A Place to Stay

by Jennie Jones

  If that wouldn’t get a person intrigued, nothing would.

  ‘Everybody thinks it was to do with a woman,’ Mary continued.

  Oh.

  ‘Maybe his partner. Maybe she was killed, or maybe he had a disastrous love affair and had to leave Homicide because of the scandal.’

  ‘I’m sure it would be nothing like that.’

  ‘Not that any scandal would be Luke’s fault. The woman’s, probably.’

  Rachel smiled at Mary’s thorough approval of Luke and the he-can-do-no-wrong respect she had for him, then her thoughts went back to the kiss. The confrontation had been shocking—but the kiss had disturbed her heart.

  ‘So when do you think you’ll make a start on getting this new you together?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Which new me?’ Mary wouldn’t know the depths that question held.

  ‘The one who’s going to go out with Luke.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to go out with him—’

  ‘Because I think you could both do with a new start in the love department.’ Mary drew her phone out of her handbag.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘I’m texting Luke to let him know you’re going to go to the gun barbecue with him.’

  ‘Mary! I didn’t say—’

  ‘There.’ Mary slipped her phone back into her bag. ‘Now he’ll be happy. Don’t go breaking his heart, though.’

  Rachel was more likely to break her own. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Mary.’

  Mary brushed her off. ‘You’ve been looking very sad this last day or two, and Luke’s been asking about you.’

  ‘He has?’

  ‘He wants to go out with you. I don’t like to see people I’m really fond of looking so sad. You’ll miss out on the special things in life, you know, if you don’t snap them up. The opportunity will fly away before you even realise you’ve let it go.’

  She didn’t want anyone knowing of her association with and marriage to Peter Fletcher, but did that mean she was holding back her own dreams by denying herself something good? It was easier when she kept herself apart—or when she didn’t stay long enough for people to gossip or guess about her past. The people here were too nice for Rachel to be disregarding of them. Would she have to leave them?

  Two years ago Rachel—or Rosalind, as she’d still been—hadn’t hidden behind her lawyer like she had throughout the divorce. She could have, but after what Peter had done to that poor man in her flat she felt showing herself was the right thing to do. So she’d spoken in person with the police and the domestic violence organisations who wanted to help. She’d told them everything. All those times he’d hurt her, and why she’d pulled out of pressing charges each and every time—because Peter had threatened her in the worst way. He told her if she blabbed, he’d hurt the people she worked with.

  Her recovery from the bruises and the broken collarbone two years ago had been slow but it had happened—she had even recovered emotionally. But it was shame at her naivety and inexperience when she’d been married to Peter she couldn’t get over. She hadn’t been strong enough to stand up to him. She’d have to fight her growing feelings for Luke if she stayed. Fight the need for comfort and protection. She’d never had either but the thought of missing out on the opportunity of it now crushed her.

  Especially after what had happened three months ago … She grabbed the counter.

  ‘All right?’ Mary asked.

  She nodded. ‘Just felt sick for a moment. Spent too much time in the sun during lunch, I suppose.’

  Would Luke see her as a good person, even if he knew about her past? Even if he knew what she’d done in that alley three months ago?

  So much for attempting a normal life. She’d probably never have one.

  * * *

  Luke closed all the files Jack had sent him except one, which he kept open as he swallowed the bile in his throat. He was doing his damndest to handle what he’d seen in the last hour from a professional viewpoint so that his perspective didn’t change, but who was he kidding? It had already changed and because it was Rachel, it might never be the same again.

  Rachel. Rebecca. Rosalind.

  Jack had warned him to be prepared when he’d sent through access to the files on Rebecca Smithfield, previously Rosalind Fletcher, originally Rosalind Michaels, and he hadn’t been. He’d seen much worse and at first hand, but this was Rachel. The woman he’d thought of as ‘his’. He hadn’t realised how much of his feelings he’d given away on the telephone conversations with Jack but he must have shown enough for Jack to offer the caution.

