Lynsey’s stomach grumbled and she dug in her bag for an apple before picking up another folder from the crate at her feet. Inside were newspaper and glossy magazine clippings of holiday destinations and romantic getaways. Best B & Bs in the Blue Mountains. Bora Bora. Hamilton Island. The Maldives.
Certain her mother had never been to any of those locations, Lynsey’s eyes flew to the date on one of the yellowed newspaper clippings. It was fourteen months before her parents had separated. Had her father taken Yasmin there, or had he just clipped them out for future use?
Lynsey bit into her apple and picked up another file, this one slimmer than the previous one. She opened it up and read the document sitting on top.
Certificate of Authentication. Limited edition print. ‘Country Scene: Yass’ No. 31 of 500.
She shifted it aside and read the next one. Certificate of original artwork. Pro Hart $21,750.00. With the brochure was a photograph of the painting. A campsite, set up in the scorched earth of the Australian outback, the masterpiece a riot of burnt orange and red hues.
The third document read Certificate of Guarantee – Custom made jewellery. 1 Ceylon blue sapphire and 16 claw set brilliant tapered baguette diamonds.
And another certificate. This one for a bracelet.
Lynsey’s heart thumped so hard beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She dropped the half-eaten apple and went through the certificates again, adding the values in her head. Tens of thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands maybe. And like the clippings, the certificates pre-dated her parents’ separation.
Lynsey stared at the mottled wall until her eyes began to smart. These purchases had been made when she was fifteen, and though she’d been an infrequent visitor to the mill, she was sure she’d never seen a Pro Hart hanging on the wall. Her mother treasured family portraits above everything else. And with the exception of a beautiful quilt hanging on the family room wall, most of the art in her mother’s house had been painted by friends or handed down from her parents.
How had her father paid for such extravagant items?
Lynsey checked the date on the Pro Hart certificate then grabbed the file containing the bank statements. Turning over the yellowed pages she searched for the corresponding month. Trailing a finger down the column of debits she prayed the $21,750.00 wouldn’t appear, and that her father had paid for the painting with his own money.
The figure jumped off the page. Cheque no 837—$21,750.00.
Lynsey sucked in a breath. Where was the painting now? Hanging on a wall in her father’s home or on-sold at a profit sometime during the last eleven years?
And the jewellery?
Sliding her index finger down the columns of figures she searched for the amounts noted on the certificates. Three-quarters of the way down one page she found a debit matching the price of the custom-made sapphire ring. Six months later, around the time the fifteen-karat gold mesh-woven bracelet had been purchased, the corresponding amount appeared on the bank statement.
Unable to stomach any more, Lynsey slipped both files into the recyclable bag she’d brought with her. The information would be of interest to the administrator, but there was no way she was going to hand it over before talking to her mother first … and her father.
Anxious to leave the depressing unit with its time capsule of secrets, Lynsey shoved the half empty crate out of the way with her boot. Something heavy inside bumped against the plastic side with a thud. Lynsey bent over and riffled through the remaining contents, shifting aside files and papers until her fingertips touched a smooth, cold surface. A silver laptop, chunkier than the notebooks of today, was sitting in the bottom of the crate. Beside it was a battery charger and mouse, the cords looped together and fastened with a couple of plastic cable ties.
Lynsey stared at the old laptop wondering what secrets it might hold. Grabbing the charger, she searched the mildewed walls for a power outlet, shoving aside boxes and furniture to peer into the dank corners of the dismal space. But there was nothing. The laptop would have to come home with her.
She was reaching into the crate and vowing to talk to her mother about upgrading the storage unit when footsteps crunched on the gravel outside. Tucking the laptop under one arm and clutching the power cord and mouse in her hands, she straightened up and listened. The footsteps were slow. Heavy.
A workman?
Someone from the admin office?
A Mindalby local who recognised her mother’s Camry?
Whoever was outside, they were walking with deliberate slowness along the driver’s side of her mother’s car.
Lynsey waited, careful not to make a sound. The few customers she’d heard visiting the storage units that morning had driven in, attended to their business, and driven out again. The person approaching her mother’s garage when it would be obvious that someone was working inside made her skin crawl.
The footsteps grew louder, the person rounding the bonnet and walking between the Camry and the garage door. A man’s black boots and the navy hem of workman’s pants appeared in the gap. The boots stopped.
Lynsey waited, wondering what the man would do next. Was he hoping she’d call out, roll up the door and ask if she could help him in some way?
That would give him an opportunity to look inside the shed.
Willing him to move on, Lynsey stared down at the boots. Large. Dusty. A silver buckle on the side. A few moments later, he began walking towards the back of the car and then eventually moved away from the garage.
Deliberate.
Slow.
Like he might be looking back.
Lynsey let go of a breath, her legs weak and her knuckles white from gripping the computer and charger so hard. Why would anyone come so close to the door without identifying themselves? Surely, if it was someone from the office with a query they would have spoken up.
The sound of an engine starting had her straining to listen. A car moved off. Perhaps he’d been parked in the next row of garages.
