“Possibly,” Moore said, still not ready to let Dalrymple off the hook. “But there’s more to her than meets the eye. Young Wilson is lying —”
“Of course he is!” Waikeri cut in. “He’s shagging her and doesn’t want anyone to know. That’s not police business. If she was the pickpocket that would be different. But she’s not.”
“No she’s not,” Moore agreed, wishing Dalrymple was six inches shorter so they could bring her in on suspicion.
“You heard about the one last night?”
Moore shook his head.
“She’s indoors now,” Waikeri told him. “Cracked on to a tourist in the Royal Arms. All over each other a witness said, then she excused herself to go to the toilet —”
“And did a Houdini,” Moore guessed, “After which the tourist discovered his wallet was missing? She’s good,” Moore admitted. But a shark killing people had to have a higher priority than a petty thief, so he said, “Getting back to what’s happening at Saltwood …”
Waikeri rolled his eyes and reached for the chocolates.
“I want to go back.” Moore knew he was being belligerent, but there was definitely something suspicious about Dalrymple and he was bloody well going to find out what it was. “I want a sample of her nail polish.”
Waikeri waved his chocolate at Moore. “The Wilson boy will pop an artery if you drool over his girlfriend again. We’d have to have a reason.”
“Speaking of arteries …” Moore said, gazing at the chocolate.
Waikeri deliberately put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. “You were saying?” he asked when he’d swallowed and licked his fat fingers.
Let it go, Moore told himself, Focus on the case. “I could tell them there was something in the water apart from the shark, possibly two dangerous creatures out there, and I need to know if she saw it.”
“Mmm.” Waikeri frowned but Moore wasn’t sure if he’d snagged his interest with the two dangerous creatures line. “And the reason you need a sample of her nail polish?”
“I’ll think of something,” Moore promised. “The pathologist’s sending his report, so I can get a search warrant in case Wilson turns uncooperative.”
Waikeri said nothing, he just looked at Moore with an unnerving stare, as if the big bastard knew something Moore didn’t.
“What?” Moore demanded.
Waikeri put the scales sample down on his desk, then he was silent a moment before saying, “Do you have any idea who paid for this new police station?”
“The state government,” Moore said, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything.
“Old man Wilson paid for it,” Waikeri said, and Moore felt his frustration with his superior morph into cold shock.
“That’s… illegal,” he said. “Private citizens can’t fund government buildings, especially law enforcement facilities.”
Waikeri nodded. “It was channeled through a donation to the historical restoration project which was then slid sideways into regional development. The District Supervisor — old man Wilson’s very good friend — told me on the QT last year, along with a look after them discussion.”
Moore shook his head, incredulous.
“So,” Waikeri went on, “You may have a problem getting one of his cronies to sign a search warrant for Saltwood.”
“Fuck.”
Waikeri shrugged. The two policeman looked at each other, then Waikeri added, “Nothing stopping you calling in on the way past to add to your report. Two creatures now. She might have remembered more.”
“But don’t upset the Wilsons,” Moore said. It wasn’t a question.
Waikeri didn’t bother to reply to that. It was obvious. “Leave it till this afternoon,” he said. “We’ve got a press conference to deal with first.” Then he turned back to his computer. “Vigo bloody Skeyne and his showmanship.”
“He’ll be worth it,” Moore said. “He does the job.”
Waikeri grunted, then said, “Timetables and passenger lists on the bus lines?”
Moore shook his head. “No one has a Venus Dalrymple coming into Bundaberg within the last week, and drivers of local buses travelling near the beach where Wilson found her don’t remember a passenger of that description yesterday.”
“She’s been at Saltwood for a while,” Waikeri surmised. “I knew there was a history between her and young Wilson.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Moore said, then added, “And listen, can I take the new four wheel drive? The winch on mine is broken and if it rains and I get bogged…”
Waikeri picked up another chocolate and gave Moore a smarmy smile. “My pride and joy? Not a chance, cun–stable.”
