Dying Words (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  She considered this. It would be a good distraction. She swallowed her coffee in one gulp. “Let’s do it.”

  On the way out, Roxy popped on a slim leather jacket, hoop earrings and some lip-gloss, then sent a quick text message to Oliver. It was almost 10:00 a.m. and she assumed he’d still be snoozing, but she wanted to tell him where to find her, just in case. By the time she got to her local café, Peepers, however, he was already there, slouched at a table outside under a giant, white umbrella that had the word Vittoria across it.

  It was chilly out. Despite it being the early days of spring, the weather had not noticed and it still felt like mid-winter. Oliver, too, had missed the memo and was wearing little more than a thin, cotton Hawaiian shirt, baggy black jeans and a beat-up old Fedora.

  “Goodness, you’re up early,” Roxy said as Max stayed on the sidewalk to take a call on his mobile phone.

  Oliver looked up at her with tubby jowls and three-day growth and grimaced. “No choice, Rox. Got an early morning call—”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But can you keep that to yourself? Max ... well ... he probably would have preferred I called him—”

  “I’m not talking about your call, it’s not all about you, you know? About nine this morning, some chick rings and demands your details.”

  “My details? But I thought you said it’s not all about me.” She bat her eyelids at him and he smirked.

  “Yeah, well, she wakes me from the deepest bloody sleep. I nearly told her where she could stick your details, except she sounded needy. You know what I’m like with needy chicks.”

  He offered her a lopsided grin and she laughed, taking the seat beside him. “So who is this damsel in distress? What did she want? You didn’t just hand over my—”

  “’Course I didn’t, I’m not an idiot.” He looked offended for about a second. “Said her name was Sandra Lang or Lane or something. I got her number and said you’d call her back when you had some free time.”

  He reached into his pocket to retrieve a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a mobile number. Max appeared then, looking harassed.

  “Sorry, that’s me done. I’ve got to go and collect Caroline—she’s woken up in some strange guy’s bed and has no idea how to get home.”

  Oliver laughed and Roxy shook her head. “Who’s the guy?”

  “I don’t know. She’s started some new hobby and I suspect he has something to do with that. And stop laughing, Oliver! This is just typical of Caro, she gets to have all the fun and I get to pick up the pieces.”

  “Like we’re not having any fun?” Roxy said, eyes squinting.

  He shrugged. “We didn’t have any fun last night.”

  She let this one pass. “You men and your damsels. Okay, well good luck and I’ll call you later.”

  He hesitated, looking down at Roxy through tangles of dark, unruly fringe. “You’re sure you’re okay? Maybe you should stay at my—”

  She held a hand up. “I’ll be fine, honestly.” She jumped up and gave him a long, lingering kiss, which seemed to cheer him up, not to mention catch the eye of a few passing pedestrians. He rewarded her with one of his thousand-watt smiles, then waved them goodbye and strode away.

  “That Caroline’s a piece of work,” said Oliver.

  “I know, I love Max’s sister, she’s a hoot, but I wouldn’t want to be related to her.”

  “You might be if all goes well with you-know-who.”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows a few times provocatively and she scowled back at him. She wasn’t lying. She did love Max but marriage was not a topic she had any fondness for.

  “Anyway, enough of that, I need a greasy ham and cheese croissant and I need it now. You want anything?”

  He shook his head and Roxy jumped up to place her order at the counter. By the time she returned, she’d forgotten all about marriage to Max and strange visitors in the night, and for just an hour or so, life returned to normal. It would prove to be short-lived.

  Chapter 3

  The policemen stood out like sore thumbs. Dressed in cheap, ill-fitting suits with wrap-around sunglasses and short back and sides, they looked equally uncomfortable in Roxy’s bohemian, inner-city suburb of Elizabeth Bay, and her heart skipped a beat as she walked up towards them. One was standing beside her car, which she’d parked outside her building at a particularly dodgy angle the night before, the other pressing on a buzzer that looked suspiciously like hers from a distance.

