Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  On the drive back to her place, she filled Mike in as to what had happened. ‘I don’t want to alienate him completely,’ she said. ‘He might be useful. He’s obviously got links to Finn and his enemies.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at the photo,’ said Mike once they were inside. Gemma passed it to him.

  ‘I might be able to get something off it,’ he finally said. ‘My laptop’s in the boot – I’ll bring it in and see what I can do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Remember that enhancing program?’ Mike said. ‘I’ve used it a couple of times before. There’s not much to go on in this photo, but we might get something off the clothes. I’ll try and get the section of her face a little clearer, although I’m not too hopeful of that.’

  ‘There’s part of some sort of dressing table there on the side,’ Gemma said, pointing, ‘and the door to the wardrobe is a little open. We might be able to get a line on her fashion sense.’

  She paused. ‘I’m starving. How about brunch?’

  They worked together in the kitchen, Mike making scrambled eggs while Gemma sliced tomatoes, made a stack of toast and picked some parsley from the only plant that hadn’t gone to seed in the neglected planter box on the timber deck. The day was unsettled, like her mood, with a blustery southerly tipping the waves with white spray and the grey sky cold and enervating.

  Yet from somewhere nearby came the scent of flowering jasmine, and its aroma took Gemma back to past winters and the memory that jasmine brought, that spring was on its way.

  It was too cold to eat out on the deck, so they sat companionably together at the dining table. Then Mike carried the plates over to the kitchen and Gemma rinsed them while he set up his laptop and the enhancing program.

  ‘All ready,’ he said, returning.

  She smiled at him. Funny how she’d never really noticed how his eyes smiled even when his face was still. Her heart was suddenly flooded with warmth and gratitude. ‘Mike,’ she said, ‘thanks for everything. All the kind things you’ve done for me. The bikkies. The invitations that I haven’t taken up. The shoulder to cry on. Your fancy computer skills. I’m sorry if I’ve taken you for granted.’

  He gave a wry smile back at her. ‘It’s all part of my strategy,’ he said.

  ‘Strategy?’ she frowned.

  But then the office phone rang, and she ran up the hallway to answer it.

  ‘Toby Boyd,’ a voice said when she answered. ‘I just wanted to let you know that Steffi’s home and she’s fine.’

  ‘Great. But what happened?’

  ‘It was almost exactly as you suggested,’ Toby said. ‘She walked in on Trimble. He was bloody well wanking while wearing the wedding dress she’d been paying off to marry him in! He even had her bridal suspender belt and stockings on! Steff said that she just went crazy. She hit him and he hit her back. The bastard split her lip open.’

  That confirmed the blood on the dress, Gemma thought.

  ‘Then she grabbed a few things,’ Toby continued, ‘took a lump of cash with her – all the money she had – and picked up a lucky cab on the corner. She took the bus north and ended up in a pub in Grafton and got a job there. She’s been working in the hotel kitchen and doing counter teas and lunches. I barely recognised her when she walked in. She’s lost a lot of weight and her hair is really short and dark brown. I’m just so happy she’s home and safe. Mum’s over the moon.’

  ‘I’m very relieved to hear it,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll close the case and finalise your account.’

  ‘I want to thank you,’ Toby said. ‘You put a lot of work into trying to find my sister.’

  When she rang off, she noticed a missed call. Not recognising the non-metropolitan number, she called back, curious.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end of the line was hesitant and frail.

  ‘This is Gemma Lincoln. You just called my number but I missed you.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Jade? Is that you?’ Gemma asked.

  The silence was finally broken. ‘No. It’s . . . it’s Grace. Grace Kingston. I didn’t mean to – I found your number. I wanted to ring you but then . . . I changed my mind. I didn’t mean to trouble you.’

  ‘You’re not troubling me! You’re my sister! I’m longing to see you! What is it Grace? Your voice sounds really faint. Are you ill? Where are you?’

