by Vicki Tyley
Less than an hour later, they were ensconced in one of the booths at her local pub, Brandon supping a lager and she a peppery Shiraz. With the wine warming her insides and the heat radiating from the big open fire in the centre of the room she could have easily curled up and gone to sleep.
Brandon pointed at the huge ragged hole in the recycled brick, some with bits of the original mortar still attached. “This place looks more like a demolition site than a pub.” He paused, and then said, “Strangely appealing, though.”
Desley laughed, adding to the bar’s echoey but vibrant medley of voices and music. She placed her hand over the top of his. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a mischievous smile.
“For being here. For caring…” She bit her lip, determined not to cry. “For everything…”
He laid his other hand on hers, sandwiching her small hand between his large work-roughened ones. “Laura’s going to be okay, you’ll see,” he said, his expression solemn. “She’s much stronger than you give her credit for.”
Desley wanted to believe that. Extracting her hand, she foraged in her handbag for a tissue.
“One thing’s for sure,” he said, picking up one of the laminated menus from the table, “she wouldn’t want you starving on her account. Besides, I promised Mum I would make sure you were eating properly.” He shoved the menu into her hands. “By force if necessary.”
Desley ordered the spiced calamari skewers with snow pea, oyster mushroom and chili salad. Her brother opted for the more traditional pub fare of fillet steak, chips and garden salad.
While they waited for their meals to arrive, she took Brandon through the events since the night of the fire, revealing thoughts she hadn’t voiced aloud to anyone else.
“The only explanation I can come up with for why Selena might have been at the Howqua cottage is that she was looking for Ryan, which means they had to have been there together before. Perhaps she went there to tell him about the pregnancy. Then again, perhaps they arranged to meet and they argued. Who knows?”
Brandon continued to listen as she unburdened herself, nodding occasionally but saying little. By the time dinner arrived, she felt talked out but lighter. And famished.
“You were saying the police hope to identify the fire victim from a hip implant?” Brandon asked, his knife poised over the thick steak in front of him.
Her mouth full of succulent calamari, Desley nodded. She finished chewing and swallowed. “That’s if the manufacturer can track down the records for that particular batch.”
“What happens if they can’t?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. The police need a breakthrough of some sort. If he can’t be identified, it’s going to make coming up with a motive near on impossible. Identify him and we might just be able to figure out how he’s connected to Ryan and Laura.” She set her fork on the side of the plate and picked up her wine glass. “Tell me, Brandon, what possible reason could anyone have to want to hurt Laura?”
“Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think we do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you thought maybe it’s not about her? Maybe it’s—” Something to her right caught his attention.
She followed his gaze, catching her mobile phone before it could vibrate over the table edge.
“Someone you don’t want to talk to?”
“It’s Fergus,” she said, steeling herself. What if it was bad news? Sucking in a couple of quick breaths, she pressed the answer button.
“Where are you?”
She was about to tell him. Instead the only word that came was, “Out.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Fergus said. “I see you’ve left a light on for the burglars.”
Across the table, Brandon waved his hands around in a sign language only known to him. She covered the mouthpiece. “What?”
“Why don’t you get him to meet you here? I’d like to meet this Fergus guy.”
Without thinking, she poked her tongue out at him, immediately transporting herself back to when he was a cheeky five-year-old and she a petulant teenager. She felt her face redden.
Brandon simply laughed.
She turned her attention back to Fergus, blinkering her eyes with her left hand. “The airport… Have you heard anything?” she asked, already sensing his answer.
“Whoever those tickets were intended for didn’t show. The flight to Perth left with the two seats empty. However, Ryan’s mobile phone has turned up in a rubbish bin in the men’s toilets at Melbourne Airport.”
“Melbourne not Sydney?”
“Correct. The police now suspect the Sydney-Perth booking was nothing more than a ruse. They’re trawling through security footage for both Melbourne’s international and domestic terminals now, as well as checking passenger lists.”
Her head spun as the ramifications of what she had just heard sunk in. Had the arsonist-turned-murderer-turned-kidnapper managed to escape the country unnoticed, taking with him all he knew? Would she ever see Laura again? Was Laura even alive? What about Ryan? Where did he fit in? Victim or perpetrator?
CHAPTER 15
Desley checked the street both ways and crossed, narrowly avoiding being run down by a small dark car that appeared out of nowhere. Safe on the other side, she paused, took a couple of deep breaths and looked around.
Houses and gardens shadowy in the overcast drizzly day seemed almost intangible; dark shapes without edges. Even the quiet felt ghostly, the usual Saturday afternoon lawnmower and whipper-snipper noise conspicuous by its absence. She shivered.
A curtain twitch in the window of number 56 reassured her suburbia hadn’t died, only retreated indoors to the warm and dry. Pulling her coat in close, she turned her back on the curious neighbor and walked up the footpath to the next house, a tidy cream with olive green trim weatherboard bungalow. Rose bushes, pruned and devoid of any foliage, bordered the wire loop-top front fence. A square-clipped box hedge skirting the unadorned front veranda added to the rigid formalness.
