The wind picked up in an instant and whipped at the trees in the surrounding gardens. In the street below, the patrol car’s door blew shut. The crime scene tech wrestled with his overall hood, but soon gave up, dashing to the white incident van as the first heavy drops of rain fell. Lights went on in the parked police cars as officers returned to exchange information gleaned from canvassing the neighbours.
Stevie felt as detached from the goings on below as if she were viewing it all from a CCTV monitor. The grey road gradually turned black, yet she could hear no sound of the storm, no hammering of the rain on the roof, rattling window frames or whooshes of wind in the eaves. In this room everything remained silent and still.
A sudden draft blew the heavy bedroom door shut. She drew a breath, whirled around and moved quickly. It was time to leave—the last thing she needed was for someone to come up and investigate the noise.
But when she reached for the doorhandle, there was nothing there. The handle was missing. She was trapped. (Image 3.1)
Image 3.1
CHAPTER FOUR
Lilly Hardegan turned off her TV and leaned back in the chair with the lacy armrests, pausing for a moment to listen to the drumming of the rain on the orange tiles of her roof. Through her open window the metallic smell of fresh rain on bitumen gusted in. Forcing herself to try to relax and enjoy the scent, she attempted to block out today’s disturbing events, closed her eyes and began to compose the letter she would never write to a person who would never be able to read it.
When she was writing in her head, she saw the words as clearly as if they were printed on a blackboard. But when she tried to say them aloud, it was as if the board had become coated with butter, and the words slid from it and flew around the room and all she had to catch them with was a large-holed net.
She began to compose, leaning back in her chair, fingers of each hand touching, here’s the church here’s the steeple, like the childhood game.
My Dear ... she began, setting the letter out in her head as if it were on a page. I trust this finds you...
A noise from the front of the house disturbed the flow of words. Surely the police wouldn’t be calling on her again when they knew she had so little to tell? She dimmed the table lamp and prised open the venetians. The Pavels’ house was lit like the Gloucester Park trots. The police were still there: she could see silhouettes in the cars, sheltering from the rain, and an officer standing on the front porch, but it had been a while since she’d seen anyone in the street.
Her body tensed. She continued to strain for alien sounds, one hand creeping down the gap between the side of her chair and the wall under the window. The carved texture of the samurai sword’s handle was a comfort, despite the weakness of her grip upon it.
When no more strange sounds seemed forthcoming, she let go of the sword and sank back into her chair. Sometimes she relished the idea of a fight, a chance to get even, with whom or what she still did not rightly know.
There had to be someone, there always was.
My Dear, I hope this finds you in a better state than when we last met
There it was again, a distinct thump, the sound of the front door closing. The passageway light clicked and shone under the door of her room—her sight and hearing were as acute as they’d ever been. The floorboards creaked more softly than usual, as if the person was treading on the tips of his toes, a sneaking teenager home well after curfew. Only two people had keys to the front door, and Skye said she was going home after her last visit. It could only be him.
Oh God, him.
Perhaps if she pretended to be asleep he would go away.
I very much regret everything that has happened and the part I have played in your misery
No, too syrupy, too sentimental. Not like you at all, Lilly, you can’t write that nonsense. Too much too soon; get back to that part later.
The door of the room announced his entrance with a slow moan. She ceased her composing as if, like an EEG, he might sense the activity in her brain. She kept very still in her chair, her eyes closed, keeping her breathing firm and even. His footsteps were softer than usual, as if he were trying to keep silent. A silent little mouse creeping across the lino, scritch scritchity scritch.
A shadow flickered through the red of her closed eyes. She willed her lids to remain steady and not betray her with vibrations. Her ears strained for the sound of his movement. The shadow stilled; he was very close now.
A feeling of dark warmth descended upon her from above.
‘Bloody Japs Bloody Japs!’ the parrot squawked.
Her heart gave an extra thud, her eyes shot open and she sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘You, boy—shock!’
