Their knees touched as Gemma reached over and gently pushed her sister’s thick tawny hair, familiar as her own, back from where it hung around her face.
‘You’re probably feeling really disoriented right now,’ said Gemma. ‘But do you remember ringing me?’
‘I wasn’t sure if I really did that. Or just thought about it. I remember wanting to after I . . .’ Her voice faltered.
‘You’re safe now,’ said Gemma.
‘No, I’m not. I’ve lost everything,’ Grace whispered, raising her eyes. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. ‘My mouth is so dry.’
‘Don’t move,’ Gemma commanded. ‘Mike! Will you please bring a big glass of water?’
Gemma took the restless hands of the younger woman in her own. ‘Talk to me, Grace,’ she said. ‘Tell me why you tried to do such a serious thing. Was it because of The Group?’
Grace looked directly into Gemma’s eyes, then flinched away.
‘I can’t bear to think about it. I can’t bear facing how stupid I’ve been. How gullible.’
‘You mean being part of that community?’
Grace nodded.
‘We all make mistakes,’ Gemma said, taking the proffered glass of water from Mike and passing it to Grace. ‘You wouldn’t believe the ones I’ve made. Here, have a good drink. Do you feel like anything else?’
Grace drained the large glass, then threw herself back into the depths of the cavernous armchair. ‘I couldn’t face food just now. I’ve made such a mess of everything. I couldn’t even kill myself properly. I’m a complete failure.’
‘You’re not thinking straight,’ said Gemma. ‘You’re not a failure.’
Grace gave her a long look.
‘At least give us the chance to get to know you. Me and Kit. We’ve been longing to meet you.’ Gemma looked around for her briefcase, praying that what she was doing and saying might be helpful. ‘I’ve brought a photo of Kit to show you. And one of our father.’
‘My father?’
‘Yes. Dr Archie Chisholm.’ Gemma pulled her briefcase closer, digging out the photos. ‘This is our father, Grace. Yours and mine and Kit’s.’
She was aware of Mike settling down on a long sofa at the other end of the sitting room as Grace took the photographs.
‘What was he like?’ Grace asked, studying the face in the picture. ‘All I know is that my mother took her own life not long after I was born.’
Gemma inhaled. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you later, when you’re feeling stronger.’
‘Did something bad happen?’
Gemma blinked. Now wasn’t the time. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. Sometimes, even she didn’t understand it all.
‘He’s very handsome.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Gemma. ‘Our father was very handsome.’
She looked around the graceful room with its deep bay window and long curtains, the pressed metal ceiling of flannel flowers and pineapples, the gleaming cedar sideboard and the framed nineteenth-century botanical studies.
‘I never knew him,’ said Grace.
Nor did I, thought Gemma.
‘My grandparents brought me up,’ Grace continued. ‘But I never felt I really belonged to them. I wanted a mother and father like everyone else. I so wanted to belong. I can see now that’s why I was a sitting duck for The Group.’
‘I know what that feels like,’ said Gemma.
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ said Gemma, not wanting to open this up just now. ‘Like I said, our family is very complicated.’
‘No one ever wanted me. And when you grow up knowing that the only people who are supposed to love you – who almost have to love you, no matter what – can’t love you, you feel there’s not much likelihood that anyone else will.’
Gemma stroked her hand. ‘Grace, I’ve learned a lot about love,’ she said, ‘just recently. And you’ll find that even if some people can’t love you, there are definitely others who can. And that goes for you too. Kit and I wondered what had gone wrong,’ she continued. ‘We’ve been dying to meet you.’
‘You and Kit?’ Grace asked. ‘You wondered about me?’
‘A lot,’ Gemma nodded. ‘We talk about you often. We want to bring you home.’
Outside, the deep silence was broken by the distant roar of a big rig, then it faded, leaving only the small snaps and cracks of the fire to disturb the tableland peace. Gemma noticed two large tears rolling down Grace’s face. ‘Home,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t think anyone in the world cared about me.’
‘Now you know differently,’ said Gemma. ‘We’re both looking forward to getting to know you.’
‘I wish to God I hadn’t met Sheridan Stark,’ Grace whispered. ‘I wish to God . . .’ Her voice faltered and faded. She gulped a deep breath and started again. ‘I fell in love with him. He made me feel special – and beautiful. He made me feel we could run Wisteria Cottage together – as a refuge from the harshness of the world – and that we would always have Archangel Reziel for guidance. I imagined a life of peaceful communal living. Sheridan said he loved me and that I was specially chosen by Heaven to be his partner. It’s so pathetic now when I think of it! Then last week, a few hours after you drove off’ – for Gemma had reminded Grace of her visit, but hadn’t detailed Stark’s actions – ‘I overheard him saying the exact words he’d used on me – only this time, it was to a new member. I had been in love with a script!’
Memories of Steve flashed into Gemma’s mind, of how he’d put an arm around Julie Cooper.
‘I realised that contrary to what Sheridan Stark said and what we followers believed, Archangel Reziel was simply a mouthpiece for Stark’s own greedy ego,’ Grace concluded sadly.
