But there was nothing he could do about the DNA evidence on her thighs. He would just have to hope she’d had a shower. Yes, of course she had. It had been over thirty-six hours.
He poured himself a glass of Scotch. There would be no repercussions. He was safe.
Angie removed the brace and placed it on the front seat. Although the nurse had said to wear it day and night, except for bathing, she could get by without its support, at least for a while. She checked in the rear-vision mirror, adjusting the position of the sunglasses.
He was in the alpaca paddock with Snow White and the devoted Tutankhamun. Jet was off by the fence, eating the lushest grass. An ache filled her chest as she watched the tall, lean figure stroking Snow White’s neck. Then he turned, saw her and waved. She waved back, thankful it was her left arm which was broken, and not her right. It wasn’t easy to resist an instinct to run down the hill and fall into his arms the way they did in the movies. But doing so would jolt her broken arm. And it was hardly appropriate when the man in question wasn’t hers.
Even though they would never be lovers, they could be best friends. After all, friendship was worthy and satisfying. Look at Bette Davis in Now, Voyager. She might not have had the moon, but she had the stars instead. And although stars might not always illuminate your life with high romance, they would sparkle nonetheless. Particularly on a dark Millbrooke night.
He was coming up the hill, loping like a dingo. When he was a few metres away, she saw the smile leave his face.
‘Ange, what’s wrong?’
She’d forgotten about his damned antennae.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘I don’t believe you. Have you been in a car accident? I worry about you driving back and forth to Sydney.’
‘No, it wasn’t an accident.’ It wasn’t accidental at all. Suddenly she felt dizzy. ‘I need to sit down.’
He guided her towards a canvas chair under the pergola.
‘Put your head between your knees, Ange.’
She did as she was directed. After all, he had an advanced certificate in first aid. It was a minute or two before the dizziness left her. When she sat up, he was kneeling on the ground beside her, looking anxious. Fortunately the sunglasses were still in place.
‘I want you to rest here while I make you a cup of tea.’
At first Diana had been concerned that a neighbour might have spotted her entering Jennie’s garage and dobbed her in. Or that Jennie might have figured out the puncture wasn’t an accident. But only an expert would know for sure and nobody was going to check. Anyway, the tyre had probably deflated in the garage, which meant nothing serious had happened to Jennie. Otherwise, it would have been all over Millbrooke by now. And Richard would have been inconsolable.
Instead, he was off helping to mend someone’s fence. Why couldn’t country people fix their own fences? She’d hardly seen him this past week.
Richard pulled up a chair beside Angie and arranged a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on a side table. They were from the batch of shortbreads she’d baked earlier in the week. He must have found the tin in the pantry.
‘Ange, you don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to.’
If he’d said, ‘Tell me what happened’, she would have replied, ‘I was helping Vicky paint her apartment and fell off a ladder.’ Despite the first aid certificate, he wasn’t a medico. He wouldn’t have known whether her injuries were consistent with the story or not. Besides, Doctor Lee had believed her, and he was an expert, albeit a young one. But when someone said you didn’t have to tell them, it made you want to get it off your chest. To get Geoff Goodmann off her chest. She could still feel the weight of him even now. She would tell Richard an edited version. The man would remain nameless. Richard would think she was a fool. Then again, she deserved the label.
She took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than she thought. Where to start? Then she heard Richard asking, ‘It involves the older guy, doesn’t it? The rich doctor who cooks soft-shell crab.’
‘He’s not a doctor.’
‘But he’s someone important, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a man of influence. He presents a charming façade to the world, but he’s something else altogether when he doesn’t get his own way. You warned me about him. So did Blake. He said I was turning him into Phil.’
‘We all make errors of judgement, Ange. I’m as guilty as anyone. You were vulnerable. You wanted to recapture your life with Phil and you found a man with whom it seemed possible. Even the most circumspect person can be blindsided by someone like that.’
‘I should have seen the signs.’
‘When you realised your mistake, you broke it off.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. But he doesn’t think it’s over. He’s been texting me non-stop.’
‘Don’t reply.’
‘I don’t intend to. If he died tomorrow, I’d celebrate.’ She hadn’t realised she was so full of anger. ‘I know you’re shocked at me for saying something like that, but it’s true.’
‘Why do you hate him so much, Ange?’
When she didn’t answer, she heard him ask, ‘Did he force himself on you?’
It was such an old-fashioned expression. Only Richard would word it that way.
‘Ange, what did he do to you?’
‘He tried to rape me.’
