Mark of Guilt

by Diane Hester

  Mac studied the woman closely. Her criticism seemed just a touch over-zealous.

  Noting his scrutiny, she looked down coyly, clearly having mistaken his interest. ‘Yes, detective, I’m sorry to say …’ The sadness in her tone didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘From what I can see, Lindsay Cavenaugh is falling apart.’

  Chapter 6

  Beethoven glared down at her from the end of the piano. The wild-haired malcontent. The intense young genius. Scowling his displeasure at her performance.

  Lindsay lifted her hands from the final chord and looked up at the poster. ‘You think I’m playing it too slow again, don’t you? Well you’ll just have to deal with it, Lud. At this tempo the Moonlight relaxes me.’ She sighed. ‘And god knows I need that at the moment.’

  She rose from the bench and closed the volume of sonatas. After three hours of focused practice she did feel better. Nothing could completely alleviate her anxieties but music had always come the closest.

  She checked her watch. Six o’clock. Her allotted practice time was up. The next student who’d signed up to use the room would be arriving any second. She began putting her music in her carry bag.

  On cue she heard a scratching at the door. ‘Come on in, Anne. I was just finishing.’

  Anne didn’t answer so Lindsay stepped to the door and opened it.

  No-one was there.

  Leaning out into the long narrow corridor, Lindsay looked one way, then the other. She was sure she’d heard something. But if it was Anne, the girl must have ducked into one of the other practice rooms, probably to say hello to someone. Stepping back to grab her things from the piano, Lindsay turned.

  The hound was standing in the middle of the room.

  She sucked in a gasp. Her back hit the door and slammed it closed. ‘No, please.’

  The dog’s head turned. As though they were governed by a single mind, Lindsay’s turned with it. It began at once …

  Dense vegetation, shrouded in night. Lacy fingers of geraldton wax and melaleuca brushed her face as she clawed her way through them. Branches slipped aside to reveal a gazebo bathed in moonlight.

  She trailed a hand over the rough wood trellis that covered its side. Jasmine and acacia perfumed the air. Her feet crunched briefly on a gravel path before a cushion of mulch silenced them again.

  Shadows of overhanging trees swallowed the area just ahead. From within it came a dull rhythmic sound and what might have been shifting earth or sand. Unseen forces urged her forward.

  Unwilling, she slid into the next bank of foliage. A swimmer doing laps in a weed-choked pool, she armed her way through to a smaller clearing.

  The silhouette of a man stood before her. His torch stabbed the night, lighting a figure prone at his feet. Bending down, he rolled it into a shallow depression then stepped aside.

  The girl’s eyes stared blankly up from her grave.

  ***

  Lindsay burst through the door of her flat, locked it behind her and sagged against it, gulping breaths. She couldn’t remember much of her frenzied dash home from the practice rooms but the image of what had prompted it was seared into her mind. She rushed to her bedroom, pulled a suitcase out of the closet and flung it open on top of the bed.

  One by one she emptied her drawers and dumped their contents into the case. She tore off her pillowslip, swept all the items from her dresser top into it and threw that in after. From her desk she snatched up books and lecture notes, then grabbed for her grandmother’s antique clock. It slipped from her fingers. The sound of the treasure crashing to the floor shattered what remained of her control.

  She dropped to the bed and placed a trembling hand to her mouth. Martha Daniels. The girl in the grave. Dead. Strangled. Presumably by whoever had picked her up outside the library nine days ago.

  Hoping the pain would divert her thoughts, Lindsay sank her teeth into one of her knuckles. It didn’t work. The girl’s bruised neck and wide sightless eyes were fixed like a photograph in her mind.

  She didn’t know what horrified her more—that she’d been unable to prevent the tragedy or that her life had once again been set on a course she could neither control nor understand.