  Would Rachel ever be able to give herself fully and emotionally after what she’d gone through? No wonder she’d been so reluctant to accept his flirting. Now here he was, looking for the best angle, the best play to stay close and go deeper. If she went out with him and the opportunity to take the relationship further arose, they’d be heading to the bedroom, and he was supposed to take her there—because they’d expect him to keep up the pretence. Up until forty-eight hours ago he’d have hoped the relationship would head that way at some point—for their mutual enjoyment—but the thought of coercing her into that now punctured his heart. He wasn’t going to do it. He wouldn’t push her there. He just couldn’t.

  She’d dropped the charges against Fletcher during the year she’d been living with him. The first time, she’d gone to the cops herself, saying her husband had slapped her and thrown her across the kitchen where she’d hit the sink. She’d only been married a fortnight. The cops called on Fletcher, who denied everything, saying his wife was a difficult young woman who hardly let him out of her sight and got angry when he went for an occasional drink with the boys. The officers hadn’t been able to pull him in without Rachel going through with the charge, which she dropped two days later, refusing to give evidence.

  Second time, some passer-by called the police. He’d heard her calling from the house. Fletcher had locked her in the bedroom. She’d been there for two days with no water except from a vase of flowers. They’d lived on the outskirts of a small town seventy kilometres east of Melbourne so she’d been lucky the man had been passing. She’d told the police it was her fault; she’d locked herself in by mistake. There had been a lock on the door, one that was only accessed from the hallway, not from inside the bedroom. The cops knew what must have happened and kept an eye on the house. Fletcher hadn’t returned home for another week. But she wouldn’t do anything about it.

  The third time, the cops had made an unexpected call to the house and found her with a bruised arm. She’d said it was an accident. She’d fallen.

  She was nineteen years old when she’d had to put up with treatment like that.

  Fletcher had threatened her every time. Luke knew that because he’d read the reports about the last attack two years ago, after which Rachel had opened up and told the police everything. Rosalind—not Rachel. Her name was Rosalind. Except he couldn’t think of her as Rosalind any more than he could think of her as Rebecca.

  He stared at the image on the screen and wanted to push the computer off the desk. The shots were from two years ago. Her eyes were blank, although she’d averted her gaze from the camera lens. She’d had her arm pulled and twisted so hard it had broken her collarbone, and bruises and welts were visible beneath her hospital gown. Fletcher had pushed his way into her flat, seen the guy she’d been cooking dinner for and gone crazy.

  Luke’s breath was so tight in his chest it hurt. His hand was shaking as he clicked the mouse to move to the next shot of the man Fletcher had put into intensive care. Beaten, and also stabbed with the tools from a Swiss Army knife: the screwdriver, the penknife, the lot.

  If he’d doubted his heart was involved, he’d been put right with the ugliness of a handful of images. Luke would remember everything in this report for the rest of his life. He wanted to go back in time, take Rosalind in his arms and absorb her pain.

  ‘I hope you’re not falling in love with this woman,’
he murmured to himself, surprised by the thought more than by saying it aloud. Not that he knew what falling in love felt like, but neither did he know if he wanted it to happen to him. Not in this case; he’d seen too many victims of violent physical and emotional abuse. He might have ensured one or two had made it through to the next stage of their recovery but he’d never wanted to hold them and take away their pain. He’d never gone outside the parameters of his job. Commitment was one thing—and he’d thought he’d pushed notions of commitment to Rachel to the sidelines in the last thirty hours. Falling in love was something else entirely, particularly when he had a job to do. Rachel was usually in his thoughts throughout the day if business slowed enough to allow it, and she’d certainly been on his mind at night. It was time for all that to stop—except it felt like seeing these photos and reading the reports had tipped him over the wrong edge. The edge of love.

