Bitter Nothings

by Vicki Tyley

  Air-cured Wagyū beef on tomato rubbed sourdough…

  She glanced toward the street doors and back to the menu.

  Boquerones (white anchovies in vinegar) with palm heart and pickled chili.

  Stuffed calamari with sumac.

  She studied the menus in depth. Twice. By 8 p.m., she started to worry that Harry was going to be a no-show. Had she misread the signals that badly? She checked her phone for reception. On more than one occasion it’d dropped out, a reboot the only solution. Full strength. Irrational as it was, she switched the phone off and then back on again.

  Of course, she could always call him. So what was stopping her?

  The minutes ticked by.

  A waiter brought a small plate of stuffed green olives and something wrapped in prosciutto to the table. “Compliments of the house.” He gave her a pitying smile.

  She cringed. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she’d been stood up. If she could’ve climbed under the table, she would’ve.

  “Thanks,” she said, gathering up her phone and handbag, “but there’s been a change of plans. I’m needed somewhere else. If I could just settle the bill.”

  “Certainly, señorita. This way please.” If he saw through her excuses, his expression didn’t show it.

  After she paid the bill, the waiter held the door open for her. “Have a nice evening. We hope to see you again soon.”

  Outside, the setting sun painted the sky in gold and blush-pink. A straggly-haired man in baggy jeans weaved down the path toward her. She stepped aside to let him past, his alcohol-laced sour body odor reaching her before he did.

  “Jesus loves you,” he slurred.

  She stared at the ground, knowing any kind of response would invite more of the same. Right then, the last thing she needed was religion. Especially from someone who needed saving more than she did.

  No one accosted her on the trip home, the only other passengers on the brightly-lit tram, a clean-cut man with glasses and a couple of Goth girls, their lipstick as black as their garb.

  Her phone rang while she was grappling with her door keys. She cursed, wishing she’d had the foresight to leave a light on. She unlocked the door, answering her phone with a breathless “hello” as she lurched into the darkened hallway.

  “Dervla, it’s Harry. I’m so sorry. I would’ve called earlier if I could’ve.”

  This ought to be interesting. She shut the door with a backward kick.

  “Perhaps I could explain it to you over supper?”

  “I’d rather you explain it to me now.”

  “If that’s the way you want it. I’ve only just this minute left the police station.” He sounded apologetic and pissed off at the same time. “Your Detective Gleeson decided it might be fun to detain me for a few hours.”

  “What? I don’t understand. Todd implied it was just a formality.”

  “Maybe for you. Unfortunately, I can’t provide an alibi for every minute of every day.”

  “No one can.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m a free man again. For now, anyway. How about that supper?”

  She entered the kitchen, the warmth-intensified scent from the vase of flowers on the dining table following her. “Can I take a raincheck?

  “I understand.”

  “It’s not that. I’m supposed to be going over my statement at the police station in the morning. From what you’re telling me, I’m going to need all my wits about me. I should get an early night.”

  “I doubt you have anything to worry about,” he said.

  “And you do?”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Thank you for coming in,” Todd said, all business. Could this be the same man who’d patted her knee and told her he was there for her? “Take a seat, please.”

  She did as instructed, dropping onto the steel-framed chair he’d indicated. Everything in the room was grey, from the dark-grey industrial carpet to the ash-grey walls to the laminated table. Even the air smelled grey, the echo of countless police interviews trapped within the four walls. She shivered.

  DSC Brooke Stewart, her face softer with her chestnut hair down, entered the room carrying three styrofoam cups. She smiled at Dervla. “I thought we could all do with one of these. Black, right?” she said, sliding one of the steaming cups across the table.

  Dervla nodded but made no move to take it. Coffee was the last thing on her mind.

  The detective took a seat opposite, Todd next to her.

  He placed a thin file on the table and picked up one of the coffees. “I realize this may be hard, but how about you start with telling us about the last time you had any contact with your father.”

  “But you already know about that.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Okay. He sent me an SMS saying he could explain. If I can get my phone out of my bag, you can read it again for yourself,” she said, with the emphasis on again.

  “That won’t be necessary. And you’re certain that was the last time you had any contact of any sort with your father?”

  “Yes. What is this?”

  “Just checking our facts. What about your brother, Emmet? When was the last time he had any contact with your father?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”

  “We intend to. I’ll rephrase it: To your knowledge, when was the last time Emmet had any contact with his father?”

  She bowed her head. “I don’t know for sure. Why does it matter?”

  “Someone witnessed Emmet arguing with your father in his business premise’s car park. Were you aware of that?”

  “Gabe might’ve mentioned it. But then for all I know, he could’ve made it up.”

  “Is Gabe prone to fabricating stories?”

  “Maybe. No. You’d have to understand my brothers.”

  One eyebrow arched. “That is what I’m trying to do. How was Emmet’s relationship with his father generally?”

  Her hands fisted in her lap, her fingernails cutting into her palms. “Do I have to answer these questions? Should I have a lawyer?”

