Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  ‘You’re giving my USB to the AFP?’ I trilled. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

  ‘Well, I had to go through a contact at the AFP to access the INTERPOL facial recognition database. To ID the men in the files,’ his words slowing as he finally sensed my fury. ‘I haven’t handed it over yet, but only because I haven’t had time, what with raiding Magic Models, liberating the PM from a burning cathedral and running down a homicidal secretary.’

  ‘Why,’ I thundered, ‘does no one in my life consult me about my life!’

  The forensic people and police in the room all froze. They eyeballed Searing, made vague excuses and quickly retreated, pulling the door behind them.

  ‘I … I just …’ he stuttered.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t think …’

  ‘No! You didn’t!’ I raged, bolting to my feet. Despite the valiant efforts of my Hasluck-Royce genes and the paramedics, and my rage, I was frayed. I weaved unsteadily.

  Searing grabbed me by the waist to stabilise me. I glared at him and tried to maintain my wrath.

  ‘You had no right Searing! No right! That was very private. Esmerelda should never have given it to you. You should have asked!’

  He stood, mouth ajar for a beat, then pulling on his sailing skills (he looked like he sailed) he changed tack.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said simply. ‘It was wrong to make assumptions. The USB might have been—’ he paused ‘—stolen?’

  I sensed I was being managed. The question was, was I being fenced in or were the gates being thrown open? I couldn’t tell. Either way I was not throwing Esmerelda under the bus. If I wasn’t going to jail today then neither was she. Besides, the USB, well the key to the safety deposit box that held the USB, had been left to Mother. It wasn’t clear, even to me, who technically owned it.

  ‘No, not stolen.’

  He looked relieved and the hand supporting my waist inched closer to my hip bone.

  ‘Okay, good, not stolen. Given anonymously then, from a … source? A confidential source?’

  Think Indigo. Negotiate. In my defence this was difficult with the drugs running around my system and Searing’s hand on my hip.

  ‘Could that source take the USB back?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘The Mediterranean Men’s Club files have already been through INTERPOL’s facial recognition system via the AFP offices. There’s an electronic trail. A trail that leads to me. Yanking it now, denying its existence, would just create questions. Draw more attention. It can’t be done. Besides Indigo, the men on that USB are major criminals. Ruthless. Dangerous.’

  I inhaled deeply and held back the tears. I bet Grandmother didn’t cry when she didn’t get what she wanted in negotiations, even when faced with ruthless, dangerous criminals (which, not to denigrate my own people, was probably everyone she dealt with).

  Think and regroup.

  ‘What would, what could, a confidential source get?’

  ‘Get?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes. In recompense for providing such valuable information, a source might like some control over said investigation,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘Control over said investigation? Not a chance in hell.’

  I was a Hasluck-Royce-Jones, I wasn’t going to fold. Had I learned nothing from Mother, Grandmother or Eddy? Heaven help me, even Esmerelda might have taught me something.

  ‘I have changed my mind then. The USB was stolen. I shall have Esmerelda call Barking, I mean Nigel Barker and Earl Stevenson. We might even need to get Lloyd and Bayton involved.’ I threw the insurance men’s names in hoping Searing had no idea who they were.

  ‘You know how swiftly the arms of justice move, it shouldn’t take more than a few years in court to establish ownership and then a few more to prove authenticity. Surely that would not slow the investigation down?’

  I was winging it. I had no intention of letting any of this see the light of day, let alone the scrutiny of a court. And I was pretty sure it was wheels of justice, not arms.

  ‘They’re not going to let you have control over the investigation,’ he said pushing hair off his forehead, his golden eyes scrunched in consideration. ‘Although … they might like to keep the confidential source on.’

  ‘On? What does that mean?’ I said, assessing him.

  ‘Well, the police, the AFP, INTERPOL, they like to maintain relationships with sources. Sometimes they work with them long term, you know as a confidential informant, a CI.’

  Did he just ask me to work for the public service? For free? I had successfully avoided gainful employment thus far and had zero intention of changing.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘A high-level CI might have some “gets”. They might give you information about the investigation if you could dig up further leads within the organisation. But you’d be a terrible CI: you’re not in the organisation and you can’t get any more information.’ He stopped mid-stride. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said incredulously.

  ‘I can’t lie to them Indigo,’ he said, shaking his head, both his hands now pressed firmly all around my waist, hips and beyond.

  ‘You wouldn’t be lying,’ I said inadvertently leaning into him. ‘I am already, technically, a source. A CI.’

  ‘Do you really want to know what Richard was up to? Who he was involved with? It’s not likely to be pretty.’

  Excellent questions, and until that moment questions I had not known the answers to. The cogs in my brain slowly pulled from their moorings and clicked and clacked into motion. The correct answer on all counts was of course, no.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  What? Wait, no.

  ‘I need to know.’