  But it was too late. She’d rung off. Gemma redialled, but Grace didn’t answer. Instead, the phone just rang out.

  She hurried out of her office across the hall into the operatives room.

  ‘Mike! Please check the area code for this number?’

  Mike pulled up his OzOnDisk program.

  ‘It’s Mittagong,’ he said.

  ‘Right. I want to go to Mittagong.’

  He was taken aback. ‘But weren’t we going to take a look at this photograph?’

  ‘Sure. But that can wait.’

  ‘I’ve already set it up. The program is running now.’

  ‘We can look at it when we get back.’

  ‘We?’

  She blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I meant . . . I could look at it when I get back.’

  He came over to her then and took both her hands.

  ‘Gemma Lincoln, don’t you get it? Am I completely wasting my time with you?’

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I can tell you what’s going on with me,’ he said.

  Before she could reply, he’d put his arms around her and drawn her close. She breathed in his scent, so different from Steve’s sharp, exciting aroma. Mike’s scent was soothing and woody, his body wider and somehow warmer than Steve’s. Then she stopped thinking about Steve as Mike’s lips covered her own and within seconds she was kissing him back, her head reeling from the sudden change in her world, as a colleague revealed himself instead as lover.

  Dazed, she stepped back, recalling the moment just after she’d discovered her pregnancy. Mike had been there too. Knowing better than she did. In fact, Mike had been there all the time; it was she who’d been pushing him away, looking to a man who was never there, seeking qualities from Steve that he couldn’t give. Her heart was racing with confusion and excitement.

  ‘That’s what’s been going on for me,’ he said, taking her hands again. ‘I’ve been trying not to do that for a long time.’

  Gemma looked away, trying to order her emotions, her thoughts.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m recovering – from shock, I think.’

  ‘Didn’t you have any idea? Of how I felt about you?’

  ‘I . . . I just thought you were being kind. That you were a kind man.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Me? Kind? You should have a word with my ex-wife! According to her, Attila the Hun was a saint in comparison.’

  His arms reached around her again. It was a good place to be, Gemma felt, wrapped in the arms of a man who knew her in close-up and still loved her in spite of it.

  ‘But I owe my ex-wife. I learned a lot from that marriage.’

  She leaned back, looking into his eyes.

  ‘Tell me. What exactly?’ she asked.

  Mike smiled. ‘Get the right woman from the start.’

  She tightened her arms around him, feeling more sure of herself. ‘You think I’m the right woman?’

  ‘You must have realised I was very interested in you. What are you thinking now?’

  ‘Of how you hugged me when I first found out I was pregnant,’ she said. ‘And how you knew that I was pregnant before I did. And I can’t help remembering the way I pounced on you that disgraceful night in your car. How I unbuckled your belt and unzipped you.’

  Mike wh
ispered against her ear. ‘How about trying that on again?’ he said. ‘Now that you’re stone-cold sober?’

  ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Last time I started, you were very disapproving.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘If you remember, I wanted to come in here, but you were set on a particular course.’

  She laughed at his phrasing. ‘I’m surprised you can remember the details . . . of my particular course.’

  ‘Gemma,’ he said, ‘you don’t get it. I remember everything about you.’

  ‘Would you have made love with me, if we’d come inside?’

  Mike straightened up. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Think about it. By the time we climbed out of the car, got down the steps, fumbled around with keys, avoided that bloody cat of yours –’

  ‘Bloody cat?’

  ‘And made our way into your bedroom, you would most likely have changed your mind. The moment would have been lost. And I’d never know whether you really fancied me or if you were just misbehaving under the effects of alcohol.’

  She was touched by his words. ‘But, Mike, I’m pregnant with another man’s baby. If you’re serious about me –’

  ‘There’s no doubt of that,’ he said. ‘And I’m happy to be the father to another man’s baby, because the baby is half yours, Gemma. Neither half causes me a problem; I’m going to love the whole baby.’ He smiled. ‘I already love the baby’s mother.’