He leapt back as if he’d been stung, clutching a green velvet cushion to his chest. ‘Christ, Moth, I thought you were asleep. I was just fixing your cushion, wanted to make you more comfortable.’
‘Doesn’t need fixing. Fine.’ In hospital she’d overheard the nurses joke about giving a troublesome patient the ‘Tontine treatment’. It didn’t seem funny now.
‘Well you shouldn’t leave it on the floor, it’ll get dirty,’ he said, frisbeeing the cushion onto the bed. He turned to the parrot. ‘And as for you, it’s about bloody time you fell off the perch.’ He tossed a blanket over the cage and made it rock. The parrot let out a final curse and fell silent.
Too vain for glasses, Ralph peered closely at her face. ‘God, Moth, you’re as white as a sheet, are you alright?’
‘Of course we’re alright, just a shock, you shouldn’t call at this time of night, tired, worried, must go to bed...’
‘It’s not late; it’s not even six o’clock. I’m here because the police called me. They said you were upset, said the Pavels have gone missing—does that mean the cops finally got round to checking up on them? I rang them several times you know, like you asked, but I think they thought I was some kind of crank. So what’s happened—no sign of the Pavels at all?’
She shook her head; it was so much easier.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
She didn’t want a cup of tea; she wanted to go to bed.
‘So ... what exactly did you tell the police?’ he asked as he bustled about the kitchenette. People often remarked upon her son’s resemblance to Sir Richard Branson—tousled grey hair and neatly trimmed goatee beard—and it was an image he seemed determined to cultivate, even adopting a similar dress style to the multi-billionaire. There weren’t many engagements grand enough to get him out of those bright figure-hugging shirts and designer jeans and into a suit. He probably wouldn’t even wear a suit to his mother’s funeral, she thought without sentiment. His ersatz Branson image had won and lost him three wives quicker than the real Branson could polish one of his jets.
He told everyone he was a businessman, but to Lilly Hardegan, her son Ralph would never be anything more than a trumped-up greengrocer.
He put her tea on the table next to her sewing and settled himself on the footstool at her feet. He often complained about the stool, said she should have another chair for visitors, said he hated sitting at her feet like a child. It kept him in his place, Lilly liked to think.
‘Listen, Moth,’ he said as he took one of her hands.
She used to have such pretty hands, she reflected without self-pity. These days they looked more like something found under the lino—too much sun maybe?
‘It’s really important that you tell me exactly what you said to the police,’ Ralph went on. ‘It would be awful if they were given the wrong impression of the Pavels, or of me for that matter, wouldn’t it?’
‘Your friends.’
‘Well, not exactly, Jon Pavel is a business associate really. It’s not necessary to mention my connection with him at all. You see, if you mention me...’ He paused, his eyes becoming sharp slits, nothing like Branson’s at all. ‘You’ll be dropping yourself in it too.’
I was stupid. A stupid, naïve, ignorant old woman. Lilly’s head began to pound. She felt
as if she might be having another stroke. Maybe it would be easier for everyone if she did.
His clammy hand gripped hers once more. He was worried now, really worried, but only for himself. No, erase that. He wasn’t merely worried; he was bloody terrified; she could smell the fear in his sweat.
‘I might have to go away for a while, Moth, just to be safe, just until this business with the Pavels calms down. I won’t tell you where I’m going; I think it’s best you don’t know in case they come here looking for me.’
Who did he mean ‘they’—the police? Or was he talking about those awful people he’d got himself mixed up with?
‘Don’t worry, they won’t want you, they know you can’t tell anyone about anything. In the meantime, I’m getting things in motion to get power of attorney. It’s a pain I didn’t organise it before your stroke. Things are tricky now, but I should be able to get it sorted—it’s the only way, you can see that, can’t you?’
