‘Who has custody of the kids?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, now you do, she’s not around.’
‘Even before she went missing, I had custody.’
‘Full?’
‘Full.’
‘Why? Not many fathers get full custody, especially if the mother has the financial means to look after them, and your settlement clearly shows that she did. Why pay her substantial child support if you have full custody? And how was it she had them in the car with her?’
God, this was tedious. He glanced at Archie, who shrugged, then nodded.
‘We made a joint decision. We both felt it was best the children stayed with me. She took the divorce pretty hard. They would visit, whenever she wanted them.’ Only, she hadn’t really asked, not until recently – almost eighteen months later. They’d had to take it slow, for the sake of Ava and the kids, the reintroduction after such a long absence. It had been going so well. And now she was gone. ‘She’d wanted them for a visit. So they were visiting.’
‘Visiting? For how long?’
‘Overnight.’
‘What aren’t you telling me, Mr St James?’
A whole bloody lot. ‘I’m answering all of your questions.’
‘I think Mr St James has been very cooperative,’ Archie began.
‘Did your wife suffer from depression, Mr St James?’ Detective Fuller spoke for the first time, and Dom felt the chill crawl over his shoulders. They knew. Somehow, they’d found out. He’d tried to cover it up. How had they uncovered it? Someone in the therapist’s office? It didn’t matter. They knew.
‘Yes.’ There was no point lying about it.
‘Is that why you divorced?’
Dom didn’t hide his disgust. ‘I did not divorce my wife because she was depressed. We were working through that.’ He’d been prepared to do whatever it took to save their marriage. They didn’t know what had happened, though. He was confident in that. Both he and Ava had managed to keep it secret from all.
‘And yet she entered a very exclusive, private facility in Sweden shortly after your divorce.’
He nodded. That was one of his conditions. She needed to get help, but she didn’t want to do it where the newspapers would be following her every move, gossiping about her. That had been one of her primary fears: everyone knowing about her problems, discussing her, laughing at her. He’d seen another celebrity undergo a similar experience and had had to agree with her. She wanted to be discreet, and if this was the only way to get her the help she needed, then he was more than willing to respect that.
And it had worked. She’d returned to Australia six months ago, had seemed almost a new person, with a brighter, more positive outlook on life. She’d accepted their marriage was over, but had wanted to maintain a friendship, something he was happy to support. She’d even asked to spend time with the kids. They’d started off with baby steps, a few hours here and there, when he could be with her, help her. Then a few visits where it was just her and the twins, gradually extending the length of the visits. She’d seemed so happy to be with Jonah and Julia, to re-engage with them. The kids had been happy, too. He’d hoped that she would be ready for more time with them, although they were both being cautious. Things were looking good.
Then she’d been killed, and the more time the police spent prying into their divorce, the less focus was given to the real danger.
‘Look, I didn’t kill my ex-wife. I didn’t want any harm to befall her, or my kids. We were actually in a good place. Yes, we were divorced, but we were looking at co-parenting, and putting some strong foundations down there for a new kind of relationship. I didn’t want her dead. I didn’t want my children hurt. Someone has been trying to sabotage me. This very office has all the information on the attacks. That’s where you should be looking.’
Detective Charles shot the silent Detective Fuller a glance. The quiet cop dipped his head slightly in affirmation.
‘I’ve seen the so-called evidence,’ Detective Charles murmured.
Dom frowned. Doing his job, fine, but he wasn’t going to stand for the detective disregarding the real threat and wasting precious time and resources focusing on a wild goose chase. He leaned forwards, keeping his voice low and calm. ‘It’s not so-called evidence. We brought the matter to the police immediately, and so far no action has been taken to stop this person threatening my family. My ex-wife’s brake lines were cut, my children nearly died. I understand you need to investigate me – but I had nothing to do with my ex-wife’s accident.’ He gestured to the folder. ‘You have copies of everything I’ve received from this guy. Do you think I faked this? Created it all myself as some part of diabolical operation to divert attention away from myself while I murdered my wife?’
