As she was getting into her car, it dawned on her that the attack wasn’t just a one-off. There would have been a history of hitting women. The man was a serial abuser with a flashpoint temper. And Diana might have been his victim too.
Shit.
It was a glorious Flynns Bay morning. Above her a perfect azure sky; in the distance a matching ocean, but Angie was in no mood to linger over their beauty. Although she longed to be back in Millbrooke among the people who made her feel safe, she knew she wasn’t up to the drive. Not yet. However, even a few more hours spent in Flynns Bay constituted a frightening proposition. What if Geoff Goodmann had changed his mind? What if he came looking for her? What if he spotted her car?
Still, if she tried to drive up that mountain road, she would put her own and possibly other people’s lives at risk. She chose the last motel in a stretch of them at the north end of town and asked for a room at the back where her car would be hidden from the street. Not that he’d be looking for her in a motel. He’d be trawling the streets close to the beach where he thought her friends lived, searching for her little sedan.
As soon as she locked the motel door, she wedged a vinyl chair against it. She suspected it was a paranoid thing to do but didn’t care. Then she lay down on the bed – on her back because the brace wouldn’t allow her to lie on her side. Doctor Lee had given her tablets for the headache, which was receding anyway. The dose on the packet specified two, so she took one. Although she felt sleepy, there was something she wanted to do before she dozed. She picked up her phone to call Blake, only to find two messages from ‘Alan A.’:
Silence is the best ornament a woman can have.
Saying nothing is the safest course.
Where did those dubious words of wisdom come from? Had he looked them up on the internet? The thought that he might also be searching for tidbits about ‘Angela Simmons’ online made her shudder. Thank goodness she’d never had a social media presence. With a shaking hand, she deleted his texts. If only she could delete the memory of what he had done to her just as easily. Then she dialled Blake’s number. After the phone rang seven times, she was about to hang up without leaving a message, when he finally answered.
‘Hi, Mum. How’re things?’
As soon as she heard the comforting voice, which could have been Phil’s, she started to cry. ‘I’m okay. What about you, darling?’
‘Mum, are you crying?’
‘No, it’s just sinus trouble.’
‘That’s no good.’
He seemed to believe her. After all, he didn’t expect his mum to lie.
‘Must be the pollen,’ he continued. ‘Are you taking anything for it?’
‘I just took a tablet. And I’m about to have a nap. But I wanted to ring you first. I miss you.’
‘But we only had lunch a few days ago, Mum.’
‘I know, but it’s a mother’s prerogative to miss her children.’
‘I’ll come and visit soon, I promise.’
Then she recalled the black eye and the fractured arm.
‘Maybe in a few weeks, Blake. I’m booked solid until then.’
‘That’s great news. I thought things were quiet.’
‘It comes and goes. How’s Tim?’
‘He said he sent you an email yesterday and you didn’t reply.’
‘Tell him I haven’t checked my email for a day or two. I’ll contact him soon.’ She was yawning.
‘Mum, are you taking those old-fashioned antihistamines that make you drowsy?’
‘Possibly.’
‘There are newer ones on the market – you should ask the chemist.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow and see how you’re feeling.’
‘Thanks, darling. I love you.’
‘Ditto, Mum.’
As she lay on the bed, trying to think of anything other than Geoff Goodmann, a name popped into her head. Martin. Who was he? But before she could remember, she was asleep.
‘I’m going into town, Di,’ said Richard just before eleven on Saturday morning. ‘Anything you need?’
That was odd. He’d already been to town once that morning. Why was he going back?
‘What about a nice bottle of wine to have with dinner?’ Diana suggested, knowing she would be the only one drinking it.
‘Okay. Anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ll be gone for an hour or so. Why don’t you read that book I gave you?’
The book was a thin paperback with a picture of Robert Redford and Mia Farrow on the cover. Richard said it was his favourite. The Great Gatsby. It had to be better than the one about the urinal.
‘What could you find to do in Millbrooke for two hours, Rich?’
‘Bills to pay, people to see.’
People to see. I bet. One person in particular. The blonde slag.
‘If you start reading now, you’ll be finished by the time I get back and we can discuss it over your glass of wine.’
He kissed her on the forehead and picked up his wallet and phone. Diana hated the brotherly kisses he’d been giving her lately. Not to mention the nights spent in the guestroom ever since the conversation about ‘taking a step back’. Those words had made her even more certain he was saving his passion for Jennie.
As soon as he was out the door, she grabbed her handbag and car keys and headed out to the shed. On the workbench she found a variety of screwdrivers. None of them looked fit for the task. Then she discovered one with a sharp end. Carefully she ran her finger over the point. Yes, it would do the trick. Putting it in her bag, she ran to her car. In the distance a cloud of dust indicated he was almost at the main road. She started the engine and followed him. When she reached the junction with the asphalt road, there was no sign of the ute. Instead of turning right towards town, she turned left in the direction of the lookout, which stood on the top of the hill overlooking Millbrooke.
