Bitter Nothings

by Vicki Tyley

  “How are you feeling?”

  The corner of Sophie’s mouth twitched.

  “Sorry, stupid question. Here,” she said, pulling underwear, a soft-knit dress, and sandals from her shoulder bag. “I didn’t think you’d want to wear a hospital gown home.”

  Sophie mumbled a thanks and slipped off the bed, clutching the clothes to her chest as she padded to the bathroom.

  A bouquet of white lilies and greenery on the bedside table drew Dervla’s gaze. She moved closer. Amid the blooms, attached to an acrylic prong, was a small white envelope bearing the florist’s logo. Who besides herself and the police even knew Sophie was in hospital?

  Her attacker.

  Curiosity got the better of her. She plucked the envelope from the prong and read the card inside: Dearest Sophie, thinking of you. Nate.

  Nate as in Nathan? Surely not. She replaced the card, dropping into a visitor chair as the bathroom door opened.

  The one-size-fits-all dress Dervla had brought from home hung like a sack on Sophie. At least it looked comfortable.

  “I’m parked miles away. Why don’t you rest here while I go and get the car. That’s assuming you’ve actually been discharged.”

  Sophie nodded, pointing to a wad of folded papers on the bed tray.

  “Don’t forget your flowers,” Dervla said. “Or would it be easier if I carried them?”

  “I’m not that much of an invalid.”

  Dervla glanced at the lilies. “Someone has taste.”

  “Nathan sent them,” Sophie said, avoiding Dervla’s gaze while she poured herself a glass of water. “Sweet, don’t you think?”

  “How did he find out you were in here?”

  “I rang him.”

  Dervla’s chin jutted forward. “You rang him?”

  “Call it a moment of drug-induced madness. I was alone and feeling sorry for myself, and he had said I could ring him any time of the day or night. Only as a friend, mind.”

  Dervla snorted. “Nathan doesn’t know the meaning of that word. Why didn’t you ring me instead?”

  “It was three-thirty in the morning. Don’t you think you have enough shit going on in your life without me disrupting the little sleep you’re getting?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t think like that.” Dervla paused. “I know it’s none of my business, but have you and Nathan been seeing each other behind my back?”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Am I? You’re both compulsive flirts.”

  “Which is why it’d never work.” Sophie placed a hand over her heart. “I swear last night was the first time I’ve spoken to him since we had that drink in the city.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that…” Dervla hitched her bag over her shoulder. “Never mind. I’ll pick you up outside the main entrance. Give me ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Out in the corridor near the lifts, she slowed, surreptitiously checking out the people in the clinic waiting area. Only when she’d confirmed Alana and Toxic weren’t there, did she press the lift button. She’d call Alana later.

  CHAPTER 41

  Dervla stared at the dotted grid on her computer screen. One of her regular clients had asked her for few design suggestions for an upcoming trade fair promotion. So far she’d come up with zip. Other people used work to forget. Why couldn’t she?

  Because her brother was in custody, refused bail, and awaiting trial for a crime he wasn’t capable of. And in the next room lay a bruised and battered Sophie, nursing wounds that probably went deeper than the gash on her head. Until Martin was caught and jailed, her friend would never be safe. None of which Dervla had any control over.

  Pushing her chair out of the way, she lay on her back on the floor. Eyes closed and arms by her side, she counted back from a hundred and tried to empty her mind.

  Ninety-nine…

  Ninety-eight…

  Ninety-seven…

  Her eyes sprang open. It suddenly came to her what had been bothering her about the photos of her father with Cass Marek. Why would a wife hire an investigator to follow her husband and then send the incriminating photos to a reporter? Especially if she was pregnant. Dervla could see Lucinda confronting Warren with the evidence of his infidelity, but what woman in her right mind would want it made public?

  Besides, why would John Bailey hold onto the photos for over a week before doing anything with them? Or he hadn’t had them for a week. In which case, how did a dead woman post something? Had Lucinda even known about the photos?

  Dervla scrambled to her feet and closed her office door.

  Grabbing her phone, she stood facing the window and called Bailey. “Do you still have the envelope those photos came in?” she asked, the instant he answered.

  “Good afternoon to you, too.”

  “This is important.”

  “Everything is with you,” he said. “Hold on. I think I have it here somewhere.”

  “When did you receive the photos?”

  “The same day I came to you with them,” he said, his voice fading.

  She heard paper rustling. “And when is it postmarked?”

  “Two days before that.”

  “Which means that Lucinda couldn’t have sent them to you.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You didn’t ask. Is that all? I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “Before you go, John…”

  “What?”

  “Good afternoon.” She smiled and hung up.

  If Lucinda wasn’t behind the photos, who was? What did they stand to gain by sending them to a reporter? Did Cass Marek have a scorned man somewhere? Dervla sat back down in front of her computer and opened a new Internet browser window.

  After an hour researching, she’d discovered that Cass was divorced, but that her ex-husband had remarried and was living in Indonesia. Another dead end.

