by Vicki Tyley
“Forget that for now. We’re more concerned about what’s happening with Laura. Has there been any news?”
Desley shook her head and then realized Helen and Paul couldn’t see her. She cleared her throat. “No, absolutely nothing. It’s as if they have vanished into thin air. The police still haven’t tracked down a next of kin for either of them, but I’m waiting to hear from a guy Laura worked with in Perth. I’m hoping he might know where to start looking for her family. Paul, have you contacted the police yet?”
“What for? I haven’t done anything wrong—”
Helen cut in. “Which is exactly why you should front up. Tell him, Desley.”
Concealed in darkness in the backseat, Desley pulled a face. What made Helen think Paul would listen to a stranger any more than he would his own wife, estranged as they might be? “No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong. The police just need to rule you out as a suspect, that’s all. Tell them what they want to know and where you were at the time of the fire and they’ll get off your case.”
Paul snorted. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Isn’t it?”
The smooth voice hardened. “I don’t remember, okay? That day, I had been drinking at Benny’s since late afternoon. I have no recollection of leaving there. I woke up in some stinking alley just before dawn the next day. I don’t even know how I got there.”
Motive and no alibi, Desley thought. But was he capable? “Do you know a Jeremy Stillson?”
“Who?”
She repeated the name.
“Never heard of him. What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He’s been identified as the body in the fire.”
“No chance it was that bastard Moore then?”
Helen reached a hand across to Paul. “But that’s good. If you don’t know the victim, the police have no reason for suspecting you could be involved, right?”
“Who knows how they think, but I’m not going to give them a chance to lock me up for something I didn’t do.”
“Oh, Paul,” Helen said, “it’s not the middle ages. It doesn’t matter what they think; everyone knows they need evidence to convict—”
“Huh! Lindy Chamberlain probably thought the same thing and look where it got her.”
Desley leaned forward. “What about your kids, Paul? Who’s going to look after them when Helen is charged with harboring a fugitive?”
“Fugitive? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, until you voluntarily present yourself to the police, that’s exactly what you are.” Desley sniffed the air. Paul, by his own admission, had a drinking problem, yet she couldn’t pick up even a hint of alcohol, stale or otherwise. “So, you took Laura up on her offer then?”
Paul’s head snapped back. “What do you know about that?”
Desley didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was glaring at Helen. “I know Laura was an excellent judge of character. If she didn’t think you were a good man, she wouldn’t have offered her help, regardless of who was to blame for what.”
He made no comment.
“Undergoing alcohol rehabilitation treatment is nothing to be ashamed of,” Desley continued. “In fact, it takes a strong man to admit he has a problem and seek help for it.”
He said something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but Helen obviously did.
“Oh, hon, I know you did. We’re so proud of you,” Helen said. “And isn’t that all the more reason to stop running? For the boys. For me…”
Desley jumped as Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony rang out. She snatched up the phone from the seat beside her, checking the caller ID to make sure it was Fergus before answering.
“I just got your message. Whose number is this?” He sounded concerned.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
He laughed before she even told him what it was, but more so when she related how she came to be sitting in the backseat of a car parked outside her townhouse, dressed in nothing more than a bathrobe and a travel rug. “I’m glad someone finds it amusing,” she said, trying hard to keep the smile from her voice.
“I bet you’re pleased you gave me a spare key now,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
In the time Desley had been on the phone talking to Fergus, the atmosphere in the car had changed. The tension was less palpable, and instead of leaning away from each other as they had been initially, Helen’s and Paul’s shoulders now almost met.
“Fergus should be here shortly,” she said. “You could talk to him about what’s the best approach.”
“What do you mean?” Paul.
Desley gnawed her lip. Why hadn’t she quit while she was ahead? “Uh… he’s a friend of mine, a private investigator who used to be a police—”
“We’re leaving!” He yanked at his seatbelt. “Get out!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul. We can’t—”
“I can’t believe it. You set a trap. You tricked me into coming here. Even had me thinking it was my idea.”
“This is madness. How can you think that?”
As the pitch of their voices rose, Desley scrambled out of the car, taking her chances on the footpath. Even after shutting the car door, she could hear them arguing. The whole street could.
She stepped off the concrete onto the softer grass verge and looked down the street. No one had ventured out of their nice warm homes yet to see what was causing all the racket. Nor to witness their neighbor standing half-dressed and barefoot in the grass on a winter’s night. She looked the other way, a gasp escaping as she recognized the dark blue sedan pulling into a park on the other side of the street.
She thumped the side of the Escotts’ car, desperate to get their attention before the occupants of the sedan got out. No way was she going to be accused of setting the police onto them again.
CHAPTER 39
Seeing Desley barefoot and wrapped in a blanket on the side of the street, looking like a homeless waif, brought Fergus’s protective instincts to the fore. He hurried toward her, his step faltering as up ahead a tall, thickset figure crossed the street and joined her. Grant? He broke into a jog.
“DI Buchanan, what brings you here?”
“Just a courtesy call. I was in the area.”