From the summit of Mount Millbrooke – which wasn’t a mountain at all, just a hill – Diana watched Richard’s ute heading down the road towards town. Set out below her, Millbrooke looked like a toy village with its church steeples, red and grey tin roofs and rows of little green hedges. For a few seconds she lost sight of his vehicle behind some trees. Then it reappeared in Paterson Street. Perfect. A cul-de-sac.
Jennie handled tax returns for most of the Millbrooke community, as well as activity statements for almost every business in town. She knew the details of everyone’s finances, but she never leaked a confidence. Most people brought their documents to Jennie’s place. Occasionally she went to them. She ran her business out of a corner of the living room and prided herself on a seventy-two-hour turnaround, unless it was a complicated matter in which case she usually dealt with it in a week – even in the peak period between June and September. She worked four and a half days a week, taking Wednesday off for painting and Saturday afternoon and Sunday for Mark and the girls.
This particular Saturday morning there’d been a succession of appointments, starting at eight. Richard Scott was the last before lunch. His tax was always complicated because of the rental properties. Although the mill was currently unoccupied, the other buildings were leased. Thank goodness he was meticulous with his records. Everything was neatly arranged in coloured folders, instead of being stuffed in an old shoebox, the favoured filing system of most Millbrookers.
Richard was what was known in the trade as a ‘high net worth individual’. It wasn’t the properties which had made him wealthy – after all, his real estate portfolio in Millbrooke wouldn’t even buy a mansion in Point Piper. It was the investments – bonds, gold and a select portfolio of shares. He was one of those canny people who had foreseen the GFC. A few months beforehand, he’d sold most of his shares and moved into cash and gold. When Jennie asked him how he’d known, he said,
‘It was the level of debt. We all knew the world had borrowed to the hilt, but nobody wanted to talk about it. The crash was inevitable.’
‘But how did you time it so well?’
‘That was sheer luck, Jennie. I almost delayed until the next quarter.’
Diana waited five minutes, then drove down the hill and turned into Miller Street. Paterson was the first on the right. The ute was parked in a driveway, three houses from the corner.
So this was Dearest One’s place. Diana had been expecting a rambling old house like the llama lady’s, but instead there was a neat fibro cottage painted pink, with green shutters on the front windows and a handpainted welcome sign on the gate. Continuing past the house, she pulled up a few doors down, in front of an empty block of land. The street was empty too. Not a single citizen watering their lawn or working in their garden.
As she sat in her car, it crossed Diana’s mind that other people might know about Richard and Jennie. But it seemed more likely it was one of those top-secret affairs. After all, Richard was old enough to be her father. And the two of them used code names. Anyone who wrote ‘Your Devoted Suitor’ was keeping the relationship hidden from the world.
Diana checked the street once more. Then she got out of the car, walked to the pink house and slipped into the driveway. A privet hedge separating the house from the drive made it easy to creep past the ute and up to the garage without being seen. On the other side a paling fence was loaded with passionfruit vines. Good, no chance of that particular neighbour spotting her. Although she was tempted to leave the cover of the hedge and peer into the windows of Jennie’s house, the thought of seeing the lovers in the act made her feel ill. Anyway, there were woven fibreglass blinds on the windows which meant they could see out, but Diana couldn’t see in. It wasn’t worth taking the risk.
The roller door was closed. She gave the handle a pull; it wouldn’t budge. Yet when she tried the side door, it opened easily. Dearest Jennie hadn’t even bothered to lock it. After the previous incident you’d think she would have been more careful about her car.
It was a simple matter to force the screwdriver into the front tyre. Much neater than slashing it – which had been the initial plan. Jennie would have seen that right away and known it was intentional. A neat little hole was much more subtle. It might have been caused by a nail or a sharp rock or even a shard of glass. Nobody would connect it with Diana. Not even Richard.
‘I’m considering the purchase of another property in Millbrooke,’ Richard told Jennie as they sat on the sofa in her living room. Lying on the coffee table in front of them was the pile of coloured folders he always brought with him. ‘Is there a tax advantage in taking out a mortgage and negatively gearing the loan, or should I just pay for it in cash?’
Jennie promised to do the comparisons and let him know. He also inquired about capital gains tax, in the event that he sold one of his Miller Street properties. As she scribbled notes on her file, Jennie couldn’t help thinking how disappointing it was that the romance between Richard and Angie hadn’t worked out. They were made for each other. Everyone in the painting class thought so, especially after his speech at the B&B launch. Sometimes though, fate kept people apart. It just wasn’t fair. As for herself, the romance with Mark had been a fairytale. Then the text messages and damage to her car had spoilt everything. Mark’s ex, Maggie, had seemed to be the most likely culprit. Until yesterday when he had received a postcard from her, postmarked Denpasar the day before the keying incident. Right in the middle of a two-week holiday in Bali. Maggie couldn’t have had a better alibi. And now Jennie and Mark were at a loss to know who had done it. Thank goodness the attacks had stopped. Maybe whoever it was had given up or found another target.