  The phone rang. In her rush to silence it, she almost knocked it off the desk.

  “Hello?”

  “Dervla, it’s Todd. I thought you’d like to know we traced the email you forwarded to me back to an Internet café in the city. Unfortunately, that’s all the information we have. The place has cameras installed, but they haven’t been operational for a week.”

  She sighed. “Great.”

  “Have you received any others?”

  “No, but it’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “The hospital inform me that Sophie Lombardi is in your care. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she?”

  “Alive.”

  “We’re doing everything we can to apprehend Martin Lombardi. In the meantime, I want you to keep your guard up. Don’t hesitate to call me for any reason. Even if it’s a noise you’re not sure of.”

  “Thanks, Todd. I appreciate that. Any news on the case against Emmet?”

  “Sorry, Dervla, no.”

  “I read an article today where a 15-year-old Perth boy spent a year in jail fighting a rape charge before he was finally acquitted.”

  When Todd didn’t respond, she continued. “Not everyone you lock up is guilty. The system isn’t infallible.”

  “No system involving humans can be.” He paused. “I’ll check in on you and your friend later. Don’t go out unless you have to.”

  She hung up, her gaze alighting on the RSPCA calendar on the wall above her computer. November twenty-fifth. What would’ve been her and Nathan’s third wedding anniversary if they’d made it down the aisle. And stayed married.

  Her parents had been married almost ten times as long. When her father left it had destroyed her mother. Dervla swore no man would ever do that to her, but she hadn’t counted on emotions getting in on the act. In one way, Nathan had done her a favor turning up. It confirmed what she’d known all along – that whatever had been between them was long gone. Sophie was right, Dervla hadn’t moved on. Now she could.

 
; A knock at the office door startled Dervla from her reverie. She jumped up and opened it.

  Sophie stood in the hall, her robe clinched tight at her waist, hands fisted together at her chest. “What if Martin killed them?”

  CHAPTER 42

  Dervla gaped at Sophie in astonishment. “What are you talking about?”

  Her friend’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What if Martin murdered your father and stepmother and…?” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Dervla frowned, still not sure she was hearing right. “God knows he’s probably capable, but what possible motive could he have? He’d never even met Dad or Lucinda, had he?”

  “Size 11 shoe size.”

  “Oh, Sophie,” she said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “not every man with size 11 feet is guilty of murder.”

  A sob erupted from Sophie, her expression crumpling. “He found out.”

  “Found out what?”

  Sophie buried her face in her hands.

  “Found out what, Sophie?”

  “Please don’t hate me…”

  Dervla tensed, shrinking back.

  “It wasn’t planned. It just happened. You have to believe me.”

  “What just happened?”

  “Warren and I.”

  “You were having an affair with my father?” Dervla asked, the words rebounding.

  Sophie raised her head, holding Dervla’s gaze for an instant, then looked away.

  “How could you? You of all people. We’re talking about my father here, Lucinda’s husband, not some anonymous guy you picked up in a bar.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sophie blubbered. “No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to get hurt.”

  “But why? When? How long?”

  Sophie shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

  Dervla didn’t know if she’d ever be able to forgive her friend, but right then that was the least of her worries. “We have to tell the police.”

  Sophie’s bottom lip trembled.

  “Everything,” Dervla said, already halfway across her office to the phone.

  Detective Gleeson answered on the third ring.

  “Todd, it’s Dervla. Sophie has something I think you should hear. It involves her ex-husband.”

  “Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said.

  “Todd’s on his way,” Dervla said turning her back on Sophie and replacing the phone on the desk. She could scarcely bear to look at her.

  “Let me explain.” Sophie stretched her hand out.

  Dervla stepped out of reach. “Explain what? Why my father was cheating on his wife with his daughter’s friend?”

  Sophie cringed. “I know how bad that sounds, but it wasn’t like that. Your father and Lucinda were husband and wife in name only. They stayed together for the sake of the children.”

  “Lucinda was pregnant.”

  “Yes, well…” Sophie said, hanging her head.

  “He used you. Just like he used Cass Marek and God knows how many others. How long had you and he…” Dervla spun circles in the air with her hand, struggling with the words.

  “A few months.”

  “Months? Oh God.” She slumped into her office chair, any hope that it had been nothing more than a one-night stand shattered. “Were you still…?”

  “Still seeing each other?” Sophie shook her head. “No. I ended it when I realized there was no future in it. But he kept calling, wanting to see me again.”

  “How did Martin find out?”

  “He must’ve followed me, seen us. We tried to be discreet.”

  Dervla laughed. “That’s one word for it.”

  A strained silence fell between the two women.

  “Would you prefer I left?” Sophie asked finally.

  “The police want to talk to you. They’ll be here soon.”

  “And afterwards?”

  When Dervla didn’t answer, Sophie turned and walked from the room.

  Dervla kneaded her temples and tried not to think about her father and her friend in bed together. What had Sophie been thinking? What had he been thinking? Though in her father’s case, it was undoubtedly more about what he had been thinking with.