  Oh God, she thought. I’m gonna get done for sloppy parking.

  As she approached, they both turned to watch her for a few seconds before one said, “Roxanne Parker?”

  She braced herself. “Yes?”

  The man who had spoken produced a police identification card from his jacket and flashed it in front of her. He had a protruding beer belly, grey bags under his eyes and looked about 105. When he spoke, his voice was breathless and croaky. “Detective Sean Leary, Cremorne Area Command.”

  “Yes?” she repeated.

  “Is that your vehicle?” He indicated the dark blue VW Golf and she felt her stomach lurch.

  “Yes, yes, I know it’s a crappy park. It was a really tight spot and I got in late last night so—”

  “Can we speak to you inside?”

  Oh for God’s sake, it’s just a dodgy park! “Look, Detective, I’ve got the keys on me and I can straighten it up now.”

  His expression did not change. “We’re not here to talk about your parking skills, Miss Parker.”

  “Oh, right. So why ...?” That’s when it clicked. “Oh, you heard about the break-in?”

  Detective Leary glanced at his partner, a much younger man with carrot-orange hair and a face splattered with dirty brown freckles, then back at Roxy.

  “Break-in?” he now repeated.

  “It’s not that big a deal, really. It’s not like he took anything, at least not that I can tell.”

  “Did you report this?”

  “Well, no, as I say, he didn’t take anything. I must have disturbed him.”

  He looked bored suddenly by this conversation. “We’re here about a separate matter, Miss Parker.”

  “What separate matter?”

  “Inside, if you don’t mind,” the younger man spoke now, waving a hand towards the entrance.

  “Fine.” She unlocked the door. “It’s four floors up.”

  She wondered if the old guy would make it; it was hard enough for her these days. Roxy’s usual fitness regime—a daily speed walk/jog on good days—had taken a real beating of late. Not only had she been preoccupied with her latest ghostwriting assignment, but Max had been monopolising the rest of her time and her walking shoes were probably covered in cobwebs by now.

  She led the way up, Leary panting heavily behind her, and stopped outside her door. The last time she’d opened it, a strange man had been lurking inside. Today, she was inviting two more strangers in. She hoped their credentials were legit. She swung the door open and peered inside tentatively, before stepping in and heading straight for the lounge room. Before she could offer the men a seat, Leary had already dropped into a dining chair, red-faced and sweaty.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Would you like a glass of water? Cup of tea?”

  He waved her off and produced a small notepad, taking a few croaky breaths before opening it and whipping through several pages. Eventually, after a few more breaths, he said, “What is your relationship with a Mr Bernard John Tiles, please?”

  “Bernard John Tiles?” The name rang a bell but for the moment Roxy could not work out why. “I’m not sure ...?” They stared at her blankly. “Can I ask what this is in relation to? His name sounds familiar but—”

  “It’s a straight forward question, Miss Parker. You either do or do not know a,” he glanced at the pad, “Mr Bernard John Tiles.”

  She shook her head. “Well, I can’t—” She stopped. “Oh, do you mean Berny Tiles? The surveyor?”

  They looked at each other again but did n
ot answer, so she said, “I know a Berny Tiles. Not well. I interviewed him recently for a book I was writing on Sir Wolfgang Bergman. You know, the mining magnate? It was a pretty brief interview with Berny, though, just one hour over lunch. Why?”

  “Do you own any other motor vehicles, Miss Parker?”

  His sudden change of tack caught her by surprise and for another moment Roxy’s mind went blank. Eventually she managed to shake her head, no.

  Detective Leary kept reading from his notepad. He clearly had a set of questions written down and he intended to get through them.

  “Have you driven any other motor vehicles in the past six days?”

  “No. Unless you count a couple of cabs.”

  He stared hard at her. “You drove those cabs, did you, Miss Parker?”

  “Obviously not,” she replied, restraining a smirk.