Fergus raised his eyebrows.
“You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all, but since when…” He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down.
Desley’s arm shook as she held out her palm. “Key.”
“Sorry.” He took her hand and drew her toward the house, using his free hand to fish in his pocket for his keys. “What happened with the Escotts?” he asked, flicking through the bunch of keys for the one marked with a green dot. “Weren’t they going to wait until I arrived?” He glanced at her. Her lips were blue, her face deathly pale. “Never mind.”
The key turned, the warm inside air rushing out to greet them as the door opened. He pushed Desley in, leaving Grant to close up behind them.
He sat her down on the couch in the living room. “Blankets?” he asked pointing upstairs.
She nodded.
He ran upstairs, on the way passing Grant in the kitchen opening one of the pot drawers. He didn’t stop to ask him what he was doing. Once upstairs, he wasted no time in gathering up the quilt and a pillow from the guest bedroom, before rushing back down to the living room.
“That’ll… teach… me...” Desley said, her voice cracking through shivers.
“God, what person in their right mind would kick out a near naked woman onto the street in this weather?” Fergus asked, draping the quilt around her shoulders.
Her gaze darted toward the kitchen and then back at him. She shook her head.
He dropped his voice. “You mean they weren’t prepared to stick around to face...” He tilted his head in Grant’s direction.
“I didn’t want them to,” she whispered.
“What was he doing here, anyway?”
“Who?”
She had a point. He had meant Grant, but why had the Escotts, specifically the elusive Paul Escott, been there?
Grant appeared, carrying a yellow mug with black writing on the side. He handed it to Desley. “Get this into you.”
“Domesticated, I see,” Fergus said.
“More than I can say for you.”
Desley groaned and rolled her eyes. “Must you?”
“Sorry,” Fergus said.
Grant mumbled something, giving Fergus a you’ll-keep look.
She sipped the drink, screwing up her face. “Oh my God, what is this?”
“Warmed milk and honey.”
“Ugh.” She pulled another face and set the mug on the coffee table. “Could do with a touch of brandy.”
Grant shook his head. “Alcohol is a definite no-no for hypothermia,” he said, picking up the mug and handing it to her again.
She frowned. “I’m cold, but not that cold. This isn’t the Antarctic, you know.”
“Close to it.”
“Grant’s right. It’s better to err on the side of caution.” They agreed on one thing at least.
She took the mug. “You’re making the place look untidy. Sit down if you’re staying.”
Fergus settled next to Desley, leaving a cushion’s width between them. And Grant perched on the opposite end of the couch, his bulging thigh muscles straining his black trousers, one elbow propped on his knee, the other on his hip.
Before he could say anything, Grant’s coat pocket buzzed. He stood. “That’s my cue. Don’t forget your keys next time, Ms James,” he said, removing his ringing mobile phone from his pocket and walking toward the front door. “Buchanan. What have you got?”
Fergus waited until he heard the door close and then turned to Desley. “What was all that about?”
“What was what all about? Is it me, or are you talking in riddles tonight?” She stood, one hand clutching the edges of the quilt together at her throat, the other carrying the mug containing Grant’s concoction and shuffled to the kitchen.
Fergus leapt to his feet. “What are you doing? You should be resting. I can get you whatever you need.”
“God, anyone would think I was ill or something. I’m getting a proper drink. I can’t drink this muck; it’s disgusting.” She turned and smiled at him, her nose now pink. “But thank you for your concern, Nurse Coleman.”
He blushed. He couldn’t stop himself.
She laughed that sexy, tinkly laugh of hers. “There’s a thought: doctors and nurses,” she said, moving to the sink and tipping the contents of the mug into it. She laughed again.
A hot rush of desire coursed through him. It was all he could do to stop himself climbing inside the quilt with her. He gulped air, willing his body to behave.
Desley rinsed the mug and left it sitting in the sink. “I haven’t thanked you for coming to my rescue. If I had been out there much longer, I probably would be hypothermic.” She shuffled toward him, the quilt trailing on the floor. “So thank you.” Clutching his arm for support, she drew herself up and kissed him on the cheek, her lips cool against his flushed skin.
He caught her in his arms, not letting her escape. She didn’t resist, her lips parting and her eyes closing as he lowered his head to meet her mouth. She tasted of milk and honey. He pulled her in closer.
The quilt fell away. “You’ll get cold,” he murmured.
“Then you’ll have to warm me up,” she said, pressing her body up against his, one hand crawling down his chest and undoing buttons.
CHAPTER 40
Half dreaming, half awake, Desley stirred. Her fingers touched skin, warm and delicious. She smiled, her eyelids fluttering open. Fergus lay on his side, his head propped in one hand, his deep green eyes appraising her.
She snuggled up to him, the heat from his hard body seductive. “What are you thinking?” she murmured.
“I'm thinking you should lock yourself out more often.” His hand slid under the sheet, cupping her breast. She closed her eyes, her heart racing as he traced the outline of her nipple, the pleasure almost unbearable. She moaned, her back arching as she succumbed to his touch.