  Todd frowned. “Do you think you need one? You’re not under arrest. You’re free to go at any time.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” DSC Stewart said, “but weren’t you the one who said she wanted no stone left unturned?”

  Dervla gave her a blank stare. “Not to either of you. Not unless you’ve bugged my home.”

  “Gabe might’ve mentioned it.”

  “That’d be right.” Dervla jumped to her feet. “How much do you pay informers these days, anyway? What—”

  DSC Stewart interjected. “Would you prefer your little sister and brother’s killer wasn’t brought to justice?”

  “Of course not, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Barking is for dogs. In case you’ve forgotten, this is a multiple homicide enquiry.” Todd lowered his voice. “We’re not saying that your brother is involved. Rather, we’re trying to eliminate him as a suspect. We can’t do that unless we have all the information.”

  Breathing hard, she sank back down onto her seat. They were only doing their job.

  The two detectives exchanged glances.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” DSC Stewart asked. “Would you like to take a break?”

  Dervla shook her head. Why did she feel the need to protect Emmet if he’d done nothing wrong? “I’m sure Gabe’s already told you that Emmet and Dad didn’t get along. You have to remember that Emmet was barely sixteen when Dad left to marry his pregnant mistress. He took the betrayal hard. Gabe sided with Dad, which didn’t help. Not only did Emmet lose a father, he lost his brother. Or at least that’s how he saw it.” She drew a deep breath, closing her eyes against the memory. “Then on the day that would’ve been my parent’s thirtieth wedding anniversary, Emmet went home to find Mum’s lifeless and bloodied body in the bath. Do you have any idea what that must’ve done to him?”

  Todd steepled his fingers. “He blamed his father?”

&n
bsp; “He blamed himself more.”

  “What about you? Who did you blame?”

  “No one is responsible for a person’s decision to take their own life, except that person,” she said, trotting out the grief counselor’s words.

  “That’s very admirable. So you don’t think your parent’s divorce had anything to do with your mother’s decision, then?”

  She locked gazes with him. “I thought the police dealt in facts not conjecture. It doesn’t matter what I or anyone else thinks, detective. Unfortunately, the only person who knows for certain why my mother chose to do what she did is dead.” Under the table, her hands shook.

  “What would prompt Emmet to visit his father at his business premises?” DSC Stewart asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” She wasn’t about to discuss her brother’s financial affairs. “Have you asked him?”

  Todd opened the file in front of him, revealing the two photos Gabe had swiped from her coffee table while she slept. The room’s fluorescent light highlighted the subjects’ nakedness. Dervla glanced away, the mass of white skin too much to take.

  “When were you going to tell us about these?”

  “Yesterday. Gabe beat me to it.”

  “I’m sure.” Todd paused. “You know you should trust in Gabe more. He’s only looking out for you.”

  “I’m sure.” What did he know about her relationship with her brother? Either of them.

  A muscle twitched at the corner of Todd’s mouth. He looked down at the photos. “Okay, we’ve established that you were going to hand these over yesterday. When did they come into your possession?”

  “Two or three days ago.”

  “Care to be more precise.”

  “I don’t know. The days are running into each other at the moment. Last Friday, I think.”

  “Why not notify us straight away? You must’ve realized their importance.”

  “Evidence of your father’s extra-marital affairs isn’t exactly something you want broadcasted. If I was going to keep them from you, do you think I would’ve shown Gabe? I just needed some time to get my head around it, that’s all.”

  Todd looked far from satisfied. “Yet, you were happy to talk to a reporter about them.”

  “You’ve got it the wrong way around. He came to me with them.”

  “And where did he get them from?”

  “He refused to say.”

  “What’s the reporter’s name?”

  “John Bailey.”

  “How can we contact him?”

  “I don’t have his details on me. I can get them to you later.” Though not before she’d talked to the reporter first.

  Todd laid the photos on the table in front on her. “Do you recognize the woman with your father?”

  “No.”

  For the next twenty minutes, they talked in circles, covering old ground. Todd would ask a question, Dervla would answer, and then his offsider would throw the same question at her rephrased. The police version of Twenty Questions.

  In the end, Dervla wondered if they’d believed one word she’d uttered.

  DSC Stewart rose from her seat, excusing herself, and left the room.

  “Is that it?” Dervla leaned down beside her chair for her handbag. “Can I go?”

  “Of course.”

  Halfway out the door, she felt Todd’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry if you thought we were being difficult, but we—”

  “Were just doing your job,” she finished for him, dropping her shoulder.

  He lifted his hand. “So long as you know.”

  Out in the corridor, someone called, “Detective Gleeson, a minute of your time, please.”

  Todd glanced over his shoulder, then back at Dervla. “I’m not the bad guy here. Remember that. I’ll be in touch.” He signaled to a uniformed officer. “Please escort Ms Johns out.”

  The first thing she did when she arrived home was dig out John Bailey’s business card and program his number into her mobile phone. Something she should’ve done right at the start. She pressed Call.