  He took a stab at getting it together but it was brief and good sense left him almost as instantly as the attempt to find it had begun. Two days ago it had all been different. He’d asked if she wanted him to back off. Damn it—pointless going over what might have been between them and now wouldn’t, but he’d asked if she recognised the buzz between them, the current in the air—and she’d responded to him. Her widened eyes had held more than surprise and unsureness. He’d seen acceptance in them. It might have been the first time she’d seriously considered the pure attraction between them and where they might take it, but it had been there.

  The office door opened with force and woke Luke from his thoughts. He closed the tabs holding the information Jack had sent him.

  ‘How come this is locked, when you’re here?’ Will asked, pulling his keycard from the lock and looking at the handle as though the metal had suddenly turned to gold. ‘What are you looking so studious about? Don’t tell me there’s been a murder. That’ll make Jimmy’s day.’

  Luke shook his head. Sensations of Rachel swam inside him. He could smell her: fruity soap, crisp cotton clothes. Jesus, he could still taste her lips from the kiss they’d shared.

  Will glanced at the monitors where the CCTV cameras in the cells were aimed. ‘Well, lockup’s empty. That bodes well. Bet I’ll have it filled before you come on shift again in the morning.’ He paused. ‘Luke?’ he said in a louder voice.

  Luke scrubbed at his face. He hauled in a breath. That furious place he’d been in for the last hour was bleeding out to some kind of reason. He lifted his head and met Will’s gaze.

  ‘Are you back?’ Will asked. ‘As in—where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’m fine. Didn’t get much sleep.’

  ‘Did you hear a word I just said?’

  ‘Something about the door.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Will asked, throwing his cap and keycard onto his desk.

  ‘Not a lot. Not much more than usual.’

  ‘Wish I could report the same for tonight when Breakers fills up. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I’ve got plans.’ He’d be up most of the night again.

  ‘Plans? Out here?’ Will asked. ‘What plans?’

  ‘Stuff at the house probably.’

  ‘Bullshit. You never have plans. You’re going out to pester Rachel.’

  Luke smiled. Close. ‘No. I’m giving her a breather. If she wants to go out with me, she’ll call. If not—’ He slapped the arms of his chair. ‘I’ll back off.’ Play it easy, play it calm. Play it as though it was merely a continuation of before. And then try to figure out what was going on. Had she met Fletcher? Done something for him? Helped him? She was in trouble, and he hoped Fletcher wasn’t the cause of that trouble.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Will said again. ‘You’re serious. You’ve changed since she arrived.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘You’ve filled out.’

  ‘I have not,’ Luke said, patting his flat, hard stomach.

  ‘It’s something Barbara said. And she meant your persona, idiot. Said your demeanour had become more studied. You hold yourself differently. And since she mentioned it, I’ve noticed stuff too. You walk taller. You swagger less.’

  ‘I never swagger,’ Luke said, insulted.

  Will grinned. ‘Yeah, right. You’ve changed, Luke, like it or not.’

  ‘Give over.’ Luke shuffled the papers on his desk and brought one to the top of the pile. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of the building company that are upgrading the museum,’ he said, tapping the document. ‘Nirvana Interiors. No response so far. Would you look into it for me, if you get a chance tonight? Four of them have already given us shit we could do without.’ The two from Mt Girra and the two who’d fronted Rachel in the high street.

  ‘Maybe they’re just enjoying the messy party the mine workers are bringing into town.’ Will paused and studied Luke. ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘No—you’re probably right. But it’s odd that I can’t get an answer to the company’s business phone or the mobile number on their website. And there’s no contact name. They’re in Perth,’ he added. ‘Hadn’t realised that before.’

  ‘Donald Wiseman’s buddies, probably. He’ll be taking a nice fat CEO’s commission for giving them the contract.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ll dig deeper if I have time. Can’t wait to get off late shift. I miss my dinners.’

  ‘So what’s that in your pack?’ Luke asked. ‘The one in your hand, stuffed with Barbara’s chicken curry most likely. Hope you get time to open the door on the microwave.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Will said, patting his not quite flat stomach.

  ‘Kilo-Mike 103 to Mt Maria base.’

