by Vicki Tyley
He slowed his step, coming to a standstill at the window overlooking the dimly lit rear car park. His lonely Falcon sat in the back corner, partially obscured in shadow.
The wind had picked up, buffeting the trees and bushes edging the car park. Something white, like paper, cartwheeled across the bitumen, followed by a soft drink or a beer can. He saw a dark shape lurking near his car and skipped sideways, out of the direct sight of anyone who might be watching from outside. He turned off the office fluorescents and his computer monitor, plunging the room into darkness. Then, careful not to reveal himself, he crept to the edge of the window frame and peered out into the gloom.
For the next few minutes, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes unblinking. The trees continued to flex and bend in the wind. A collection of broken twigs tumbled after the other flotsam, followed by a light-colored cardboard box of some sort. Deciding what he had seen had been a trick of the light, compounded by the wind, he moved away from the window.
He had more pressing concerns. Like what to do about the video. He had no idea how Desley would react to the news of a hidden camera in her bedroom, and that whoever was behind it, had emailed him a clip of her undressing. What he did know was that if she found out and he hadn’t told her, he would lose more than his head. He had to come clean.
The sooner the better, he thought, groping in the darkness for his keys. Midway across his office, he remembered he hadn’t shutdown his computer and returned to his desk, switching the monitor back on. Before logging off, he copied the video file to a memory stick, the TFT screen’s low illumination enough to see what he was doing.
Once outside, he made straight for his car, his eyes watering as the raw wind whipped at his face. No one tried to stop him. Pressing the remote, he unlocked the car, the headlights automatically coming on. If anybody had been skulking in the bushes before, they certainly weren’t there now. The temperature inside the car wasn’t much warmer, but at least it wasn’t blowing a gale.
He arrived at Desley’s place still unsure of what he was going to say to her. The lights were on, so he knew she was at home. He took the memory stick out of his jacket pocket, juggling it and hoping for inspiration to strike. Could he tell her how he found out about the hidden camera without showing her the video clip? Not likely. Nor could he put it off much longer.
When Brandon answered the door, it threw him even more off balance. She hadn’t mentioned her brother would be visiting. How could he be expected to tell her what he needed to without involving little brother?
Brandon grinned. “Fergus, my man, I don’t bite. My sister on the other hand…” He laughed, opening the door wide. “Come in. Desley’s in the kitchen trying not to burn nachos.”
He stepped inside and followed Brandon up the hall. The charred smell intensified the closer they got to the kitchen, bringing to mind Desley’s version of Vegemite toast.
She looked up and smiled, her face flushed, her eyes glassy. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said, using a fork to break off the burnt corn chips around the edge of the platter. “See, much better.”
“I’m game if he is,” Brandon said, opening the fridge and emerging with two cans of Victoria Bitter, proffering one Fergus’s way.
Fergus took it, still wondering how he was going to broach the subject of the hidden camera. As long as she wasn’t in her bedroom, it could wait. At least until after she’d had her fill of well-cooked nachos. She wouldn’t feel like eating after what he had to tell her.
He smothered a forkful of nachos in sour cream and sampled it, feeling Desley’s gaze on him. It tasted surprisingly good: the beef mixture, hot and spicy; the melted cheese, stringy and tasty; the corn chips, crisp; and not a hint of charcoal. He chewed, making appreciative noises, and swallowed.
“Fergus,” Desley said, “you didn’t say what brought you over tonight.”
He set his fork down and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin next to his plate. “Do I need a reason?”
“No, but you usually phone first.”
“It’s not urgent. Finish your dinner and then we can talk,” he said, realizing as soon as he said it, her curiosity would be piqued.
“What is it? Why not tell me now?”
He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand, and glanced in Brandon’s direction. “It’s…” he paused, searching for the right word, “…rather sensitive.”
“I’m a sensitive guy,” Brandon said through a mouthful of food, already shoveling in another load.
Fergus held Desley’s gaze, but his powers of telepathy weren’t functioning well. She frowned. He lowered his eyebrows. Her frown deepened. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She returned with a slow nod, her frown not lifting.
“Not bad, Sis,” Brandon said, sending a beer chaser after his last mouthful. “Not bad at all.” He looked at Fergus. “Now, when you say sensitive, do you mean sensitive as in confidential or sensitive as in girly stuff?”
“Girly stuff,” Desley said. She didn’t know how close she was.
Brandon eyed Fergus and laughed. “Who would have thought it? Fergus the girl.”
“Brandon!”
His eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What?” He winked at Fergus and continued eating.
Fergus exhaled. If nothing else, the banter had helped draw the attention away from the reason for his visit. Or not. Desley was studying his face intently, as if his thoughts were visible through the skin. He smiled, but her expression didn’t change. Maybe they were.
Brandon rattled his beer can and nodded at Fergus. “Ready for another?” he asked, getting to his feet.
Fergus shook his head.
Brandon helped himself to another can from the fridge, set it on the bench and wandered off in the direction of the toilet.
