“I do. But . . .”
“Good enough for me. Now you’d best get back to work and I should, too.”
But when Dave Birch was safely out the door and visible driving off in his clinic’s minivan, Charlie set out walking toward the other end of town, and he wasn’t working.
Charlie had a date that evening. With a woman who interested him a very great deal, and had interested him for quite some time. It was the first time, though, that she’d invited him for dinner. Charlie was on the hunt for a good bottle of wine. Maybe two bottles.
*
The publican at the bottle shop Charlie favored most was a retired police chief inspector from New South Wales, who’d visited Tasmania for the trout fishing, fallen in love with the place, and used the proceeds of a healthy retirement package and some earlier wise investments to purchase a pub. The two men got along well despite their relative discrepancies in rank, but Charlie’s visits to the pub were most often on business.
“Are you lost, Charlie? It’s a bit early for you to be coming round here because of trouble; I’ve only just got the doors open,” said Mike Findlay, the publican. Findlay was a man whose extreme fitness made him appear bigger than he actually was, and in point of fact he was more than capable of handling any trouble that his quality establishment might encounter.
“I’m after some plonk, Mike. Something really top-drawer,” Charlie said.
“I have plenty of that, so long as you’re not after Piper’s Brook. I sold out of that yesterday. Six bottles, no less. My last six, and I’d been saving them for myself, if you want the truth.
Charlie laughed. “You can always order more, I reckon. But where’d you find six people who could afford it? That stuff’s like liquid gold, and we’re nearly out of tourist season.”
“There’s still a few about. And I didn’t need six; these all went to the same bloke. Must be a tourist . . . American, from his voice. Nice feller. We had quite a chat about wines and such. Knowledgeable chap, too. Made for a change, I can tell you. But, as you say, something of a surprise. Haven’t had a run on Piper’s Brook like that since all the kafuffle last year about that Specialist feller.”
Charlie couldn’t avoid a shudder of distaste. He truly detested the media’s penchant for nicknames, and the choice of the Specialist for Dr. Ralph Stafford was so bizarre as to give him the creeps. Stafford, in his view, was a butcher, plain and simple, an evil malignancy better off dead.
Mike paused to wipe his forehead; it was warm in the bottle shop. “My God, but that was a bun fight and a half. When the media started on about how that bloke – what was his name again . . . Stafford? – favored Piper’s Brook, I couldn’t keep it in stock for about a month. Everybody wanted to try the stuff, and bugger the price. Went out as quick as I could order it.”
He paused, but only briefly. “I never did meet the man himself. I had a manager here in the bottle-o, those days. But I heard all about him for months afterwards. Andrew Pirie must’ve been glad of the publicity, although I think they’re heavier on export sales than local ones. Then the popularity died overnight and it was like nobody’d ever heard of the brand. The six bottles I sold yesterday were the last of it, although of course I didn’t tell the bloke buying them that. Didn’t stick with last year’s prices, either . . . inflation and all, you realize.” And he grinned almost sheepishly – if one could imagine a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Just see that you treat me a bit more fairly,” Charlie said. “And keep the cost down to a dull roar, too. I don’t need to be taking out a second mortgage for plonk, no matter how good it is.”
“Piper’s Brook is the best, for my money. No question! But I didn’t know you drank wine at all. Thought you were a beer drinker, at heart.”
“Heavy date tonight,” Charlie replied, and winced inwardly at this false show of bravado. Such a revelation wasn’t an issue – Findlay could, and would, keep his mouth shut about something so obviously personal. But for Charlie himself, the worries kept oozing to the surface. He was inwardly confused, and he hated that.
“The widow McKay, I assume. Can’t imagine what a fine woman like that would see in you.” It was an observation, not a question. Findlay knew as much about who was doing what, and to whom, and with whom – and usually why, as well – in St. Helens as Charlie’s entire detachment. “You’re not involved in this abduction thing, then?” Findlay asked, reaching down to pick up a copy of the Launceston Examiner and show Charlie the front page spread with Kirsten’s photo front and center. Charlie had already seen it, but dutifully took another look, knowing the publican would have read the article with interest and would want to talk about it.