Putting the items she wanted to take home on top of a crate, she moved to the door and rolled it up, wincing as the rusty track squeaked and groaned. Squinting into the afternoon sun, she scanned row G. Save for the Camry, it was deserted.
Eager to get going, she put the bag holding the files and laptop on the seat next to her handbag. She rushed to repack the crates with the stuff she didn’t need and snapped on the lids. She didn’t want to come back and find something awful crawling around inside.
After a final look at the creepy mannequins, she killed the light and rolled the door down. Only after she’d locked it and was behind the wheel did she notice the CCTV cameras mounted high up at each end of the row of garages. She’d been so pre-occupied finding the correct garage when she’d arrived this morning she hadn’t noticed them.
Lynsey started the car and left the complex, passing little traffic on her way out of the industrial estate. Five minutes later she was turning into St George Boulevard. As she approached her mother’s home she could see two people standing on the footpath talking. One she recognised as Mrs Tucker, a neighbour who lived opposite her mother. The taller person had been on her mind since Willow had turned into the depot last night.
Julian.
Dark-haired and broad-shouldered, he was standing with his back to her, hands on his hips as he listened to whatever it was Mrs Tucker was saying.
What was Julian doing standing outside her mother’s house?
A cold shiver slipped down Lynsey’s spine and she braked hard.
Scrawled in white paint across her mother’s tall timber fence were the words ‘PAY UP’.
Chapter Seven
Julian swung around as car brakes screeched behind him. Veronica Carter’s blue Camry was skidding to an abrupt halt in the loose gravel. Lynsey was behind the wheel, gripping onto the top of it, staring open-mouthed at the lurid words scrawled across her mother’s front fence. And although the windscreen was lightly tinted, he could see her face was ashen.
&nbs
p; Julian took a step towards the Camry, powerful instincts to look out for Lynsey urging him forward. But then her car was moving again. She was swinging in behind his Land Cruiser. Parking, if you could call it that. Nose in. Rear out. By at least four feet.
The driver’s door swung open and Lynsey was out of the car, green eyes blazing as she crossed the road. Dressed in her usual black with a sky-blue parka thrown over the top, indignation rolled off her body in waves.
‘Oh no!’ she groaned, her gaze fixed on the fence. ‘How could anyone do this?’
‘It’s a low act, Lynsey,’ Julian agreed.
‘Why would they come after Mum?’ she asked, startling jade eyes turning on him.
‘Mrs Tucker and I were wondering if they’d mistaken this house for your father’s.’
Lynsey looked in distraction at the older woman as though she hadn’t noticed her presence until now. ‘Hello, Mrs Tucker.’
‘Hello, dear. I thought you would have seen it this morning.’
‘It was here then?’
Mrs Tucker nodded. ‘I saw it when I opened my front door at six o’clock.’
‘I went the other way after I reversed out. I didn’t drive past the fence.’ Lynsey rubbed her forehead and glanced at the fence again. ‘Thank goodness Mum didn’t see it. She does not deserve this.’
‘No, she doesn’t.’ Mrs Tucker turned away with a sigh. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you two sort it out. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Lynsey.’
Lynsey watched Mrs Tucker until she’d closed her front gate before glancing at Julian again. ‘I’m going inside to call the hardware store.’ Before he could reply she’d set off up her mother’s driveway towards the house, keys jangling from her fingers. ‘I want to get this paint off before Mum comes home,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘What about the car?’
She swung around, eyes cutting to the Camry. ‘What about it?’
‘Are you going to leave it like that?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Sure, until someone rear-ends it.’
She turned away and began climbing the front steps. ‘It won’t be there long.’
‘You need to report this graffiti, Lynsey.’ Julian followed her. ‘The police will want to take photographs before you remove the paint.’
She turned again at the top of the steps. There was a black smudge on her cheek and a dark cobweb tangled in her hair. She looked like a child who’d been playing under the house or in a dusty attic. ‘Why are you here, Julian?’
‘I called in at your father’s place but it’s all closed up. I thought you might know where he is.’
‘I don’t,’ she said with an irritated toss of her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet.’ She slid a key into the front door lock. ‘But seeing as you’re here, can you dig out the number for the police station? I’m not calling triple-O.’
Following Lynsey over the threshold was like stepping back in time. Apart from a fresh coat of paint on the walls and new carpet in the hallway, the house matched the stubborn memory cemented in his mind.
‘I’ll grab the home phone.’ Lynsey was heading down the hallway towards the back of the house. ‘I left my mobile in the car.’
‘Wait up. You can use mine.’ Julian whipped off his sunglasses, surprised to find his thumb a little shaky as he searched through his contacts. ‘I definitely have the number. Yep, here it is.’
‘Thanks, Julian.’ She shot him a wary look and carefully took hold of the phone, as though she didn’t want to accidentally touch his hand. Rattled, Julian glanced at the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. She’d touched more than his hand all those years ago as they’d sprawled on her bed most afternoons after school. Wrapped in each other’s arms. Kissing. More than kissing …
Julian swallowed hard. He’d always been gone by the time Veronica came home from the shop—aside from a couple of occasions when they’d gotten completely carried away. A memory came to mind of Lynsey’s frantic attempts to help him dress after hearing Veronica’s key in the front door. Lucky for him, the hot water system was right underneath Lynsey’s window and enclosed in a lattice screen. Not so lucky that Veronica had a climbing rose bush trained over it. He’d borne the scratches for weeks.