Chapter Twelve
Baz sat on a banana lounge watching Venus doing laps of the pool. When she executed a turn he saw a flash of what was beneath the thin cotton T–shirt she wore and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d been able to distract his father with an old Gene Kelly movie.
Ted and their new housekeeper hadn’t met. Which meant all was well.
So far.
But that was the thing. Having Venus at Saltwood felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop. A sensation of impending doom was never far from the pit of Baz’s stomach. Yet coupled with that was a sense of challenge and satisfaction that won out every time. She might come from some strange religious cult, or be the forerunner of a secret baby trade, but while she was at Saltwood he had a chance to change things for her, to make a difference. In all the time he’d taught science he’d never felt he’d made a difference in anyone’s life beyond their report card. But this was personal. He was going to stop one person from wrecking their life. And for reasons he wasn’t clear on, that thrilled him even before it had happened.
Of course it would be risky. She was so alien, so completely unpredictable she might get him into any sort of trouble. He’d already perjured himself to the police, which had been stupid. But despite the fact that she was stranger than strange, he found her endearing and he was looking forward to helping her, whether she liked it or not.
She reached his end of the pool and turned while Baz held his breath. It wasn’t a regulation swimming turn. It was curving sort of flip that used hands more than feet. And she never pushed off from the side, just struck out with those beautiful long arms. From time to time she remembered to wiggle her legs, but she clearly wasn’t relying on them for propulsion. No wonder she’d nearly drowned. Although, he could see from watching her that she rarely pulled her head up for air. Baz had never met anyone who could hold their breath as long as she could.
Another weird fact. Among many.
He shivered, then slung the towel he’d brought for her around his shoulders. Every time the sun went behind the clouds a chilly wind appeared, snaking over the grass, making him wish he’d worn joggers instead of sandals. Venus would be warm in the water, but outside the pool the air was rapidly cooling and it wasn’t even lunch time.
Baz turned to look over his shoulder and saw thunder–heads forming out over the ocean.
Big storm.
He turned back to Venus and watched her execute a turn at the far end of the pool – a slower turn. He decided she’d probably had enough anyway. It was time to go back in. As she approached his end he knelt at the side of the pool and prepared to reached down and tap her. Her body twisted at the start of a turn, and in that moment the sun came out from behind the clouds and reflected off the water. The sudden dazzle momentarily blinded Baz and he had to squint against it while he reached forward to touch her shoulder.
Venus’s head came up, plastered with hair. Beneath it her eyeballs were silver.
“Shit! “ Baz snapped his hand back and stared at her in horror.
“Baz,” she replied, and blinked. When her eyes reopened the blue irises and black pupils were back.
As if … he’d imagined it.
“Your eyes,” he said, and pointed a wavering finger. Damn it. He couldn’t have imagined it three times. Coul
d he?
She pushed the sodden hair off her face and in the process, tilted her head slightly as she blinked again. The sun was still hitting the water, and now it sparkled off the droplets on her long, dark eyelashes, confusing him. Was that what he’d seen? A reflection?
He blinked, trying to refocus, to be sure. But of course, there was nothing to be sure of. The sun had blinded him. She’d had her eyes closed and he’d seen the sun reflecting off her eyelids. They’d just looked silver because …
Because that’s what he’d thought he’d seen in her bedroom?
Well, she was weird. He’d already established that. She was weird and he was tired. What else could be happening? She was a robot in disguise?
Baz shivered again and decided he should have another coffee. “Time to get out,” he told her and stood. “There’s weather coming.”
She looked over the edge of the pool and across the lawn to the cliff top and the storm–front building in the distance. “The clouds are dark. That indicates a possibility of strong winds and torrential rain.”
Again with sounding like an encyclopedia, but he just said, “Bingo. So it’s time to go inside and batten down the hatches.” He nodded towards the pool steps a couple of meters away.
