by Janet Tanner
She dragged a comb through her damp hair and without bothering to change went out and knocked on the door of the neighbouring room. There was no reply. She knocked again, wondering if perhaps Tom O’Neill had fallen asleep too, but still there was no answering movement from inside the room. So – he must have gone out.
Harriet returned to her own room. The kettle was boiling. She poured water on to the teabag, started the shower running and peeled off her creased dress, checking the time again. She’d have a shower then ring Nick. He should be at the office by now and she ought to let someone know where she was in case there were any messages. The water felt good on her flushed skin and she washed her hair, taking longer about it than she intended. By the time she emerged wrapped in a lightweight cotton kimono her tea was cooling. She drank it whilst dialling direct international and Nick answered almost immediately.
‘Nick? It’s me – Harriet.’
‘Harriet? Where are you?’ There was a slight time lag between her speaking and his reply, otherwise he might have been in the next room instead of half a world away.
‘Darwin.’
‘Darwin? What the hell are you doing in Darwin?’
‘Trying to find Greg Martin. Tom O’Neill – he’s investigating on behalf of the insurance company – seems to think he might be hiding away here.’
‘Tom O’Neill … isn’t he the fellow who came to see you in London?’
‘Yes. We seem to be following the same leads but making progress in different directions so it seemed only sensible to pool resources and I persuaded him to let me tag along with him.’
‘Tag along? That doesn’t sound like you, Harriet.’
‘Well there are places an official investigator can go that I’d have problems with.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Nick sounded faintly disgruntled. ‘But I thought you didn’t like him. Arrogant and bullying, I thought you said.’
‘I’m beginning to see there’s a place for behaving like that,’ Harriet said. ‘And anyway because I’m making use of his pull doesn’t mean I have to like him.’ She was interrupted by a knock at the door. ‘Hang on a sec,’ she said to Nick.
She crossed to the door and opened it. Tom O’Neill – talk of the devil. ‘Come in,’ she said, suddenly overcome with an irrational fear that he might have overheard her. ‘ I’m on the telephone but I won’t be a minute …’ She returned to pick up the receiver, brushing aside her wet hair to nestle it against her ear. ‘I’d better not stay now, Nick, but I’m at the Telford Top End if anyone wants me. I’ll ring again when I move on.’
‘Before you go, Harriet, those pictures of yours are sensational,’ Nick said. ‘I’m running them in the May edition. I’d like to do a regular Harriet Varna feature, build you up with the readers, so don’t waste too long scouting in the past. Or if you do, take your camera with you. I’ll need the next set within the month if they are to go in the June issue.’
‘Oh Nick, I don’t know if I can …’
‘You’d better if you don’t want to waste a golden opportunity. This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.’
She bit her lip. He was right, of course, but just at the moment it was impossible to believe it had ever been that important to her.
‘I’ll ring you, Nick.’ She put the phone down and felt the familiar rush of guilt. She treated him badly, she knew. He had given her the chance she had wanted and she was throwing it back in his face just as she did with everything he offered her.
She turned to see Tom O’Neill looking at her and something in the depth of his gaze disconcerted her.
‘I’m afraid I’ve been asleep,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ve been through too many time zones in the past few days and I just crashed out.’
He smiled. It was rather a nice smile, she thought suddenly, and was surprised by her own admission.
‘Can’t say I blame you. I feel much the same myself,’ he said.
‘But you had more self-control.’
‘I wanted to get on with the job.’
‘So – where have you been?’ she asked.
His eyes narrowed fractionally. How did you know I’ve been anywhere if you’ve been asleep? he was wondering. Aloud he said easily: ‘I’ve been to the offices of the firm of land developers I believe Greg Martin might be associated with.’
‘And what did you find out?’
‘From them, not a great deal. To describe them as close as a clam would be to compliment the clam. They are much much closer. But it makes me all the more certain we are on the right track. And I have one or two other avenues to explore.’
‘Such as?’
‘The young lady receptionist was not quite as hostile as the partner I saw. In fact I have high hopes of her. I’m taking her out for a drink this evening.’
‘Oh really.’ She could not have explained the prickle of dismay but he heard it in her quick unguarded reply and smiled faintly.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll grab a bite to eat first. I wouldn’t like to leave you to eat alone.’
‘There’s no need for you to feel responsible for me,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘ I’m quite used to looking after myself.’
‘I expect you are,’ he agreed. ‘But Darwin is very much a man’s town – not the most comfortable place for a woman alone. There’s a bistro here, literally just around the corner – it’s a part of the hotel. We might as well eat there. I’ll pick you up in, say, fifteen minutes.’
He turned away, letting himself out, and Harriet could do nothing but shake her head in disbelief. How did Nick say she had described him? Arrogant and bullying? Perhaps that was a bit strong – after all he had a job to do. But bossy certainly. Very, very used to telling others what to do. And also undeniably attractive …
For a moment Harriet stared after him, deep in thought. Then she sighed, slipped out of her kimono and began to get dressed for dinner.
