Bitter Nothings

by Vicki Tyley

  Except she wasn’t.

  Within thirty seconds, the door opened. Todd stood in the doorway. “Treating him okay, are we? No police brutality to report?”

  “That bloodied towel you found – whose blood is it? Are you sure it’s even human?”

  “It’s human all right.” He stepped into the room. “We’re waiting on the DNA results but the blood type is a match to the children and their mother.”

  “Have you checked Emmet’s blood type?”

  “It’s A+, the same as your father’s,” Todd said. “The blood type identified on the towel was O+.”

  “Even if the DNA results confirm that the blood is Lucinda’s, what does that prove? It’s circumstantial. Anyone could’ve planted the evidence in his car after he sold it. Or while he was trying to sell it. Have you asked him how many people took his car for a test drive? Have you checked them out?”

  He peered down his nose at her, one eyebrow arched.

  “Sorry, of course you did,” she said.

  “We did. Your brother was less than forthcoming. You must realize that if he doesn’t want to help himself, we can’t help him.”

  An awful thought struck her. “You said the blood on the towel couldn’t be my father’s.”

  “Correct.”

  “What if my father hid the towel in Emmet’s boot,” she said, feeling like she was about to sacrifice her dead father’s memory to save her brother, “intending to retrieve it later and dispose of it.” She refused to believe her father would set up his own son, but then she couldn’t believe any man, let alone her father could slaughter his family in cold blood.

  “It hasn’t been ruled out.” He motioned her toward the door. “After you.”

  “Not ruled out? But you’ve charged Emmet with murder.”

  “I’m unable to discuss details of the case with you. I suggest you speak with your brother’s lawyer.”

  The set of his jaw told her it was useless persisting.

  By the time she emerged into the station foyer, Gabe was waiting for her. He turned at her approach, his face a conflict of emotions. Did he want to hug her or hit her?

  After an apologetic look in Todd’s direction, he grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the door.

  “I’m not a child,” she hissed, shaking him off.

  “Well, stop acting like one.”

  “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder.

  Once outside, he dragged her up the street, past a couple of backpackers poring over a map, past a young clean-cut family bearing bibles, and then down a cobbled alleyway. One building wall acted as a billboard, curling and weathered event posters plastered on it and on top of each other. Gabe didn’t slow.

  Down the end, a man in a black apron was setting out a sandwich board, which read ‘Welcome to Breakfast Affair.’ At the sound of their echoing footsteps, he looked up, smiling before disappearing through a hole in the wall. They followed.

  The timber-floored café was brightly lit, the aroma of freshly baked bread strong in the air. A crowded planter box of red-leafed Cordylines in the window provided a burst of color.

  Gabe headed for the granite-topped counter that ran half the length of the narrow eatery. “What are you going to have?”

  “How can you eat at a time like this?”

  “I’m not allowed to sleep or eat? Is there anything you deem acceptable?” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “We need to keep our strength up. Do you really think you’re doing Emmet any favors by starving yourself? Two eggs, bacon, toast and a long black, please.”

  Dervla scanned the blackboard menu and ordered the toasted brioche, an orange juice and a double-shot espresso. “Happy now?” she asked Gabe.

  “Delirious.”

  Being the only diners there, they had the pick of the tables. Gabe led her to the rear of the café to a booth-style table meant for six. She eased herself in one side, wishing for one mad moment that she could stretch out on the cushioned seat.

  Gabe sat opposite her, his foot tapping the wooden floor. It was the first chance she’d had to study him. His lips were chapped, the smoker’s lines around them etched deeper than she remembered. Unlike Todd, he’d taken the time to shave.

  He patted his shirt pocket. “How was Emmet when you saw him?”

  “Bewildered. Defeated. Angry. Just how I’d imagine either one of us would be if we were in his shoes.”

  “It’s probably going to get worse before it gets better,” he said, setting his mobile phone on the table.

  “What aren’t you telling me? Why is everyone being so damned close-mouthed? I’m starting to feel like the proverbial mushroom here.” Her hand shot out and seized his phone. “What’s the name of that lawyer?”

  He extended his palm. “Thank you.”

  Ignoring it, she pressed last number redial.

  “Whoa.” He snatched it from her fingers before it could connect. “Back up, Dervla. What is all this?”

  “Your mate, Todd,” she paused for effect, stressing the next word, “suggested that I should speak to Emmet’s lawyer.”

  He frowned. “What about?”

  “You tell me.” She folded her arms along the edge of the table.

  The foot tapping stopped. “Not the search warrant? The lawyer made it clear to Emmet that he had no say in the matter, that the police didn’t need his permission to enter his apartment.”

  “So did they find what they were looking for?”

  “All I know for sure is they took away some of Emmet’s footwear for forensic testing.”

  She hid her surprise. “A lot of men have size 11 feet, you included.”

  “Yes, but then I didn’t leave a bloody footprint at the scene of a murder.”

  “Says who? What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  Gabe’s chin jutted out. “If he’s innocent, he has nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, sure. He’s only charged with murder. What’s to worry about?”