  Both Luke and Will made for the office radio. Luke got there first. ‘Go ahead, Kilo-Mike 103. What is it, Davidson?’

  ‘Old Roper—he flagged me and Donna down just now. Says there was an intruder on his property again last night. Same guy, aiming his vehicle headlights at his windows. Says he was scared stupid.’

  ‘Why didn’t he report this last night?’

  ‘Said he was out looking for him.’

  Luke met Will’s derisive eye. Typical Roper: took things into his own hands then called for immediate assistance eighteen hours after the incident. ‘And what did he find?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was probably some joyrider using one of the old mining tracks on Roper’s land for sport.’

  ‘He said not, sarge. He said whoever was driving this vehicle was shady and suspicious and probably had intent to harm.’

  ‘How the hell would he know that? It was dark. And weren’t the headlights aimed right at him?’

  ‘That’s what we said. He’s a pain in the arse.’

  ‘You both come on in. I’ll drive out there and check it out.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Will said when Luke ended the call. ‘You’re off in a couple of hours.’ He pointed at the radio. ‘So are those guys.’

  That suited Luke, given he’d be up all night. ‘Any trouble—call me.’

  ‘So how are our resources looking?’ Will asked, focusing on the whiteboard. He whistled as he read the list of officers and their shifts. ‘Shit. Kate’s copped the flu now. Who else?’

  ‘Our two officers are still out of action,’ Luke said. ‘Kate makes three. Plus eleven town residents. And apparently it’s not the flu. We’ve got ourselves a gut-ache epidemic.’

  ‘Gastro, huh?’

  ‘I’ve called in those out on rural patrol,’ Luke said. ‘It’s all calm up there.’

  ‘Shame we can’t say the same for the guys who appear to be content in our pub.’

  ‘There’s currently a lot of money in town.’ Truthfully, so long as there wasn’t too much action, Luke was happy for Breakers Hotel and the local businesses to take the revenue. Everybody struggled to make a living out here. But Will was right: the mine guys were good for the businesses, but demanding for the police. Too much drinking, a bar fight, some guy nicks another’s wallet or iPhone. More fighting.

  ‘You’d think they
’d take their money home,’ Will said.

  ‘It’s mostly the single guys. They don’t have the responsibilities.’ He shrugged. It was what it was, he couldn’t send them all out of town without reason. Seven had already been dispatched from Mt Maria and another forty odd were still having a party. He’d changed rosters accordingly, putting more officers on the afternoon and evening shifts. Most nightshifts, these days, officers were up until around three am.

  ‘So we’re down to ten officers,’ Will said. ‘Looks like we’ll be pulling some overtime.’

  ‘I’m running out of uniforms,’ Luke replied, attempting humour.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to bother you for much longer, is it?’

  Luke looked up at the acerbic tone in his friend’s voice. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve gone all detective these last thirty-odd hours. Shutting yourself in the office. Not talking to Jimmy. You’ve closed up. Gone all secretive.’

  Luke couldn’t deny it; neither could he explain it.

  ‘Presume this means you’ve made up your mind to get out of uniform,’ Will said.

  Luke didn’t answer.

  ‘So?’ Will pressed. ‘Will you take another stint here? Or move out?’

  Will hadn’t mentioned this for a month, why was he bringing it up now?

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Will said sarcastically, as though Luke’s non-response had given him his answer. ‘Just remember how hard we uniforms work when you’re out of yours and back in Homicide or with the Drug Squad.’

  Luke lowered his gaze to the desk. Detectives didn’t always—okay, cut that—mostly didn’t have respect for officers in blue, even though they’d gone from uniform to plainclothes themselves. Luke had done that—then he’d reversed the decision, but that had been because he’d wanted the rank of DI, or so he’d thought.

  ‘I’m not blaming you,’ Will said. ‘You deserve to be Detective Inspector if that’s what you want. Even I’d trust you not to mock us. Although I think you’ve got a problem with it. I think you like being out here in uniform.’