Home Truths

by Louise Forster

  ‘Doorak.’ Fool, Nikolay wheezed. Stuck, he let all the air out of his lungs, which gave him a couple of millimetres, and quickly wriggled, army style, until he was through. He lay inside the garage on the concrete floor, dragging air back into his lungs. That was close. He hauled himself up, dusted his hands off on his clothes and scouted for the way out.

  Nikolay’s arse vibrated and his heart leapt. He fumbled for the mobile in his back pocket. Hurriedly he wrapped chubby fingers around the phone and flipped it open.

  ‘Boris, later,’ he grated and switched it off. He focused on the garage walls: surely the way out was opposite the roller door. Ah-ha! Found it.

  The door stood ajar, how convenient for him. He checked to see the coast was clear before squeezing through the narrow space and venturing into the courtyard. He ducked down as low as he could and crept along the flagstones, avoiding the soft earth on either side of the path.

  Nikolay felt the sting of a mosquito on his neck and slapped it. He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm and silently cursed the Australian heat. His thoughts turned to Moscow where the temperature would be thirty below zero. The image of his wife Anna and her last words before he left the embassy in Canberra came back to haunt him.

  ‘Why not let them send a younger man who knows what he is doing?’ she had said, worried eyes questioning him.

  A grumble escaped Nikolay’s throat: he loved his ‘wifey.’ And despite the couple of slip-ups, he knew the drill. Still, he wished a thousand curses to his doorak of a friend in the pathetic political party for making him feel guilty if he didn’t do this. So what if they were all sent to Siberia?

  He kept to the shadows as he moved stealthily to the back of the house. He turned his face against the glass so he could peer through a torn piece of paper covering the window: the coast was clear. Silently he moved to the door, pulled the lock-pick out of his pocket and began to work on the old lock, opening it within seconds.

  He eased the door open. Cool air drew out and caressed his sweaty skin. He saw a bag and suitcase by the stairs. He heard movement.

  Someone was still here.

  *

  A change of air feathered across Jennifer’s face. She looked around the cavernous shop to see where it might have come from, but there was no explanation for it. Goose bumps crept up her neck. Ice ran through her veins. She stiffened and bolted for the stairs, stilettos clattering all the way.

  Reaching the top, logic returned and Jennifer sighed with relief. There was nothing to worry about, she’d locked the doors. ‘All that fear — for what?’ she told herself. ‘A headache?’

  Her feet were blissfully silent on the carpet runner. She slowed and stopped by the sideboard to check out the photos neatly arranged on top. One stood out from the rest, a silver art deco framed photo of Jennifer’s grandmother Polly Feldman.

  ‘Hi, Gran, I miss you too.’ She ran her index finger over Polly’s long, white lace wedding gown and the matching veil that crowned her head. Something caught her eye. She stepped closer for a better look. It looked like someone had cut George, Polly’s image-driven husband, out of the photo. Did Uncle Bob do that? Why would he? He must have felt pissed off no end.

  Jennifer rested her elbows on the sideboard and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘Gran, how come Mother often said Uncle Bob had strange habits? Maybe she thinks unconditional love is a strange habit.’ She skewed her mouth in thought. There had to be a reason for her uncle to cut his father out of the wedding picture and for his sister to shun him so much that he left Sydney to avoid her altogether. How long had the photo been like this? Jennifer hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe her uncle’s solicitor had the answers. Perhaps in the will, if there was one.

  ‘Anyway, Gran, I don’t suppose you can tell me why there’s no hot water, hmm? Maybe I should just fall into the cloud of ruffles.’ She could almost hear her grandmother laugh, wag her arthritic finger, and touch the tip of Jennifer’s nose, tut-tutting. ‘Comfort overrules? Yes, you’re probably right.’

  She opened a door opposite the sideboard and stepped into the large walk-in closet stacked with linens. The old familiar scent of lemon-fresh, sun-dried laundry and memories of weekends with Gran brought a smile to her face. She helped herself to sheets and pillowcases.

  As Jennifer closed the closet door, she heard a clicking sound filtering up the stairs. She flinched, held her breath, and paused to listen.

  Nothing. She was alone in the house, just her and her imagination.