Her mobile phone rang. She cursed, her hand groping for it in the depths of her shoulder bag. Fergus. No sooner had she cancelled his call than it rang again. Brandon. She turned it off and dropped it back in her bag. Between them, they had managed to keep tabs on her day and night. Now she wanted out from under their overprotective mantle. Besides, she knew neither would approve of her visit to Helen Escott.
Fergus probably didn’t realize it, but he had let slip the name of Ryan’s old business partner. From there it had been a matter of calling every Escott in the phone book. She was only grateful Paul Escott’s ex-wife hadn’t reverted to her maiden name or remarried. Moreover, if his surname had been Smith, she would still be dialing.
Over the phone, Helen Escott had come across as being a small fragile woman, wary of the world. The leggy mahogany-haired woman who answered the door looked anything but.
Noting Helen’s stocking feet, Desley removed her own boots and stepped inside. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Helen.”
“You’re definitely not a reporter, are you?” Helen asked, some of that distrust returning.
Desley shook her head. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” And she meant it too. The woman had been through enough already. “Here’s my business card. Check me out if you like.”
Helen took the proffered fluorescent yellow-and-blue card, tucking it into her jeans pocket without comment. “Come through,” she said.
Desley followed her past two closed doors to one at the far end of the hall. Once through, Helen closed it again, Desley presumed to prevent the warm air blowing from the fan heater from escaping. The light lemony scent of furniture polish tickled her nostrils, but she resisted the urge to scratch her nose.
“Please,” Helen said, gesturing at one of the two green high-backed armchairs. “Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee perhaps?”
Desley opened her mouth to decline, but then d
ecided sticking with polite convention might be less awkward. “Lovely, thank you,” she said, aghast as she heard herself uttering her mother’s words.
With Helen out of the room, Desley took the opportunity to study a framed photograph hanging on the wall next to the Ikea-style modular corner unit containing the TV and stereo. Although Helen had changed her hair color, lost weight and aged a bit since, Desley recognized her straight away. Next to her, his right arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders, sat a beaming dark-haired man. The camera had caught their two young sons, both under five-years-old Desley guessed, mid-chuckle. A happy loving family, without a care in the world. Not then anyway.
Helen returned bearing a blue plastic tray complete with a steaming plunger of coffee, two chunky red mugs, and matching sugar bowl and milk jug. “I’m not sure how I can help you,” she said, setting her load on the coffee table. “As I said on the phone, I haven’t heard from my husband in months. The last time was when he turned up here drunk on Jasper’s – our youngest – birthday. Paul could barely stand and he stunk.” She lowered her gaze, tears welling in her eyes. “I sent him away. I couldn’t let the kids see him like that. I don’t know where he went when he left.”
“But you know him better than anyone else. Do you think he’s capable of physically harming another person?”
“Not the Paul I knew. I used to call him my teddy bear.” Helen’s gaze drifted to the photo on the wall. “But he’s not the same man anymore.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Not after what that bastard did to him.”
“I know how hard this must be for you,” Desley said, sitting forward in her chair, “but can you tell me how Paul got involved with Ryan Moore in the first place?”
Helen pushed the plunger down on the coffee pot and poured two cups before answering. “Paul was just trying to provide us, his family, with a future. He’d always wanted to be his own boss. We had some savings but not enough to buy all the equipment he needed to get started. He couldn’t afford to go it alone. That’s when he came up with the idea of advertising for a partner.
“Unfortunately for us, Ryan Moore was the only person to show any interest. Not only did he promise the extra capital, he conned Paul into thinking he knew everything there was to know about running a successful graphic design and print business. I know Paul isn’t entirely blameless, but Ryan preyed on his naivety. Paul trusted people; he was always looking for the good in them. He would’ve signed anything Ryan put in front of him, especially if it meant him realizing his dream.”
“Is there any place, any friends, any relatives where Paul might be staying?”
Helen shook her head. “I’m not protecting him, if that’s what you think,” she said, twiddling the gold band on her wedding finger. “If you do manage to track him down, please call me. If only to tell me he’s okay.”
“Of course,” Desley said, confident Helen knew nothing about her ex-husband’s whereabouts. “It would help to have a photo of him.”
Kneeling on the carpet, Helen retrieved a bulky dark brown album from the bottom of the three-shelf bookcase near the window. She flipped it open, removed a photo from one of the back pages and handed it to Desley.
“Thank you,” Desley said, “I’ll scan this and get it back to you as soon as possible.” She didn’t even know what had possessed her to ask for the photo. For all she knew, Paul Escott had nothing to do with the dead man or Laura and Ryan’s disappearance. But the more pieces she could gather, the better.
Helen returned the album to the bookcase. “If you can believe in karma, your friend is going to be all right. Ryan deserves everything coming to him, but Laura’s a good person, a real person. I like her.”
Had Desley’s ears deceived her? “I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I didn’t realize you and Laura knew each other.”
“Why, yes,” Helen said, standing. “About five or six months ago she just turned up. She wanted to make amends for Ryan, help undo some of the damage, she said. She wanted to pay for a residential alcohol rehabilitation treatment for Paul, and offered to put money in trust for the boys’ education. I don’t know why she felt she had to – it all happened before her time.”