Venus frowned and stayed where she was, holding onto the side of the pool at his feet, her head tilted up so she could gaze up at him anxiously. “Will it be dangerous?”
“Nah. We’re exposed on the cliff top,” he admitted, “but we’ve had cyclones before and Saltwood has survived. Forest fires are more of a problem than storms,” he added, jerking a thumb at the scrubland a hundred meters away on the other side of a stone garden fence.
She frowned at the thunder–heads. “Wouldn’t we be safer in the water?”
“Not when there’s lightning,” he said and started walking toward the pool steps to encourage her to move.
She didn’t. “The electrical charge from lightning dissipates in water,” she said.
“Maybe in the ocean,” he replied, “But swimming pools are smaller. Lightning turns them into a stewpot.” He stopped at the steps and tilted his head, thinking it odd that she knew about lightning but not toothbrush packaging. But before he could comment on it she let go the pool edge and swam to the steps. He helped her out and handed her the towel, glancing away politely as she stripped off her sodden T–shirt and shorts and handed them to him.
No modesty. The girl had no modesty whatsoever. Finally she was wrapped in the towel, trailing him back inside.
“I’m hungry again,” she said, leaving wet footprints across the veranda. “I need to eat.”
Baz glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly one. What about you have a quick shower and then we’ll eat.” He opened the back door and led her through the kitchen. When they reached the hallway he heard crunching and turned to find her with her hand inside a cereal packet she was carrying.
“Srack, “ she said around a mouthful.
“Snack,” he agreed as he led her down the hallway to her guest suite. The cereal was actually a good idea. If she wasn’t starving he might be able to buy himself an hour to get his father organized for the afternoon, because that movie would be finishing shortly. Baz let her into her rooms to hustle her into action. He had lots to do himself. “You have a shower and wash your hair and I’ll come back with some lunch. We’ll eat here.” He pointed to the sitting room. “Then maybe you’ll want another nap.” Surely all that swimming had tired her out. Either that or he’d set her up in front of her television. Baz needed to keep both her and his father occupied so he could download the Power of Attorney paperwork and read it before getting Ted to sign it. Then Baz planned to ring Rand back to tell him that the new documents were signed, and he was officially out of the picture.
“Sleepy,” she said and handed him the cereal box, then she walked straight past the bathroom, shed the towel and flopped onto her bed.
Baz went around to the other side of her bed, picked up the edges of the quilt and draped it over her, then he let himself out of her rooms, deciding he’d ask her the questions over lunch. He had to be firm with her. Set boundaries. But when he left her and went to see how Ted was faring in the media room, Baz realised his father actually had the edge when it came to unpredictability. While Gene Kelly was singing in the rain, Ted was tap dancing around coffee tables, balancing by grabbing the backs of the armchairs that faced the huge projection screen.
Baz propped himself in the doorway, cereal packet in the crook of his arm and wet clothes in his hand, suddenly feeling as exhausted as Venus had looked only moments ago.
She wasn’t his only problem, and in fact, she was the lesser problem.
Perspective was an ugly thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Randolph Budjenski clicked the end call button on his new iPhone, the one with the fake customer ID. Satisfaction sang inside him like the wailing opera singers he’d just pretended to adore. He pulled off his head–set and turned to give Poss a grin. “Stupid fucker thinks he’s smarter than me,” he said from the broken beer–stained table they’d scrounged from a nightclub. “But I’m all over him.”
Possum grinned back, the huge brown eyes that gave him his nick–name momentarily narrowed as he dragged on some weed. For a second Rand was flung back in time to the moment he’d first seen the kid lying in a back alley, beaten and gang–banged to within an inch of his life. He’d literally pulled Poss out of the gutter and somehow the stray had gotten under his skin. The little brother he’d never had. Annoying as hell, but endearing all the same.