The bistro reminded Harriet of a saloon from an old black and white B movie western. A mirrored bar stretched the length of the room and the tables, great chunks of unvarnished wood, unadorned by cloths, sported white ring stains from the bases of innumerable beer glasses and the occasional cigarette burn. Service was equally basic – after choosing from the limited menu Tom and Harriet filtered through a narrow galley kitchen where chefs sweated over the glowing griddles to collect their steaks, and pile a selection of salads onto their platters. But the food was delicious, wholesome and plentiful, and for the first time in days Harriet attacked it ravenously. Haute cuisine was all very well but there was nothing quite like a char-grilled steak and a jacket potato oozing butter to resurrect a nagging appetite.
Carrying her plate back to the table Harriet realised for the first time what Tom had meant when he said Darwin was a man’s town.
The bistro was almost exclusively a male preserve – apart from two women sitting with their men and matching them pint for pint and the barmaid – a pretty blonde in a low cut top and skimpy miniskirt – Harriet was the only woman in the place. All eyes swivelled to her in frank appreciation of her freshly washed hair bouncing against the nape of her neck, trim figure and long shapely legs displayed to advantage in her lemon-and-grey checked walking shorts. But Harriet was more aware of the look the barmaid aimed at Tom when he bought their drinks, flirting with him unashamedly, her mascara-smudged eyes teasing from behind her thick bleached blonde fringe. In a bar full of men it was no mean achievement to be so obviously favoured.
‘What do you think – the barmaid is English,’ Tom said when he brought the drinks back to their table. ‘ Now isn’t that just the last thing you’d expect in a way-out all-Australian place like this?’
‘So what is she doing here?’ Harriet asked.
‘Working her way round the world. She’s been out here six months, starting with relatives in Tasmania, then bumming all over Australia. She aims to go down to Queensland when the weather lets up a bit.’
‘Good for her.’
‘Even strang
er is the fact she comes from Bristol. Wasn’t that your mother’s home?’ His tone was still easy, conversational, but some sixth sense made her look up sharply and she caught him watching her, eyes narrowed speculatively.
‘Near there, yes,’ she said, deliberately vague. ‘Tell me, did she say why on earth she chose to come to Darwin? Especially in the Wet? I’d have thought anyone with a grain of sense would have avoided it.’
When they had eaten Tom glanced at his watch.
‘I’d better be going if I’m not to keep my date waiting. I’ll see you to your room.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll stay here and have another drink.’ She caught his look and laughed. ‘If your English barmaid can survive here on her own, so can I. Besides … I’ve been thinking. I’d quite like to take some photographs.’
‘Of the bistro?’
‘Uh-huh. It’s my business, remember.’
‘And you have your camera with you?’
She tapped her bag. ‘I never go anywhere without it.’
‘OK. Well I must go. This may be a late one, so I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She watched him push his way out of the swing doors, then glanced around the bistro with a professional eye. Nick had said he wanted another set of pictures within the month and at the time she hadn’t thought she’d be able to come up with a single idea, let alone the goods. But the atmosphere in the bistro had fired her, making her actually want to work for the first time since she had heard the news about Greg Martin. Thank heavens for that! she thought – what a relief to be able to think about something other than the same endless questions that had chased their tails inside her head for the last few days. What a relief not to have to simply return to her room alone and brood – sleep, she knew, would be hours away, especially after her extended nap this afternoon.
She pulled out her camera and slung it around her neck. Yes, there would be some excellent shots here – the British barmaid in the back of beyond, surrounded by roughnecks and hobos, the chefs, sweating over the griddles, the Western-saloon type decor. And perhaps, given the opportunity, she could set it all in context, for Darwin and Northern Territory appeared to be totally unlike most people’s conception of Australia, which was usually portrayed as blue sky, bright sunshine, wide open spaces and golden beaches. This was a whole different Australia – dripping wet and muddy, hot as Hades, with a totally untamed feel to it.
She got up, feeling excitement stir as it always did when she was on the brink of something good. As she approached the bar twenty pairs of male eyes followed her.
‘Hello there, darling! All alone now?’
‘Buy you a drink, sweetheart?’
A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
‘All right – so long as you’ll let me take your pictures. Not posed – nothing silly – just doing what comes naturally!’
It was after midnight when Harriet finally left the Bistro. Persuading the customers to forget the camera was pointed at them and behave naturally had been a long job – it always was, but posed pictures were no use for the kind of feature Harriet was after. Eventually, to her relief, a colourful character named Bluey had rolled in, sozzled right out of his check lumber shirt and jeans, and much too drunk to know the camera was on him, much less care.
‘Bloody electric storms!’ he had complained, covering his eyes with his hand when the flash bulb sparked, and the others, including Sandra, the barmaid, had been sufficiently amused by his performance to relax and forget themselves.
Harriet let herself into her room. It felt like a sauna. She threw the French windows open but there was no breath of air going.
Next door Tom O’Neill’s room appeared to be in darkness. Either he was asleep or still out – still out unless he slept with the curtains fully open, she guessed, and realised she was disappointed – she must have been half-hoping to see him before going to bed and find out what he had discovered.
