by Vicki Tyley
“No problem. I’ll go with what I have then.” He turned on his heel. “The public love a good scandal.” Checkmate.
“What scandal?” Harry asked. “What’s he talking about?”
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later.”
She took off after the reporter, catching up with him halfway up the drive. “John, wait.”
“What for? You made your position perfectly clear.”
“What the hell do you expect when you act like some crazed stalker?”
“Just doing my job.” Where’d she heard that before? He took another step.
She grabbed his arm. “Do you want my story or not?”
He shook her off. “You had your chance.”
CHAPTER 19
Dervla stared blankly through the windscreen. Her stomach churned, acidic from too much coffee and too little food. Stressing about what John Bailey might do next didn’t help. He wouldn’t dare publish the photos of her father with the unknown woman. Or would he? She couldn’t begin to imagine the furor that would cause – with or without the news of her father’s death. Speculation would be rife. ‘Cheating Husband Murders Wife and Children’ the headlines would scream.
She had to stop him. Except, she realized as she delved in her handbag for her mobile, she didn’t have his phone number with her. The reporter’s business card was still in her bedside table drawer along with the incriminating photos. Exhaling, she sagged back in her seat and closed her eyes. The hum of tires on the bitumen lulled her into a semi-trance.
Harry waited until they were back on what felt like the freeway before asking the inevitable. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about with the reporter guy?”
She opened her eyes. How much or how little did she tell him? How would he react if he found out the married man his wife had left him for had been screwing around.
Dervla’s mobile rang. As soon as she saw it was Gabe, she answered it. “I was just about to call you.” Lie. With everything that’d happened, her promise to her brother had completely slipped her mind. “Just leaving Dandenong now.”
“I take it you didn’t find her.”
“No, but I’ll keep looking.” Not that she had the first idea where to start.
“Why bother? She’s not your responsibility.”
Like father, like son. She didn’t have the strength to argue. “Is that all?”
“Kilbourne hasn’t tried anything on, I hope.”
“I can look after myself.”
“You’re grieving. You’re vulnerable. Easily taken advantage of.”
She glanced at Harry. “Not all men are the same.”
“Just be careful,” he said, his tone gruff. Click.
“Everything okay?” Harry asked, as she closed her phone.
“Nothing a brother-ectomy wouldn’t fix,” she said, then thought better of it. “Gabe’s not that bad really. A bit too bossy sometimes, I guess.”
Harry changed lanes. “Does he know about your deal with the reporter?”
“No.”
“Deals usually have two sides.” He fell silent, the question left unsaid.
“Yes,” she pressed her lips together, “they do.” The phrase ‘sold her soul to the devil’ sprang to mind. She sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Here goes nothing, she thought, as she proceeded to fill him in on Bailey’s visit.
By the time they reached the city outskirts, Harry knew all there was to know. Almost. One detail she’d neglected to tell him was that the photos were time-stamped only a week before the murders. Why that mattered, she wasn’t sure. “If I could undo it,” she said, “I would.”
“It’s not a binding contract. He can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. What I don’t understand is how the photos came to be in his possession in the first place.”
“Someone must’ve sent them to him,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, but who? And more importantly, why? I can understand why Cindy might employ a private investigator, but I can’t see her wanting their dirty laundry aired in public.” His fingers drummed the steering wheel. “What does whoever’s behind it hope to achieve?”
“Don’t you think I’ve asked myself those exact same questions?”
Without warning, a vision of her father flashed through her head – naked with the flame-haired woman, then naked and alone on a morgue slab. A sob tore at her throat. She swallowed hard, battling to keep the tears at bay. Now wasn’t the time or place.
“You okay?” he asked, his tone one of genuine concern.
Avoiding his gaze, she gave a quick nod. People feeling sorry for her she didn’t need.
A few minutes later they exited the freeway onto Batman Avenue, headed for the CBD.
Harry’s stomach grumbled. “How about a bite to eat? A late lunch somewhere?”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I forgot you hadn’t eaten. You must be famished.” Coffee was no substitute for food.
“Is that a yes, then?”
She shook her head. “Another time perhaps. But don’t let that stop you. Just drop me off somewhere down here, thanks. I really must get home.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t starve,” he persisted. “Now, what’s the best way to your place?”
“Honestly, there’s no need.” If he drove her home, there’d be that tense should-I-invite-him-in-or-not moment.
One eyebrow arched.
Stuff the awkwardness. He’d gone out of his way to help her. The least she could do is prepare him some lunch. “Okay, if you insist, but only if you let me make you a sandwich or something.” She could already hear Gabe giving her what for.
“Sounds good.”
“Don’t talk too soon. It might end up being only Vegemite. Cheese if you’re lucky.”
Before Harry could retort, Dervla’s mobile phone rang. Sophie. She hesitated.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just point me in the general direction.”