  Gemma leaned into him, hearing the emphatic beating of his heart.

  Somehow, the world had turned so that they were now standing in the doorway of Gemma’s bedroom.

  ‘Do you remember your first move on me?’ he whispered. ‘Back in my car?’

  She looked up into his grey eyes. ‘I think I did this first,’ she said, kissing him fiercely, her hand fumbling for his zipper. Awkwardly, they moved together and fell onto her bed where Mike rolled over to be on top of her and her kiss became more urgent. A swooning sensation caused her heart and body to expand so that for a moment she thought she’d melt all over her bedspread. Then the swooning gave way to another, even more urgent feeling. She broke from the kiss and rolled away from him.

  ‘What is it?’ Mike’s concerned voice followed her as she raced from the bedroom.

  She made it to the bathroom just in time.

  Gemma hung over the toilet, retching and swearing together. After a lengthy break from the nausea, it had suddenly struck again. What bloody timing, she cursed, holding on to the cold rim of white porcelain.

  ‘Go away!’ she mumbled, aware of Mike coming in behind her. ‘Don’t look at me like this!’

  But he took no notice, and the next time she convulsed, Mike’s strong hand was there, cool on her forehead, supporting her as she hurled.

  With that action, in that moment, Gemma fell in love with Mike Moody.

  ‘You’ve got to admit,’ she said ruefully, as they sat at the dining table with the cup of tea Mike had made after she’d cleaned up, ‘that my timing is exquisite. For black comedy.’

  ‘Very original foreplay,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘I’m fine once I’ve thrown up. Sorry about losing the moment, Mike.’

  He smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty more.’

  With his usually combed down hair undone and a half-fringe over his forehead, he looked like a kid again.

  Twenty-Nine

  Back in Mike’s car they drove south, heading for the Southern Highlands on the old highway. In her briefcase, Gemma had stowed the small photograph of her father, Dr Archie Chisholm – Grace’s father too. She’d included a recent snap of Kit and her son, Will.

  ‘When I was checking an alibi in Katoomba,’ Gemma said, turning to Mike, ‘I read a story about The Group opening a new centre in Mittagong. That’s where Grace is living now.’

  By the time they reached Picton, it was well after three and Gemma was starving so they had afternoon tea at a snug restaurant, enjoying the crackling wood fire in the centre of the dining room. While waiting to be served, Gemma nervously flicked through the house newspaper, her mind largely preoccupied with her sister. One item caught her attention.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, staring at the photographs.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Mike.

  Gemma held the newspaper up for him to see.

  ‘“Teens found dead in city squat”?’ he read. ‘Who are they? Do you know them?’

  ‘I’ve seen them round the Cross. They were known as Romeo and Juliet. God, Mike, they’re fifteen and sixteen.’

  ‘And dead. Does it say what happened?’

  Gemma read on, then shook her head. ‘It’s not clear yet. Could be an overdose. Apparently a new, purer batch of heroin hit the streets in the last few days.’ She put the paper aside. ‘It’s so sad. They were only kids.’

  Their scones arrived and they were silent a while, Gemma thinking ahead fifteen years. She swore she would do all in her power to keep her son or daughter safe. Not have them ending up like that.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mike, as they were finishing their tea. ‘How are you going to approach the Grace meeting?’

  Gemma fiddled with the sugar tongs. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said. ‘Let’s just get to the house. Maybe inspiration will strike me.’

  The drive to Mittagong didn’t take long and soon they’d pulled up in a quiet street lined with flowering cherry trees, still bare, but poised for budburst.

  ‘Look,’ said Gemma. ‘That’s it. Number 131. Grace’s house. Wisteria Cottage. It’s so pretty!’

  A dainty lychgate, covered with wintering wisteria, led to a mossy lawn then to the front verandah of a white weatherboard cottage, where the first silvery bud sprays of wisteria bunches were frosting the timber uprights.