Waiting until he heard the door close, Fergus hunched forward. “We need to talk, but I don’t think it’s something you’ll want your brother to hear.”
One eyebrow rose.
“Of course, it’s entirely up to you, what you do and don’t tell him. But at least hear what it is before making that decision.”
“Jesus, Fergus, you’re scaring me.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Desley. “Have you told Brandon about the break-in?”
She screwed up her nose. “Not all of it. Does this have something to do with that?”
The toilet flushed.
“Sort of. It’s complicated,” he said, dropping his voice even further. “Look, is Brandon going out later?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“What don’t you know of?” Brandon asked, rejoining them. “And forget the bullshit. I know something’s going on. I’m not stupid.”
“Okay then, straight up: I was asking Desley if you were going out later.”
“Cramping your style, am I, mate?”
“Something like that.”
“And that’s all it is?”
“You wouldn’t begrudge me some alone time with your sister, would you?”
Brandon tilted his head, looking at him sideways. “Is this the part where I ask what your intentions are?” Desley threw her brother a look of daggers. He held his hands up. “I know, none of my business. You’ll be happy to know that I’d planned on sneaking out for a couple of hours later, anyway. Now, is anyone else besides me eating?” he asked, refueling his plate.
Desley poked and prodded at a clump of cheese-covered corn chips. She had yet to taste her own cooking. Spotting her empty wine glass, Fergus grabbed the bottle of Shiraz from the kitchen bench and replenished her glass. She managed a weak smile and continued toying with her food.
Fergus ate, watching Desley out of the corner of his eye and biding his time until they could speak unhindered. Brandon did most of the talking, interspersing small talk about the weather and the state of the nation from a mechanic’s perspective with random probing questions that made Fergus think he was b
eing interviewed for a job.
“Enough!” Desley had found her voice. “No more. Leave the poor man alone.”
“Hear what she’s calling you now, Fergus? First a girl and now a poor man.”
Desley scowled at her brother, looking less than amused.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Brandon said with a chuckle. “I’m outta here.”
While Brandon waited for his taxi to arrive, Desley busied herself clearing away dishes and tidying the kitchen, refusing all offers of help. Fergus loitered near the doorway, keeping out of her way. He couldn’t even be sure she was aware of his presence.
After Brandon left, a weary silence converged on the house, as if all the energy had been sucked out with him.
Desley stood directly in front of Fergus. Dark shadows under her eyes accentuated her paleness. Without meaning to, his gaze drifted down her neck to her chest. He caught a glimpse of her tattoo and gulped. Why did he feel so guilty? He wasn’t the one in the wrong. He had only watched what someone else, for whatever reason, had filmed.
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like what you have to tell me,” she said.
CHAPTER 33
Desley felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean there’s a hidden camera in my bedroom? How? Why? And how do you know…” She stopped, the horrible realization coming to her in a heartbeat. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you’ve seen footage.”
Fergus wouldn’t meet her gaze head-on. She had her answer. Mortified and outraged, she took the stairs two at a time, her face flaming. She came to an abrupt halt outside her bedroom door. How could she even step foot in there knowing she was being filmed? Not for much bloody longer, she thought, storming into the room and casting her gaze from ceiling to floor, from light fittings to skirting boards, from wall hangings to her alarm clock, and everything in between.
“Over here,” Fergus said, entering the room behind her and heading straight for the portable television atop the dark cherry dresser opposite the end of her bed. Swiveling the set around, he disconnected the antenna from the back and yanked out the TV’s rabbit ears. He fiddled with them for a moment and then handed them to her. “Your camera.”
She turned the antenna around in her hands. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look any different.”
“Precisely. Your original antenna was replaced with that one, which has a miniature pinhole camera and transmitters inbuilt.”
“But I don’t get it. What would anyone hope to gain from filming me? What did they expect to see?” She huffed. “Wild, rampant sex?”
Again, he avoided her gaze. How bad could it be? “What exactly did you see, Fergus?”
He tugged at his shirt collar. “It’s probably best you see for yourself.” He fished in his pocket and came out with a black-and-silver memory stick. “I received an email today with it attached.”
“From who, though?” she asked, palming the memory stick. “And why send it to you?”
“No one I know; or at least no one upfront enough to identify themselves. I’m sure it was a fictitious email address. And why they chose me to send it to? I’m still working on that.”
He followed her down the stairs, but then excused himself to go the toilet. Convenient call of nature or otherwise, she offered a silent thanks and detoured into her office. She plugged the memory stick into one of her computer’s free USB ports and double-clicked the file titled PB00013.WMV. In the seconds it took for the media player to boot-up, she wondered if that meant there were twelve other files out there somewhere.