  Ten minutes later, the doorbell sounded. After a cursory greeting, she showed Todd and DSC Brooke Stewart down the hall to the living area.

  Sophie had made herself a cup of tea and was seated at the dining table. She glanced up, a pink spot on each cheek. “Can we do this somewhere else? Dervla doesn’t need to hear it all again.”

  Todd glanced sideways at Dervla, then back to Sophie. “If you’re up to it, you can come back to the station with us now.”

  “Fine.” Sophie scraped back her chair. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  “You might like to get dressed first,” Todd said.

  CHAPTER 43

  No sooner had Sophie left with the detectives than the phone rang.

  “Finally,” said a gruff male voice when she answered.

  “Emmet?”

  “I need a new lawyer.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the one you have?”

  “I sacked him.”

  Dervla closed her eyes. “Why?”

  “He thinks I’m guilty.”

  “He said that?”

  “Didn’t have to. Can’t talk. They monitor everything.”

  “Have you spoken to Gabe about it?”

  “Four times I rang him, but it’s not like I can leave a message for him to call me back, is it?”

  “I’ll talk to Gabe. Em, can I check something with you?”

  “What?”

  She grimaced, hesitating. “The key to Dad and Lucinda’s place the police found—”

  “Believe what you like, Dervla. I don’t fucking care.” Clunk. The line went dead.

  In slow motion, she replaced the handset. Her brother’s mood deteriorated further with each passing day. Hardly surprising when he thought the whole world was against him. And nothing she could say, it seemed, would convince him otherwise.

  Returning to the living room, she unfolded the newspaper on the coffee table and looked for details of the independent forensic investigator who’d helped secure the release of the 15-year-old Perth boy unjustly accused of a crime he didn’t commit. Except on rereading it, she realized the former British detective superintendent specialized in sexual investigations not murder. She sighed, the words clutching and straws springing to mind.

  The doorbell rang. She closed the newspaper and went to answer it.

  As she opened the door, her visitor turned from looking at the street to face her.

  “Harry!” One part of her was pleased to see him, another preferring to be alone.

  “How’s the patient?”

  “Not here.”

  “Your guest bed that bad, eh?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Remember that sandwich you promised me?” He held aloft three bulging brown paper bags. “I wasn’t taking any chances this time.”

  She laughed. It felt good. Maybe company was exactly what she needed. Stepping back, she waved him inside. He brushed past her, so close she could smell the sun-warmed cotton of his shirt. Her breathing quickened.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said, closing the door behind him. “I have to make a short phone call.”

  Ducking into her office, she took a minute to compose herself, then phoned Gabe. Like all Emmet’s calls had, it went to voicemail. She left what she hoped wasn’t a too garbled message about Emmet sacking his lawyer and hung up.

  Out in the kitchen, Harry had taken her at her word. He’d found plates and was unwrapping the sandwiches. “I hope you like Mediterranean roasted vegetables,” he said, looking up.

  “Sure beats the cheese and vegemite sandwich you were going to get from me. The least I can do is make the coffees.” She skirted around him and grabbed two cups from the dish rack.

  She busied herself refilling the espresso machine’s water tank, th
en grinding fresh beans. In such a confined space, she found it difficult not to bump into Harry.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, catching her elbow when her hip knocked against the bench.

  She gave a nervous laugh. “Fine. The floor must be wet there.”

  Without letting go of her, he glanced down at the tiles near her feet. He then placed a hand on each of her arms and steered her around the invisible spill. The closer he drew her to him, the harder her heart thumped. By the time she was standing less than a hand’s width from him, she could scarcely breathe, let alone speak.

  His fingers touched her cheek, sending a tingle through her body. He tipped her chin up, his copper-flecked eyes studying her flushed face. He bent down and kissed her lips. Softly at first, then more insistent.

  Her body responded in a way she hadn’t expected, pressing itself hard against Harry’s. She clung to him, not wanting to let go, lost in the moment. Lost in the kiss. Then without warning, she started to cry. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight, his shirt smothering her sobs.

  Eventually the tears subsided. Too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she slipped from his embrace and went in search for a tissue.

  When she returned, the plates of sandwiches were on the dining table and Harry was in the throes of making the coffees. With her legs threatening to give way beneath her, she dropped onto a dining chair. She watched him, averting her gaze the instant the hiss of the espresso machine stopped.

  Without a word, he set the two steaming coffee cups on the table and sat in the seat opposite. Nodding at the chunky sandwich in front of her, he picked up his in both hands and bit into it. Juice dribbled down the side of his hand and onto the plate.

  She pecked at the crust of her sandwich.

  Harry finished chewing and wiped his hands on a paper towel. He obviously hadn’t discovered the napkins in the pantry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So you said. I’m a good listener. Try me.”

  “Even if part of that complication is you?” She prodded a sundried tomato back into her sandwich.

  “You must be referring to some other guy,” he said. “I’m not complicated. What you see is what you get, and I get the impression you like what you see. Am I wrong?”