Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  It had come as a shock to realise that one of the greatest Australian divas had had such humble beginnings, and that she could have been implicated in the murder all those years before, even though she could only have been a child at the time. Nevertheless, children often knew more than adults gave them credit for, they saw and overheard things because they were almost invisible in the grown-up world as he’d discovered time and again during his years in the force.

  Yet he was not naïve enough to believe the police would do much about such an old murder. There was more than enough work to do sorting out the modern crimes without digging back over fifty-odd years. It was a cold case, and would be shoved to the bottom of the pile until it could be ignored no longer. Which meant it would give him time to do something about it and clear it up before the press got to hear about Dame Catriona’s involvement and turned the whole thing into a media circus.

  The loud blare of a horn roused him from his thoughts and he stepped on the accelerator. His office was just around the corner, and minutes later he was parked in his slot and heading for the stairs.

  DS Wolff was waiting for him. ‘The boss wants this sorted,’ he said as Tom walked in and hung his jacket by the door. ‘Today, if possible.’

  Tom took the bulging case-file, looked at it and dropped it on his desk. It was an on-going case that was getting them nowhere. ‘He’ll be lucky,’ he muttered as he locked the Atherton folder away in his desk and helped himself to stewed coffee. ‘The witnesses aren’t talking, especially the girlfriend. Everyone’s got a heavy dose of amnesia and so far we’ve got nothing to link the victim to any of our suspects.’

  ‘I’ll get the witnesses to talk,’ Wolff muttered as he shifted his narrow shoulders in what he obviously thought was a menacing way. ‘You’re too bloody soft on ’em.’

  Tom grimaced as the sour coffee hit his throat and he left the mug on the windowsill beside his desk. This latest murder was just one of many unsolved crimes they had to tackle, and Wolff’s belligerent attitude was getting on his tits. He didn’t like the man, but he’d been seconded here for three months from Sydney and was designated to his team. There was nothing he could do about it, but he’d be glad when Wolff’s time was up and he was on his way back down south. The man was too quick to adopt bully-boy tactics, too ready for a scrap when one could easily be avoided. ‘Violence just provokes more violence,’ Tom said as he sifted through the files in his in-tray. ‘Sometimes it’s better to have a quiet word, and try to show a bit of understanding. I’d rather have them think of me as someone they can trust rather than an enemy, and you’d be amazed at how mulish people get when they think they’re being bullied.’

  ‘She’s a rich tart who thought it might be fun to mess with the big boys. She’s got her fingers burned and rushed home to daddy,’ sneered Wolff.

  Tom leaned back in his chair. He regarded Wolff for a long moment, taking in the hawkish nose, the thin face and bad-tempered mouth – at twenty-nine, Wolff looked more like a villain than one of the good guys. ‘You’ll leave the witnesses alone,’ he said firmly. ‘That girl is scared enough without you bullying her. She’ll talk once she realises it’s for her own good.’

  Wolff snatched up the folder Tom had discarded. ‘I didn’t realise there was one law for the rich and another for the rest,’ he snapped. ‘Just because the silly bitch’s got a rich daddy, doesn’t mean she’s above the bloody law.’ His eyes glittered. ‘She knows things about Robbo Nilson that will get him off the streets for good. She’s obstructing the law, and if I was her daddy, I’d give her a sharp slap.’

  Tom gritted his teeth. He’d like to give Wolff a slap, but that wouldn’t solve anything. ‘Watch your mouth, Wolff. Or I’ll shut it for you,’ he drawled.

  Wolff glared at him and brushed down his lapels and shifted his shoulders, his stance bullish. ‘Thought you were against violence?’ he sneered. ‘I could have you up on a harassment charge.’

  ‘Try that and I’ll have a word in the Super’s ear about your scams on the side,’ shot back Tom. ‘Now get out of here and do something useful.’

  Wolff’s glare was one of pure malice. He turned on his heel and slammed through the door, muttering about getting his own back.