  Come on, Jen, it could’ve been a car door. Or a neighbour putting the cat out.

  She heard the faintest gritty scraping noise and her heart lurched. It couldn’t be Sofie and Claudia; there was no reason for them to come back. Jennifer waited, ears straining. The silent and empty house was creeping her out — London was never this quiet.

  This is nonsense, old houses always creak.

  Halfway down the hall, Jennifer heard a faint shuffle. She stopped and listened. There it was again: someone was moving around downstairs.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  Clutching the bundle of linen to her chest, she tiptoed down the hall as fast as she could. She rushed into the pink bedroom chucking her sheets on the bed. She needed to ring someone, but her mobile was downstairs in her bag. Where had she seen the house phone — the living room?

  Jennifer’s mounting fear had her searching for a suitable weapon. ‘Christ! All I can do is frill someone,’ she hissed.

  Jennifer eased the bathroom door open and hoped there would be something in there other than a bottle of shampoo. That could work, right in the eyes. Nasty, though. She scanned the toiletries, grabbed the shampoo and a large, old-fashioned, wooden-handled toilet brush.

  Yes, she could do some damage with these. Brain whoever — or gross them out and run.

  She tiptoed to the bedroom door and dared to peek out. If only she could make it down the stairs. She snuck across to turn the living room lights off. Her fingers sought the old light switch, easing it up. An electric shock zapped her. She clenched her teeth against a cry of pain and fright and tucked her hand in her armpit. Nursing her hand, she headed for the desk and managed to find the phone. Should she ring Sofie?

  Her sister in a panic? Not a good idea. Ring triple O. Emergency?

  She heard the sound of slow, creeping steps, but wasn’t sure where they were coming from.

  Jennifer broke out in a cold sweat. Her breathing was short and shallow, and every nerve in her body prickled with alarm. Horror stories of axe murderers and rapists ran through her mind. Her dry mouth fell open and all bravado fled. An intruder was roaming the house. She needed to hide, but where? She scuttled behind the door and peered through a crack, fixing her eye on the landing. Oh God, she could see a faint light. Did intruders use torches? How brazen. She forced herself to take slow, even breaths, but adrenalin pumping through her body made it impossible to stop the trembling. She opened her eyes wider, as if that might help her brain come up with a safe exit plan, but her frightened mind drew a blank. Anger filtered through fear and exhaustion. Anyone with an emotional mix like that rushing though their system has to be a little insane.

  Jennifer raised her weapon and crept out of her hiding place. She was about to yell, scream — anything to scare him — when a loud knocking started on the open back door.

  Open door? But she’d locked it.

  A deep voice bellowed, ‘Hello! Anyone there?’

  ‘Don’t come any closer.’ Her voice wobbled. She cleared her throat, determined to sound convincing. ‘I’ve called the police and they’re on their way!’

  ‘We are the police,’ the stranger rumbled. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Jennifer heard heavy boots treading up the stairs. A pale blue torch beam bounced and headed towards her.

  Brandishing the toilet brush in one hand and shampoo bottle in the other, Jennifer sneaked a peek around the door and saw a mountain of a man heading her way. His companion was much shorter
and thinner. Badges and epaulettes on their pale blue shirts glinted in the faint light.

  ‘What a relief,’ she said, shoulders slumping.

  ‘Nice toilet brush, and shampoo,’ the large officer said, shining the torch in her face. ‘You can drop them now.’

  Eyes squinting, she hadn’t realised her hand was raised, toilet brush pointing at the ceiling. An image of herself as The Statue of Liberty flashed through her mind. Her arm came down faster than she could blink. She let go of the wooden handle. It bounced once then drummed on the timber floor.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Tony, find the light switch,’ the deep voice ordered as he directed his torch at his partner.

  Without looking, Jennifer reached for the table and placed the shampoo bottle down. She was too busy dealing with momentary blindness with blue torchlight spots in her vision to yell, ‘Don’t touch the switch.’

  The light buzzed on and the officer swore as he checked his fingers.

  The large, muscle-bound officer had a look of surprise and irritation on his face. Perhaps dealing with the younger man had been an ordeal all night — all week.

  Jennifer recovered from the shock of police officers in her uncle’s living room, blinked and said, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ the officer asked, his black, bushy eyebrows creased together.

