Bitter Nothings

by Vicki Tyley

  Shifting position, she tried again. Her breathing quickened when her fingers nudged a hard, movable object. She grappled with it, trying to get a grip. In the same instant she snared it, she heard a noise out in the corridor. She scrambled to her feet, shoving her find – a mobile phone – deep into her skirt pocket, as she kicked the file drawer shut.

  Footsteps paused outside the door. The doorknob turned. Further down the corridor, someone called out. Dervla held her breath. The footsteps moved away.

  With one eye on the door, she took the phone from her pocket and studied it. Her father liked to keep up with the latest in mobile technology, unlike the basic Nokia model in her hands. Conscious of the time, she stowed it in her handbag for later and relocked the filing cabinet.

  Onto the computer. It only took a few minutes to disentangle the cables, plug it all back together and boot it up. That was the easy part.

  The blue login screen confronted her, the password cursor taunting her with its slow blink. She typed in her father’s date of birth, the first thing that came to mind. Incorrect. She then keyed the same numbers in reverse. Still incorrect. Knowing her father, it had to be something simple, easily remembered.

  Of course, she could always ask Genevieve. Although she didn’t like her chances. Lucinda hadn’t called her The Rottweiler for nothing. What inspired that sort of fierce devotion to your employer? Was he that good in bed? She shuddered, dismissing the thought at once. Not only was it abhorrent to think of her father in that way, but Genevieve was the polar opposite to his usual type of young, slim and married.

  Dervla’s fingers flew over the keyboard, trying every combination of letters and numbers she could think of including, as a last resort, her mother’s name, birth date and even the date of her death. The cursor continued to blink at her.

  She gazed around the office, seeking inspiration. A framed Moomba Festival vintage poster caught her eye. She typed “moomba” and, holding her breath, hit the Enter key. Incorrect. Damn. She tried again, this time adding 1957 – the year of the advertised festival. Eureka! She bounced in her seat. It was all she could do not to shout out.

  First, she opened her father’s email, skimming the Inbox and Sent Items before checking what other folders he had. Clients. Insurance. Other. Pending. Quotes. Suppliers. She clicked on the folder titled “Other”, expecting to find personal correspondence. Instead, all it contained was a handful of emails to do with a tradeshow and another couple regarding subsidies for employing apprentices.

  A phone rang somewhere in the outer offices. She glanced toward the door, then back at the screen. The ringing stopped. She didn’t have long. Switching from email to Windows Explorer, she raced through the file names, hoping something would jump out. Nothing. Not even any family photos. It was as if her father had led two separate lives and never the twain should meet.

  That or someone had done a good job of the housekeeping. Genevieve probably. And why no doubt, she wasn’t too concerned about leaving Dervla alone in the office. She set the computer to shutdown and gathered her bag, checking inside it for the mobile phone before heading out. What Genevieve didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her.

  As Dervla closed the office door behind her, Genevieve emerged from a doorway down the corridor, arms folded.

  “Satisfied?” she asked, as Dervla drew level.

  Dervla smiled. “Always.”

  The Rottweiler harrumphed, retreating back into her kennel to silence a ringing phone.

  Chalking that one up for Lucinda, Dervla made a mental mark in the air.

  When she reached the reception area, she did an about turn. Her father wouldn’t have been reckless enough to flaunt his mistress in front of his staff, but what if she worked for him? Dervla stole back down the corridor, past the open door behind which Genevieve lurked, past her father’s office.

  She pushed through the soundproof door at the far end to the print floor. The printing presses were quiet, with one guy sweeping the floor and another at the packing table. Her nostrils twitched at the sharp smell of ink and solvent. She spotted the senior printer, her father’s right hand man, at his desk and made her way over to him.

  At her approach, the wiry-haired man leapt to his feet. “Dervla,” he said, wiping his palms on his jeans, before extending a hand.

  “Good to see you, Vince.” His grip felt firm and warm against her cool skin.

  “My sincere condolences.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not the only one who’s been affected by what’s happened. How are you holding up?”

  His eyes creased, his mouth tightening. “Okay, I think. It’s good to keep busy.”

  She nodded.

  “Of course,” he continued, “I don’t know what your family’s plans are for the business.”

  Neither did she. “Whatever happens, I’ll make sure you’re okay.” She only hoped that it was a promise she could keep. Exactly how dire the business’s finances were, she didn’t know.

  He gave a solemn nod.

  “Had Dad employed any new people in the last few months? I would’ve asked Genevieve, but I don’t think I’m one of her most favorite people at the moment.”

  “No?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You and everyone else within a hundred kilometer radius. Only one that I can think of,” he said, getting back to her question. “We took on young Zach over there as an apprentice about six months ago.”

  Dervla followed Vince’s gaze. The strapping Zach could never be mistaken for a woman, flame-haired or otherwise. “No one new in the office?”

  “Not recently, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Just dotting a few ‘i’s.” She handed Vince one of her business cards. “If you need to call me.”

  Nodding a thanks, he took out his wallet and slipped in the card.

  “Now,” she said, “how about letting me out through the tradesmen’s entrance?”