She had never seen Richard angry before. It was the kind of fury that seemed to seep up from his feet, slowly taking over his body. ‘He should be locked up. Did you call the police?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you think you should? He deserves to be punished.’
‘It’s complicated, Richard.’
‘Because of his position?’
‘Yes. And I’m a council candidate. I don’t need that kind of publicity. I certainly don’t want my sons finding out. Or anyone here in town.’
‘You know I won’t say anything.’
‘Of course I do. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise.’
As she adjusted her position on the canvas chair, she used her left arm by mistake and winced in pain.
‘What happened to your arm?’
‘It’s broken.’
‘Bloody hell, Ange. Did that bastard break your arm?’
Strangely enough, his voice was so low she could barely hear him.
‘What else did he do?’
‘I have a black eye. And a bit of a lump on my head.’
There were tears in his eyes.
‘Please don’t be upset on my account, Richard. I’m still alive. And I’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, Ange.’ He bent forward and put his arms around her. ‘Which arm is broken? I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘You’re not. And it’s the left one,’ she said, trying not to cry.
Suddenly she felt exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. But sleep would bring nightmares in which Geoff Goodmann wrapped her body in heavy orange plastic and dragged her into the lift late at night, while everyone else was sleeping.
‘You need to get some rest, Ange.’
‘He’s waiting for me, as soon as I fall asleep.’
Richard helped her upstairs to the bedroom and then fetched her overnight bag from the car. By the time he returned, she was already under the covers, her sunglasses deposited on the side table.
‘Now close your eyes and try to sleep. I’ll be right here.’
‘Won’t Diana be worried about you?’
‘I’ll call her.’
‘I know this sounds silly, Richard, but I’m too scared to close my eyes.’
‘Think about the alpacas, Ange. Imagine you’re in the paddock with Snow White and her newborn cria. It’s a boy.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m certain she’s carrying a girl.’
‘Okay, the cria is a girl. She’s white with a black blaze on her chest. And even though she’s only an hour old, she’s already standing upright on her wobbly legs.’
Angie shut her eyes, concentrating on the velvety voice.
‘There’s a gentle wind ruffling the leaves of the elm tree down by the creek. Snow White is feeding her baby, while Tutankhamun keeps watch. Even the platypus is curious about the new arrival.
‘“What strange creatures these alpacas are,” says the platypus as he watches from the creek. “Bits and pieces of other animals. A hodge-podge. Eyes like a camel, fleece like a sheep, a neck like a giraffe and paws like a dog. But they cannot compete with me, for I am the strangest creature of all.”’
When Diana put down the phone, she was furious. Did Richard think she was an idiot? Staying overnight so they could finish the fences in the morning. What kind of pathetic excuse was that? Diana knew a lie when she heard it. He was spending the night with Jennie. They’d be cuddling up on the sofa, whispering words of love to each other.
She grabbed her handbag and car keys and headed for the door. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do when she got to Jennie’s place, but it was a pity she hadn’t put holes in all four tyres.
Angie woke to the sound of wattlebirds. Oh no. Was she still in that grotty motel room in Flynns Bay? Had her reunion with Richard been a dream? Was the story about the cria an invention of her own subconscious? As she opened her eyes, she saw the clock beside her bed. Six-thirty. Almost dinnertime. She was actually hungry. Richard was sitting in the wing chair, his long legs stretched across the floor. In the fading light he was reading Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
‘You’ll get eye strain if you read in that poor light,’ she said. It was something her mother used to say.
‘My mum was always warning me about eye strain,’ he replied, closing the book.
‘I was just thinking that very thing about my own mother.’
‘It must be ESP.’
‘No, it’s your antennae.’
‘Antennae?’
‘Yes, the ones you use to read people’s minds.’
He laughed. ‘So I have antennae, do I? Are they the retractable kind?’
‘Of course. Otherwise, they’d be visible whenever you take off your beanie.’
‘So how did you come up with this theory, Ange?’
‘I needed an explanation for your ability to pick up my thoughts.’
‘Do I ever get it wrong?’
‘Sometimes, when there’s interference or static. Or if the signals aren’t strong enough.’
Although a full moon illuminated the outside of Jennie’s house, the interior was in darkness. Were they already in bed, or had they gone out somewhere for an intimate dinner? Not that there was anywhere much to go for dinner in Millbrooke on a Sunday night. Only the RSL or the pizzeria.
She crept around the side of the house to check the driveway. No ute. They’d gone out. The garage door was locked. Damn. She was dying to know whether the Audi was inside or not, but there were no windows to peer through on that side and no access on the other.