“Well, did you accept her offer?” Desley asked, perturbed not by Laura’s generosity, but by the realization she hadn’t been privy to all of Laura’s dealings as much she thought she had.
“No, not at first. But she was really insistent and as she said, I couldn’t begrudge the boys a decent education because of my stupid pride. I told her I couldn’t answer for Paul though, and she would have to talk to him about the rehabilitation treatment.”
Still reeling from the news about Laura, Desley asked Helen a few more questions, probing but not learning anything else of interest.
When a muddied Jasper and his older brother, Dylan, arrived home, Desley took it as her cue to leave. She said her goodbyes and headed back to her car. She had more than enough to think about.
Her hand touched the Peugeot’s door handle. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Was she being watched? Did the police have her under surveillance, thinking or hoping she would lead them to Laura and Ryan? In slow motion, she turned around, her scalp tightening as she scanned the street for life. A white station wagon backing out of a driveway near the street corner was the only movement she saw. Even the curtain-twitcher at number 56 had vacated his or her post.
She exhaled, took another deep breath and opened the car door. Her imagination was getting away on her. Too many cop shows. Even so, she couldn’t resist checking the back seat before getting in.
She jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed behind her. She jabbed the central-locking button and heard the satisfying clunk of the door locks engaging. With a sigh, she leaned back in the seat. Would she be forever looking over her shoulder, spooked by her own shadow? What had happened to life as she knew it? The one where bad things only happened to people she didn’t know.
Alert and on the lookout for anything amiss, she headed for home. For the first couple of blocks, she drove not much faster than idling speed, checking for occupants in the parked cars on both sides of the street. Nothing.
She only gave up glancing at her side and rear view mirrors every few seconds when she hit the Tullamarine Freeway. Although the lanes of traffic would be perfect cover for anyone tailing her, sticking to the back streets would’ve left her too vulnerable. Besides, she wanted to get home.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled into her driveway, her head still abuzz with why Laura would feel responsible, or at least the need to atone, for Ryan’s past actions. Why hadn’t Laura said anything? And where was the money coming from? Laura and Ryan rented their home, never splurged on expensive overseas holidays and were generally careful with their income. The four-wheel-drive had been their one extravagance, and Ryan had taken out a loan for that.
Desley entered the house via the garage, hearing Brandon’s voice as she neared the kitchen.
“I’m telling you it’s not right. If you don’t tell her, I will…”
CHAPTER 16
Parked in his car on the opposite side of the street, he watched Trent as he laid a large red bouquet of what Fergus guessed were roses on the roof of his silver Mazda RX8 coupe. He shook his head; the gall of the guy. Trouble was he wasn’t sure Desley would see it that way.
He caught up with Trent on the doorstep. “For me?” he said, getting in first. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
Trent scowled at him. “Piss off. Who invited you anyway?”
“Now let me see. Was it your ex-wife,” he said, the emphasis on ex, “or was it your ex-brother-in-law?”
Before Trent could respond, the front door opened, the ex-brother-in-law in question, naked except for the pink towel wrapped around his hips. A matching towel hung from one hand. “Isn’t Desley the popular one today?” Brandon said with a laugh. “For God’s sake come in. It’s too bloody cold to stand around chatting on the doorstep.” Toweling his wet hair, he amble
d toward the stairs. “Hey, Sis,” he yelled, “you’ve got visitors.”
“Coming,” called Desley’s muffled voice from upstairs.
“Now if you will excuse me.” With a gleeful smirk, Brandon disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Fergus alone to contend with the bristling Trent.
“How’s Selena? Still at her parents?” Fergus asked.
Trent’s eyes narrowed. Jutting his chin out, he turned his back on Fergus and stationed himself at the bottom of the stairs, the ribboned bouquet of roses clutched in front of him.
“Something I said?”
Trent rounded on him. “What is your problem?”
“I’m not the one with a problem. I asked after your fiancée’s welfare, that’s all.” Fergus heard the bouquet’s cellophane wrapping crackle and stepped backwards out of striking range. No point in ruining perfectly good roses.
“Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”
Fergus jumped. He hadn’t seen Desley come down the stairs and from the hangdog expression on Trent’s face, nor had he.
“These,” Trent said, thrusting the flowers at Desley, “are to say thank you for being so understanding the other day.”
Yeah right, Fergus thought. You mean now that the love of your life is pregnant with another man’s baby, you realize what a big mistake you made in leaving your wife.
Desley contemplated the flowers for an age, making Fergus wish he could read her mind.
When she made no move to take them, Trent said, “I’ll put them in water for you,” and headed toward the kitchen.
The bathroom door opened and Brandon emerged, barefoot and wearing jeans, his damp hair combed back from his forehead. “Now that I’m respectable, what’s the goss?” he asked, releasing a mouthful of minty breath.
Fergus glanced at Desley. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve told him everything. If I can’t trust my own kid brother, who can I trust?”
While Desley’s ex-husband banged cupboard doors in the kitchen, evidently unable to find a vase, Fergus filled Desley and her brother in on progress. Or rather lack thereof.