No, Lilly couldn’t see it at all. Skye had said she was making a splendid recovery. Her right leg had improved to the extent that she didn’t need a stick any more, and her hand was now good enough to let her tackle a basic cross-stitch. Skye said her speech was sure to follow, and when that happened, she would be taught to read and write again. No, he didn’t need power of attorney. She drummed her feet ineffectually upon the lino. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t! (Image 4.1)
Image 4.1
CHAPTER FIVE
Stevie tried the other window in the room, but like the one overlooking Mrs Hardegan’s place, it was locked and she couldn’t find the key. ‘What a bloody idiot,’ she cursed aloud, kicking at the heavy door. Lucky she didn’t get claustrophobia; lucky, too, the smells from downstairs couldn’t reach her in this hermetically sealed room. On the other hand, could any air get in at all? She panicked for a moment, not daring to breathe. Then she spotted the two air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. The aircon was switched off, but at least it meant that a certain amount of air could get through from the roof space. She let out her pent up breath, whew.
Stay calm, she muttered to herself, pacing the room. You’ve got your mobile with you and you must use it. You don’t get claustrophobia. Someone will get you out, and when that happens you’ll just have to come clean and face the consequences.
But maybe, just maybe, she could find a way around this.
She reached into her overalls for her mobile, relieved to see she had plenty of battery power left. Her first call was to Monty.
‘I’m going to be late home,’ she told him. ‘Skye called with a problem. I need to stick around a bit longer and sort something out for her.’
‘Fine, no worries—where are you?’
‘I’ll explain later. There’s something I need to know, though.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Do you remember a guy called William Trotman? A general duties officer when you were with Joondalup Detectives.’
‘Blinky Bill? What’s he got to do with Skye?’
‘For now I just need his mobile number.’
‘Hang on I’ll check my phone.’
He seemed to be gone an age. When he finally returned he told her he no longer had Trotman’s number in his phone. She started to swear.
‘But I did find it on the old Cardex in the study.’ She tried to ignore the infuriating smile in his voice, remaining calm as he read out the number, returned his ‘love you’ and hung up.
A police car pulled away from the curb. Stevie prayed Trotman was in the remaining one, that he still had the same mobile number.
He answered on the second ring. ‘William Trotman.’
‘It’s Stevie Hooper, Bill. Don’t say a word. Just get out of the car and get away from the others. I need a private chat.’
The car door opened and she saw Trotman’s gangly form unfold into the street. ‘It’s fucking raining, Stevie.’
‘I’m trapped in the upstairs room. Come and get me out without telling anyone.’
Trotman let out a whooping laugh.
‘Just do it, you bastard!’
The door opened easily from the outside. To stop Trotman from asking what she was doing in the upstairs bedroom, she quickly pointed out the missing doorhandle, asking if it had been noted.
‘No idea,’ he said as they thumped down the stairs. ‘That’s the first I heard about it.’ They paused on the front porch, waiting for a break in the rain. A van pulled up alongside the police car. Stevie recognised the high-heeled form of the woman from the deli, hauling herself out with a box of snacks for the troops. Stevie’s stomach gave a hungry moan. It seemed hours since she’d eaten that salad sandwich.
‘But the room was like a prison,’ Stevie said. ‘I still think you should point it out to Fowler, just in case. Get yourself some brownie points.’ God knows he must need them. Fifty-five if he was a day and still a constable first class.
‘It’s probably just something to do with the redecorating that’s been going on,’ Trotman said, as if she should know what he was talking about.
‘Redecorating? What do you mean?’
Trotman took off his glasses and wiped them thoughtfully on his uniform jacket, making them streakier than they already were. ‘The neighbours told one of the lads about a fire here last year. Apparently an electrical fault damaged quite a bit of the inside of the house and they’ve been slowly getting the place reorganised. I guess they were just waiting on some more doorhandles.’
That would account for the fresh paint and lack of personal effects around the house; possibly, too, the boxed items in the storeroom. But what of the dirt, Stevie thought, the neglect of a beautiful house by a family who could easily afford to pay someone to clean it? And more importantly, how could the state of the baby be explained? A figure ran through the rain towards the porch before she could continue with the thought.