  Reluctantly she closed her eyes. At once the sensations from her vision engulfed her—the dense vegetation, the small gazebo, the rocky outcrops … Where had she seen …? The gravel path, the faint sound of water, the scent of jasmine and moist earth …

  The place was familiar. She’d been there herself, she was sure of it. It had to be somewhere in the city or suburbs. It had the feel of a wild place but a streetlight had illuminated the man’s silhouette. What place was rocky and overgrown yet had trails running through it? Where did jasmine grow over a gazebo in the middle of native—

  Morialta Reserve! Yes, that was it. She’d hiked there a couple of times with friends. There were several places along the main trail where workers had erected sheltered rest stops. That was the place she’d seen in her vision. That was where the killer had dumped the body.

  She jumped up and started pacing the room. So what if it was. What did it matter that she’d worked it out? Knowing where the body was couldn’t help anyone, least of all Martha. If she reported what she knew, it would all start again. If she did the right thing, told the police, talked to the man who’d questioned her earlier …

  She raced to the closet. She had to finish packing and get the hell out of here before Shaunwyn came home and talked her out of it. Clearly what was happening on campus was responsible for her spells starting up again. She had to get as far away as possible.

  She dragged a sports bag from the closet’s back corner, filled it with blouses, skirts and shoes, then rose on tiptoe to scan the shelf. She yanked at a shoebox and a flurry of photographs cascaded over her.

  With a groan she knelt to gather them up. She’d planned to put them all in albums one day—a record of her uni years—but hadn’t got around to it. Now everything was all mixed up: first-year parties with last year’s recital, Adelaide Cup Day second year, Christmas at Shaunwyn’s father’s house …

  A scene of a snow-covered mountain caught her eye, Shaunwyn and Lindsay on skis in the foreground. Their trip to the Alps, winter break of their third year. It had been a costly and indulgent holiday, but one they’d both needed after weeks of study and Shaunwyn’s messy break-up with Paul.

  Lindsay felt a tightening in her throat as she laid the photos back in the box. Was she doing the right thing? Five months short of graduation with three and a half years of hard work behind her? Leaving her best friend with no explanation, not even a note?

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry Shaun, I just can’t drag you into this with me.’ She rose, closed the box and slid it back on the closet shelf.

  At a sound from the living room, she spun around. ‘Shaun, is that you?’ Quickly she shut the closet door, closed her suitcase and slid it out of sight beneath the bed.

  The living room was empty when she reached it but the sound came again, from the building’s hallway.

  ‘Don’t tell me you forgot your key again.’ She walked to the door, reached for the knob, and stopped just short of touching it. ‘Shaun?’

  No answer. The curious scratching sound had stopped. The same scratching sound she’d heard outside her practice room earlier.

  She leaned closer. Nothing at first. Then a much softer sound. Like someone breathing.

  Lindsay stepped back.

  With Martha’s face still fresh in her mind, she grabbed the cricket bat from the corner. Clutching it before her, she crept to the door, turned the knob and yanked it open.

  Shaunwyn stood fumbling in her bag for her keys. When the door swung open she eyed the bat in her flatmate’s hand. ‘Up for a spot of cricket, are you?’

  With a huff, Lindsay lowered the club. ‘How long have you been standing out there?’

  ‘Five seconds, why?’ Shaunwyn strode past her into the flat.

  ‘Then it wasn’t you.’ Lindsay looked up and down the corrido
r but no-one was in sight.

  ‘What wasn’t me?’

  ‘I heard something.’ She closed the door. ‘Someone moving around out there.’

  ‘You should let campus security know.’ Shaunwyn stood slowly unbuttoning her coat.

  ‘No, it was nothing. Just my imagination, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s a chance you didn’t imagine anything.’

  Lindsay looked up at her tone.

  Shaun’s expression was as strained as her voice. ‘I just came from C lounge and heard the latest. Another uni girl has gone missing.’

  The air grew suddenly harder to breath. ‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’

  ‘I wish.’ Shaunwyn dropped her coat on a chair. ‘Bethany Willas. You know her?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘I do. She’s in my chemistry class. Nice kid. She was … is an education major.’ Shaunwyn began wandering about the living room, picking things up and putting them down again. Lindsay frowned at her curious behaviour. In contrast to her usual animated manner, she seemed slowed down. Distracted. Bemused.