The minute he said it, the detectives glanced at each other. Detective Fuller finally joined them at the table, taking the seat at the end, sitting at an angle so he wasn’t directly facing Dom. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a scorned lover or ex-partner created some intricate plan to off his missus.’
Dom just stared at the man. Fuller hadn’t asked a question, he was trying to prompt more information from him. Did they really think he’d killed his ex? What could he do or say to convince them, once and for all, that this particular avenue of investigation was a dead end?
‘Here’s the thing, St James, your wife is missing. While we may not have found her body, considering the amount of time that has passed, and the fact that her bank account and credit cards have had no activity since the day of the accident, we believe your wife’s disappearance points to foul play.’ Detective Charles folded his arms.
‘Did you cut the brake lines in Ava St James’s car?’ Fuller asked him directly.
‘No.’ He waited. It was a pretty definitive answer. They could either charge him or let him go – but then they’d still be looking to him for answers, and not for the real killer.
He looked from one cop to the other. ‘I’m happy to answer your questions so that you can rule me out and move on to the real person responsible. If you think you have enough to arrest me, then do so. If you have nothing, then I suggest you move on with your investigation and stop wasting your time and mine.’
Charles eyed him for a moment, his gaze intent and assessing, before glancing back down at the file.
‘Okay, so – what happened after you reached the hospital?’
Dom continued to answer the detective’s questions, praying for patience.
Damn, it was hot. Sweat trickled down the side of Tony Blewitt’s face as he strode down the street to the St James building. He could see shimmery waves coming off the footpath in the distance. The traffic noises, the exhaust fumes from passing cars, buses and trucks seemed to increase the humidity and temperature around him. North Sydney in late January was a furnace.
And God, his face itched. His face and head. Hot, sweaty, and damned uncomfortable – but the discomfort would be worth it, once St James opened this parcel. Then he’d be laughing all the way to the bank. St James would take him seriously, and pay up.
He caught his reflection in a glass window and almost stopped. He barely recognised himself in the bright orange T-shirt from a well-known courier company. He kept walking. He thought the clothing was a touch of genius, giving his costume an authentic flair. It had been so easy, too. Follow a courier home, and pinch the garment off the line as it dried on laundry day. Sure, he’d had to wait almost a week, and it might be a little tight, hugging his gut and arms too closely, but it should hopefully get him past security.
He resisted the urge to scratch his face. His nose and chin felt like they were on fire, and it was all he could do not to drop his parcel and tear at the prosthetics. Or was it the makeup? He was beginning to feel hot all over. Maybe it was one of those foundations that hadn’t been tested on animals – his ex was very pro-animal welfare, had even dragged him on a fun run to raise money for the RSPCA – not that it was much fun. His thighs had chafed, his runners had gi
ven his feet blisters and he’d gotten so sunburnt his nose had peeled. Fun, like hell.
He turned the wrong way in the revolving doors and hit the glass panel. He froze, eyes wide, at his mistake, but the parcel remained intact. His shoulders sagged. Thank God. He reached up to touch his nose. It seemed okay, but perhaps a bit squished. He glanced over his shoulder at the security guard just inside the foyer. The fat man sat behind his desk, trying to smother a laugh.
Tony forced a fake smile as he changed direction and entered the building. Laugh now, you jerk. You’ll be laughing out the other side of your face, soon. The air was blessedly cool, compared to the incinerator outside. He raised the box gently.
‘Delivery for St James Constructions,’ he called out.
‘You’re supposed to deliver to the loading dock.’
‘Uh, this is a special delivery, requires a signature from the St James office.’
The security guard sighed brusquely. ‘Fine. Fill in the visitor’s log, then take the lift to level twenty-three.’