  He looked around as the waiter approached carrying a tray with the coffees and orange juice. “It makes no difference what we think. We have to let due process take its course.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Dervla said, after the waiter left.

  “Like what?”

  She downed her juice in two gulps, thirstier than she realized. “I don’t know yet, but I can’t sit back and do nothing.”

  Gabe sipped his coffee. “No playing detective, okay? You’ll only make everything worse. I don’t want to be paying for two lawyers.”

  “I’m quite capable of paying my own expenses.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “So,” she said, toying with her coffee spoon, “why are you footing Emmet’s defense? You obviously think he’s guilty.”

  CHAPTER 34

  By mid-morning, the sun had burnt off the last trace of cloud. In need of company, Dervla headed for Sophie’s place. Gabe had offered her a shoulder and his spare room, but she needed someone who wouldn’t judge her. Her brother meant well but somehow always managed to make her feel like a child who required constant supervision. His baby sister.

  She turned into Sophie’s street, mentally crossing her fingers. The last time Dervla had dropped in unannounced, Martin’s white van had been parked outside his ex-wife’s home. He was the last person she wanted to see. Him or Nathan. And especially there.

  Sophie met her at the door in her robe. “God, hon, you look dreadful. Come in before you fall down.”

  They hugged briefly, then Sophie steered her into the living room.

  “Sit.” Sophie pointed at a navy-blue seat, part-sofa, part-chaise lounge, near the window.

  Dervla did as commanded, sighing as she sank into the cushioned leather and kicked off her shoes.

  Sophie perched next to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Before Dervla could muster a response, her phone rang. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore it, but then worried it might
be important. She dragged her handbag onto her lap, found her mobile phone and saw it was John Bailey calling.

  “I have that information you want,” Bailey said, cutting to the chase when she answered.

  She perked up, miming to Sophie for pen and paper. “That’s great. Just give me a sec.”

  “Not quite so fast. We have an agreement, remember?”

  “Sorry,” she said, her mind suddenly in overdrive. If he found out the mobile number belonged to the flame-haired woman in the photo it might jeopardize any chance Dervla had of getting the woman to open up. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Emmet’s in custody, charged with murder.”

  “Your brother?” he asked.

  She could almost hear his mind ticking over. “Yes.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Sophie returned with a notepad and pen, listening attentively as Dervla filled Bailey in on what she could.

  “They must have more than that if they’ve charged him,” Bailey said when she’d finished.

  “What can I tell you? The police are playing their cards close to their chests. For all I know, they suspect me of being involved somehow.”

  “Are you?”

  Her mouth gaped. “I’m not going to even deign that with an answer.”

  “So you’re not protecting your brother?”

  “No! John, I’ve told you everything I know. Now, if you want me to continue to keep you informed, you’ll give me those details.”

  “Not until you tell me how this mobile number I’ve traced ties in with everything.”

  She let out a long breath. “I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I could always pay this person a visit…”

  “Please trust me on this.”

  “Trust is a mighty big word. I want something in writing that says I get exclusivity to your story – the whole story.”

  She hesitated. “I’ll get something drawn up and to you by tonight.” Better the official version than a concoction of half-truths.

  “Excellent. The phone number you gave me belongs to a Cassandra Marek in Healesville.”

  A woman. No surprises there. “Do you have an address?”

  “Of course.” He rattled it off.

  Sophie held the notepad steady while Dervla scribbled down the details.

  “Someone you know?” Sophie asked after Dervla rang off.

  “John Bailey, the reporter.”

  “I meant her,” Sophie said, nodding at the notepad.

  “Sorry. No, no one I know. Someone Dad knew – intimately if my hunch is right. Fancy a drive to Healesville?”

  Sophie’s head jerked back. “Now?”

  “Why not? I don’t have anything better to do.”

  “Don’t you think you should at least phone first and make sure she’s at home? You don’t want a wasted trip. Healesville isn’t exactly just round the corner.”

  Dervla shook her head. “I’ll risk it.”

  CHAPTER 35

  With Sophie in the passenger seat navigating, it took them fifty minutes to reach Coldstream in Melbourne’s outer east. Continuing along the Maroondah Highway, they travelled through kilometer after kilometer of leafy vineyards and rolling farmland, the hilltops browning. More traffic was leaving the city than going the other way.

  “You haven’t mentioned Martin,” Dervla said. “Does this mean he’s been behaving himself for a change?”

  Sophie turned her head toward her side window.

  “What’s happened? Talk to me.” Dervla’s gaze darted between her passenger and the road. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “You have enough to worry about. You don’t need any more.”

  “Let me be the one to decide that.”

  Sophie glanced up. “Damn, we were supposed to turn right back there.”

  Checking her rear-view mirror, Dervla flicked on her indicator and pulled to the side of the road. “Martin?” she prompted, while she waited for the traffic in both directions to clear.

  “Martin’s an arsehole?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Honestly, hon, there’s not much to tell.”

  “Does he know about you and Nathan?”