  The draught of his leaving scattered the papers from Tom’s desk. He picked them up and stood in deep thought before coming to a decision. Before he could change his mind, or think of the consequences, he dumped everything back on the desk, snatched up his jacket and strode down the corridor to his Superintendent’s office. The keys to the desk drawer winked in the sunlight that streamed through the window – in his haste, Tom had forgotten them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘I don’t want to marry him,’ Harriet said firmly. ‘In fact,’ she added. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone at the moment, so give it a rest.’ She faced her mother and wondered how on earth they’d got on to this topic when her visit had been planned for an entirely different reason. Yet she suspected Jeanette Wilson had deliberately sidetracked the issue, and Harriet knew exactly where this argument was leading. It was always the same when they got on to this particular hot potato, and although Harriet was experienced in the art of logical debate and argument in the Law Courts, she’d never quite managed to circumnavigate her mother’s tortuous logic, or even understand it.

  Jeanette was not the sort of woman who could take a hint, however blatant. She was a well-preserved fifty-three, with a one-track mind, and at the moment it was centred on her daughter’s spinsterhood. She folded her arms, her lips drawn into a thin line of disapproval as her scathing glare took in the smart black suit, the white blouse and sensible shoes. ‘You’re getting too old to be fussy, dear,’ she said mildly. ‘And you don’t exactly make the best of yourself. Black can be so draining, especially with your colouring.’

  ‘I can hardly turn up at the office in a mini-skirt and fish-net stockings.’ Harriet took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to quash the rising fury. ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she said flatly. ‘Hardly in my dotage.’ She ran her hands down the narrow skirt and was furious to discover they were trembling. How, after all these years, could Mum still stir up such strong emotions?

  ‘Twenty-eight and unmarried,’ replied her mother with what looked suspiciously like smug satisfaction. ‘The time clock is ticking, Harriet. You’ll soon be too old to even think about having children.’

  Harriet ignored the jibe. She had years yet, and she was damned if she was going to marry Jeremy Prentiss just so she could breed. ‘Jeremy’s the last man I’d have father my children,’ she retorted. ‘They’d all end up with a Pommy accent and no damn chin.’ She took a breath and tried to calm down. That was unfair on Jeremy, who was actually a very handsome, nice man, but her mother’s goading had made her bitchy.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Hattie,’ replied her mother, using the childhood endearment in a belated and rather obvious attempt to take the heat out of the argument. ‘Jeremy’s the junior partner and an eligible bachelor with an enviable pedigree. He’s rich and obviously besotted. Surely you can see this would be advantageous to both your career and your lifestyle?’ She clasped her hands in her lap, the pale pink cashmere sweater enhancing her still-perfect skin. ‘What with the waterside apartment and the boat, you’d want for nothing.’

  ‘I don’t feel the need to marry for money.’ Harriet yanked the clip out of her fair hair and let it swing around her shoulders. She had inherited her father’s colouring as well as his impatience, and Mum’s less than delicate admiration for Jeremy’s stud qualifications was just about the last straw.

  ‘Is that meant as some kind of dig?’ Jeanette’s voice sharpened. She snatched a cigarette from the silver box on the glass coffee-table, and after tapping it furiously on the lid, lit it with the gold lighter.

  Harriet silently admitted it was a cheap shot and, although her mother probably deserved a taste of her own medicine, she knew it wasn’t fair, or clever. But she was sick of this badgering. Sick of he
r mother constantly shoving Jeremy bloody Prentiss in her face. ‘Just leave it, Mum,’ she said wearily as she ran her fingers through her hair. ‘We’ll never agree, so why keep on?’

  ‘I’m your mother,’ Jeanette said through the cigarette smoke. ‘It’s my duty to care.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Harriet. ‘But if you really cared you wouldn’t want me tied to Jeremy just for the sake of a house and a boat and money in the bank. I don’t love him.’

  ‘Hmph. What’s love got to do with anything?’ Jeanette eyed her through the smoke, her blue eyes narrowed. ‘Marriage is all about security, and you’d have that with Jeremy.’