“You’re a player,” Poss acknowledged, holding his breath to give the gunja its best shot at intoxicating him. “Got the Di Caprio looks. Got the class to go with it. A true artist,” he added, then blew the smoke from his prematurely clogged lungs into a long thin stream. “Was it the old dude?”
“The son,” Rand said, getting up from the table to stretch. “Thinks he’s warned me off.”
“How much in this action?” Possum asked, eager for the juice. “Enough to buy fresh weed?”
“For a month,” Rand lied, and nodded when Possum whistled. The truth was, this sting would keep them in luxury for life – it was the one Rand had been waiting for, had been working towards – but he wasn’t about to spill details to a stoner like Possum who might blurt it out to the low–lives at the pub. The last thing Rand needed was some hopeful trying to muscle in on his prime gig.
Better to keep it hush and work the angles himself. The first thing he needed was to check that the home address he’d hacked out of the old man’s ISP database was correct, and that he actually owned the place, which equaled: Property Worth Acquiring. Then there were the legal technicalities, but that was do–able.
As a street kid, Rand could get Legal Aid on tap. So all he had to do was make up a problem and then steer the conversation into theoretical areas. The latest ‘suit’ at the aid office was particularly easy to drain. Rand had told her he was writing a short story about an inheritance problem and now she fell over herself trying to help. Young and eager. They all started out that way. Give her a year of being played and she’d find some reserve. At the moment, though, she was an opened treasure chest of information Rand was happy to plunder.
“Gotta stretch,” he told Possum, and paused at the couch to slap his bud’s hand on the way to the pile of clothes where he found a not–too–smelly denim shirt and pulled it on over his cut–off jeans. “Gunna rain?” he asked, looking through the pile for the taslon jacket he’d found at the train station.
Possum closed his eyes and sniffed. Rand wasn’t sure how the skinny little rat lying in his filthy jocks could smell anything other than dope and his own stink, but as far as weather–gauges went, Poss was near infallible. Country breeding.
“No rain,” Possum said at last, then took another drag. He held the reefer out to Rand who gave up his search for the jacket and shook his head.
“Might stop off at Trixi’s Parlor,” he said and wink
ed. “Won’t have no fun with a limp gunja–dick.”
Possum laughed so hard he nearly fell off the sofa, but Rand knew it was just the dope. Impossible to have a decent conversation with his illegal dependent when he was stoned 24/7. “Ah man,” Possum said, tears brimming his eyes. “You break me up.”
Rand saw his Nikes under the chipped glass coffee table, but when he pulled them out covered in mud and what could have been vomit, his goodwill evaporated. Fucking Poss. “You shit–for–brains,” he said, and straightened to kick the lounge. “You cost me a bucket and you do fuck–all.” He pointed at the mound of pizza boxes in the corner. “Stop ringing the man for food every time you’re stoned.” Then he waved a hand around their filthy squat. “And clean this fuckin’ place up before I get back.” He threw a note at Possum. “Take the clothes to the Laundromat.”
“Sure,” Possum said and snagged the twenty, crumpling it in his fist.
“Don’t spend it on piss,” Rand warned. “Or pizza.”
“I hear you, man,” Possum said, and laughed at his own attempts to struggle upright on the sofa, his fingers getting caught in the burn holes. “I’ll be straight. I’ll be your little cleaning skirt.”
“Fucker,” Rand said and shook his head – knew he shouldn’t have given Poss a twenty. There was no way he’d go to the Laundromat with that. He’d spend it on anesthetic. They all did when they came to the Valley.
It had taken Rand four years to clean up to the point where he could function. At seventeen, he was making a good living now on scams. But Possum was only fourteen. Rand shouldn’t expect him to be as responsible. Particularly with his history. But the only way to make him be responsible was to give him responsibility. Rand didn’t need a social worker to tell him that. He’d learnt it the hard way.
So he gave Possum money and tried not to get shitty when he blew it. One day the kid would do the right thing. And until then, well, it was only a twenty.
Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes) Page 9