  ‘Apparently Beth went out two nights ago and never came back. Her flatmate didn’t report it right away because she thought she’d gone home to visit her parents.’

  ‘Maybe she did.’

  Shaun shook her head. ‘Her folks called the flatmate today because they haven’t been able to reach Beth on her phone. That’s the first anyone realised what had happened.’ She stared into space. ‘Imagine how they must feel. God, imagine how the flatmate feels.’

  Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut, seeing only Martha Daniels’ face. I don’t want to.

  ‘At this stage they’re hoping the two disappearances—hers and Martha’s—are unrelated. But how can they be? How often do two uni students drop out or take off without telling anyone?’

  The anxious tone was back in her voice. Lindsay looked closely at her drawn features. There was more at work here than her friend’s normal sticky-beak tendencies.

  Shaunwyn turned to her. ‘What’s going on, Lins? This kind of thing doesn’t happen here. This is Adelaide, not Sydney or Melbourne.’

  Melbourne. Of course.

  Lindsay groaned inwardly. How could she not have seen it before this? Melbourne, where Shaunwyn had lived as a child. Melbourne, where, at the age of four, her mother had vanished without a trace, never to be found, never to re-enter her life again.

  At once Shaunwyn’s interest in the current situation took on a deeper, more personal significance. She wasn’t just curious, she was scared. And when she found out what had happened to Martha Daniels—

  ‘You’d think someone would have seen something.’ She was pacing now, scratching the blue varnish from her fingernails. ‘A stranger on campus talking to those girls. Someone lurking, casing their flats. I just can’t believe that with all the people roaming around no-one has a clue to where they could be.’

  Lindsay swallowed. ‘Maybe someone does know something. Maybe they’re just afraid to come forward.’

  ‘Afraid of what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Having to answer questions from police. Being in the spotlight. Getting involved.’

  ‘Well, how selfish is that. If a person knows something, they need to report it. Give the police every chance possible of helping those girls. And their families. Hell, even if they find them dead it’s better than not finding them at all.’

  Lindsay rushed over. ‘You’re getting yourself all worked up. Come here and sit down.’ She led her to the couch and sat down beside her. ‘Now I want you to stop worrying about this. The police are going to find this guy.’

  ‘This guy,’ Shaun echoed. ‘Then you do think the girls have been kidnapped by someone.’

  ‘It’s certainly starting to look that way.’ What else could she say? The image of the suitcase under her bed flashed in her mind and she cringed at what she’d been preparing to do.

  With sudden conviction she drew herself up. Change of plans. This time running wasn’t an option. Not if it meant leaving Shaunwyn alone. What’s more, her friend had shamed her into taking action. Perhaps there was a way she could report what she knew without getting involved.

  She squeezed Shaunwyn’s hand. ‘Hang in there, kid. Just another few months and then we’re out of here. Maybe we’ll take another holiday, eh?’

  Shaunwyn managed a feeble smile. ‘Some place warm.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘With lots of scantily clad male waiters serving Baileys and Slippery Nipples.’

  Lindsay grinned. ‘Better and better.’

  Shaunwyn’s smile dissolved to a frown. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ She switched on the lamp beside the couch and tilted it towards Lindsay’s face. ‘How’d you get these marks on your neck?’

  ‘What marks?’ Lindsay rose, stepped to the mirror on the living-room wall and stared in surprise at the purplish line above her collarbone.

  She rubbed at the mark but it didn’t come off. In fact the spot felt a damn sight tender. Bruises? Where the hell had they come from? She might have fallen when she had her spell in the practice room but how could the marks have appeared so quickly? ‘I don’t know,’ she answered at last.

  Shaunwyn turned her and bent to take a closer look at her throat. ‘Kid, you’ve got some serious bruising here; how can you not know how it happened?’

  ‘Must have been at one of my fitness classes. I sometimes help people out with their moves. Some of those beginners are pretty lame.’