Her heart sank. Luke Fowler.
It seemed that during her absence her kitchen had been transformed into a Chinese laundry. Stevie blinked as she looked around the place, at the sheets of pasta draped over every available surface, from the oven doorhandle to the chair backs, the kitchen shelving to the wooden clotheshorse. Limp doughy strips even hung from Monty’s tropical fish tank. ‘See, curtains for the fish!’ Izzy proclaimed.
Stevie finally found the words. ‘I don’t believe this...’
Monty, with flour on the end of his nose and a generous dusting through his rust-coloured hair, put out two placating hands. ‘Don’t say anything, not one more thing. When you said you’d be home late we decided to cook dinner ourselves. It’ll be the best lasagne you’ve ever tasted—low fat everything, so don’t freak out—and you’ll enjoy it more if you don’t see any of the cooking process. Grab a drink, have a shower or check your email or whatever you want to do and leave dinner to us.’
‘But how can you say that? Just look at all the mess!’
‘Get out of the kitchen, Mum,’ Izzy commanded with a swish of strawberry-blonde curls. She was becoming more like her father in hair colour as well as temperament as the years passed, quick to anger but just as quick to defuse. A lot healthier than Stevie’s own anger, which tended to curl inside her like a spring. ‘We don’t need you!’ Izzy stated the obvious, giving the pasta machine a couple of decisive cranks and sending several more sheets flopping to the floor.
Jesus Christ.
Monty pressed a tin of Emu into Stevie’s hand. ‘Go and relax.’ Relax? That was easier said than done. After what she’d just been through with Fowler she felt about as relaxed as a car chase. But she was too tired for further argument. The beer was good, icy and cold. She took it with her into their living room, the stripped floorboards rough and splintery under her bare feet. With an uncommon flash of despair, she took in the room, a microcosm of the rest of their recently purchased, run-down house near the beach.
Unlike the Pavels’, theirs was single storey and authentic Federation, with many more years of neglect under its belt. That was the challenge, Ste
vie liked to think, of putting it to rights, making up for the sins of the past. The beauty of art was in its imperfection. With this in mind she’d opted to keep the original character of the house as much as practically possible. Crooked doors, sloped floors, the outside dunny, would remain. Obvious dangers like the sagging veranda roof and floor would have to be fixed up; the electrical wiring replaced, the plumbing modernised. It would be a long, painstaking job. In some ways the process was much like the circuitous road she and Monty had taken to arrive at this point in their lives. The house they would do together; it was their future.
The renovation plans were with the council now, waiting for the official stamp of approval before the structural changes could commence. Stevie had been doing what she could to make the place more comfortable, though none of it was necessary in this time of limbo. But pulling up mouldy carpets, stripping wallpaper and painting selected parts of the outside at least gave her restless energy some direction. Monty had said it was a useless exercise, a waste of time, seeing the builders would probably destroy most of her hard work. But she’d bulled ahead regardless and had so far enjoyed every minute of the process.
Her workstation was tucked into a corner of the lounge room. The study was only big enough for one desk and Monty dominated that. His need was greater as he worked mostly from home at the moment, writing reports for the Corruption and Crime Commission, a desk job to lead him gently up to his heart bypass surgery—if he went through with the operation, that is. He’d pulled out a couple of months ago using the state of their new house as an excuse. And he’d given Stevie no guarantees that he’d go through with the rescheduled operation either, leaving her in another form of limbo.
This one she filled with police work.
Her squad had recently arrested three Perth men involved in an international paedophile ring. The highly publicised court case demonstrated that it was not as easy as it used to be for predatory scum like these to hide on the Internet. She had spent the previous week in court, using the weekend for catching up on paperwork and team meetings at Central. The end was in sight, the prosecution going well, with most thinking they’d have a verdict by the end of next week. When her part was finished, further legalities would be handed over to the Australian Federal Police and the appropriate international authorities, and then she would commence three weeks of well-deserved leave.
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