by Jennie Jones
They were as close as he and Solomon were, so he should have remembered that Will would read between the lines.
‘Yeah, well—’ he said, matching Will’s derisive tone. ‘I’ll let you know.’ So what was he going to do now? Get out of uniform again? Maybe he’d have to when all this was over. Mt Maria wouldn’t hold the same appeal. Not if he’d had his heart busted, and maybe it’d be better to get back on the city streets. It’d certainly give him a lot more to focus on than what might have been.
‘Well, if you leave us, you’ll be in the higher echelon. It’s your due.’
‘It’s not higher.’ Sixty per cent of the detectives he knew couldn’t run a hundred metres without getting out of breath—and a heavy percentage had no remorse about sending the uniforms in to do the placatory work, the physical work, and then taking the glory. ‘You’re a better officer than most I’ve worked with,’ Luke told Will. ‘I’d trust you with my back—with my family, if I had one.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Will asked, tilting his head and giving Luke his copper’s eye. ‘Why did you go back into uniform? Because I don’t believe you want to be DI. I knew it as soon as you got here. You’re a cop, Luke. So was it because you were stabbed in that warehouse bust? Or did you have woman trouble? That last one’s the general consensus, by the way.’
‘Neither.’
‘Were you about to get married, or something?’
‘No,’ Luke said. ‘Not even warm.’ And it certainly wasn’t because he’d been stabbed in some drug bust. He’d been sent to counselling and all that stuff nobody wanted to talk about, and he’d got through that just fine. ‘I left months after I was stabbed.’
Will knew about the raid, Luke had told him one night as they swapped stories. He’d only returned to Homicide after his stint in the Drug Squad because he’d been asked to. He couldn’t believe people thought that was his issue. He’d heard the woman rumour too, but hadn’t bothered correcting it because what was the point? People would only find some other reason to believe he’d apparently been demoted from the detective world to the plain old cop on the street in a remote outback town world. Which, until a couple of days ago, he’d been seriously enjoying.
Will picked up his cap. ‘Well, whatever it was that happened,’ he said as he headed for the door. ‘Nobody believes your version.’ He grinned over his shoulder as he left the office. ‘They like a story that’s got more juice and meat on its bones.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Luke threw himself back in his chair. Okay, in the recesses of his mind, he’d had thoughts about getting back to the country. It’s where he’d come from, after all. And maybe those thoughts were the real reason he’d wanted out, and not the desire to get promotion to DI. But that was his business.
Nine
Rachel walked into the Laurensen house, switched the ceiling fans on then went to the dining table in her kitchen-cum-living room to flick the radio on. The local channel blared what its ads promised: classic rock and the occasional new song. She usually had the radio on, so long as reception wasn’t interrupted. The DJ’s voice and the music took the edge off the silence she had never quite grown used to.
She pulled her mobile from her bag and checked it but she had no messages. Not that she ever had any messages, but she’d half expected a missed call from Luke after what Mary had done. She’d have to call him now and laugh it off. Tell him Mary was up to some matchmaking devilment, nothing more.
Alarm stilled her when she heard a car engine and the crunch of tyres on her rough-earth driveway. Nobody ever came out here. She never had visitors. Was this Luke, come to claim his date? If he still wanted to take her out. Or had he discovered everything bad about her?
Car doors opened, and slammed, and then bickering voices almost drowned the music on the radio.
She opened the front door. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Like a bit of noise, do you?’ Mrs Arnold said, walking up the concrete path.
‘Amelia,’ Mary said in a cautioning tone.
Mrs Frith brought up the rear.
‘Let me turn the radio off.’ Rachel dithered for a second between letting the flyscreen door close on her visitors before they’d come into the house, or rushing across to the dining table to switch the radio off. But Mrs Arnold held the door for her friends.
Rachel switched the radio off and forced the smile on her face to appear genuine rather than one of outright shock as her visitors crowded into the small space of her home, their sensible sandals squeaking on her tiled floor as they sorted themselves out in a flurry of swishing cotton skirts and ironed blouses in shades of cream, purple and lilac. They must be starched to survive this heat and still appear wrinkle free.
