Sleight Malice

by Vicki Tyley

  “Still provisional at this stage, but yes.”

  “Well, tell me: who was he? What was he?”

  “A man with multiple lives by all accounts.”

  She frowned. “You mean he lead a double-life?”

  “Not exactly. Jeremy Stillson died sixteen years ago. Or rather, he was presumed dead then. His fiberglass runabout was found washed-up on rocks with a broken windscreen and three empty champagne bottles on the floor. Extensive aerial and sea searches failed to find his body, but it was assumed he had drowned and ended up as fish fodder.”

  Desley hunched forward, the knuckles of her clenched hands pressed together, her face expectant.

  He continued. “Rather convenient really. He was due to face embezzlement charges in the US. He siphoned off close to a million dollars of his employer’s money before they caught up with him. A lot of money for a dead man, wouldn’t you say?”

  Desley gave a low whistle. “So he’s an American, then?”

  “No, he was born and raised in Canada, but he worked in the States.”

  She looked thoughtful, her gaze unblinking. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but…” She paused, looking straight at him. The hairs on the back his neck started to rise. “Ryan spent a few of his early teenage years in Canada. Lived with an aunt or something. He even picked up a slight accent. Do you think…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Do I think what?” he urged, more interested in what she thought

  “Well, do you think this Jeremy Stillson and Ryan could’ve known each other in Canada?”

  “You tell me,” he said. Canada was a big place and so was Australia, but he wasn’t one for coincidences. “What part of Canada did Ryan live in?”

  She shook her head. “No idea, sorry. I don’t think it was ever talked about. But there’ll be records somewhere, surely. If they’re around the same age, they might’ve even been classmates…” She went quiet, her eyes getting that faraway look he had come to recognize as Desley in thinking mode.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She blinked. “I’m just wondering what possible connection this man could have had with Laura and Ryan that led to him having his head stoved in and his body left to burn in their home. And did the killer set fire to the house in an attempt to destroy evidence, or was there some other reason? Was he acting alone? Was it premeditated murder or did something go wrong? Perhaps there was a struggle and this Jeremy fell and hit his head. Why was he there in the first place? Is it possible he wanted something from Ryan? Why else would a fugitive who’s conned the authorities into thinking he was dead, risk making contact with someone from his past? And they must’ve known each other…” She looked up, one corner of her mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. “Well, you did ask.”

  “No, that’s great. If we’re going to unravel this thing, we have to look at every scenario. I have no doubt Grant is already liaising with the US and Canadian authorities to find out as much as he can about this guy. We should tell him about Ryan spending time in Canada, though, if he doesn’t already know.”

  She nodded, her gaze drifting off.

  “And,” he continued, not sure if she was still listening or not, “if you think of anything else – no matter how far-fetched you think it might be – please share it.” He stood. “For what it’s worth, I think you could be on to something with the Moore-Stillson connection.”

  She gave no indication she had heard him, her expression unchanged.

  “Desley?”

  She turned her face to him, but her eyes seemed to stare straight through him.

  “Have I done something to upset you?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “Ever since I told you who I thought it was who had planted that camera in your bedroom, you’ve been…” He rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Well, you’ve been rather standoffish.” There, he had said it.

  Her frown deepened. “Have I? Sorry, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Don’t worry,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “it’s not you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Are you leaving?” she asked, as if only just realizing he was standing.

  He checked his watch. “Thomas still can’t be sure if the woman who duped him into thinking she was you, and Christine Lynas are one and the same. But I’m damned sure it is, and though I can’t prove it, I want her to know we’re on to her. One of my guys is tailing her and keeping me informed of her movements and when the time is right, I’ll just happen to show up in the same place with my good mate, the locksmith.” He chuckled. “Shame we won’t be videoing that little meeting.”

  Desley raked her fingers through her short, black hair, the slashes of pink vivid against her white hands. “Fergus, I need a favor.”

  “Sure, if I can.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No questions asked?”

  He hesitated, unsure of what he could be getting himself into. “Sounds ominous.”

  “No questions,” she repeated, her voice strained. “Please, Fergus, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “All right,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “so long as it doesn’t involve killing anyone.”

  “It doesn’t. I need you to do a background check on Selena Papa; as much as you can find out.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Desley breathed deeply, the sun-warmed winter air filling her lungs, her eyes blinking in the sudden glare. She had been cooped up inside for far too long. But since Fergus had tabs on her stalker, it was safe for her to venture out on the streets again. No one was watching her. No one was waiting to abduct her. No one wanted to harm her. Or so she tried to tell herself.

  She had only been threatened the once anyway, the break-in and hidden camera incident nothing to do with Laura and Ryan’s case or indeed Desley herself. If Fergus was right, he had been the target and she, simply a way to get at him, payback for something his client’s wife had brought on herself.

  Desley quickened her step, intent on leaving the deserted backstreets for the hurly-burly of the shopping strip with its Saturday shoppers, fresh produce stalls, bakeries and cafés. She turned the corner, shivering as she passed through the damp shade of a tall pittosporum hedge, and crossed to the other side of the street. She relaxed more as people, baby strollers, dogs and the odd rackety skateboard began to populate the footpaths.