Tony hesitated. He’d have to approach the guard’s station. He hadn’t considered that. He nodded and walked over to him. He set the parcel down gently on the desk, and lifted the pen with his gloved hand. Damn. He put the pen down, bit the first finger of the glove and pulled it off. He hadn’t planned on this. Stupid, stupid. He held the pen with the tips of his fingers and scribbled nonsense into the log book, keeping the visor low over his face.
‘Where’s Max?’ the guard asked casually.
Tony lifted the pen off the page. ‘Max?’ His heart slowed down, pulse echoing in his ear.
‘Yeah, our regular driver.’
‘Oh…he’s – he’s on holidays.’
‘Hmm. Didn’t mention it yesterday.’
Great. It was just his luck that the guard and regular courier were pals.
‘Yeah, it was sudden. Something about his brother getting sick. Needed to take some leave to – to look after the dog.’ He nodded at the excuse.
‘He took time off to look after a dog?’ The guard’s voice was heavy with scepticism. When the man said it like that, it did sound kind of trivial.
‘Did I say dog? I meant mother,’ Tony corrected hastily. ‘His brother lives with his mother, so when his brother got sick, Max went to look after the mother.’
‘And not the brother?’
Tony lowered the pen carefully. For Christ’s sake, just accept whatever the hell I say. He hadn’t prepared a story, and now grabbed at mental straws. ‘The brother is in hospital, so he’s looking after the mother.’
‘Gee, I hope it’s not serious.’
Tony made a noncommittal noise as he quickly pulled on his glove, then lifted the pen to place it gently on the spine of the book, using his glove to wipe it clean of any prints as he did so. Christ, he should have just stuck with the damn dog.
‘Yeah.’
Tony picked up the parcel and nodded in the guard’s general direction before crossing to the lifts. He waited, expecting the guard to call, to race over and grab him, stop him.
The lift doors opened, and Tony stepped inside, not letting his breath out until the doors had slid completely shut.
Immediately he scratched at the top of his head, but the damn hat and wig provided a barrier to any relief. The wig was so damn itchy. The clay putty was so damn itchy. He was just one big antsy itch. He didn’t lift his head to look at the indicator above the doors. Each lift probably had a camera filming everyone who came and went.
He started tapping his finger on the parcel until he realised what he was doing and stopped. Sweat dripped from his face onto the parcel. So friggin’ hot. And his nose felt so heavy. He touched it gently. The long point was now a flat end, thanks to his collision with the revolving door, and the putty was beginning to pull at the bridge of his nose. He lowered his face, hoping the visor from the detested cap covered his actions from any cameras as he tried to fix the pressure. His eyes widened when he felt the distinct bump where there shouldn’t have been a bump. The damn door had buckled his nose!
He tried to rectify the problem one-handed, but without a mirror he was working blind. The lift dinged, the doors slid open, and he dropped his hand from his face. Crap. There was no more time.
He hunched his shoulders, trying to obscure his face as he walked down the carpeted hall and in through the glass swing doors into St James Constructions’ Sydney headquarters.
The receptionist glanced up from the desk, a smile ready on her face. Good, she was new, and he didn’t recognise her. Therefore, she couldn’t recognise him. She blinked when she saw him, her smile faltering as he placed the parcel on her desk.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said hesitantly, then looked at him intently. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
He frowned. ‘Yeah.’ He was sweating buckets, and his whole head felt like bull ants were crawling over it, but he was fine, really.
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ she offered gently, her gaze touring his face, her concern obvious.
While a tall glass of cold water sounded like heaven, it would be just another DNA record. He was already pushing it with the handling of the parcel, but any evidence would disappear once it was opened.
‘Nah, I’m good. Delivery for Dominic St James,’ he told her, and started to back away.
She looked at him expectantly. ‘Do you need me to sign anything?’
Tony halted. Oh, for Christ’s sake. Did everyone have to be so damn professional here? He pulled a notebook out of his back pocket, carefully flicking past his shopping lists, his letter bomb instructions, to find a blank page. He held it out to her.
‘Here.’
She blinked, looking at the notebook, then up at his face again. She was probably expecting one of those hand-held gizmos.