‘Sorry I don’t have aircon, ladies.’
‘What a lovely difference you’ve made to Mr Laurensen’s house,’ Mary said. ‘Hasn’t she, Amelia?’
Rachel glanced around at the changes she’d made to the house she’d hoped would become her home. And the house did look like a home. Freshly painted walls in vanilla-cream, with dark blue trimmings on the cushions and platters she’d picked up in the second-hand charity shop at the rear of the small supermarket in town. Her choices, not somebody else’s. Her first home.
‘Not bad,’ Mrs Arnold said. ‘That used to be mine,’ she said accusingly, pinpointing a blue-and-white checked cushion on Rachel’s two-seater sofa, also bought from the second-hand store.
‘That proves she’s got taste,’ Mary said.
Mrs Arnold pinned her friend with a stare. ‘I threw it out, didn’t I?’
‘Amelia—’
‘It’s our understanding,’ Mrs Arnold said to Rachel, cutting her friend off and squaring her shoulders while clasping the bamboo handles of her straw handbag firmly in front of her, ‘that you’re courting our senior police officer.’
‘It’s not an understanding,’ Mary interjected. ‘And it’s none of our business.’
Mrs Arnold snorted. ‘Not what you said to me on the twenty-minute drive out here.’
‘Amelia, please.’
‘Stop fretting, Mary. What I want to know is, does Miss Meade intend to see this to the end or is she merely passing through our beautiful town intending to leave us all with a mess in her wake?’
Mary looked across at Rachel, her hands spread in apology.
Rachel stifled the smile that rose through her confusion. ‘A mess?’
‘Broken hearts and whatever else you’re up to. Senior Sergeant Weston is much approved of in this community. By those who abide by the law, that is. Can’t say the same for the roughnecks who find their way here, or the nuisances passing through. But we have high regard for the man and any nonsense you might send his way will undoubtedly come our way too.’
‘Amelia, this is not why we’re here,’ Mary said.
‘We’re here to encourage you,’ Mrs Frith said, speaking for the first time and earning herself a glance from Mrs Arnold.
‘You haven’t said a word for twenty-three minutes, Freda,’ Mrs Arnold said. ‘I suggest you say no more until I’ve got to the bottom of this.’
‘The bottom of what?’ Rachel asked.
‘I’ll speak when I want to, thank you, Amelia,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘And if I want to encourage Miss Meade, I will. So shove your orders in your handbag.’
Rachel stepped behind the kitchen benchtop. ‘Can I offer you ladies a cold drink? Iced tea?’
‘Lovely,’ Mary said. ‘Freda? Iced tea. That’ll make a nice change for you.’
Freda Frith lowered her thin eyebrows as she glared at Mary then turned a smile Rachel’s way. ‘Thank you, Rachel. Perhaps you also have some bottled arsenic for Amelia to choke on?’
Rachel turned sharply to hide the laugh that threatened.
Mrs Arnold settled herself on a kitchen stool, placing her handbag on the counter. She ran a finger over the benchtop then studied the pad of her finger for what felt like minutes. ‘Not a bad place, actually,’ she admitted, ru
bbing some imaginary grime from her fingertips.
‘Thank you,’ Rachel said, as the other ladies settled themselves on stools at the counter, shuffling skirts, and pulling the collars of blouses into line before placing their handbags on the benchtop.
It was a small property: combined kitchen and living room at the front and two bedrooms and a bathroom at the rear down a hallway leading to a backdoor.
‘We can see you have a clean hand,’ Mrs Arnold stated. ‘So what are your intentions?’
Rachel had scrubbed and washed accumulated grime from every inch of the empty, unloved shell this house had been, much as she’d tried to do with herself. She’d grown in mind but not in spirit. She couldn’t have or it wouldn’t be so hard to think about leaving Mt Maria.
‘For what?’ she asked, getting iced-tea bottles out of the fridge then turning for glasses from the cupboard. These ladies were not the type to drink from plastic bottles.
‘We’re hoping to get you out a bit more,’ Mary said.
‘Do you have green fingers?’ Mrs Frith asked. ‘Because if you do, you can assist with plant pot preparation.’