  Gemma took a deep breath, turning to Mike. ‘You stay here,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to the door alone and then call you in if it seems appropriate.’

  Gemma stepped up to the front door, noticing a light on inside through the etched glass panels. The evening was drawing in already and with only a second’s hesitation, she knocked gently.

  Nothing moved inside and Gemma knocked again. Still nothing. She walked over to the curtained window to the right of the door and peered through. Feeling somewhat uneasy, she realised she was looking into her sister’s bedroom and that her sister seemed to be having a nap.

  She went back down the garden path, pausing to admire a line of snowdrops nodding their green-spotted skirts. Shivering, she slid back into Mike’s car.

  ‘Not home?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s having a nap. I don’t like to disturb her.’

  ‘Do you want to go for a look around and come back later?’

  They spent half an hour poking around in antique shops, then drove back to the white weatherboard. Gemma knocked again, and when there was no answer, she peeped once more through the lace of the curtain. Grace was still lying on the bed in the same position. Gemma frowned. This didn’t feel right. She peered closer, scanning the room, aware of Mike stepping up behind her.

  Gemma focused on the bedside table, then on the motionless figure on the bed. ‘Take a look,’ she said, stepping back to allow Mike to see. ‘There’s some sort of pharmaceutical pack and an empty glass on the bedside table. Either she’s not well or . . . Mike, I’m concerned.’

  As Mike peered through the window, Gemma hastened to the front door and banged on it noisily.

  ‘She didn’t move,’ Mike called. ‘She’s dead to the world.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ she said. ‘I don’t like this. I’m going in.’

  Gemma ran round the side, past a vine-covered trellis to where a small stone patio with a couple of wrought-iron benches formed a shelter at the back of the house. The back fly-screened
door proved to be unlocked, and when she tried the timber door, Gemma found that it opened with a turn of the brass handle.

  ‘It’s open,’ she said to Mike, who’d joined her.

  Inside, Gemma made her way past a small laundry and utility area into an old-fashioned kitchen, then through another doorway into the hall.

  ‘Grace?’ she called. ‘Hello? Grace? It’s Gemma.’

  She hurried past a bathroom and two small bedrooms until the hallway opened into the main living area, which was furnished with dainty period sofas and armchairs and a fireplace that was barely warm. Just to the left of the front door, another door stood partly open.

  ‘Grace?’ Gemma called, before going to the main bedroom and pushing the door all the way open. It was definitely Grace Kingston, she thought, who lay on the candlewick bedspread in navy corduroy trousers and a blue jumper, the same tawny-haired, square-featured woman whose eyes she’d encountered once before.

  She approached the figure on the bed. ‘Grace?’ she said softly.

  But Grace didn’t stir.

  Gemma picked up the pharmaceutical packet on the bedside table: twenty-five sleeping pills missing. Scraps of metallic paper littered the table and floor where Grace had pushed the tablets from their plastic housing.

  ‘Mike!’ Gemma said as he appeared at the bedroom door. ‘We’ve got to call an ambulance!’

  •

  The grandfather clock in the hallway donged 2 a.m. as Gemma sat on a footstool, Grace opposite her, leaning back in the embrace of a huge Victorian wing-backed armchair. The rekindled fire both warmed and lit the room, while Mike discreetly fiddled in the kitchen.

  The resident at Bowral Hospital, after noting the drugs Grace had taken, had advised Gemma and Mike to take Grace home and let her sleep it off. But even as she was telling them this, Grace was already stirring.

  Now, wrapped in a thick quilted dressing-gown, face puffy from her deep sleep, Grace blinked hard. ‘I feel so ashamed,’ she said, ‘so stupid. I didn’t mean to put you to all this trouble.’

  ‘Trouble? No trouble, Grace. But hey,’ Gemma said softly, ‘this is a hell of a way to meet.’