  “She’s all bark, you know?”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  He chuckled. “Escape route’s this way,” he said, leading her around the printing presses toward a steel roller door.

  Once in the safety of her car, she dug the mobile phone she’d found from her bag and switched it on. If any text messages had existed, they’d been erased from the phone’s memory, both received and sent. The call register, however, hadn’t. One number – another mobile – appeared in both dialed numbers and received calls.

  Her fingernails strumming her seatbelt, she stared out the windscreen. What did she have to lose? More to the point, what message could she send that wouldn’t be outright ignored? She thought about it for a few moments, then tapped out:

  “Hello. This is

  Warren’s daughter,

  Dervla. Please

  contact me on this

  number.”

  If polite didn’t work, she could always try a John Bailey and threaten to expose the photos. She hoped it didn’t come to that.

  When a figure that from a distance looked ominously like Genevieve emerged from the building’s front entrance, Dervla ducked down. No sense inviting trouble. She waited until after she heard the vehicle drive past to sit back up.

  Out on the street, the peak hour traffic continued bumper-to-bumper for as far as she could see. A blue hatchback waited at the exit to the car park, its left indicator flashing.

  She turned her focus back to the mobile phone. If she’d expected an instant response to her text message, she’d thought wrong. With the number selected again, she pressed Call.

  “The mobile phone you are calling is either turned off or out of range.”

  Damn. Not even a personalized message.

  Leaving the phone switched on, she placed it face up on the passenger seat and started the car. Time to battle the traffic. Midway through reversing, the phone rang. Her foot hit the brake. She snatched up the mobile from the seat, only to discover it wasn’t the one ringing.

  She shifted the gearstick into park, unclipped her seatbelt and hooked her
handbag from the passenger side footwell. The volume increased. She checked the caller ID and pressed the answer button.

  “You sure know how to pick your moments,” she said, checking to make sure her car wasn’t blocking anyone’s way.

  “Only if it involves the opposite sex, hon,” Sophie drawled.

  “Hah. Chance would be a fine thing. Can this wait until I get home?”

  “When will that be?”

  “In about half an hour.”

  “Good. I’m at your place now, so I’ll wait.”

  “Has something happened?” Dervla asked, recalling the bruises her friend had turned up with the last time she’d arrived unannounced at her place.

  “I have Emmet’s phone here and thought you’d probably see him before I did, that’s all.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Forty minutes later, Dervla pulled into her driveway. Before she’d turned off the ignition, Sophie was at the car door.

  “We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” Sophie said.

  With a laugh, Dervla climbed out of the car. “You do insist on dropping by when I’m not at home. There is such a thing as a phone, you know.”

  “Talking of which.” Sophie delved into her shoulder bag. “I found Emmet’s sliding around on the floor under my car seat this morning.”

  “What was it doing there?”

  “I guess it fell out of his pocket.”

  Dervla raised an eyebrow.

  Sophie gave a hoot of laughter and handed the silver flip phone over. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I saw him walking down Victoria Street in the hot sun and offered him a ride. Which, I might add, he was most grateful for.”

  “What was he doing walking in the first place? Where was his car?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t even think to ask him.”

  “Are you coming in? I have a nice Devil’s Lair Chardonnay in the fridge begging to be drunk.”

  “Sorry, can’t,” Sophie said. “Places to be, people to see. You know how it is. Call you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Dervla studied her friend’s face. “I hope the ‘people to see’ isn’t Martin.”

  Sophie gave an indignant huff. “What do you take me for?”

  “Just asking.”

  “It’s just boring work stuff.” Sophie checked her watch. “Which I’m already late for. Sorry, hon, have to go.” She didn’t wait for a response.

  A door slam and a toot later, Sophie’s sports car accelerated down the street.

  The first thing Dervla did once inside the house was to call Emmet’s landline and leave a message letting him know his lost phone had turned up.

  The second thing she did was to pour herself a Chardonnay. With or without company, after the day she’d had, she deserved it.

  Kicking off her shoes, she debated calling Harry to cash in her dinner raincheck. She was somewhat surprised and, if she were honest, a little miffed that she hadn’t heard from him since the day before. She’d expected him to call to see how her interview with the police had gone. Out of curiosity if nothing else. Of course, he could be waiting for her to call him.

  The days of waiting for the man to phone were long gone. Carrying her glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other, she padded into the living room and set her glass on the coffee table. She made herself comfortable on the couch, tucking one foot under her, and dialed Harry’s number. It diverted straight to voicemail. She hung up and picked up her wineglass.

  She sipped the Devil’s Lair Chardonnay, its grapefruity tartness awakening her taste buds, and gazed at the blank television screen. The remote lay within arm’s reach, but even the low hum from the refrigerator was preferable to the news.

  The more wine she drank, the more she wished she weren’t alone. She phoned Harry again, leaving a brief message when he didn’t answer asking him to call her.

  On her next trip to the kitchen, she returned with the wine bottle. If Emmet wanted his phone back, he’d have to come and get it.