“I should be,” he said. “Teague Kendall’s a good mate of mine. But there’s nothing to connect whatever the hell’s happened there to my patch down here, and I’ve enough on my own plate anyway. Speaking of which, just between us, like, have you seen anything of Rose Chapman, that sexpot nurse from up at the nuthouse? Who just happens to be Kendall’s ex-wife – bet you didn’t know that.”
Charlie almost glanced around to be sure Dave Birch couldn’t overhear the disparaging description of his treatment center. He knew Dave hated it, but everyone local used the term so regularly it was difficult not to.
Mike Findlay paused in silence for a moment, then replied. The question might be unofficial, but Charlie knew the former policeman was taking it seriously, reviewing his recollections before he spoke. “Not the last day or so,” he said. “She’s in and out on occasion, of course. Never a problem, not too heavy on the sauce or anything like that. Nothing . . . worrisome. Apart from being probably the finest looking woman on the east coast, but we can’t hold that against her, although I’ve got something I’d like to, no matter whose ex-wife she is. And no, I didn’t know that.”
Both men laughed, although Charlie had to force it. With tonight’s affair on his mind, he didn’t need such gratuitous chauvinism in there too.
The publican stopped laughing, a bit abruptly, Charlie thought, and appeared unexpectedly thoughtful for a moment. “One thing,” he said. “She was in the pub last week . . . can’t remember which day. But I do recall her going straight over to Ian Boyd. You know Ian, I expect. Not her type, for sure and certain. But they had their heads together over something, and she was buying the beer.”
“Ian Boyd? That is one for the books,” Charlie said. “Not my business though, unless she’s taken up poaching or some such thing. Only reason I asked – unofficially, remember? – is that she didn’t come in to work today, seems to have disappeared, and it’s got Dave Birch all stirred up.”
“Doesn’t take much to stir him up these days, poor bugger. He’s had a helluva rough go of things since that Specialist stuff. Did he tell you, by the way, that he’s been rooting our Rose?”
Charlie had a brief mental glitch involving a birch tree attempting fornication with a rose bush, and had to stifle a grin. “He’s in denial. I asked him straight up how long he’d been sleeping with her, and he tried to slide out from under it. How long do you reckon?”
“Since about two weeks after all the Specialist fallout started. Dave happened in here about a fortnight afterwards, and you could tell by the look in his eyes that he’d just been pussy-whipped into the middle of next week. Another few months and she’ll have her name over the door. I’ve seen it before. So have you.”
The publican snorted with bitter laughter, and this time Charlie couldn’t help but join him.
“Half his bloody luck, say I,” Findlay continued. “Although I reckon the woman is a ball-breaker, well and truly. She’s got that look. On the other hand, she’s stuck by him, which a lot didn’t.”
No argument there, either, but Charlie couldn’t help but wonder how much power Rose Chapman might be wielding when it came to actually running the facility. Especially the drug dispensing elements of it all.
The publican went out to collect Charlie’s wine, and returned a few moments later with two bottles
of a quite acceptable vintage and a copy of the poster that was being distributed in connection with Kirsten Knelsen’s disappearance.
“Nice looking bird,” said Mike. “But the lads in Launceston want taking out and shooting if they expect anybody to make an identification from this shot of the alleged abductor. It could be anybody. It could be either one of us, it could be the bloke who bought me out of Piper’s Brook, could be anybody. You can’t see anything but the hat and sunglasses.”
“I’m not tall enough and you’re not thin enough,” Charlie replied. “Best they could do, so that’s what we have to work with. You know the drill, Mike. Real life is nothing like those American cop shows with all their high-tech equipment. Look at that sniper situation out at Ormley. There’s half the police cadets in the state out there today, I’ll bet, looking for the bullet that killed that gundog bloke. And for what? Unless they can find the rifle it was fired from, it won’t tell them anything except the caliber, if that. And what do you reckon the odds are of them finding it in the first place?”