  ‘They’d have to be. These marks go practically all the way around.’ Shaunwyn straightened with a nervous laugh. ‘What did they do, try to strangle you?’

  Chapter 7

  Lindsay came out of her music history class and saw a large cherub-faced man standing in the hall. She recognised him as the one who’d been with Detective Macklyn the day he’d questioned her in the student lounge. Presumably the two were partners. Which meant where one was, the other was likely to be.

  She immediately turned down the opposite corridor, heading for an alternate exit. She was just congratulating herself on her quick thinking when Macklyn stepped out from a recessed doorway and fell in beside her.

  ‘Good morning, Ms Cavenaugh. How did your exam go?’

  Lindsay stiffened but kept on walking. His worn leather jacket had been replaced by a fleece-lined denim one. With his leisurely stride and easy manner he looked like just another student. ‘Detective Macklyn. I must commend you, that was very smooth.’

  ‘What was smooth?’

  ‘Getting your partner to head me off in this direction so you could ambush me.’

  ‘Ambush you? Why Ms Cavenaugh, anyone would think you didn’t want to talk with me.’

  ‘And they’d be right.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately I have this little investigation going and I need to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘If it’s about the missing girls, I told you I can’t help you.’

  He reached out and drew her to a stop. ‘I think you can.’

  She felt the heat of his hand through her sleeve. With every ounce of control she could summon she waited calmly for him to remove it.

  ‘Police received an anonymous tip last night regarding the whereabouts of Martha Daniels. When we checked the location, we found her body. Exactly where the caller said it would be.’

  ‘Then you must be closer to solving the case.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised to hear she’s dead. Or upset for that matter.’

  ‘Well, of course I’m sorry what happened to her, but … when a girl’s been missing for over a week, people generally assume the worst.’

  ‘In my experience people are usually also keen to learn the details in such cases. Don’t you even want to know how she died?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘What if I told you she was murdered?’

  ‘Then I’d say the police had better get busy and find who did it.’

  *** />
  Mac paused to study the woman. Up to that point he might almost have believed she hadn’t known; her dark, hooded gaze gave nothing away. Her last statement betrayed her, however. Though she’d tried for anger, her words had come out sounding more defensive. ‘We’re working on it,’ he replied at last.

  ‘How? By harassing innocent people?’

  She turned to walk on and again he stopped her. ‘Ms Cavenaugh, we know it was you who placed the anonymous call last night.’

  At last, a reaction. Her face drained of colour, her lips parted slightly. After an initial gasp, she seemed not to be breathing at all.

  He took no pleasure in seeing her distress. If anything he felt strangely moved to cut her what little slack he could. Perhaps he was a sucker for that face after all. ‘It’s up to you. We can either sort this out here and now or go down to the station. What would you prefer?’

  She pulled her arm from his grasp. For a moment he thought she would just keep walking, then she turned in the direction he had indicated.

  They went down the hall to a deserted staff room. He settled her at one of the tables then got them each a coffee from the urn.

  He handed her the mug and watched surreptitiously as she added milk and sugar. Her hair was windblown and charmingly muddled. The oversized sweater that draped her slim shoulders lent her a vulnerable little-girl air. But on this morning her delicate features were marred by circles beneath her eyes. Her hands shook so badly she spilled the milk.

  He recalled his conversation with Jennifer Dawson. ‘Are you on drugs, Ms Cavenaugh?’

  She seemed to know at once what he meant, pulling her cuffs down over her hands. ‘It’s called an essential tremor. I was born with it. It gets worse when I’m hungry, tired or cold.’

  ‘Or nervous?’

  She glared at him. ‘Yes, when I’m nervous.’

  ‘Take anything for it?’

  ‘I don’t do drugs, prescription or otherwise. The condition isn’t serious. It’s untreatable, non-progressive and, apart from destroying my dreams of becoming a laser eye surgeon, it doesn’t bother me. Now can we get on with this? I have a paper to write.’