‘I’m hoping you’ll come clean with us,’ Mrs Arnold said. ‘With your intentions regarding our police force, and with why you’re here.’
‘Amelia, please!’
‘It’s all right, Mary.’ Rachel smiled at Mary, then looked at Mrs Arnold. ‘I’m here for a year or so. I’m prepared to help with the town’s volunteer committee’s needs, where I can.’
Mrs Arnold’s eyes didn’t budge from Rachel’s. ‘We know about your name change.’
‘Amelia!’ Mary slid off her stool. ‘I didn’t tell her,’ she said to Rachel, her hands all aflutter. ‘I didn’t breathe a word.’
‘Donald Wiseman told me,’ Mrs Arnold said.
‘Well,’ Rachel said, carefully placing her glass of iced tea onto the counter and staring at it so she didn’t have to meet the examining gazes of the Agatha Girls. This meant she’d have to tell another lie. ‘Firstly, if Mr Wiseman has any issue with me, my background, or my future intentions, he ought to have spoken to me first.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Mary said.
‘I’ll speak to him on Monday,’ Rachel said. ‘And ask him outright why he felt the need to divulge personal information about me to others.’
‘You can make a complaint to Human Resources,’ Mary said. ‘They’ll be furious.’
‘And then he might leave,’ Mrs Frith said with a smile. ‘We can’t stand him.’
‘Neither can I,’ Rachel admitted. ‘Has he told everyone about whatever it is he thinks he knows about me?’
‘I advised him not to say a word,’ Mrs Arnold said. ‘I further advised him that we felt you were a decent sort—not that we know that for sure yet—and that if he interfered, I’d slash the tyres on his Porsche.’
‘You’d get arrested,’ Mrs Frith said, although the thought of seeing her friend behind bars didn’t appear to worry her.
‘It would take a fortnight to get swanky Porsche tyres out here,’ Mary offered. ‘He’d have to walk, and it’s an hour’s trek from his house to the town hall.’
‘In this heat,’ Mrs Frith said, inclining over the counter towards Rachel, ‘and with his extra body weight, he’d likely drop dead. His internals would melt.’ She smiled keenly.
Rachel swallowed her amusement, and her nerves, which outweighed all bemusement about the Agatha Girls. ‘I’m happy to come clean with you since Mr Wiseman has put me in an awkward position. I’m changing my name to Rachel Meade because of family problems.’ Here goes—another lie. ‘My older brother was abusive. He lashed out at me a few times, and I left home. He’s not a good person.’
Mrs Frith gasped. ‘Oh, you poor thing. Is he likely to follow you here and cause tremendous trouble?’
‘Does he know where you are?’ Mrs Arnold asked, no shock in her practical tone. ‘And does he know about the name change?’
‘No,’ Rachel answered, hearing her voice through the pulse suddenly beating in her ears. She hoped Peter didn’t know where she was. ‘And I don’t believe he knows about my name change. I haven’t seen him for years.’
Fright was a dangerous emotion. It clouded judgement, as it had when Peter pulled her into the alleyway beside the 24/7 grocery store on her way home from work three months ago. The alley was filled with wooden crates and the scent of rotting lettuce and stale bread melded with the smell of Peter: body odour, and the cloying aroma of dried blood.
She’d learned self-defence by then. Not that she was proficient but she’d been taught where to aim. She’d been taught to scream too. And run. Scream and run. She didn’t do either. And Peter didn’t hurt her. Not much. Not physically, but he sparked fear in her head. The entire conversation she was almost blinded by a headache. Her eyes were dusty and every blink felt like it scratched.
‘I need you to hide me, Rosalind. Until I can get transport out of here.’
He looked different. Older than his age. The big, bluff, once almost-handsome man had gone. His nose had obviously been broken recently. His lips had thinned, and he spoke like an old man without teeth, as though he was sucking in air before he formed words. He was in pain too. His breathing was ragged—heavy and laboured. He’d been hurt.
‘Take me back to your place.’
‘No.’
‘Want me to knock on a friend’s door instead?’
‘I don’t have friends.’