The phone continued to ring. “Right onto Victoria Parade.” She pressed the answer button, greeting her friend with a forced cheeriness. “Hello, stranger.” It’d only been three days, but so much had happened. Too much. “I was going to call you later, but you beat me to it.”
“Good.” Sophie sounded flat, not her usual exuberant self.
Dervla suddenly felt guilty about not calling her.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing really.”
She angled her body toward the car door, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece. “C’mon, it’s me you’re talking to. Has Martin been hassling you again?” So caught up in her own dramas, she hadn’t given any thought to what her friend was going through. “Are you okay? He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”
She had her answer in Sophie’s silence.
“Where are you?”
More silence.
“Where’s Martin?” she asked, her concern mounting.
“I…” Sophie sniffed. “Don’t know. Gone.”
“Where are you?” she repeated.
“Your place.” Another sniff, quieter this time. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Why didn’t you ring me? No, don’t answer that. Stay put. I’ll be there soon.” She hung up and turned to Harry. “Sorry, but can I make that sandwich for you some other time? Something’s come up.”
“Not a problem. It sounds like your friend needs you more than I do.”
“Thanks, but believe me you’re not missing much. My sandwich-making skills aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
He grinned. “Let me be the judge of that. How about having dinner with me tonight instead? No cooking required. That’s if you aren’t busy,” he hastened to add.
“I’d like that, but…” She pulled a face.
“But you don’t want to desert your friend in her hour of need,” he said, completing the sentence for her.
She nodded. Maybe it was better thi
s way. No complications.
“Right at the next intersection,” she said.
Sophie’s VW Eos was parked outside Dervla’s place, but there was no sign of her friend. When Harry drew alongside the sports car, an auburn head popped up in the driver’s seat. Sophie’s eyes widened as she checked out the arriving vehicle’s occupants, her focus reserved for Harry. Dervla almost laughed.
Harry pulled to the curb to let her out. “If you change your mind about dinner,” he said, “you have my number.”
She stepped from the car, leaning back inside to thank him again.
“Be careful what you say to that reporter,” he said. “The media have a way of twisting the truth, and I have no doubt that guy would sell his own mother for a story.”
“Don’t worry, I will.” She closed the car door and waved him off.
Sophie stood a few meters away, clasping her arms like she was cold. The strap of her bag slipped off her shoulder. She made no attempt to hitch it back up. It wasn’t until Dervla drew closer that she noticed her friend’s split lip and bruised cheekbone. Make-up did little to camouflage the swelling and discoloration.
“Oh, dear God, Sophie, he’s gone too far this time. Please tell me the police know about this.” When Dervla reached out to her, she shrank away. Dervla dropped her hand. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I think you ought to let a doctor take a look at you.”
Sophie hung her head. “I’m fine, really. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Yeah, right.” She’d heard it all before. “Anyway, you can tell me all about it inside.” She motioned her friend in the direction of the front door. Careful not to crowd her, Dervla waited until Sophie moved off, then followed her down the path.
“Who was the man?” Sophie asked, while she waited for Dervla to unlock the door.
“You first.”
Sophie went quiet and stared at her feet.
Once inside the house, Dervla turned on the air conditioner and kicked off her shoes.
Compared to outside, the hall was dark, yet Sophie kept her sunglasses on. Dervla gritted her teeth. How many times did Martin have to beat Sophie before she got the message?
“Please don’t look at me like that,” Sophie said, her voice small.
“I’m worried about you. I’m scared that one day it won’t be you ringing me, it’ll be the police to tell me you’re dead.” She stretched out a hand, remembered, and pulled it back.
“Not if I can help it.” Sophie touched her lip and winced. “Give me a minute,” she said, making a beeline for the bathroom.
Dervla took the opportunity to duck into her bedroom, retrieve John Bailey’s business card from her bedside drawer, and make a quick phone call. Voicemail. Damn.
“John, please don’t do anything rash. We need to talk. Publishing those photos is in no one’s best interests.” She hung up. She could do no more except hope the reporter would see reason. And that she wasn’t too late.
Across the hall, the toilet flushed, reminding her she’d more immediate concerns. Somehow she had to convince Sophie to stop making excuses for her ex-husband. Why couldn’t she see him for the thug he was?
Dervla moved to the door just as her friend emerged from the bathroom, minus her sunglasses and with her hairline damp. She gave Dervla a weak smile. Not that it helped. Sophie’s left eyebrow sported a graze, her blackened eye so swollen that she’d scare little children.
The doorbell rang. Dervla glanced at the door, then back at Sophie. “Why don’t you put the kettle on? I’ll be there in a minute.”
The instant she opened the door, a microphone was shoved in her face. “Can you confirm the dead man found in the Baw Baw National Park was your father? How did he die? Was it suicide?”
She slammed the door, gasping as she pressed her back against it. Sophie stood two meters away, her face deathly pale, her one good eye wide.
“Body? What’s he talking about?”
Dervla ran a hand through her hair. The doorbell rang again.