  She stopped at the first café she came to, a hole-in-the-wall affair with seating for less than a dozen patrons, and ordered a double-shot espresso. Perched atop a stool at the communal, street-facing bench, she savored both the coffee and the feeling of being back in civilization. So everyday. So normal. So good.

  Except Laura wasn’t there to share it.

  After paying for her coffee, she wandered up the street, looking in shop windows, listening to chatter, picking up the latest APC magazine at the newsagent, treating herself to a still warm French breadstick from the Vietnamese bakery, trying hard to distract herself from thinking about her missing friend.

  She heard a laugh she thought she recognized and ducked into the doorway of an Amcal chemist. The last person she wanted to talk to was her ex-husband. Partially concealed behind a display board, she peered out to the street. And sure enough, cosying up at a table under one of the gas patio heaters next door, were Trent and Selena.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Desley jumped. “Uh, just looking, thanks.” She picked up a tube of hair removal cream from the shelf beside her, forcing a smile for the shop assistant.

  On the pretence of reading the instructions on the back of the tube, she watched as Selena leaned toward Trent, popped something in his mouth, and then slowly licked her fingers one at a time. Desley almost gagged. She felt well and truly used.

  She hadn’t been able to tell Fergus about Selena and her mind games. She already felt too much of a fool. Why hadn’t she learned her lesson
the first time? Because, she thought, you felt sorry for her, pregnant and alone. But had Selena set out to manipulate her all along; used her to play the patsy in her damsel-in-distress routines in some perverted attempt to win back Trent? Had the pregnant woman’s injuries been self-inflicted or had she simply taken advantage of a genuine accident with a door to further her agenda.

  Trent laid his arm along the back of Selena’s chair and, leaning in close, appeared to be whispering something in her ear. He looked happy and while Desley couldn’t begrudge him that, she worried about Selena’s motives. Did she really love Trent as she claimed or was it all a sham; a way of ensuring her unborn baby would have a father. Why was Trent being so accepting of it all?

  You walked away from our marriage for her, Desley thought, replacing the hair removal cream on the shelf. And now, she’s carrying your nemesis’s child.

  CHAPTER 38

  Except for patches of blackened sand, no trace remained of the burnt out shell Laura and Ryan had once called home. Desley thrust her hands deeper into her coat pockets and turned away. Memories weren’t as easily razed.

  Head down against the wind, she hurried back the way she had come. Returning to the scene of the crime hadn’t provided any more clues, not that she had expected it to. But then what had she expected? To see the ghost of Jeremy Stillson rising from the ashes? Is that how it had seemed to Ryan when the man, presumed dead all those years ago, had turned up? she wondered.

  Back home, she headed straight to her computer. The key, she felt sure, lay in finding the link between the two men. Fergus had assured her that the Australian police, along with the Canadian and American authorities, would uncover whatever there was to find. Even so, it had been playing on her mind and she had reached the point where she couldn’t sit back and do nothing any longer. Besides, the professionals didn’t get it right all the time: Jeremy Stillson’s presumed drowning, case in point.

  Googling the name ‘Jeremy Stillson’ resulted in only 24 hits, none of whom appeared to be the man who had faked his own death sixteen years earlier. But then again sixteen years ago, she thought, the Internet wasn’t so mainstream. News articles were published in newspapers on real paper then – not on the web.

  She stared at the screen, her fingers drumming against the mouse pad. If he and Ryan had met as teenagers, then it was possible they had attended the same school. She didn’t think Ryan was the sort of person to have registered with one of the ‘old friends’ websites, but if an old school friend happened to be searching for him, then at least she would have a school and a location.

  Limiting her next search to pages from Canada, she typed in ‘find old friends’ and pressed Enter. She clicked on the first link, a US based people search and reunion website, and plugged in Ryan’s details.

  314 Profiles Found for "Ryan Moore."

  She groaned.

  She tried Jeremy Stillson’s name and came up with eight hits, except none of those originated from Canada. She went back to the results for Ryan Moore, scrolling through the list in the hope that something might jump out at her. It didn’t. She started again, slower this time, opening each profile and reviewing it.

  The next time she looked up, dusk was closing in, her eyes hurt and she was no closer to finding any answers. Blinking, she rolled her chair back from the desk, stood and stretched her cramped muscles. Disheartened with her lack of progress, she decided to leave it for a while and return when her mind was fresh.

  She did a circuit of the ground floor, closing curtains and blinds, checking locks, and turning on lights. In the living area, she switched on the television, turning up the volume, and upped the heater’s thermostat. She used to enjoy living alone, doing her own thing when and how she pleased, without having to think about anyone else, except now she wasn’t so sure.

  She headed upstairs. A soak in a hot Radox bath would help her unwind and put her thoughts in order.