“Buckley’s . . . at best. Complete waste of manpower, in my view, although of course it’s something that has to be done. But not my problem. Most of the time I don’t even think of police work and I have to say I’m glad of it, glad to be out of the field.”
In a pig’s arse. You miss it every day. You’re as much in denial as Dave Birch, although probably for better reasons.
But Charlie didn’t say that. One thing to twit Dave Birch, who needed it . . . quite another to get smart with a senior colleague, retired or otherwise.
“I’m just glad none of it’s happening on my patch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rose almost immediately regretted her impulsive offer to “give” Kendall to Stafford, but it was a short-lived regret when she saw how much the suggestion excited the good doctor. He’d have had her off and away within minutes had it not been for the small problem of her missing car keys, and his obvious disgruntlement at that issue was almost a relief to Rose.
“Really, Rose. You might have mentioned it earlier, while there was still enough light for us to at least try and search,” he’d said. Then taken the comment as a hint to light the lantern so they could actually see inside the shack, where the gloaming had subtly made its presence known.
With the lantern light came a flurry of activity. Ian was sent to bring down his vehicle from the upper road. He had his swag in the vehicle, and no objection to sleeping outside. Ian was also delegated the task of assembling the second camp cot, which resolved where Rose was going to sleep. Stafford, as host, declared he’d be quite happy with the chair where he’d spent what remained of the previous night.
But his quick acceptance of the idea that she could bring him Kendall eased whatever niggling concerns Rose had about her own place in the current scheme of things. If nothing else, it indicated she was going to be treated as a colleague . . . far preferable to what she visualized as Kirsten’s fate.
It’s nothing less than the stupid bitch deserves, though. All the shit they’ve been through and she hasn’t slept with him yet? Well, I think you missed your chance, girl.
Not that Kirsten had deliberately provided Rose with the information that she hadn’t slept with Kendall . . . at least not directly. But her facial expression when Stafford had asked something similar was sufficient to alert Rose to the state of play. All she needed now was to figure out how to make the best use of such knowledge.
The thought plagued her throughout dinner, intruding on the pleasure she took from watching Kirsten’s reaction to that!
~~~
When Stafford announced his dinner preparations, Kirsten almost caved in right on the spot. It was just too easy to let her imagination – only just under control as it was – run riot with images created by the doctor while he’d pursued her through the inky blackness of the cave in Canada more than a year earlier. Images of her sister being slain, butchered, then eaten by this madman.
And yet . . . she was fascinated, couldn’t stop herself watching his adroit handling of the utensils as he prepared the food. He peeled potatoes as if each one was a jewel in the process of being revealed, sliced up carrots and onions and some green herb she couldn’t even identify – each slice a masterpiece of precision, each individual bit of food treated as a visitor to the table.
She, herself, was treated as a visitor to the table. Stafford blithely ignored her bound hands, the chain that linked her to the wall, the entire insanity of her being there at all. He carried on an animated conversation with her – with all of them – as if he was entertaining early arrivals while doing the preparatory work for a dinner party in his own home. Ian and Rose seemed blithely ignorant of the irony. Rose hung on the doctor’s every word and Boyd was clearly under the influence of some drug or another. He functioned almost as some weird form of zombie, reacting only to direct commands, speaking only to answer direct questions, apparently uncaring of the circumstances, of Kirsten’s plight, of the dangers and unspoken threat of the entire situation.
I doubt if he cares what the hell he eats, so long as it’s meat of some kind. Preferably raw. He’ll probably eat me, if it comes to that, and ask for seconds if he’s still hungry.
Kirsten didn’t know which of the two men she should fear the most, although she had to give Stafford top billing just on past performance. Rose, she thought, might be infinitely more dangerous than either of them.
It was impossible to know what Rose’s grudges against Kendall were based on, or even if they actually made sense. What she did know was that Rose hated and resented her, and that Rose was likely crazy enough for this to be a serious problem. And Rose hated Kendall, too . . . maybe even more. There had been a savage little delight in her voice when she’d told Stafford she could get her former husband for him. Kirsten had a momentary flash of Rose sashaying into the shack with Kendall’s head on a platter, like Salome’s delivery of John the Baptist’s head.