The video started with her peeling off her boots, then her socks. She watched herself undressing, and though furious her privacy had been breached, felt it was innocent enough. After all, she wasn’t doing anything lewd and her mother had always told her the human body was nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, it wasn’t the way she intended Fergus seeing her naked for the first time…
She leaned forward, her eyes widening. No, don’t bend over, she willed the image on the screen. Too late. She clapped her hands over her eyes, peering through her fingers, an embarrassed titter escaping her lips. No wonder Fergus had been reticent. He had seen parts of her body, she had never seen – until now, that is. Thank God, she hadn’t insisted on Fergus telling all in Brandon’s presence. To make sure she hadn’t been mistaken, she replayed the clip. Twice.
Shaking her head, she copied the file to her hard drive and, removing the memory stick, went to check Fergus hadn’t flushed himself down the toilet.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang out, in an effort to lighten an awkward situation.
Fergus emerged from the kitchen, beer in hand, his mouth twisting into a nervous smile. “As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”
“And some.” She handed him the memory stick. “Now you know what I look like with my clothes on… and off. I’m really pleased you didn’t try to keep it from me. And you’d tell me if there were any more, right?”
His head jerked. “Definitely.”
“Sorry, I had to ask. I don’t know if you noticed, but the file is number thirteen of God knows how many. Of course, the rest of them could be so boring they were scrapped…” Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh no, I hope whoever’s behind this hasn’t thought to post any clips on the Internet for all and sundry to see.”
“Surely not,” he said, his face and tone reflecting her own anxiety. “Is there any way you can check? Do a search of some sort?”
She shook her head. “Even if I knew what to search on, it’s probably too soon to have been picked up by the various search engines’ spiders and bots.” She buried her face in her hands, smothering a frustrated scream. Who was doing this to her? And why? She dropped her hands and looked up. “None of this makes any sense. You’re the detective; what are we missing?”
“Do you have a notepad and pen? If we put our heads together and lay out everything we know on paper, who knows what we’ll come up with.”
Anything was better than doing nothing, she thought, as collecting her glass of wine from the bench, she motioned for Fergus to follow her through to her office. Pushing her ergonomic computer chair his way, she rolled her pink exercise ball over to the desk and perched on it, gripping the edge of the desk for support. Exercise in itself.
Fergus had picked up a pen and was studying the notepad lying next to her keyboard. She lunged for it, almost sending the exercise ball hurtling one way and she across Fergus’s lap. “Potential clients.”
“They’re all Perth numbers.”
“So?”
“If you want my help with this, you have to be honest with me.”
“Even if it means incriminating myself?”
“I’m not about to arrest you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m a civilian now, not a cop.”
“Yes, but Kim is.”
“And you think I would dob you in?”
She lowered her gaze, peering at him through half-closed lids.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But you know I’ve always had your best interests at heart and I would never pass on information that could be used against you in any shape or form. I haven’t told Kim or anyone else about the video clip, because I wanted to talk to you first—”
“What?” She baulked at the idea of Kim and Grant seeing her stark naked and more. She’d never be able to look either of them in the eye again.
“Think about it logically: the police have resources and powers we don’t. Don’t you want to find out who’s behind this?”
She bounced to her feet. “Not at the expense of my dignity.”
“If it ends up on the Internet, don’t you think that will be the least of your worries?”
“So this putting our heads together is all for what if you’re just going to hand the video file over to the police?”
“We’re all on the same side: it’s not an us and them thing.” His mouth twitched. “Even if Grant does give that impression.”
Fergus was right, of course, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. “If you swear to me you won’t pass on that video to anyone until I say it’s okay, then I’ll tell you what those phone numbers are.” Not a fair trade she knew, but it would buy her time. Although she was the subject of the video, Fergus had been the recipient, which gave him every right – with or without her approval – to take it straight to the police. “Deal?”
His mouth moved from side to side, his gaze sweeping her face. “Deal.”
She nudged the exercise ball aside, taking its place at the desk. Standing gave her a height advantage, if only marginal, and a sense of being in control, false as it was. Anything to help her from collapsing into a quivering mess. Fergus didn’t intimidate her, the situation did. It all felt so surreal, as if she had slipped through a time dimension into a different reality from which she couldn’t escape.
“Okay, here goes,” she said before she could change her mind. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She leaned down and extracted Laura’s personnel file from the desk’s bottom drawer, Coyne Systems’ crisp-blue logo prominent on the front cover, and tossed it on the desk.
Fergus’s eyebrows rose. “What’s this?”
“Exactly what it looks like.”
He picked it up and flicked through a few pages. “Maybe the question should’ve been, how did you come by it?”
“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say this is the part where I invoke my right to be silent for fear of incriminating myself.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, continuing to thumb through the file. “But what did you expect to find?”
Taking a swig of wine, then another, she found herself babbling, her words running together as she tried to explain her reasoning: the disillusionment with the police, their lack of progress; the article on victimology; her need to do something. “If we can track someone down from Laura’s past, they may be able to help us locate a family member. Isn’t that the least we can do?” She took a breath. “And, as remote as it is, it might also provide a clue to why someone would want to harm Laura, if indeed it was her and not Ryan who was the primary target. We have to try. I have to try.”