  He referred back to his pad. “Where were you on the evening of Sunday, September the second?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Six days ago, Miss Parker. Where were you between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and midnight?”

  She considered this and then felt a small lump in her throat. “That was Father’s Day, right?” He nodded. “I was with my mother.”

  “On Father’s Day?” said the younger man, his freckles scrunching up into one big, brown blob around his nose.

  “Yes, well, I would have preferred to be with my dad, but he’s six feet under.” She tried not to look too smarmy. “So I let my mother talk me into celebrating that evening over dinner with my stepdad, but, well, that was a barrel of laughs as always. You want their number?”

  Leary nodded and she recited it by heart. “Try not to freak her out when you call. She does tend to overreact.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Leary.

  Roxy felt suddenly tense. “Look, she’s going to think the absolute worst, is there any way you can tell me what’s going on? What all these questions are about?”

  The elderly detective snapped his notepad shut. “We’re not at liberty to say, Miss Parker, but we thank you for your time. We’ll be back in touch should we need anything further.”

  She stared at him stunned, not sure what she’d actually given him. “This is all very cryptic. You’re not even going to give me a clue?”

  “Just clearing up a few issues for an investigation. We may be in touch.”

  And with that they opened the front door and departed, leaving a very perplexed Roxy Parker in their wake.

  Chapter 4

  Unable to shake off a strange sense of foreboding, Roxy decided it was time to get her fitness back on track. Exercise always helped calm her thoughts and right now they were on overload.

  Why, she wondered as she changed into a tracksuit and joggers, did two policemen show up at her door asking some very strange questions about her car and her whereabouts? And why on earth did they mention boring old Berny Tiles?

  Exchanging her beanie for a cap and her black Rayban spectacles for prescription Gucci sunglasses, Roxy recalled the seventy-something retiree and his kindly face—ready smile, steel spectacles, scruffy grey hair—and couldn’t think of any reason why the police would be making enquiries about him. Or, at least, nothing that was very positive and she wasn’t in the mood for negative, so she thrust him from her mind, grabbed some small change and her keys, and headed out again.

  It had been months since Roxy had walked, but the route was a familiar one—past the steamy Laundromat, newsagency and a Chinese takeaway, crossing the road at Peepers, down a back alley and a set of stone stairs, and into the lush green park of Rushcutters Bay. There she usually picked up the pace and began to jog, but she was already puffing from the power walk so she decided to stick to that today, knowing her body would thank her and torture her in equal measures later.

  After fifty-five minutes and several buckets of sweat, she peeled off her cap, wiped down her brow then returned up the steps, through the alleyway and onto Elizabeth Bay Road again. She zigzagged across to the newsagency where the oversized Greek owner was now perched precariously on a stool out the front, a glass of espresso in his hand.

  “Ullo, Miss Roxy!” Costa called out as she approached. “You come for your papers at last!”

  “Yep, I forgot to collect them earlier. They still there?”

  “We always save ’em for you, you know that!” He then bellowed into the shop, “Rocco, get papers for Roxy!”

  “Huh?” came a voice from inside.

  “Roxy Parker, you moron! Look for name on top!”

  He shook his head at Roxy as if to say, “You can’t find any decent help these days.”

  A minute later, Costa’s muscle-bound son Rocco burst out of the agency with Roxy’s two Saturday newspapers in his hands.

  “Ullo, Roxy,” he said, giving her a flirtatious grin.

  “Hi, Rocco,” she replied, handing him the change. “Been working out, I see.”

  He beamed proudly, suddenly feeling the need to scratch the back of his neck, thus allowing Roxy another good look at his bulging right bicep. She almost laughed but decided Rocco might not take it so well, and simply smiled, wedged the papers under one arm and continued on to her apartment.

  She was just reaching for her keys when a very thin, very pale woman with startling red lipstick stepped out from a nearby doorway. Her greying brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, large ears protruding out, and she was clutching a shabby brown leather handbag in front of her chest.