  Her mind drifted to the mobile phone she’d found concealed at the bottom of her father’s filing cabinet. She’d convinced herself the number in the call register belonged to the other woman. But what if it had nothing to do with her? What if it wasn’t even her father’s phone? What if he’d bought a second-hand filing cabinet and it was the previous owner’s? She sighed. Now she was stretching it.

  Pushing herself off the couch, she went and collected the mystery mobile and Emmet’s silver flip phone. She laid them on the coffee table alongside her own in a row reminiscent of a magic trick. Guess which phone will ring first?

  None. But then patience wasn’t her greatest virtue.

  Her hand hovered over the phones. She zeroed in on the black Nokia, plucking it from the table and, before she could change her mind, pressed redial. It rang once and cut out. She tried again, this time getting the “mobile phone you are calling is either turned off or out of range” message.

  But it’d rung, which meant the phone wasn’t sitting at the bottom of a river or in landfill never to be seen again. Someone had switched it on, no matter how briefly.

  Fuelled with Chardonnay, she tapped out a text message:

  “Dervla here

  again. Have photos

  of you with WJ.

  Naked photos.

  Know you’re

  there. Contact me

  within 48 hrs or…”

  Her father’s mistress could decide what the “or” inferred. Except the moment Dervla pressed send, she regretted it. Reduced to blackmail. How low could she get?

  Swapping the Nokia for her own mobile, she called Emmet again. Still no answer.

  Harry wasn’t picking up either. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought everyone was avoiding her.

  The wine was getting warm. She topped up her glass and returned the bottle to the fridge. What little was left in it.

  While she was in the kitchen a phone rang. She rushed back into the living room. Emmet’s mobile was doing a break-dance on the coffee table’s glass top.

  For a second, she hesitated, then flipped open the phone, saw it was Gabe and answered it. “Yo.”

  “Huh?” A pause. “Dervla?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I must’ve called the wrong number,” Gabe said.

  “No, you called Emmet.”

  “What are you doing answering his phone? Is he there?”

  “It’s a long story, and no. I don’t know where he is, but if you do manage to track him down, please tell him I have his phone.”

  “I wanted to talk to you as well.”

  She flopped back on the couch and kicked her feet up on the coffee table. “I’m all ears.”

  “Are you okay? You sound…”

  “Drunk? Only a teensy bit, officer,” she said, using her thumb and finger to demonstrate how much.

  “This can wait until tomorrow,” he said, more growl than speech.

  That sobered her. “No, tell me now. Sorry, I’m not drunk. Honest. I’ve had a couple, but that’s all.” As if to reinforce what she was saying, she sat upright – without wavering. Not that Gabe could see her, of course.

  “It might be better if I came over.”

  “Not until you tell me whatever it is you’re not telling me,” she said, the words sounding garbled even to her.

  “If you insist. I wanted to let you know about the funeral arrangements.”

  Her fingers tightened around the phone.

  He continued. “It’s scheduled for 10 a.m. Saturday. Same place.” He didn’t need to say same as where.

  “Okay,” she said, feeling anything but. “Saturday you said?”

  “Yes. Are you all right? Do you want me to come over?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them away. “Think I’ll have an early night.”

  “If you’re sure. Call me if you change your mind.”

  For a time after she hung up, she remained rooted in her
seat, too numb to move. A funeral was so final, a reminder of a life gone. Her father’s life.

  The peal of the doorbell roused her. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she rose from the couch and started down the hall. With any luck it’d be Emmet.

  Two paces past her bedroom door, she remembered the trio of mobile phones on the coffee table and rushed back to living room. She snatched up the Nokia and shoved it into her handbag out of sight, glancing around the room in case there was something else she’d forgotten. Then back to the front door, opening it before she had a chance to catch her breath.

  “Todd!”

  The corners of DSS Gleeson’s deep-set ebony eyes creased. “Expecting someone else?”

  “No offence, but I was actually hoping it would be Emmet.”

  He laughed. “No offence taken. When you do catch up with your brother, please remind him to call me.”

  “So what can I do for you, detective?” she asked, still stinging from that afternoon’s questioning.

  “I’m actually off duty, but I thought I’d drop by and get those details for John Bailey.”

  “You could’ve phoned.”

  “Indeed. However, I do have an ulterior motive. I wanted to apologize for any upset our interview might have caused. I know we opened old wounds.”

  “Why? You’re a policeman. That’s what you do.”

  He flinched.

  “Sorry.” She thumped the heels of her palms against her forehead. “Sorry. It’s just been a shit of a day. I’ll be glad when it’s over.” She forced a smile. “No more bitch attitude, I promise.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful when you’re mad… I mean bitchy?” He chuckled when she rolled her eyes. “It’s true.”

  Despite herself she laughed. “The last guy who tried that line on me is now my ex.”

  “I take it back.”

  Suppressing a smile, she threw open the door. “Come in and I’ll dig out Bailey’s business card.”

  She felt his presence as he followed her silently to the other end of the house. The same prickly sensation of being watched. When it suited him, Todd could be charming. But to what ends? She already knew his job came first.