It was almost noon before she surfaced again, sated and content. She couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Just thinking about it sent shivers of delight through her body. Why had she waited so long?
Burrowing under the bedclothes, she ran the tip of her tongue over his rippled stomach, savoring the salty muskiness of his skin. He groaned in his sleep, his body already responding to her touch. Giggling, she wormed her way back up the bed. From celibate to nymphomaniac in one fell swoop.
Fergus opened one eye. “What day is it?”
“Sunday. Are you hungry?”
“Always.” He reached between her legs.
“Not that,” she said with a laugh. “Real food.” For weeks, she had been forcing herself to eat, but now she felt she could consume the contents of her fridge and still be hungry.
“I’ll ring room service…”
She biffed her pillow at him. “You’ll have to wait until room service has a shower,” she said, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom, leaving him to doze.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and fresh and her hair still wet, she emerged from the bathroom only to find the bed empty. Her heart sank. Then she heard the clank of pots from downstairs.
She ransacked her wardrobe looking for something that said, I’m not trying to impress my lover, but I am. She opted for a pair of low-rise, hip-hugging jeans and a black, long-sleeved merino jumper that accentuated every curve. A touch of lipgloss and she was done. Casual but sexy.
Mouth-watering aromas of braised onion and garlic met her as she made her way down the stairs. The quilt from the guest bed lay crumpled on the living room floor where they had abandoned it after their first fervent lovemaking session. Likewise, her white bathrobe and Fergus’s black boots.
Fergus turned as she entered the kitchen, his eyebrows raising appreciatively. He licked his lips.
She blushed, suddenly coy.
He laughed and went back to stirring the pan on the stove.
“Smells wonderful,” she said. “What is it?”
“Green pea risotto.”
“Mmmn… a man of many talents.”
Grinning, he hooked his free hand around her waist, drawing her in close to him, and kissed her forehead. “You better believe it.”
For the first time in a long time, she felt safe, loved and at peace. Her stomach grumbled.
And ravenous.
While Fergus dished up, she made coffee. “By the way, you never did tell me the upshot of your meeting with Christine Lynas.”
“She won’t be bothering us again. Thomas made sure of that.” He opened the cutlery drawer. “Told her in no uncertain terms what would happen to her if she dared come near either one of us.” He poked a fork in each of the bowls of risotto and handed her one. “Don’t worry; his bark is worse than his bite.”
The bowl warmed her hands, the fragrant smell irresistible. She would have eaten it where she stood, if she hadn’t thought it bad-mannered.
No sooner had they seated themselves at the breakfast bar, than a muffled ringing came from the living room. Fergus’s mobile phone.
Sighing, he slid from his stool. “Better get it. Could be important.” The ringing became louder and then stopped, as he picked up his jacket and pulled the phone from the pocket.
“I’m just in the middle of something. Is it urgent? Can I call you back?”
Silence.
“Hang on. Say that again.”
Unable to wait any longer, she tucked into her risotto, savoring each mouthful of Fergus’s cooking as she listened in to his side of the conversation.
“When was this? Was his wife with him?”
Pause.
“Thanks for letting me know. While I remember, have you done anything about that other matter I asked you about?”
Silence.
“Okay. I�
�ll be seeing her shortly. I’ll give you a call later.”
By the time Fergus returned to the breakfast bar, she had demolished her risotto and was eyeing off his bowl. “Paul Escott turned himself in to the police first thing this morning,” he said.
Desley choked. “No,” she said, recovering her breath, “that can’t be.”
“I’m only telling you what Kim told me.”
“What’s he confessed to?”
“Nothing yet, except a hatred for Ryan Moore and being a drunk.”
“Since when has that been a crime?”
“The man doesn’t have an alibi, Desley. And by his own admission, he had motive and opportunity.”
She jumped from her stool, her brunch threatening to come back up. “No, this is all wrong. It’s all my fault. It was me who told him that if he told the truth, everything would be all right. Oh God, how could I have been so naïve?”
“What makes you so sure he’s innocent?”
“Did he tell the police where he’s been all these weeks?”
He caught her wrist. “Drying out.”
“And did he say who paid for the treatment?”
His frown deepened. “Not that Kim mentioned.”
“Well, it was Laura. I told you she had been to see them. She arranged for money to be put into a trust for the family. Even in a drunken rage, I doubt Paul would be capable of harming Laura. Besides, he had never even heard of Jeremy Stillson. What motive would he have to kill a perfect stranger?”
“You only have his word for that.”
“But they can’t lock him up without more than circumstantial evidence, can they?”
“At this stage, he’s only being held for questioning. He hasn’t been charged with anything yet.”
“How long can they hold him for?”
“A reasonable time.”
“What sort of answer is that? Who decides what a reasonable time is?”
“Come here,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “It’s not like they’re going to beat a confession out of him or anything. Paul’s in safe hands, and if he hasn’t done anything wrong, he has nothing to worry about.”
Where had she heard those words before? “I really hope you’re right. Helen must be beside herself.” And blaming herself as much as me, she thought.