  “Roxy Parker?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper and for a moment Roxy thought her ears were playing tricks on her. She glanced around.

  The woman was staring keenly at her, so she said, “Beg your pardon?”

  The woman stepped a little closer. “I’m looking for Roxy Parker. Are you ...?” She let it dangle there and Roxy stepped back.

  She was getting a lot of odd visitors of late. “Yes, I am, can I help you with something?”

  “I’m Sondra Lane. I ... I rang your agent this morning?”

  “Oh yes, he mentioned something.” But he shouldn’t have given her address out. “What’s this about?”

  The woman glanced around. “Can we talk, please? Inside, if you don’t mind?”

  The woman indicated the front door that Roxy had not yet opened and she sighed. Could no one have a conversation outdoors anymore?

  Sensing her hesitation, the woman added, “I promise not to take up too much of your time. It’s very important.”

  It’s very bloody odd is what it is, thought Roxy, but then again, it had been a very odd twenty-four hours.

  She let her in and led the way up to her apartment feeling a case of déjà vu as she did so. She also felt the same sense of wariness as she opened her front door, and she wondered whether a shiny new deadlock would make a jot of difference. Had the creepy burglar stolen her apartment’s innocence forever?

  “Excuse the mess,” Roxy said as she headed for the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting guests. I don’t know why. They’re a regular occurrence these days.”

  “It’s perfectly fine,” the woman replied, glancing around herself.

  She looked as though she, too, expected a crazy man to appear out of the shadows and Roxy decided a good settling cup of tea was probably in order for both of them.

  She dumped the papers and her cap on the kitchen bench, switched back to her Rayban glasses and popped the kettle on.

  “How do you like your tea?” she called out, reaching for an antique blue and white china teapot.

  “Oh ... er, white and no sugar, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble?”

  “No trouble at all. Please, pull up a pew, make yourself comfortable.”

  Roxy feared the strange, pale woman would drop. She had that broken bird look about her—bony limbs accentuated by a flowing woollen dress, pale features amplified by stark coloured lipstick, the only makeup she appeared to be wearing. Yet Sondra stayed standing until Roxy joined her with the tea and then sat down across from h
er on one of the sofas, her handbag in her lap. For a few minutes neither woman spoke and Roxy was beginning to regret ever letting her in.

  Eventually Sondra said, “This is most unusual, I don’t know, really, where to begin.”

  You can say that again, Roxy thought, but she simply nodded and encouraged her to continue as she poured them both a cup of tea.

  “The thing is, I wouldn’t bother you with this, only ... it was so strange, you see. I just had to ... I had to ...”

  “Yes?”

  The woman stood up and began walking around the room in a kind of circular motion. Despite this, she was clearly trying to get her thoughts straight.

  “I need to know ... I’m sorry if I’m prying but ... do you know my father?”

  Roxy picked up her teacup. “Your father? Well, it would really help if you gave me his name.” Like, really.

  “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I’m all over the shop, as you can see. His name is Bernard.” She stopped and turned to look straight at Roxy as though waiting for some sign. When Roxy kept blinking back at her blankly, she said, “Bernard Tiles.”

  The flash of comprehension in Roxy’s eyes was all she needed; a look of horror swept across her face and she placed a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh! How ... how long?” she stammered.

  “Sorry?”

  “How long have you ... and he ...?” She let it dangle there again, barely able to meet Roxy’s eyes.

  Now Roxy was really confused. The police had just been there, asking about Berny Tiles, now his daughter was standing in her lounge room doing the same. What was going on?

  “I’m not following.”

  Sondra folded her arms in front of her chest. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you? How long did you and he ... know each other?”

  She shrugged. “Not long. It was really brief.”

  “Well it obviously meant something to him.”

  “Really? That surprises me but that’s nice to hear. Considering it was only an hour.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “An hour?! Are you ... was he ...?” Her eyes began darting around the room again. “You’re a prostitute?”