By twelve-fifteen Jennie had collated all the information and promised Richard she would have his return done by Wednesday. As she bid him goodbye, she noticed that he was dressing a lot better these days. He had even abandoned those stupid hats. It was Diana’s influence, of course. The only positive influence she’d exerted on his life, as far as the painting ladies were concerned.
After Richard left, Jennie combed her hair, put on some fresh lipstick and gave her neck a light spray of perfume. She was meeting Mark and the girls at Cockatoo Ridge. Then they were heading to Granthurst for an afternoon at the movies. Afterwards they intended to drop the girls at his mother’s place and go back to Mark’s for a romantic dinner.
Humming to herself, she checked her outfit in the mirror a final time, picked up her overnight bag and went out to the garage. The previous day she and Mark had collected the Audi from a repair shop in Granthurst. It looked so perfect no one would ever know it had been damaged. She started the engine and reversed out of the drive. In fifteen minutes she would be at Mark’s place.
It was early afternoon before Angie woke. As she lay there with her eyes closed, she was sure she was in the bedroom at the Manse. She could even hear a duet of wattlebirds singing off-key and the hum of a distant lawnmower. But when she went to stretch her arms, she felt a flash of pain. Then she realised her left arm was in a brace and she was still in Flynns Bay.
The name Martin was nagging at her. Who the hell was he? Maybe if she didn’t force it, the memory would come. She edged to the side of the bed and manoeuvred her legs to the floor. At the same time, she pushed herself upright, using her intact arm. So far, so good. Her head didn’t feel too bad now, just a dull ache reminiscent of a hangover. And her eye wasn’t hurting. Those ice packs in the hospital must have worked.
Suddenly Angie remembered. It had been the photo on the Goodmann & Partners website. The forty-something man with the serious face. She could see it in her mind’s eye.
Jennie always enjoyed the drive to Cockatoo Ridge, past reed-lined creeks, ramshackle shearing sheds and iron-roofed farmhouses. Today, the afternoon light had painted the hillsides a fluoro green. As she turned off the Granthurst Road, she spotted a gathering of newborn calves lying in the grass, not far from their watchful mothers.
The dirt road had been recently graded – she could have easily done eighty; some people drove faster, but not Jennie. She’d always been a safe driver. As she reached the big looping bend which heralded the final stretch into the village, the car began to steer to the left. She must have overcorrected because suddenly she was skidding towards the other side of the road. Though she tried to straighten up, it was too late. The car went off the road and stopped abruptly in a muddy ditch. For a minute or two she didn’t move. The Audi was tipped sideways, but her seatbelt was holding her in place. She wasn’t hurt – the advantage of owning a solid German car. But what had happened to the steering? It must have been a flat tyre. When she tried to open the driver’s door, it stuck in the mud. The more she tried to push it, the more it stuck. Because of the angle at which the car was resting, she couldn’t get out of the passenger’s side either.
She reached into her handbag and removed her phone. Bugger. She couldn’t get a signal. That was the country for you. Three kilometres out of Cockatoo Ridge and no bloody reception.
18 A PERSONAL MATTER
On Saturday afternoon Richard received a call from Troy seeking a favour. The previous day Angie Wallace had left a message, asking if he could check on her alpacas over the weekend. He’d texted back straightaway and agreed to help out. But this morning it had dawned on him that he was going to a friend’s wedding in Granthurst that evening.
‘No problem,’ said Richard. ‘I was going to mow Angie’s lawn later today so I’ll take a look at the alpacas while I’m there. And if you want to stay the night, I’ll drop in tomorrow as well. I might do their nails while I’m there.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind, mate?’
‘No, but you owe me one.’
Angie looked up the website for Goodmann & Partners on her phone and went to the ‘About Us’ section. Geoff’s photo was at the top, smiling like Claude Rains. It made h
er cringe. The smile she’d interpreted as debonair was actually sardonic. Why hadn’t she realised before it was too late?
Below it was the picture of his partner.
Martin Delamont BA LLB
Senior Partner specialising in Conveyancing
There was a mobile phone number. But she had no idea what to say to him. Would he be on Geoff’s side or would he be appalled to learn his partner was someone who beat up women? She spent a long time examining the face on the screen. He wasn’t handsome, but good looks were no indication of character – Geoff was proof of that. His profile revealed a solid but unspectacular career path. She was drawn to the last sentence. He’d been married for fifteen years, had three children, a dog and a cat. Those details didn’t guarantee that he was a decent person, but they were somehow reassuring. He might even be an ally, someone to help her make sense of the nightmare that had befallen her. She would never know unless she made the phone call.
With a trembling hand, she keyed in the number. It would probably just go to his message bank, in which case she would hang up.
‘Hello, Martin Delamont speaking.’
A real person. Angie cleared her throat. ‘Mr Delamont, you don’t know me, but I have some issues I’d like to discuss concerning your partner.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say his name.
‘You mean Geoff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this a personal matter?’
‘Mr Delamont, I need your assurance that any discussion we might have would be in total confidence.’
A Place of Her Own Page 20