  Did I? Why did I?

  Searing’s hand caught me as my body wavered with the news I was curious. Maybe it was the drugs. Yes, it had to be. Michelle must have mixed some truth serum with the anaesthesia. Although, come to think of it, anaesthesia made people say all sorts of wild but truthful things.

  Searing gazed at the ceiling, inhaling deeply through his nose.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, looking back down at me. ‘I’ll ask if the AFP are interested in working with a CI.’

  ‘A fake CI,’ I corrected.

  ‘I’ll leave the fake part out,’ he said.

  ‘Fine, but leave my name out too.’ I placed my hands on Searing’s waist, then his hips, and not just because my slowly grinding brain was still somewhat at sea, but because I wanted to. ‘So that’s it? We’re done? It’s over?’

  He nodded his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Uh-huh. I guess so. You’re a free woman.’

  I stretched and stood on the tippy toes of my Alexander McQueens, leveraging my hold on him to pull myself up to his height, and I kissed him. He kissed me back. It was better than kissing Dylan Moss. It was deep and soft, urgent and responsive, longing and joy, serenity and lust. Most of all it was freedom.

  We kissed with unabashed sovereignty. For a long time, until the drugs—or the exhaustion, or both—took over and I slept in his arms. I liked it. A lot.

  CHAPTER 35

  PHI PHI

  Esmerelda might have had no fashion sense, but she was a wonderful personal shopper/personal assistant. When I woke we were halfway to Phi Phi. She and Mr David had managed to transport me from Richard’s office, to the stretch SUV, to Grandmother’s jet. She was a fast learner and Grandmother’s pilot was a seasoned professional with a large petty cash box. Our backdated passports arrived two days later.

  After a season in the Phi Phi sun I was refreshed and ready to face the world. I had been busy in the first weeks finding a precious metals dealer on the east coast of Australia who was willing to pay cash for some slightly damaged platinum trains. It turned out that Richard’s chameleon brother James knew someone. I had a feeling James knew a lot of someones.

  While I managed to escape the country without physically running into James again, extremely helpful since I found being in close p
hysical proximity to him morally problematic, and the concept of something going on between us seemed fraught with biblical grade repercussions, he did appear in my dreams.

  I dreamt James, riding a black and yellow Ducati motorbike, hijacked our limousine on the way to the airport. He removed Mr David from the limousine and spent several minutes alone with me in the back seat. In my dream he bribed Esmerelda out of the car with a gold box of chocolates and left behind the scent of cinnamon, vanilla and sandalwood. The memory of the dream sadly included no details of the actual events inside the car, but every time I recall it my hands move to the base of my spine and my cheeks burn.

  Mr David assures me that no such thing happened. Given his spotless reputation, enormous size and extensive experience with hand-to-hand combat I am inclined to believe him.

  Esmerelda says the only black and yellow thing that entered the limousine that night was a wayward bee. Why would she lie to me about a bee?

  It took Esmerelda twenty seconds to find my old SILC schoolfriend Gwen Hart. Gwen was on her third divorce and had become what many third-time divorcees become, a high-end real estate agent. Gwen was able to arrange the purchase of a certain Hunter Street, Sydney CBD building for me. It was going for a song. The previous owners were experiencing substantial taxation debt and criminal prosecution. They were keen to offload the property before the ATO or AFP seized it.

  Halle and Josephine became the first, and only, tenants in the building. And small business owners. And Dior handbag owners. And pink flower Pensamoi Louboutin owners. I became a landlord in my own right, by my own hand, for only the second time in my life. I was going to be a very, very silent landlord.

  I had no objections to Halle and Josephine renovating Hunter Street in any way they saw fit, providing the colour red featured nowhere, Abby’s office was completely demolished and size 12 waitresses were encouraged. I closed my eyes to the rest.

  Henry was arrested by the AFP and is fighting his deportation to Italy. Josephine visits him every other week and brings him fresh raspberries.

  After many muffin baskets (and a few Chanel baskets) I managed to persuade Rachael White, wife of Dr Bradley White, survivor of penthouse explosions, holder of a Harvard MBA, to take over the running of Sydney Plastics. She is brilliant. And Bradley White made a lightning move up the employment ladder and replaced Richard as head surgeon. I heard he did an excellent job resetting the nose of a certain champion surfer.

  Corey McKaine sent Esmerelda many, many fruit baskets along with some organic Byron Bay hampers. If he was smarter, he would have edited the hampers so they only contained chocolates, coffee beans and cookies (and other foods beginning with ‘C’). Esmerelda ate the fruit, the chocolate and the cookies, and then gave away the ‘useless’ remaining contents to the resort staff.

  The Thais soon became accustomed to eating $40 organic mango and chilli relish, and $50 handmade green olive tapenade with their rice. They sold the chemical-free, naturally derived skincare products on to the Chinese and Russian tourists and made a small fortune. Much to her chagrin Esmerelda became very popular with them.