  “John, it’s Dervla Johns,” she said, when he answered.

  “Well, well. What do I owe this pleasure?” The reporter’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “The police have the photos. They want to talk to you.”

  “You handed them over to the cops? Now that does surprise me.”

  “Not exactly, but how is not important. The police will want to question you. You’re going to have to reveal your sources, so…”

  He laughed. “Don’t give up your day job.”

  So much for her clumsy fishing attempt. “Why all the secrecy? Why won’t you tell me who gave you the photos?”

  “Remember our last phone conversation. You never did give me an answer?”

  “To what?”

  “Did your father murder his wife and children?”

  “I did answer. I said I didn’t know.”

  “And I don’t know who sent me those photos.”

  Dervla sighed.

  Bailey’s tone hardened. “I’m not playing games. I mean what I say. The photos arrived in the mail with no note, no return address, no nothing except a Melbourne postmark.”

  She sank lower in her chair. “Can you email me copies? The police have the photos you gave me.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Hopefully a story, if we can identify the woman.”

  “We?”

  “Slip of the tongue.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and throaty.

  She couldn’t help herself: she smiled.

  “Okay,” he said, “what’s your email address?”

  “How long before you can send them through?” she asked, after she gave it to him. More than ever she wanted to find out who the woman in the photo with her father was.

  “About twenty seconds.” He paused. “On its way. You owe me.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she said, already en route to her office. “And John, thanks.”

  With a grumbled goodbye, he disconnected the call.

  A ping sounded from her computer. New mail.

  She wheeled her office chair close into the desk and opened the first attachment. Two entwined naked bodies flashed up on the screen. She found herself closing one eye, as if somehow that would lessen the impact.

  Zooming in on the part of the woman’s face that was visible, Dervla studied every pore of the flushed skin, searching for clues to her identity. A small mark above her sculpted right eyebrow might or might not be a mole. That or a spot on the cameraman’s lens. She rotated the photo and tried imagining her upright with clothes on.

  Nothing. And the next photo showed even less.

  She stared unseeing at the screen, her fingers drumming against the mouse pad. Someone somewhere knew this woman.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dervla pulled out of the heavy traffic into the Johns Printing customer car park and exhaled. Made it. Unless they had a rush job on, her father’s employees would soon be knocking off for the day. And though she’d have preferred they weren’t there, she had neither a key nor the security code to access the premises.

  No one was on reception when she entered the single-storey roughcast building. She didn’t loiter, strolling down the corridor as if she belonged there. The door to her father’s office was closed but not locked. With a backward glance over her shoulder, she slipped through.

  If there was anything to find, it would be in there. Her father wasn’t stupid enough to stash anything incriminating at home where Lucinda might uncover it. He’d learned from his mistakes. Some of them, anyway.

  A large mahogany-veneered desk and return dominated the room. On it sat an unplugged computer tower and LCD monitor, the keyboard and mouse coiled in cables. She made a beeline for the three-drawer metal filing cabinet in the far corner, rattling each drawer in turn to no avail.

  She turned her attention to the desk, starting with the top drawer of pens, paper clips and right at
the back, keys. As her hand closed over them, she heard a coughing sound and looked up. Her father’s long-time personal assistant – or The Rottweiler as Lucinda used to refer to her as – glared at Dervla from the doorway.

  “Oh, hello, Genevieve, I didn’t see you there. How’s things?”

  “Do you have permission to be in here?”

  Dervla palmed the keys and withdrew her hand. “From whom?”

  “The police. Gabe.”

  “Why would I need permission from my brother?” She continued her search, moving onto the next drawer. “Warren was my father, too. Don’t fret, I’ll make sure I put everything back the way I found it.”

  She pulled out a dog-eared manila folder with no external labeling and laid it on the desk. But before she could open it, Genevieve slapped her hand on top. Dervla responded by yanking it out. “I have every right to be here. Call the police if it makes you feel any better.”

  Genevieve looked daggers at her. “Suit yourself. I don’t know what you expect to find anyway. The police have been through everything.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  The personal assistant pressed her lips together in a thin line.

  “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

  With a huff, Genevieve turned and flounced out.

  Dervla opened the folder. All it contained were seven lined sheets of scribbled costings. What’d all the fuss been about? No doubt her father’s PA just asserting her authority. She replaced the folder and returned to the filing cabinet with the keys.

  To her dismay, it was crammed with what looked to be the contents of the National Archives. The first suspension file she pulled consisted of printing quotes, some as far back as 1987. She’d have never guessed her father was such a hoarder. It’d take her hours to go through it all. Time she didn’t have. Anyway, the police had already done that, been there.

  As she slotted the file back into the drawer, her gaze roamed down the filing cabinet. Possible? She darted to the door to check no one was about, then back to the cabinet. Dropping onto her knees, she slid the bottom drawer out as far as it would go. She groped blind in the space behind it, sliding her hand along the metal base until it hit a dead end.