He looked up to find Lynsey staring at him.
Christ. Had she read his mind? ‘What is it?’
She pointed at the phone with her free hand. ‘I’m in a queue.’
‘Oh.’
She quirked a blonde eyebrow at him. ‘Who’s manning the front desk at the police station these days?’
He slipped his sunglasses into his breast pocket, trying to look at ease at being alone with her when he was anything but. ‘Constable Boyd Dunbar. He’s been in Mindalby about twelve months. Good bloke.’
Seconds of silence followed. Julian wanted to run—run from the memories—run from what he’d lost.
‘That’s okay,’ Lynsey spoke into the phone. ‘I’ll wait.’ She angled the device away from her mouth and looked at him again, her brows creasing. ‘Why are you looking for my dad?’
Julian hesitated. He’d never liked Don Carter, but that had never stopped him doing business with the man.
‘Did you want to talk to him about the mill closure?’ she prompted as his silence lengthened.
He nodded. ‘I supply the diesel for the mill’s internal trucks, so I’ll lose that contract if the mill stays closed permanently. But that’s not my biggest problem. Do you remember the old service station that went out of business a few years ago?’
‘The one on the edge of town?’
‘Yeah. I bought the property. It was going for next to nix because the site’s contaminated. The only thing it can be used for is another service station or petrol depot or something similar. If you wanted to build something else there the land would need to be decontaminated.’
‘And that takes years, right?’
‘Right.’ Julian shook his head and for the thousandth time wondered why he’d strayed from his core business into something so speculative. ‘I had an idea to build a small ethanol plant on the site but I needed some kind of waste material to make it. I approached your father with a deal. I’d take the mill’s waste off his hands at no charge and turn that into ethanol. It was going to be mutually beneficial as it costs him to get rid of it. Anyway, your father went for it.’
Lynsey closed her eyes for a second and when she opened them she was looking at him the way she had in school, when no matter how hard he stared at the letters on the page they still looked like a jumbled mess. Not sympathetic. More concerned.
He didn’t need her concern.
He needed to thrash things out with her father.
Beads of anxious sweat broke out on his brow and he left the confines of the hallway and his close proximity to Lynsey for the family room. At the French doors he gazed at the curved in-ground pool, visions of the past filling his mind. He and Lynsey, lying on sun loungers, the heat warming their backs. He and Lynsey, eating Billabong ice blocks and singing along to the Chilli Peppers and U2. He and Lynsey, rubbing sun cream into each other’s skin and when the heat became too oppressive diving into the pool. Slick bodies. Moulded together. Consumed by a different kind of heat.
‘You can make ethanol from anything,’ she said from behind him. ‘Can’t you source the waste from other cotton gins, or use sugar cane to make the ethanol?’
He’d forgotten for a moment that she was an agricultural scientist. Knowing Lynsey, she’d be a good one.
‘I could do that but I’d have to transport the waste from further afield and then the plant becomes unviable.’ He turned to look at her. She was perched on the end of the cane lounge, his phone against her ear. ‘The margins are small. The agreement with your father was perfect because the depot, the mill and the ethanol plant are in close proximity to each other.’
‘So if the mill closes permanently you lose your access to the waste?’
‘Exactly.’
&nbs
p; ‘I see,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That is a problem.’
‘Yes, it is.’ He held her gaze, and though he tried to stop the smile from curving his lips, he failed. Despite the awkwardness, it felt great to be talking to her again.
She gave him a startled look, like smiling was the last thing she expected him to do. Julian held his breath and waited. Was she going to smile back, or was she working out how to get rid of him once she’d finished using his phone? But then she gave him a tentative smile and waved her free hand in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Would you like a drink of water … or something?’
Julian shook his head. ‘I don’t want a glass of water.’
Face bright red, she jumped to her feet as someone spoke on the other end of the line. ‘Yes. Hello, Constable Dunbar. My name’s Lynsey Carter. I need to report a graffiti attack on our front fence.’
She fell silent as she listened to Boyd Dunbar’s reply. It gave Julian a chance to study her, to notice she was slimmer than in her high school days, her preference for black stretch jeans accentuating her slighter figure. Her skin was whiter than he remembered too, like she’d been staying out of the sun. And there was a womanly confidence to her now, something that said she knew who she was. He’d noticed it in the way she’d spoken to Warren Leadbeater and the other men at the depot last night.
‘Twenty minutes?’ Her gaze locked with his as she recited her mother’s address, the soft light filtering through the glass doors emphasising her cheekbones and pink lips.
Julian began to sweat again. Coming inside the house was a bad idea. He had a weakness for Lynsey Carter like some people had a weakness for sugar, and he’d built up a nine-year craving.
‘Thank you.’ She pressed the end-call button and this time soft fingers brushed his as she passed him the phone. ‘He said there’ve been other things happening over the last few weeks.’
A Daughter’s Choice Page 5