  ‘How did you get in?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘We came through the roller door that was partially up, and then we found the back door unlocked,’ No-neck said as he slowly inclined his head toward the stairs, a difficult manoeuvre for him. Meanwhile, the younger man was busy rubbing his electrocuted fingers.

  ‘I’m positive I locked it,’ Jennifer said urgently.

  ‘Tony, go scout around and make sure everything’s okay.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ Jennifer gave him a tired smile.

  ‘You’re family of Bob Feldman?’ The officer asked as he rubbed the back of his head. At least, she thought it was the back of his head. Or was it his neck? Difficult to tell when head and neck were the same width and sat plonked on a pair of broad shoulders. It was a wonder he’d made it through the doorway.

  ‘Yes, I’m Bob Feldman’s niece Jennifer Dove. My mother is Uncle Bob’s sister, Elizabeth Feldman before she married my father Henry Dove. That’s why I’m a Dove not a Feldman.’

  ‘We were expecting his nieces, a grandniece, and a nephew,’ the big officer said with a smile.

  ‘My sister and niece are at the motel and our brother, well, he could be anywhere.’

  ‘It’s not that I doubt what you’re telling me, but proof makes me sleep better at night.’

  ‘In my bag downstairs. Uncle Bob’s solicitor sent a letter and keys via courier to my sister Sofie. We had no idea our uncle was going to die.’ Her control began to waver. She could feel it in the back of her throat and in her eyes. Perhaps it was mental and physical exhaustion. She took a deep breath and clenched her teeth against the sob that threatened.

  No-neck swept his hand across, signalling for her to go first. ‘After you, ma’am.’

  They trundled down the creaking stairs to where she had left her leather carryall.

  She should’ve stayed in London. After all, her uncle wouldn’t ever know she’d gone to all this bloody trouble. Guilt gave her a nudge. Sorry, Uncle Bob. She dug deep into her bag and in one swift motion pulled out her wallet. Randomly she handed No-neck various cards. ‘Visa, Chefs’ Pastry Club, video store, licence…’ she trailed off. The officer eyed her licence. ‘It’s a bad photo.’ Jennifer leaned in, pointing at her picture. ‘I’ve had my hair cut since then, plus I had a really bad head cold. So I look a little like a fugitive…doesn’t mean I am one…’ she quietly trailed off.

  As the young officer came through the back door, a familiar voice called, ‘Hey Tony, that you in there?’

  Jennifer held her breath. The hot cowboy stood outside the front door of her uncle’s shop.

  ‘Yeah, Calum,’ the younger officer yelled, and in passing said, ‘Nothing out there, Sarge.’

  ‘Everything okay? You hassling Bob’s family?’ Calum asked.

  ‘Would we do such a thing?’ No-neck bellowed, and scanned her licence. It was difficult to see his face, but Jennifer didn’t miss the quirky grin.

  ‘Ah, Brock, you too,’ Calum said from behind the door.

  ‘Miss, would you mind if we let Calum in?’ Brock asked politely. ‘He’s a member of the neighbourhood watch. Because Bob’s place is empty, we’ve all been keeping an eye on it.’

  ‘Sure, go ahead — what’s one more?’ Jennifer handed the officer another photo.

  With a sideways nod, the big man sent Tony off to open the front door. The sound of locks and bolts sliding echoed through the shop. The door shut with a bang, making Jennifer flinch.

  Tony and Calum chatted quietly as they headed back, their deep voices echoing in the empty shop.

  ‘Ma’am.’ Brock’s tone turned serious. ‘Who were you planning to clobber with that lethal, toilet-brush weapon?’

  Jennifer’s focus had turned to the man with Officer Tony. He walked with an easy, broad-shouldered swagger. Mesmerised, her brain switched to slow-mo as his long stride brought him closer. An urgent, far-away voice in her mind told her she looked like crap and demanded she run, but her legs weren’t going anywhere.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am!’

  Jennifer pulled her gaze away from Calum and tried to focus on the police sergeant.

  ‘Apart from us, did you hear something unusual?’

  ‘At first I heard a sort of creeping, sliding noise — but that would’ve been the two of you, right?’

  ‘No, we knocked and came straight up.’