  “I had a drink with Nathan, that’s it. If you really want to know, all he could talk about was you. Actually, I found out more about your relationship in those few minutes than I have from you in the whole time we’ve been friends.”

  Dervla felt a sharp pang in her chest. “What’s to tell? The past is the past.”

  “You have to deal with it first.”

  “I have. I’ve moved on with my life.”

  “Right,” Sophie said. “That would explain why you’ve had no serious relationships since.”

  “Excuse me? How did we get from talking about your problems with Martin, to my done and dusted relationship with Nathan?”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Sophie said.

  A gap in the traffic. Dervla grabbed it, completing the U-turn with only a second to spare as a truck laden with logs thundered down the hill.

  Leaving the highway, they drove past high-fenced bushland on one side, open farmland on the other.

  “Second on the left,” Sophie said.

  Dervla turned into the road, reducing her speed for the narrow unsealed surface. A few minutes later, she pulled onto a grass verge. Through the copse of trees and shrubs fronting the road, she glimpsed a tin-roofed timber house.

  Here goes nothing, she thought, unclipping her seatbelt. “Coming?”

  “I’ll wait here. It’s probably better you talk to her on your own. You don’t want to intimidate the woman.”

  Dervla nodded. “Good thinking.”

  “I’m not just a pretty face.” Sophie tilted her seat back and closed her eyes. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

  Dervla followed the driveway in. Except for the gravel crunching underfoot, all was quiet. The air smelled faintly of lavender and horses. Two faded blue rocking chairs sat on the deck under the veranda, an eclectic collection of pots and plants adding to the cottagey feel.

  In the next instant, a golden retriever bounded around the corner of the house, its legs and belly muddy and bedraggled, barking madly, its tail keeping tempo. Dervla stood stock-still. The dog’s tail wagged faster, so Dervla proffered the back of her hand.

  A woman’s voice rang out. “Rosie!”

  The dog tore off in the direction it’d come from. Rosie’s owner appeared at the other end of the deck, her flaming-red hair confirmation enough of Dervla’s hunch. Dressed in a green singlet top and long denim shorts, the woman looked to be in her early forties, older than Dervla had expected her to be from the photo. Her toned arms and legs suggested she worked hard to keep in shape.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked, approaching.

  “I hope so. I’m Warren’s daughter, Dervla.”

  For a long moment, the woman said nothing, her expression more one of resignation than shock. “You’d better come in, then,” she said, finally.

  Dervla followed her down the veranda to the front door. The dog stayed outside.

  “Cass Marek, by the way,” the woman said, leading Dervla into a carpeted sitting area. “But of course, you probably already know that.”

  Two claret-red couches flanked a box fireplace, the centerpiece an inlaid wooden chest that doubled as a coffee table. Cass motioned for Dervla to sit, then sat opposite.

  “One of yours?” Dervla asked referring to the poster-sized monochrome photograph of what appeared to be a seed head on the wall behind Cass.

  “Yes,” Cass said, hesitant. “You obviously know a lot more about me than I know about you.”

  “Did Warren not talk about his family?”

  “Not much, no.”

  Dervla blushed, realizing too late that an adulterer didn’t discuss his wife and children with his mistress.

  “I’m still not sure why you’re here,” Cass
said.

  That made two of them. “Someone sent compromising photos of you and my father to a reporter.”

  Cass blanched. “A reporter?”

  “Yes, fortunately – or unfortunately – he brought them to me.”

  “Do you have these photos with you? Can I see them?”

  From her handbag, Dervla withdrew the printed copies and handed them over.

  Cass studied them for a few moments, her mouth tense. “Who else knows about these?” she asked, placing the photos face down on the chest.

  “A friend and my brothers.” Dervla paused. “And the police.”

  The blood drained from Cass’s face. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

  Dervla leaned forward. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear. My older brother, Gabe, took the original photos without my knowledge. The police haven’t identified you as the woman.”

  “Yet,” Cass said, voicing Dervla’s thought.

  “Since they’re going to find out sooner or later, why don’t you take the initiative and contact them? Unless, of course, you have something to hide,” Dervla said, glancing around the room for evidence of a Mr Marek.

  “I’m not particularly proud that I fell for a married man’s charms, but I have nothing to hide.” Cass’s cheeks flushed pink.

  “Can I ask how long you and my father were involved? How did you meet?”

  “Only a couple of months. We met when he commissioned me to do some photographic work for him. One thing led to another and, well, you know the rest.”

  Her father’s camping weekends suddenly took on new meaning. “I assume he spent time here.”

  Cass nodded. “When he could.”

  “Did it never concern you that he had a wife and two young children at home who adored him?”

  “To be honest, no. Not until I actually met Lucinda. Until then she was just a name.”

  Dervla’s heart thudded. “Lucinda knew about you and Warren?”

  “She turned up here one day out of the blue, demanding I stay away from her husband. That she was pregnant.” Cass wrung her hands. “That changed everything. I told your father I couldn’t see him anymore. I didn’t tell him why.”