  I took the good coffee. No one seemed to notice.

  Searing got promoted and is working on a joint taskforce with the AFP. Burns got promoted too.

  Mother continued to date Jed the fireman. I supported her decision by doing absolutely nothing.

  Mr David rescued Mother’s Prius i-Tech from the basement car park of Magic Models.

  Dennis Bayton approved my insurance claim for the penthouse. Lloyd Harper took him golfing.

  Dr Sam came out of her coma. She remembered nothing. Probably just as well. Given she remembered nothing it didn’t seem relevant to ask her sexual orientation. Plus, I had already almost set her on fire. I didn’t want her to think I was rude.

  Diane von Neuvo was exposed as a fraud. It turned out she was an acrylic nail artist from Mudgee.

  I never did find out why Bob the Builder rolled on his Mutant gang buddies. I heard he had a new face and was in hiding in Canada. I wondered who did his reconstructive surgery.

  Debbie’s body was exhumed and autopsied. In addition to being a plastic surgery addict Debbie was also a health food addict. She lived on an exclusive diet of bananas, kale, red wine, raw salmon, cinnamon and ginger. In a bizarre turn of events that was what killed her. She had told her new plastic surgeon about her extreme diet, but because of her status as a sex worker (he felt that made her untrustworthy), and because he was neither cogent nor clever, he did not believe her. The radical diet stopped her blood from clotting and she bled out during the surgery. His medical licence was suspended. Indefinitely. I did not know if that would have brought Crystal any peace. I hoped so.

  I shut down all of Sydney Plastics’ subsidiary ‘Office Operations’. No more facelifts by the photocopier. I kept the overseas clinics open and the free reconstructive surgeries for the children continued. Searing had assured me it would be an excellent tax write-off. Mother assured me it was good karma. I thought Richard’s mother would like it too. Along with her quarterly cheques.

  I forgot to ask Michelle Little about Sydney Plastics’ offshore accounts. But she has been charged with two counts of first-degree murder, multiple counts of attempted murder and currently lives in a supermax, so she is not going anywhere.

  Grandmother expanded, taking over some tech company I had never heard of, but undoubtedly soon would (Zoom Technologies, I think it’s called) and continues to be unflappable.

  The bill from Richard’s cremation, which almost everybody attended, was over half a million dollars. Apparently it caused a small riot. Thank goodness the funeral home was wedged between two small but well-stocked bars. It could have been a large riot.

  Esmerelda got a new iPhone.

  I woke one morning in Phi Phi to find the French windows in my bedroom suite wide open and the sheer white cotton curtains swishing in the tropical breeze. Sitting beside my white king-sized bed, on top of the distressed oak bedside table, in a small blue velvet watch box, was a Rolex Daytona. It had a new band, but the face and engraving on the back were unchanged. It read, ‘DRIVE CAREFULLY, ME.’

  Given my choice of co-pilot/personal shopper/personal assistant, I considered it good advice.

  I also found a bag of honey roasted cashews locked in my bedroom safe.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Esmerelda! What on earth are you doing with that salmon? Is that thing still alive? Put it down immediately! I don’t care if you’re trying to save it. Fine, put it back in the ocean. Just hurry up, we have a plane to catch. It’s time to go home.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Wendy and Dot, my first readers, reviewers and severely unpaid editors. Unless tea, coffee and croissants count as payment …

  To Maree and Shona, second readers, reviewers and also unpaid editors,

  To my third reader and walking partner, Lou,

  To Judy, Brenda, Lena, Steph, Ange and Shireen:

  Ladies, your friendship, words and support have been, and remain, invaluable.

  Thank you.

  To Nicola Robinson, a champion, a visionary and generally an awesome woman,

  To the epic matchmaker Annabel Blay,

  To Alex Craig, a precise and understanding editor,

  To the eagle-eyed Sarah JH Fletcher amd her prenatal passenger Cora (also unpaid):

  Ladies, this book would not have happened without you. Well, it might have, but it would be nowhere near as good. And it would not have been the secure, wondrous journey it has been.

  Thank you.

  To Joel Naoum, your fresh and frank publishing advice was was valuable. And a little scary. But mostly valuable. Thank you.

  To the Australian Society of Authors, particularly Legal Services Manager Mandy van den Elshout, and the Arts Law Centre of Australia. Thank you.

  To my Mum, and my Dad. Adults require parents too. Thank you.

  To my HP. What can I say? Thank you.

  To everyone who read th
e book and the acknowledgements, impressive! I hope I made you laugh. See you in the next Heiress adventure!

  Kellie x

  @kelliemccourt

  @missmccourt

  ISBN: 9781867204299

  TITLE: HEIRESS ON FIRE

  First Australian Publication 2021

  Copyright © 2021 Kellie McCourt

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