the couch. I let him. ‘Right,’ he said, in that gentle, lovely voice that certainly made me want to spill all my secrets. ‘Claudina, do ye no’ think it’s time tae start talking? Yer not the only one this has happened tae.’
Claudina took a deep breath, and finally spilled.
* * *
I don’t know why it felt worse to know I wasn’t the only one being stalked by ping pong balls, but it did. It made it real.
‘They were in a bucket, balanced on top of my bedroom door,’ said Claudina. ‘You know, like a practical joke—something kids might do with water or confetti.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I got the shock of my life—literally. About half of them have an electric charge, but the worst it did was frizz up my hair. I wasn’t hurt, but shaken and scared.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘It was when I read the note that I really started freaking out.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Stewart, and I was glad he had taken over the interview. The sight of those ping pong balls had made it impossible to channel my mother any further—I don’t think she’s ever been afraid of anything in her life.
No, I wasn’t afraid of ping pong balls. That was silly. The rush of my stomach into my throat every time I saw them was … well possibly I could come up with an excuse for it if I had the time.
Claudina spoke in a flat voice. ‘The note said that he could get in any time, that nowhere was safe from him, that he knew my routine, that I should
expect him to come calling again if I didn’t tell the police that Julian was into drugs, a total junkie, into everything. And—also that he was a practical joker, to make them think he was the one who set those stupid traps.’ She looked suddenly very fierce. ‘He wasn’t, though. He wouldn’t. It’s all wrong…’
‘Ye told the police he was a drug addict, and probably the Trapper,’ Stewart said, making notes.
Claudina hesitated, and nodded. ‘If there was heroin in his insulin container, he didn’t put it there,’ she said quietly. ‘I mean—he’s not that person. I shouldn’t have said he was. But I got scared.’
‘Where’s the note now?’ I asked.
‘I burned it. It said I had to.’
‘So much for evidence,’ I sighed.
‘I was scared,’ she flared at me. ‘Wouldn’t you be? Whoever it was, got into my flat without me even knowing he’d done it. I’m alone now, with Julian gone. Wouldn’t you be scared?’
I was, I admitted to myself. And I have Ceege, when he’s not gadding about. Stewart, too. Bishop … maybe. Interesting that my favourite police officer came third on the list of reliable menfolk, and I should probably rank Xanthippe higher than all three of them. ‘You’re not alone now,’ I said aloud. ‘Trust me on this.’
Claudina gave me a sceptical look, flashing some hint of the kind of person she was when not grieving or frightened for her life. ‘You’re going to protect me, though, are you? Going to stay here every night to make sure I’m not raped and murdered and electrified and God-knows-what else?’ She turned on Stewart. ‘You are not going to put any of this in your damn blog.’
‘No’ yet,’ he said, looking startled at her outburst. ‘I’m thinking there’s nae story here until it’s all over. Don’t wannae publish something stupid, or dangerous.’
‘And no,’ I put in. ‘I’m not going to protect you, Claudina. But I know a woman who can. If I find someone to stay with you, keep you safe until the person who killed Julian is caught, will you come to me with the police at the end of it? Make a proper statement about the truth?’
Claudina didn’t look comforted. ‘What sort of woman?’
‘Trust me,’ I said again, heading for the door. ‘You’ll be as safe as houses. I’m going out to make a phone call—you two watch the movie. There’s a good bit with Jimmy Stewart coming up. And eat those scones before they get cold.’
* * *
It was nice to be outside the flat for a few minutes, to breathe slightly fresher air and look at the mountain again. Always worth checking that it was still there. I dialled Darrow’s number, and waited until the answering machine picked up. ‘Zee? I know you’re still sponging off my missing landlord. Answer the phone!’
Xanthippe picked up. ‘Found him?’
‘Not yet. Got some leads, though,’ I lied shamelessly. ‘I’ve got a job for you. Fancy being a bodyguard to a terrified witness?’
‘Are you going to pay me?’
‘With actual money? Of course not.’ I hesitated, not entirely ready to sell my soul to the devil. But Xanthippe didn’t eat cake, which was my usual currency of choice for bribery and corruption. There was only one choice. ‘I’ll find Darrow for you. This week.’
‘Tish, you haven’t exactly had much success at that so far…’
‘I’m close.’ Lies upon lies.
‘Lies upon lies,’ said Xanthippe. Whoa. She was good. ‘Who am I supposed to be protecting, and from whom?’
‘Julian Morris’s former flatmate,’ I said. ‘From the Trapper, and possibly my stalker.’
‘I’ll be right over.’
I gave her the address, and hung up with a sense of accomplishment. Now all we had to do was hand custody of Claudina over to Xanthippe before she found out about the Doris Day movies.
19
Stewart was depressed as we left Claudina’s. ‘This has no’ been a bloggable day. Next time I start pursuing an actual news story, remind me there’s more hits to be had from coffee fairs and meringue porn.’
‘You can take pictures of what’s left of Darrow after Xanthippe catches up to him. Will that count as news?’
‘Only if it gets really bloody.’ He leaned against the car window. ‘Better throw myself on Simon’s mercy and see wha’s going on at the office.’