‘One day, I’ll tell you about all the actions I regret,’ said Gemma, thinking that at the right time she’d also tell Grace about Stark’s attempt at angelic goosing. They could laugh about it together.
‘Lots of people join groups like that for a while,’ she went on, ‘then discover that it’s not what they’d hoped for. Don’t blame yourself. It’s what happens to a lot of marriages, too. You learn more about yourself and you move on. I’ve been in love with someone for a long time – too long. And he’s not capable of loving me. Not the way I want it.’ She briefly recalled what Angie had said at the clinic. ‘But just recently . . . well, a lot of things have changed for me.’
She turned to see what Mike might say on the subject, but he’d gone to sleep leaning back on the sofa, his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, his arms folded across his strong chest and his head gently inclined. In that moment, Gemma felt a new tenderness towards him.
‘Little sister,’ she said with a smile, ‘it’s very late. We have a lifetime to talk about these things.’
Grace’s face was illuminated with hope. ‘A lifetime,’ she repeated.
Gemma climbed to her feet, exhausted. ‘Let’s get you into bed. And maybe we could bunk down here for the rest of the night?’
‘There are two bedrooms down the hall,’ said Grace. ‘Both the beds are made up.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gemma as Grace got up from the chair and padded across the room to the door of her bedroom, Gemma following.
‘A good night’s sleep,’ said Gemma, ‘and in the morning, breakfast with a long-lost sister. How does that sound to you?’
Grace bit her lip then nodded.
She climbed into bed and Gemma stood nearby, ready to turn off the light. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘before I drive home, I’d love to see all round your beautiful house and your garden.’
Grace’s face was suddenly stricken. ‘Oh, but that’s just it. It’s no longer my beautiful house. Yesterday – or was it the day before – what I’d done really hit me. That’s why I wanted to die.’
/> ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Gemma said. Grace was fragile enough right now without any more stressful discussions. ‘Everything seems clearer by morning light. Maybe between us we can find a way to fix things.’
The sadness in Grace’s face was heartbreaking. ‘There’s no way of saving my house,’ she said. ‘The gardens, the house, the furniture – everything. I’ve signed it all over and I have to be out in six weeks. My house and garden now belong to Sheridan Stark and The Group.’
Gemma recalled the article she’d read. Sheridan Stark had talked of moving to The Group’s new establishment at Mittagong.
Gemma realised that this house was it. She was standing in it.
Thirty
During the drive back to Sydney, most of the conversation between Gemma and Mike was about Grace. The younger woman had seemed much better after a good breakfast – even hopeful, she told Gemma.
‘I hope there’s something we can do,’ said Gemma as Mike drove steadily north.
‘I’m sure there is,’ said Mike. ‘She’s been robbed by that mob.’
‘I might be able to get Stark to rescind the deal,’ Gemma said. ‘Threaten him with indecent assault proceedings.’ She told Mike about the absurd angel nightie she’d had to wear, the way Stark had groped her.
‘Now I’m more determined than ever,’ said Mike, ‘to fix that bloody fraud of a man. After all, a message from an archangel has to be undue influence.’
‘With Grace’s history,’ said Gemma, ‘and the report of a sympathetic therapist, there’s a good chance the case could go her way.’
‘It’ll cost money,’ said Mike.
‘It’ll cost her the bloody house if we don’t do anything!’ said Gemma.
‘Why would Grace do something like that?’ asked Mike after a long silence.
Gemma looked out the window. They were nearly back at her place and the noontide breeze had the scent of the sea in it.
‘Why do people do any of the things they do?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t we always looking for acceptance? A sense of belonging? Of being loved? Don’t we do things that we hope will help us gain all of that?’
Mike considered a while then looked across at her. ‘Is that what you’ve been looking for?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ she said as they turned into Bronte Road.
‘And have you found it, Gemma?’
She looked across at him, his straight profile and thick hair, his bulk in the driver’s seat, his eyes on the road.
‘Have you?’ she asked, turning the question back on him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
As they were about to pull up outside Gemma’s place, her mobile rang and she fished it out.
‘I want to know, Miss Lincoln,’ said a tight, angry voice, ‘why you haven’t contacted me about my daughter. I’ve had no information about Maddison from you and I don’t think this is good service at all. I paid a large advance to you to bring my daughter home. The police have done nothing. And now it seems you’re delivering the same – at a very high hourly rate.’
Gemma mentally chastised herself. She’d been meaning to call Dr Carr. ‘Dr Carr, can we talk about this in person, please?’
‘I don’t want to incur further expense,’ said Dr Carr, ‘visiting your office.’
‘It won’t cost you any extra, I assure you,’ said Gemma. ‘I do have information as it happens, but I’d like to pass it on in a professional manner.’
By the time Gemma had descended the steps to the front garden of her apartment and walked into her office, an appointment for Dr Leon Carr had been organised later in the day.
‘I don’t like leaving you,’ Mike said, finishing his orange juice some time later, ‘but I’d better get back to my place. I’ve got a living to earn.’
‘Me too,’ she said, reaching up to kiss him. ‘I want to have a good look at that photo of Bryson Finn and the unknown woman.’