But she didn’t take it too seriously until the subject of just how Teague Kendall might be delivered was raised. By Stafford. Even then she thought it only a ploy to torment her – until Stafford pointed to her and said to Rose, “She wears a ring on a chain around her neck. Show him that. It should be easy enough then.”
Kirsten fought, but it was futile. With both hands bound she could only thrust and kick against Rose’s assault. When Rose smacked her across the side of the face so hard it made her head swim and her eyes swim with tears, hearing Stafford chastise his former colleague did nothing to assuage the pain . . . or the loss of her sister’s ring. The ring Stafford had discarded along with her sister’s butchered body, the ring Kirsten had found. The ring that had led, inadvertently, to Stafford’s being discovered to be a serial killer and cannibal.
“Your impetuousness will get the better of you one day, Rose,” he said. “All you really needed to do was ask politely. Isn’t that right, Kirsten?”
Kirsten didn’t bother to reply. She merely glared at the both of them through a veil of tears.
I’m being stupid, trying to fight this. Now. I have to wait . . . there will be a chance, sometime, somehow. Maybe after Kendall gets here, if I live that long. He’ll come if she shows him the ring . . . the damned doctor’s right about that.
Then she lost her train of thought as Stafford finished off an admittedly splendid-looking salad, then turned his attention to a large camp cooler. “And for the main course,” he said, “I must apologize in advance for not having something really fresh.” And he smirked – actually smirked, throwing the expression in Kirsten’s direction with terrifying accuracy. “So we’ll have to take pot luck for today, although I can guarantee things will improve quite, quite soon.”
If he pulls out any sort of raw meat I think I’ll barf . . . even if it’s straight from the supermarket and wearing a price tag. And if it’s not . . .
Kirsten couldn’t deal with that option. She closed her eyes and bent her head, fighting off the waves of nausea that ro
iled inside her. For months after her escape from Stafford, she’d had serious appetite problems, unable to deal with raw meat in any form. She’d had to avoid even the supermarket meat section, although she was, paradoxically, quite comfortable eating meat that someone else had cooked. Even steak, although certainly not rare.
Kendall, who usually cooked whatever meat she did eat, never once so much as commented on her reaction. He preferred his steak rare enough to get up and walk off the plate, as Kirsten knew very well. As she, herself, once had. But ever since her escape from Stafford, Kendall had cheerfully set aside his own preferences in favor of hers. He’d happily (she assumed) stepped down from his hobby-horse of saying that people who wanted their steak any more cooked than medium rare shouldn’t be given steak in the first place, should be provided with hockey-puck hamburgers instead.
What would he say to this situation, I wonder? What will he say . . . more to the point?
Her nausea intensified just at the thought of Kendall being lured into Stafford’s control. Part of her mind tried to focus on some way to warn him, or keep Rose from whatever plan she had conjured up to bring Kendall here, but the other part wanted to picture him magically riding to her rescue, the knight in shining armor, the hero.
“He won’t rescue you this time, either.” Rose’s earlier charge echoed in Kirsten’s mind. Obviously Kendall’s ex-wife had read his book, where Kendall had been characteristically honest about the fact that it had – in fact – been a case of him being rescued by Kirsten.
But you tried!
That, to Kirsten, was the important thing. But hearing the sneering in Rose’s voice, having seen the awe with which the Mole Creek cavers had regarded her own exploits with the Specialist, it was suddenly all too easy to see how Kendall might be intimidated. He was a man. Men don’t just try . . . they succeed, they win, they conquer. And they don’t talk about their fears, most especially to women, even more especially to women they care about. Not even Kendall, she realized, and he was probably the most liberated man she’d ever met. He’d always impressed her as being totally comfortable in his own skin, totally secure in his masculinity without having to flaunt it or play silly little macho games.
DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller Page 11