  Harriet could have said a whole lot in her defence, but she’d lost the will to fight and besides, this wasn’t the first time this argument had been aired and she was sick of it. Mum probably did care what happened to her, but Harriet suspected Jeanette was only really interested in having grandchildren. All her friends had them, and Jeanette was obviously feeling left out of the coterie of doting grannies.

  Harriet sighed and busied herself by pouring coffee. Mum had married Dad on the eve of her twenty-fifth birthday. Harriet had been born exactly nine months later, and having considered she’d done her bit, Jeanette had proceeded to carry on with her dancing career, and do the most damage she could to her wealthy husband’s wallet.

  Brian Wilson had made his fortune supplying the oil fields with plant and machinery, and Jeanette had blatantly admitted she’d deliberately set out to snare him. He’d been a loving father when time and business allowed it, but he hadn’t been happy in his marriage, and the rows between him and Jeanette had been blazing. Harriet was ten when, during one such titanic fight, he’d collapsed with a fatal heart attack. ‘I’d rather be happy,’ Harriet muttered. ‘Security isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  Jeanette smoked her cigarette, her silence far more eloquent than words.

  Harriet turned her back and stood before the wall of glass that overlooked Circular Quay. It was only early morning and already it was turning into a long day. She wished she hadn’t decided to visit on the way to her office, but force of habit had brought her here to tell her mother her news, and check she was all right. Yet she still had to approach another particularly thorny subject and had no idea how to do it.

  Jeanette had taken an instant dislike to Rosa and Belinda, and had refused to acknowledge Harriet’s friendship with them. She’d considered the two girls unsuitable companions and had done her best to discourage the strong bond between them. Harriet was leaving Sydney tomorrow to visit Belvedere for two weeks, and her absence would have to be explained.

  She stared out of the window, seeking inspiration. The penthouse apartment had a panoramic view of the refurbished Circular Quay. She could see the city of elegant glass towers, delicate Victorian church spires and the graceful sweep of the sails of Sydney Opera House. The Harbour was already busy with the tourist boats and paddle steamers which cruised back and forth among the water-taxis. Luxury yachts bobbed at their moorings beyond the Botanic Gardens, and white ibis, with their black necks and heads and long, curved bills picked their way among the flotsam at the water’s edge and in the grassed parkway.

  Since the opening of the Opera House, the 80s had brought regeneration to this part of Sydney. Gone were the old docks, the warehouses and accumulated clutter of the old Harbour, and in their place had come sculptured glass and cool chrome. Café society had arrived. Little tables were set beneath colourful umbrellas all the way around the horseshoe of the Harbour, and expensive boutiques and luxury hotels did a roaring trade. Buskers worked the crowds at the weekends, and even the tiny houses in The Rocks had been painted and refurbished to entice the visitors to the markets.

  To her left was the Harbour Bridge which arced across the water from the north shores of Sydney to the forest of blue and green glass office towers and architecturally innovative apartment blocks that reflected the scenes around them. Known as the Coathanger to most Sydney-siders, its two railway lines and eight traffic lanes were the main arterial routes into the city.

  Harriet sighed. She knew the view was even more magical at night. Twinkling lights reflected on the water, and in the fountains, and all along the busy walkways the pubs and bars and restaurants brought vibrant life to this once derelict side of the city. The paddle steamers were festooned in coloured lights as they departed for their dinner cruises, and the neon signs above some of the business towers blinked and shimmered against the night sky.

  She turned back to her mother. Jeanette had stubbed out the cigarette and was repairing her make-up in the gilt-edged mirror above the inset gasfire. She didn’t look bad, Harriet admitted. Her shock of dark hair had been artfully tinted and streaked to cover the grey, and the cut was becoming. Her figure was still trim, honed by the years of dancing with the Sydney Ballet Company and an almost regimental fitness routine in her retirement. She was a small woman, but with a forceful personality, one that Harriet suspected she herself had inherited. Perhaps, she thought wearily, it’s why we fight so much. We’re too alike.

  Their eyes met in the mirror and Jeanette was the first to look away. ‘I know why you came today,’ she said as she scrutinised her appearance. ‘But I will not discuss it.’