What could she do to escalate things without implicating herself? Throwing a rock through a window was out. So was breaking in and trashing the place. But something could go missing. Not an obvious item like a TV. That would suggest a burglary. A small object – a keepsake or a piece of jewellery. Jennie might not notice for weeks or even months. Not until she went to look for it. Then, she would hunt all over the house. But to no avail.
Diana went around to the back where she tried the knob on the door. Open sesame. She was inside. For a couple of minutes she listened, just in case Jennie was home. The kitchen tap was leaking, but otherwise there wasn’t a sound. Richard and Jennie were out eating pizza or dining on surf and turf at the RSL.
Richard made toasted sandwiches, which they ate at the kitchen table. At first she’d been uncomfortable about him seeing her eye, but then she forgot about it altogether. Afterwards, Angie went to her desk in the sitting room to check her emails. There were three – the note from Tim sent on Friday morning, a FOTE circular from Bert and the photos taken in Geoff Goodmann’s bathroom.
She opened and closed each image so quickly it barely flashed onto the screen before it was gone. They were horrible. The prescription label on the final picture was legible, and she hadn’t realised until now that her left hand was in the shot as well, showing the wedding band she always wore on her ring finger. In the background the bathroom tiles and the statue were miraculously in focus. Thank goodness for camera phones. She couldn’t have a better piece of evidence linking her injuries to Geoff Goodmann. She copied the images and pasted them onto a memory stick.
When Richard appeared at the door, offering a cup of tea, she removed the stick from its port and placed it in the top drawer of her desk. Tomorrow she would take the flash drive to the bank to be stored in her safe deposit box with her grandmother’s gold bracelet and the deeds for the Manse.
What a fluffy place, Diana thought to herself, as she turned on a table lamp whose shade was festooned with velvet roses. Fluffy like its owner, with her blonde curly hair and big breasts. It was more like a bordello than a house. Ruffled cushions, faux fur throws, pink walls, silk flowers. No taste whatsoever. In the corner of the room was a desk with a laptop sitting on it. She pressed the start button. Bugger. It was like Richard’s. You needed a password. She held the button down and turned the computer off. A row of pink filing cabinets flanked the wall behind the desk. Where the hell would anybody find pink filing cabinets? Diana tried to open each one without success. Next to the laptop was a small pile of manila folders. She examined the covers. Second from the bottom she discovered a name of interest: Richard Scott.
Removing the folder from the pile, she sat down on the sofa under the light of the flowery lamp. Inside were three hand-written sheets of paper. Not in Richard’s copperplate script but large, round letters created by a large, round woman. Although Diana had left her glasses back at Millerbrooke, the writing was easy to read. At the top of one sheet was a heading: ‘Interest’. Below it was a list of account numbers with amounts beside them. At the bottom was a total – hundreds of thousands of dollars. What would the actual investments be worth, if the interest was that much? And if you added in all the properties he owned, the man was worth a motza. Diana considered taking the summary, but instead she made a copy on Jennie’s printer. As she returned the original to its folder, she noticed a sticky note inside the cover. It was in the same voluptuous handwriting.
48 and 3. Diana knew about 48, but what was 3? It would bear investigation. She heard a car coming up Paterson Street. Quickly she turned off the light, but the car continued past the house. Better steal something and get out of here. She turned on the lamp and looked around. Nothing of value in the living room. Just kitsch. She went into the hall and switched on the overhead light. To her left was a bedroom. Was this the love nest? A pyramid of teddy bears was arranged against the pillows of the king-size bed.
That was when she knew what she would take. One of the bears – the smallest one. It wasn’t even the size of her hand. Then she surveyed the rest of the room. The dressing table was littered with fake gold necklaces and opera-length pearls in assorted pastel colours, the kind of thing you could buy in a discount store for a few dollars. When Diana opened the top drawer, she found something more interesting. Velvet boxes. After she opened every box, she decided the only thing worth taking was a diamond ring with a square-cut stone. Even on her thumb, it was too big. But she didn’t intend to wear it. It was a trophy. Something belonging to Jennie. She replaced the ring in its box and dropped it in her coat pocket with the teddy bear. She would call him ‘Richie’.
Then she checked that everything was as she’d found it and retraced her steps through the house, turning off the hall light and the table lamp as she
went. When she reached the kitchen, she could hear the tap leaking. Silly Jennie, not turning it off properly. Diana rotated the handle so that the tap produced a steady flow, though not so much that it would look deliberate. Then she placed the plug in the hole. Imagine leaving the plug in when you had a faulty tap. You’d better be home soon, Dearest One, or your kitchen will be flooded.
A Place of Her Own Page 22