“Nothing’s been confirmed yet,” Dervla whispered, ushering Sophie away from the front door, “but they found a body they think could be Dad’s.”
Sophie half-turned, faltering in her step. “When?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“And you didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to once I knew for sure.” When that last glimmer of hope vanished.
“That man…” Sophie’s voice took on a hurt tone. “Who was he? Did you tell him?”
Dervla bit her lip.
“Well?”
“Harry Kilbourne, and no. He saw the news and put two and two together.”
“It’s been on the news?” She didn’t pause for breath. “Who’s this Harry Kil-whatever? How do you know him? Is he a client? What were you doing in his car?”
“Whoa. If you’d give me a chance, I might tell you.”
As they reached the living room, Dervla glanced out the glass doors to the courtyard. Privacy was a dirty word as far as reporters were concerned, she’d found. All clear. She dropped into the armchair with the view to the outside.
Sophie seated herself in the middle of the couch. Shoulders rounded, hands in her lap, she looked more fragile than Dervla ever recalled seeing her.
Taking a deep breath, Dervla proceeded to fill her in about the discovery of the badly decomposed male body in the Nissan Patrol registered to her father, and how the police suspected suicide. All the while, Sophie gazed at some invisible spot on the coffee table.
When Dervla finished, Sophie stood and, without a word, hugged her friend. The gesture unleashed a torrent of pent-up grief. Uncontrollable, choking sobs racked Dervla’s body, the pain intense. She fought it and Sophie, but her friend held tight. Eventually the tears subsided.
“Some friend, I am.” Dervla gave a strained laugh. “You turn to me for support and I’m the one that ends up leaning on you.”
“Bah!” Sophie’s steel had returned. “My problems are nothing. God, hon, you’ve just lost your father.” No matter what he’s done, her expression added.
“It still might not be him.” Cold comfort, she knew.
Sophie looked away. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and two wineglasses.
The last thing she felt like was a drink, but maybe her friend knew her better than she knew herself. Maybe it was exactly what she needed.
Sophie poured the wine, handed one to Dervla and skolled the other. Dervla followed suit, the alcohol hitting her stomach like a shot put. She gasped.
“Hey, you still haven’t told me about this Harry-guy. Spill.”
“He’s Lucinda’s ex-husband.”
Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Are you for real? Lucinda was married before?”
Dervla nodded. “I was as shocked as you are.”
“But what’s he doing back on the scene? More importantly, what were you doing in his car?”
“He offered to help me look for Alana.”
“And you took him up on his offer?” Sophie clicked her fingers. “Just like that? And you think I have rocks in my head when it comes to men? He’s a complete stranger. For all you know, he could be a psychopath. What the hell were you thinking, girlfriend?”
CHAPTER 20
Dervla added the finishing touches to a letterhead design she was working on and clicked Save. Her heart wasn’t in it, but staying busy kept her mind from wandering to places she didn’t want it to go.
The rest of the weekend had passed in a haze, day turning to night and back again. She recalled her brothers dropping by – not together. Emmet had left promising to look in on Sophie on his way home. Somehow, her friend always managed to bounce back. Dervla envied her that.
With a sigh, she pulled up the next job, a request for a quote to design menus and invites for the reopening of a local hotel
restaurant. Where to start? The client had left the scope wide open, a challenge she usually enjoyed; however, creativity required thinking. She doodled a few ideas on a sketchpad. Not inspired, she tore the page from the pad, screwed it up and hurled it at the wall.
The doorbell rang. She glanced at the time and cursed. Where had the last three hours gone?
She pushed her chair back and with no time to check her appearance, made do with straightening her skirt en route.
An apology at the ready, she opened the door. “Oh, it’s you.”
DSS Todd Gleeson frowned. “Nice to see you, too, Dervla.”
“I was expecting someone else.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Can I come in?”
She opened the door wide and stood back. He’d stepped one foot inside when it struck her. “Is this about Dad?” she asked, her pulse quickening.
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded on the path. Dressed in a white open-necked shirt loose over jeans, his brown hair swept back off his face, Harry looked fresh and cool. As she met his gaze, his mouth lifted. At the sight of Todd, though, the smile vanished.
“Would you prefer we made it for another time?” he asked.
She hesitated, then shook her head. She’d dicked him around enough already. “No. I just need a few minutes to talk with Detective Gleeson. Come in, anyway.”
Todd appeared at her shoulder, his face tense. “Do you think that’s such a wise idea?”
“Don’t worry, we can still talk in private,” she said.
After a moment, he gave a one-shouldered shrug, turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?” Harry said in a low voice, as he brushed past her. He smelled of soap and woody cologne.
“Not in the way you mean.”
She left Harry in the kitchen playing with the espresso machine and joined Todd on the far side of the lounge area. He opened the glass doors leading out onto the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen, and pulled Dervla through with him.
The sheltered courtyard cooked under the noon sun, shade absent. Even the drought tolerant bay tree was flagging.