‘I should do some prep work for tomorrow—try to get back into Nin’s good books.’
‘Good luck wi’ that.’ Stewart didn’t say much else until I parked the car in my usual spot, on the loading zone near Café La Femme. ‘Coffee break first?’ he said hopefully.
‘You haven’t done any work yet. Come back down in an hour.’
‘Slave driver,’ he said, and loped off towards the building.
I took my time, working my brain back into kitchen mode, figuring out what I could do today to make less work for tomorrow. Yesterday’s bakingfest would help somewhat, those cakes were still good.
The kitchen door was unlocked. I didn’t even react to that until I was inside. It was normal for Nin to get to work before me. But she wasn’t due in until the morning. ‘Nin? Is that you?’
Silence from within. I know at that point I should have yelled up the stairs for Stewart, or called Bishop, but I had been relying on those two too much lately, so I didn’t. Instead, I walked through the kitchen and pushed open the door to the main café.
Eight-year-old Kevin Darrow sat at one of my tables near Stewart’s mural-in-progress, doing what looked like homework. ‘Gah!’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
The boy glanced up, and past me. I turned to see a familiar, well-dressed man in a gorgeous coat standing at my café counter, drinking my coffee. ‘Darling. Mind telling me why my café has been closed for the past three days?’
I looked at Darrow for a long moment, not entirely sure that he was real.
The thing about Darrow is—he’s delicious. There’s nothing pretty about him. He’s built of strong features: wide hands, prominent nose, dirty gold hair, caramel eyes, confident mouth. He doesn’t wear clothes like normal people, he wears Clothes with a capital Everything. Silk shirts, linen waistcoats, handmade suits, expensive shoes. He was once spotted in an eighteenth century cravat, and damned if it didn’t suit him.
Not your average Aussie bloke.
‘Well?’ he asked, in his chocolate-melted-into-cream voice.
‘It’s not your café, it’s my café. Where have you been?’ I demanded.
‘Hiding from Xanthippe, obviously. Do you know the mess I made of her car?’ Darrow gave me one of those smiles he uses to get anything he wants.
I couldn’t let him get away with it. I couldn’t slip into our usual banter and pretend that everything was normal. ‘Cut the crap. What’s going on?’
Darrow’s smile slipped a little, but only just. ‘You know she’s moved into my house? That woman’s got persistence. Remind me why we broke up? Once she’s got over trying to kill me, I may have to hire her. She’d make a kick-arse bailiff.’
I slapped my palms flat on the counter. ‘Darrow, talk to me. You went missing, and someone got murdered, and the police have been asking questions about you.’
My landlord laughed at me. ‘If you’d just screw Bishop and get it over with, maybe he’d stop trying to pin crimes on every bloke you talk to. Sexual repression is a sad, sad thing.’
I scowled at him. ‘That’s what Stewart keeps saying.’
‘Who’s Stewart?’
‘New best friend.’ I leaned over and smacked Darrow between the eyes. ‘The old one dumped me.’
‘Ow!’ He batted my hand away. ‘No violence, please.’
‘I was worried about you, you complete tool.’
Darrow took my hand. ‘Didn’t mean to make you worry, Darling. I needed some time out. Went off to the mountains for a while. I would have been back a week ago if it wasn’t for Xanthippe sniffing around.’
‘And the taxi?’
‘Research.’ He hesitated, looking appealingly vulnerable for about five seco
nds before the old cocky Darrow reasserted himself. ‘I’m writing a book,’ he announced. Ridiculously pleased with himself. Bastard.
There was one question that had to be asked. ‘Am I in it?’
‘Obviously. All fourteen of the characters are based on you. Especially the murderous old ladies and cheeky Cockney schoolboys.’
I squeezed his hand, not wanting to give in and be friendly too soon, but I’m a soft touch, and we both knew it. ‘So you haven’t been sneaking around, building traps and administering heroin overdoses to random buskers, or stalking women with electrified ping pong balls?’
Darrow stared at me. ‘Is that what the police think?’
‘It’s what Xanthippe thinks.’
‘That bitch.’ Heh, the ‘why did we break up’ talk hadn’t lasted long. ‘Listen, Darling. Kev told me about the ball in your handbag. Someone’s targeting you personally. You know I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Of course not,’ I said quickly. ‘But you know something, don’t you?’
My door banged open, in the kitchen. ‘Tabitha?’ Bishop’s voice called out from there.
‘Damn—I’ll get rid of him,’ I promised in a whisper. The last thing we needed was those two in a room together. I pushed my way through the door into the kitchen to greet the noble representatives of Tasmania Police. ‘Café’s still closed, boys.’
Constable Gary, leaning against the fridge, smiled at me in his usual friendly puppy dog way. ‘Hi, Tabby.’
Bishop, by the door, didn’t snap or glower. For a minute I wondered if he was an imposter. ‘Tabitha. You all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said brightly. ‘Action stations to re-open tomorrow. I might even toss a few steak pies in the oven for old time’s sake. Don’t tell Inspector Bobby, though, I don’t want to be responsible for yet another police divorce…’
‘Have you received any further strange parcels, or messages?’ Bishop asked, very businesslike.