‘I left my scanner in the van,’ he finished lamely.
She smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she tentatively grasped the notebook. She signed her name with a flourish, then printed it and added the date. He nodded. She was thorough. Blonde, brown-eyed, she was pretty and well groomed. He bet she smelled nice, too. He couldn’t smell anything but the nail polish sealer. If he still worked here, he’d be finding excuses to walk into reception, and hit on her.
‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing at the notebook as she handed it back to him. ‘See-oh-ban.’ He read her name. What kind of name was that?
‘It’s pronounced Shivon,’ she told him gently, her smile turning to almost a grimace when he smiled back at her. Too late he remembered his chin, and winced as the glue pulled at his skin. It felt like it was plucking tiny strands of flesh off his face.
‘Shivon.’ Why didn’t she just spell it that way? He nodded at her, then had to pretend to wipe his nose as it wobbled at the movement. He ignored her widened eyes, the raised hand as though to offer aid. ‘See ya.’
He left the reception area in haste before he could do or say anything else that might risk his cover.
He had to wait a few moments for the lift, and kept his gaze focused on his feet. He pressed his hand to his chin, hoping he looked like he was deep in thought. His chin was on fire.
The lift doors slid open, and he stepped in quickly, tapping his foot on the journey down to the ground floor. He wanted to pull the clay off his face, wanted to feel the breeze ruffle his hair.
He crossed the foyer, halting when the guard called him, pointing to the book. He took a deep breath, then changed direction. This time he didn’t bother removing his glove, just scribbled awkwardly in the space the guard pointed his chubby digit at.
The guard frowned at him. ‘Are you all right, mate? You don’t look so good.’
Tony wanted to tell the guard he didn’t look like a prince either, but kept his mouth shut. He gave the man a lazy thumbs up, then crossed to the revolving door. So close. So, so close. He just needed to get out of the building before someone opened that parcel.
He stepped over the portal at the same time as a shadow darkened the other side.
Tony looked up, then gulped, switching his gaze to the floor in front of him. Alex Knight. Bloody hell. Knight had sat in on those last confrontations, and had been the one who laid out his severance agreement. Not that he’d wanted to agree, but Knight and St James had left him no choice: leave, and don’t come back, or face charges.
Knight glanced at him briefly, then glanced at him again as they each passed through the door. Tony felt like everything slowed down as he tried to avoid the man’s gaze.
One step. Another step. Knight frowned, then his gaze shifted back to the foyer, and Tony stepped out onto the footpath. He hurried up the street, then jogged across the Princes Highway, ignoring the blare of horns from irate drivers as he halted traffic in his effort to get away. He was doing well, until he hit the pedestrian fence in the middle of the road. He had to run along the length until the first break where he could cross to the other side. He wiped his arm over his forehead, grimacing at the sweaty makeup that streaked across his forearm. His fake nose bobbed with each step, sending ribbons of fire across his skin with each pull of the putty – but he’d done it! Elation spread through him, and he smiled wildly. He’d been inside the lion’s den and survived.
Now he just needed to get the hell out of here before the alarm bells started ringing.
CHAPTER
20
Alex nodded at the security guard as he crossed the foyer to the lifts. ‘Hey, Jim, how’s the wife?’
‘She’s taken up quilting, this week.’
Alex grinned as he pressed the button for the lift. Jim’s wife was newly retired, and looking for activities to fill her day. ‘That’s a good one, isn’t it?’ He glanced at the main entrance to the building. That guy…
‘We have fabric everywhere.’ Jim lowered his eyebrows. ‘Everywhere.’
‘I keep telling you, Jim, you two should try golf. My parents swear by it.’ Alex frowned. There was something weird about that courier…he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He wasn’t the regular courier, but that was to be expected at this time of year, with everyone taking leave. Still, their deliveries had slowed right down. The bulk of the construction industry took annual leave in January to avoid working in the hottest month of the year.
Runaway Lies Page 18