  While she waited for the bath to fill, she did a series of stretching exercises. She was lying on her back on the floor, her bent knees clasped to her chest, when she heard a car door slam and then raised voices. She scrambled to her feet and peered out through the bedroom’s balcony doors. A white sedan she didn’t recognize had pulled up outside her townhouse. The front passenger door was open, a woman standing on the footpath remonstrating with the reluctant occupant. She couldn’t make out the words, but the body language said it all, the woman’s arms flailing around like she was looking for something to grab hold of.

  Desley opened the door. “…sake, make up your mind, Paul!” she heard the woman yell, catching only fragments of the rest: “…you…insisted…first…”

  She crept forward and peered over the edge of the balcony. Streetlights cast an insipid wash over the theatre playing below. Sitting in the car, the man’s face was obscured in shadow, but from the fold of his arms, he wasn’t budging. The woman stood to the side of the open door, hands on hips. Stand-off.

  Shivering, Desley retreated inside. They were welcome to their domestic. Singledom had its advantages.

  Halfway through locking the balcony door, it struck her. The woman had called her passenger Paul. It had been too dark to make out any detail. Could the quarrelling couple be the Escotts? she wondered. She yanked the door open again and stepped out. “Helen, is that you?” she called.

  The woman turned and looked up, her hand covering her mouth, then glanced back at the man.

  “Stay there!” Desley darted back inside, somehow remembering to turn off the bath taps before charging downstairs. She disarmed the security system, grappled with the security chains, battled with the locks and deadbolts, and finally got the front door open. She could only hope Helen – if that was who it was – hadn’t driven off in the time it had taken her to break out of her house.

  Tightening the belt of her bathrobe, she ran toward the street, the cold concrete hard on her bare feet. “Wait!” She crossed in front of the car’s headlights and around to the driver’s door, dancing on the spot until the window started to go down.

  Helen turned her head, her mahogany mane loose around her face, softening her lean features. “It was a bad idea. Please forget we were ever here.”

  Desley hooked her fingers over the glass as Helen pushed the button to raise it. “Why is it a bad idea? It can’t hurt to talk. Come inside where it’s warm and I can make you both a drink.”

  Helen shook her head and tried to close the window again.

  “Please, Helen. For Laura’s sake.” And my feet, she thought, no longer able to feel them.

  The car’s engine revved for a few seconds and then died. Desley stepped back as the driver’s door opened and Helen emerged. A few seconds later, the passenger’s door opened and a gaunt-faced man, his close-cropped hair more grey than black and bearing little resemblance to the beaming dark-haired man of the photo, got out.

  Helen waved a hand in his direction. “Desley, meet Paul.” She flicked her hand the other way. “And Paul, meet Laura’s friend, Desley.”

  Desley lifted a hand in greeting. Proper introductions would have to wait. “Let’s get inside before we freeze,” she said, blowing on her palms and rubbing them together.

  She didn’t wait for an answer, leading the way and hoping they would follow.

  To her horror, she found the front door no longer ajar. She turned the handle and pushed against the door, all to no avail. She had locked herself out. She wanted to swear, curse the gods, kick the door. She did none; instead turning to face the Escotts, an apologetic smile at the ready. “Sorry, guys. My keys are inside. You wouldn’t have a phone I could borrow, would you?”

  Standing about two meters behind Helen, Paul Escott rolled his eyes. He then turned and traipsed back toward the car. Helen dipped into the soft leather bag slung over her shoulder and came out with a mobile phone. She thrust it at Desley and took off after her ex-husband, catching him at the curb.

  Desley’s fingers shook so much, she had difficulty pressing the tiny back
lit numbers. Hitting the send button, she looked up. Helen was on her way back. “Come and wait in the car,” she called from halfway up the path. “You can’t stay out here.”

  Hugging herself and the phone, Desley hobbled down the path, her feet like clunky iceblocks. Helen went ahead of her, holding the back door open. Paul was rummaging in the boot. Desley slid across the vinyl back seat, Fergus’s voicemail capturing the chatter of her teeth before she realized and hung up.

  Helen handed Desley the tartan rug Paul had given her from the boot. “We can’t have you getting hypothermia on our account.”

  “Tha…anks.” She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, drawing her knees up to her chest. Locking herself out, half-naked, on what had to be the coldest Melbourne night on record: how stupid could she be?

  Cocooned in the car with the Escotts, the heater blowing hot air from a vent on the back end of the centre console, Desley started to thaw.

  “So did you get hold of someone with a key?” Paul asked, surprising Desley with the chocolatey resonance of his voice. It was the first time she had heard him speak.

  “I’ll try again.” She fumbled for the phone, disentangling it from the blanket folds. She leaned toward the window, the light from the streetlights enough to see what she was doing, and hit the redial button. This time when it diverted to voicemail, she left a message. “I’ll give him five minutes,” she said, after hanging up, “and if he hasn’t called back, I’ll think of something else.”

  “No problem,” Helen said. “Anyway, while we’re all together we can talk.” She let out a loud sigh. “I still don’t know if I can trust you, but because you tell me you’re Laura’s best friend I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  Desley ran a finger under her nose, the dry heated air tickling her defrosted nostrils. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with the police turning up on your doorstep.” She caught a whiff of warm peach, sweet and sunny, as Helen twisted in her seat.