‘The enhancing program will prompt you,’ Mike said. ‘It’s just a matter of zooming in and printing off anything interesting if you want hard copy.’
‘I can do that,’ she said. ‘But first, when will I see you again?’
‘Tonight?’ he suggested.
Gemma shook her head. ‘I need an early night. I didn’t sleep so well in Grace’s second bedroom.’
‘Tomorrow night?’
She nodded.
‘The thought of that will keep me going,’ Mike said. ‘But next time, no projectile vomiting. Think of something else?’
‘Deal,’ she said.
•
Even though it was Saturday, Gemma called her solicitor and left a message asking him to call her urgently, hoping he would check his voice mail sooner rather than later, then listened to and made notes concerning the messages on her own voice mail. She looked up from her list of jobs pending, caught for a moment in reveries about Mike.
He’d gone back to his place. His place, she thought. And her place. How were they going to work all that out? With Steve, and their separate households, there’d never been any such problem.
She put the question aside for another time and went into the operatives office where Mike had run his specialised Photoshop program and pulled up the scanned image. The events of the last twenty-four hours had eclipsed the Finn murders in her consciousness, but now Gemma was very keen to get a closer look at the photograph Dwight Ashton had given her. Anything that might help her dredge that name up.
She wasn’t overly optimistic – the scanned image was of poor quality. She increased the contrast and that improved the overall greyness of the picture, bringing some details into closer relief. She was already certain that the male figure was Bryson Finn so she devoted her attention to gleaning whatever she could from the personal effects of his companion. First, she studied the room where the couple disported themselves. It was not a space somewhere in motel land. It was very definitely a woman’s bedroom, she deduced, from the mirror and dressing table, the small waisted lamp standing on its surface, the decor. The containers on the dressing table looked like pots of face cream and bottles of nail polish. Gemma felt a growing excitement. If she could only identify the room, the house in which the room existed . . . Not possible, she realised. But the clothes might reveal something.
Gemma zoomed in on the various articles strewn about the floor. A couple of larger items were draped over the chair. She made out bra and knickers, a long skirt or trousers hanging over the arm, and a jumper. She turned her attention to the dark interior of the wardrobe. The door was only partly closed and more clothes showed, packed in a dense row. Slowly, she scanned along the sleeves, stopping at one. She zoomed in even further, to the maximum the program offered. There was definitely some sort of decoration or badge on the sleeve of a dark coat. But the definition was so poor, it wasn’t possible to make out any details.
She picked up the phone and rang Mike. ‘I’ve found something in that photograph. It might be helpful – maybe an employer logo or something. Can we identify it? Anything to give me a line on this woman.’
‘It’s worth a shot, I guess,’ he said. ‘There’s another enhancement program on the laptop, but it can only make graphical suggestions – and some of them will be way off, like in spellcheck. I can come over later, after I’ve finished the job I’m on. Is seven too late?’
‘Perfect,’ she said.
The phone rang. It was her solicitor. Gemma gave him a brief outline of Grace’s situation.
‘I don’t want to get your hopes up too much at this stage,’ said Wally in his measured, lawyer’s way, ‘but there have been previous cases like this and I know of at least two where the plaintiff was successful in getting property returned.’
‘I could also bring an indecent assault charge against him,’ said Gemma. ‘Not the easiest thing in the world to s
ucceed with, but my bet is that Stark would loathe the idea of his groping angel going public. There are bound to be other women who would come forward – with even more interesting stories.’
‘We might be able to do a private deal,’ said Wally. ‘But first, your sister should make an appointment with Ainslie Holbright. She’s the expert on this sort of thing. Hang on, and I’ll get you her number.’
Gemma jotted it down then called Grace to pass on the news.
‘So don’t give up!’ said Gemma. ‘We just might be able to get your house back.’
‘I’ll drive up to see you in the next few days,’ promised Grace. She paused. ‘Mike seems a nice guy.’
‘He is a nice guy,’ said Gemma. ‘They say nice guys finish last, but I’m determined that won’t happen this time.’
•
Late in the afternoon, Gemma ushered in Dr Carr, a tall, rigidly upright man wearing a silvery grey suit that screamed expensive. Reluctantly, he sat in the armchair near the window while Gemma pulled out Maddison’s file. Gemma sensed he was the sort of man unused to being on the other side of a desk, especially when the boss’s side was filled by a woman.
‘Dr Carr,’ she said, ‘what I’m going to say now is probably not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. Maddison doesn’t want to come home. She doesn’t want to see you or have you try and contact her.’
‘Nonsense!’ he said. ‘She’s seventeen. What does she know?’
‘She has an addiction to heroin.’
The shock to Dr Carr’s system was clearly visible and Gemma wished she hadn’t been quite so direct with him.
‘How is she supporting herself?’ he asked.
Gemma gave him a look.
In the silence, she saw the rigidity collapse as Dr Carr seemed to fold forward, his head hanging between his shoulders. In that moment, Gemma felt some compassion for the man. After a long exhalation, Dr Carr gathered himself, and climbed to his feet.
‘Thank you, Miss Lincoln,’ he said. ‘As a medical man, I feel sure I’ll find a way to help this situation.’
Good luck, Gemma thought.
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