  ‘It’s time you stopped burying your head in the sand, and took a reality check,’ Harriet said firmly. ‘Rosa’s my friend, and like it or not, you’re going to have to accept it.’

  Jeanette turned to face her. ‘No I don’t,’ she said with cool detachment.

  Harriet’s exasperation made her sharp. ‘It’s important to me. Can’t you see that?’

  Jeanette’s eyes were dull with determination. ‘To you, maybe. Not to me.’ She picked up her handbag from the table and snatched up the lilac pashmina from the back of the leather couch. ‘I’m late for a charity coffee morning, Harriet. You should have warned me you were coming. I would have changed my arrangements.’

  Harriet picked up her briefcase. Jeanette had never been known to change a social engagement in her life – unless it was to her advantage – and she doubted she’d start doing so to rake up old arguments. ‘My trip out to Belvedere is far more important than a bloody coffee morning,’ she snapped.

  ‘Don’t be vulgar,’ retorted Jeanette as she turned in the doorway. ‘I didn’t raise you to speak to me that way. No doubt it’s that slut Rosa’s influence.’

  ‘How dare you talk about her like that?’ Harriet hissed as she stepped into the hall. ‘You’ve spoken to her once, you know nothing about her. And I’m bloody well sick of you putting her down.’

  They glared at one another in silence until Jeanette slammed the door and began to walk down the deserted corridor towards the elevator.

  ‘Don’t walk away from me, Mum.’ Harriet caught her arm and stilled her. ‘This argument won’t go away by ignoring it. What is it with you? Why do you hate her so?’

  Jeanette’s fury was incandescent, the electricity emanating from that neat little body in waves. ‘She’s a tart,’ she snapped. ‘Divorced before she’s twenty-one, working in that down-and-out office in Paddington, mixing with the lowest of the low. Mud sticks, Harriet. You’ll find her reputation rubbing off on you before long if you persist in this ridiculous friendship.’ Her narrow chest rose and fell as she attempted to control her rapid breath. ‘Reap what you sow, Harriet. But don’t expect me to give a damn when your career goes down the drain.’

  Harriet backed away. This was a side to her mother she hadn’t witnessed since Dad’s death. ‘Rosa is not a tart,’ she breathed. ‘I came to tell you I’d be out at Belvedere for a couple of weeks and all I get is venom.’

  Jeanette stepped into the elevator and stabbed the button. ‘You’re a big girl, now, Harriet. You don’t need to tell me your plans. Especially when they involve that place.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she muttered as she stood beside her mother.

  Jeanette’s dark eyes regarded her coldly and Harriet flinched. She’d known her mother
would react but this was beyond reason. She reached for her mother’s hand. It was cold and unresponsive. ‘I just want you to accept my friendship with Rosa and Catriona and be glad for me. They gave me a home when you were away, offered me love and kindness even though you made it very plain you didn’t appreciate it. Please, Mum. Be reasonable.’ Her voice was soft, the need for approbation making it falter.

  Jeanette snatched away her hand. ‘You make your own decisions. Just don’t expect me to front the cheerleading section.’

  They stood side by side in the elevator, both staring in silence at nothing, their emotions firmly under control. Harriet breathed in the familiar scent of Rive Gauche. It was so much a part of her mother that, had she worn anything different, it would have seemed strange. Yet, in such close and hostile circumstances it was overwhelming.

  The polished steel door finally slid back in a whisper and they stepped out of the icy air-conditioning into the heat of the basement car park. Harriet took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry you don’t approve, Mum, but don’t you think your jealousy is getting out of hand?’

  Jeanette eyed her for a long moment then unlocked the BMW. ‘Jealousy is not an emotion I am acquainted with,’ she said firmly. ‘God forbid I envy those dreadful people.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped Harriet.

  Jeanette turned to glare up at her, her eyes very blue and sparking with anger. ‘They might have given you bed and board during the school holidays, but that doesn’t mean I have to be grateful. I’m your mother, Harriet, not Dame Catriona Summers. It wouldn’t hurt to remember that.’