She closed the windows again, undressed and lay nude under one thin sheet, but still it was too hot to sleep. For a long while she tossed and turned, all the thoughts that her photo session had chased away returning to haunt her. It seemed she had been lying there for hours when she heard footsteps outside followed by the slam of Tom O’Neill’s door, and realised it was what she had unconsciously been waiting for.
You’re very late, Tom O’Neill. I hope you got what you wanted …
Her skin felt sticky and crawling somehow as if ants were creeping all over it. What the hell was wrong with the air conditioning? she wondered. It couldn’t be working properly – in the morning she would complain at reception, though she didn’t imagine that would get her very far. The happy-go-lucky Australian attitude would probably be: ‘We’ll fix it – no worries’ and nothing would change.
Unable to bear it a moment longer Harriet threw back the sheet, stomped over to the window and threw it open once more. A little breeze whispered in and she breathed a sigh of relief. That window was staying open this time. Nothing would induce her to close it, not even the fear of being raped or murdered in her bed.
Harriet lay down again on top of the sheet and this time fell into a heavy exhausted sleep.
She was awakened by a knock at the door. Breakfast, probably. She had placed an order last night for it to be served to her room, ticking off the items she required on a bookmark-shaped list and hanging it out on her door-knob. She struggled fully awake and got up, pulling on the kimono. Another tap. ‘All right – all right – I’m coming!’ she called, wondering why they didn’t just leave it outside.
She opened the door. Tom O’Neill stood there, holding a tray set with croissants, an assortment of individual portions of jam in plastic pots and coffee.
‘Breakfast is served, Madam.’
He looked very fresh for someone who has had a very late night and probably a good deal to drink, wearing a white polo shirt and cream canvas slacks. Against them, dark blue toweling socks jarred.
‘Take this and I’ll fetch mine,’ he said, thrusting the tray towards her. ‘I thought we might as well have breakfast together and talk.’
She put the tray down and combed her hair with her fingers, conscious of her own unkempt appearance.
‘Well, how did it go? Did your young lady know anything?’
He set his own tray down on the low table and sprawled his long frame into one of the pair of easy chairs, pouring coffee.
‘I’ve got an address. It seems Vanessa has a property in Darwin – a very expensive exclusive property up on East Point. At least, it’s in her name. Robyn – my informant – says general opinion is that it was bought for her by Rolf Michael – that’s what Martin calls himself up here – and set up as a love nest. If that is so then it’s as I suspected – he had a bolt hole prepared.’
‘Clever.’
‘He’s certainly nobody’s fool,’ Tom agreed. ‘ Unfortunately this time vanity let him down. He should have kept quiet about his connections with Vanessa if he wanted to be safe there with her, but he couldn’t resist parading her at Darwest Construction. A young beauty on his arm made up for what anno domini has taken away from him in terms of looks – the bimbo syndrome. I can’t be such a poor old man if I can pull a bird like this. He isn’t the first to fall into a trap like that and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last. Tongues at Darwest started wagging and the jungle telegraph did the rest.’
‘It sounds as though you had a very productive evening,’ Harriet said.
‘Oh I did, I did.’
‘Well you were certainly very late back,’ she said – and immediately regretted it.
‘Did you miss me then?’ he asked wickedly, spreading jam on a croissant. ‘I did feel I should make an evening of it. I could hardly barge in, ask the pertinent questions and leave, could I?’
‘Of course not. I never suggested you could …’ Harriet began, then broke off, slightly shocked as she recognised for the first time the emotion that was making her irritable every time she thought of To
m with his young lady informant. Jealousy. She was jealous. It was almost unbelievable – she hadn’t even realised she liked him. She set down her coffee cup.
‘So – what is the next move? Visit the address, presumably?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘If Greg is there things might get nasty.’
‘If I come face to face with him that’s very likely.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘ I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’ve got a job to do, Harriet. I don’t want you throwing spanners in the works.’
‘I won’t,’ she promised.
‘All right then. As long as you stay in the background and keep quiet. No sudden passionate outbursts. No accusations. No revealing who you are.’
The sudden uncomfortable thought occurred to her that whether she said anything or not he might possibly realise who she was simply by looking at her. From the photographs of Paula she knew she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. But she pushed the thought aside. Greg wouldn’t be expecting a ghost from the past on his doorstep and if he did recognise her it was simply too bad. In any case there was always the possibility that the shock might prompt him into letting down his defences. But she did not think she would chance suggesting this to Tom. He might not agree – and it was too important to her that he should allow her to go with him to risk him changing his mind now.
‘I’ll leave everything to you,’ she said.
‘O. K. In that case I suggest the sooner we get over there the better. I’ll leave you to get dressed – pretty as you look in that kimono.’
The door closed after him and Harriet realised she was trembling. Impatient with herself she drained the last of her coffee and headed for the shower.
The morning was already humid but as yet the sky was clear unbroken blue above the scarlet-leaved crotons and banana palms, filtering sunlight through the branches of the huge spreading old banyan trees. Another few hours and the heat haze would begin to seep in from the sea bringing with it the clouds that would empty rain, rain and more rain on to the steaming earth, but at present there was a sweetness in the air that smelled of frangipani and henna with the occasional whiff of bitumen.