  Jennifer’s mind reeled. She was so tired she could barely think straight. And Calum, the hot-hunk, broad-shouldered trouble in country boots, snug jeans and tan leather jacket, waited, hands in his pockets, with an aura of amused calm.

  Her gaze drifted up to his face. Mischief flickered in his soft hazel eyes — eyes that conveyed promises, as if he knew something she didn’t, which was absurd. He grinned, and Jennifer’s stomach did a tumble. Her brain geared up a notch and treated her to a litany of images: her sister’s panties, boots, water splashing, and this man jogging to his car.

  Sigh.

  Jennifer rubbed her face. She needed a brandy, electric shock treatment. Come on, think! A draft of cool air hit Veronica’s shift. Her nipples peaked and a cold shiver ran through her body. She wrapped her arms around her chest for comfort.

  Calum stepped forward, shrugging off his leather jacket. ‘Here, Veronica.’ One corner of his mouth lifted and his warm eyes conveyed something that made her belly melt. He swung his jacket around her shoulders and pulled it snugly under her chin.

  Instantly, his body heat seeped through and settled on her skin. Her heart thudded. It had been forever since someone had offered her such a thoughtful courtesy. Warm hands brushed her cheek as he adjusted the collar. She breathed in his warm male scent, mixed with a tinge of pine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said on a sigh.

  ‘You’re welcome. Hey, love the shoes.’

  ‘Thanks, but they’re not mine.’

  ‘Veronica’s?’ he asked, head tilted.

  Jennifer wished he’d stop looking at her as if she was the best dessert on the menu: her knees couldn’t stand much more. ‘Must be,’ she whispered, breaking his gaze to look down at the pink, fluffy stilettos.

  ‘Brock, meet one of Bob’s nieces,’ Calum said on a quiet chuckle. ‘Bob showed Gran and all of us at home some photos of his trip to Europe. There’s no mistake.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Brock studied the Paris photo. Tony peered across the other man’s broad shoulder. ‘Nice photo of Bob and you, Jennifer.’ Brock turned the photo and moved it out of his own shadow, then with a voice that rumbled around the room, he read the inscription on the back. ‘ ”Hi Jen, remember our picnic near the Eiffel
Tower? I had a wonderful day, thank you, Twinkles. All my love, Uncle Bob.” The letter and license are proof enough. The photo is icing,’ he said, handing it back. ‘Despite the circumstances, I hope your sister and niece, and you, have a pleasant stay.’

  Their kindness was beginning to get to her, overwhelming her fragile state. ‘I’m just glad I made it. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t. It’s a long way from Heathrow to Sydney on a tin-can plane with a couple of wings sticky-taped to the sides. I’m so not happy about all of this. For the shop to be empty, Uncle Bob must’ve been sick for a while and didn’t tell us. He should’ve told us. I could’ve been on that tin-can-plane a hell of a lot sooner and been here for him. I’m not happy about a lot of things, mostly that he’s gone, damn it! So no wonder I…’ A lump welled in Jennifer’s throat. She had to stop before her emotions got the better of her. She was babbling and making three blokes uncomfortable. Correction, two blokes were shuffling their feet and avoiding eye contact. Calum stood facing her, arms folded, hip cocked, sympathetic, but amused.

  Tears pricked her eyes; she cleared her throat, determined to get herself back under control. ‘How long has my uncle’s shop been empty?’

  ‘About eight months.’ Brock extended his hand. ‘I’m Sergeant Stewart. Just call me Brock.’ Her hand disappeared in his. ‘And this is Officer Stone, or Tony.’

  She offered her hand to Tony and whispered, ‘Pleased to meet you, Tony. Sorry about the electric shock. And I’m sorry about the toilet brush. It was all I could find, but I certainly wouldn’t have hit you with it.’

  Tony gave her a curt nod.

  Calum’s throaty, sexy laugh echoed through the empty shop. She could hardly believe it, but there was no stopping it, his laugh sent a quiver straight to her belly and beyond, hitting the sweet spot between her thighs. She held her breath and crossed her legs, praying no one noticed.

  Thankfully, Brock broke the spell. ‘If I hear a word of this outside these walls, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life,’ he warned Calum.