‘You have neighbours. You speak to people in shops. Think about it, Rosalind—I’ll get them.’
‘She’s looking peaky. Rachel? Do you want a shot of whiskey? Rachel!’
Rachel looked up as Mrs Frith rummaged in her handbag then produced a silver hipflask.
‘I never go anywhere without it.’
‘That’s only so you don’t have to carry the bottle around,’ Mrs Arnold said, taking the flask off Mrs Frith. ‘Mary, please get a clean glass for Miss Meade.’
Mary slid off her stool and came into the kitchen area, opening cupboards, searching for a glass.
Rachel wanted to help her, but she couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe. Nothing was worse than being petrified. A culmination of all physical and mental reactions to danger. Peter had looked stirred-up crazy. Not like before, during the attack in her flat, where he’d been deranged but measured and methodical. He’d hardly blinked though, and that was the same this time. So was the breathing.
She’d been his prized possession. And when she’d filed for divorce she’d been brought to his attention again. That’s why he’d gone for her and her date in the flat. She hadn’t understood that until she’d seen him in the alley. He didn’t care for her—but he cared about others caring for her.
‘I need you to hide me.’ His voice was lowered, and he clutched at his chest.
‘No.’
‘I need your money.’
She handed him her bag. It was the one day in her life since he’d left her that she rued the fact she carried so much on-the-run cash.
‘Quite the little banker, aren’t you?’ he’d said as he pulled a thousand dollars from her purse and stuffed it inside his jacket. That’s when she’d seen the bloodstains on his shirt and knew for sure he’d been injured.
‘You say one word about seeing me and I’ll get that pig you were sleeping with.’
Her breath charged at her throat. He’d only know about the police officer she’d been out with a few months previously if he’d been keeping tabs on her the entire time since the attack in her flat. ‘How did you find me?’
He ignored her, and rummaged in her bag again. ‘Nice,’ he said as he pulled out her Swiss Army knife—the weapon she carried around just in case.
‘Just like the one I took from your flat,’ Peter said. ‘The one I used to hurt that ugly son of a bitch you’d cooked dinner for. This is cheap shit, though. Do you want to see my knife, Rosalind?’
She’d been Rebecca by then but she didn’t correct him on the name.
He was either referring to her by the name he knew her as, or he didn’t know about the name change. Then he pulled the blade out of her Swiss Army knife.
During the divorce process, the police had told her Peter was having a hard time in prison. She hadn’t asked why, hadn’t cared how hard it had been for him, but she’d been given clues that night he pulled her into the alley. He was scared of something, or someone. She might have laughed, although it would have been hysteria, not smugness.
He lunged suddenly, and grabbed the hair at the back of her head, yanking it so hard she stumbled as he dragged her against him.
‘You blab to the cops about seeing me and I’ll get everyone around you. Your neighbour. Your office mates. The next person you talk to on the street. And when I’m satisfied with that, I’ll come for you.’
Her heart hammered and fright spiked each nerve but some part of her self-defence training kicked in and she elbowed him in the gut, twisted from his hold, then grabbed the knife from his hand and thrust it into him. He stumbled and for seconds she stood there, frozen, disbelieving what she’d done.
She thought she’d killed him; that he’d die in the next few minutes. But then he staggered to his feet, swearing as he yanked the end of the short blade from the top of his pectoral muscle, and she turned and ran.
She’d packed and left in fifteen minutes, making her way to the airport and to Western Australia the next day. Just get out. He’d already found her twice; he’d find her again if she stayed in Victoria. Change your name again. Hide. Run. Hide every time—but don’t tell anyone who you really are.
‘She’s got absolutely no colour. She looks dead.’
‘Freda—she’s upright. She’s hardly dead.’
Mrs Arnold’s voice, strict and strident, brought Rachel back to the current time. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured, shaking her head a little but still unfocused. ‘Sorry.’
‘Here, sit down,’ Mary said, pushing a kitchen stool so hard behind Rachel’s legs that she had to grab hold of the kitchen counter as her backside hit the seat.
‘Some thrust you have there, Mary,’ she said with a shaky laugh.