When he sat down in front of his computer with a cup of coffee and a slice of carrot cake from the cafe, he thought for a few moments before deciding on a search for Abbie’s deceased husband. He didn’t know his name so he started with her, hoping she’d be named in the reports of his death. She was. He’d missed the references before when he’d searched because he’d focused on Abigail Forrest, artist. When he put in ‘husband’ there he was.
Callum Stirling, accused of being the so-called Uni Rapist and controversially acquitted last year of rape and sexual assault charges involving students at the university where he lectured, was found dead this morning. His body was recovered from the water near Mossy Point on the South Coast where he lived. It is believed he was washed off rocks and drowned. He is survived by ex-wife, artist Abigail Forrest, and a daughter.
Callum Stirling. He remembered the case from a couple of years back. The man was accused of raping three female students and making unwanted sexual advances on about four more. He lectured in Sociology if Rupe remembered rightly. Frowning, he typed in the name and a slew of articles appeared.
The acquittal had been based on a legal technicality. The police would be spitting chips over that. Everyone thought he was guilty and the prosecution maintained there were many more victims who hadn’t come forward. A serial rapist, dubbed the Uni Rapist, had been operating on the campus and the offences were suspected of going back many, many years. Abbie obviously thought he was guilty, too. She must have left him very swiftly from what she’d told Rupe.
He scanned the articles. Some had photos. Abbie was in a couple of them, mostly stock shots of her taken from other sources, but one showed her leaving the courthouse early in the trial, face drawn, head down. Thinner than she was now, dressed in a slim skirt and jacket, with dark glasses hiding her eyes, she looked hunted. Her hair was cut short, level with her jaw. Same colour as now, smart and stylish. Did she know? Could a woman not know her husband of twenty years was a serial rapist? Yes, if he was cunning, as many were, and the marriage wasn’t all it should be, if they both had their own lives that barely intersected. What sort of marriage had it been?
Rupe continued reading, gleaning every piece of information he could, not that there was much more to be learned. Victims’ names were withheld from the press. The case caused a flurry at the time but was overshadowed by other news events, so much so that Stirling’s death was barely given a mention.
Cradling his coffee mug in both hands, Rupe sat back. The man died less than a month ago. Was it suicide? Could have been. The stigma attached to his name would be difficult to shake regardless of the acquittal. From the reporting at the time, the attitude of the press was clear. He was guilty as sin. Abbie was lucky to have retained her own name through the marriage and thus escaped the taint. What about the daughter? Was she using her father’s name, Stirling? Had he abused her? Did his tastes run to younger girls as well? Abbie didn’t say so but it was a possibility. She may not have known about that either. It could explain why the daughter was so bitter.
What a hideous mess.
He absently ferried a few carrot cake crumbs on the end of a finger from the plate to his mouth.
Could what was happening now be connected to any of those events? To Callum Stirling? He pushed the chair back and took the plate and mug to the kitchen. If they were, he couldn’t for the life of him see how. The man was dead and he’d kept a low profile after the scandal died away, moved down to Mossy Point, lived quietly.
The mysterious silver car popped into his head for a moment. Was that part of all this? He should have asked Mal if one had turned up at the motel.
And then there were Rita’s mysterious trespassers. Did they belong to the silver car? Unlikely given whoever that was had gone into Abbie’s house. They could easily be innocent hikers unaware they’d crossed onto private property but it was worth taking a look along the fire trail. Too late now. Tomorrow.
It’d give him an excuse to drop in on Abbie.
***
After Rupe left, Abbie stored the new paints in the studio cupboard then set to work. She studied the wash she’d done and decided it was good. Now she had to get the towering bulk of the tree. She wanted a looming presence that cast a deep shadow, contrasting with the translucence of the background sky and the lighter greeny blue of the other trees. An hour later she laid down her brush and stepped back, lips pursed.
Her original idea had been a large tree as shelter but what she’d produced had an element of danger, a threat. Where had that come from? She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She didn’t find the bush threatening, far from it, but the tree had an unsettling aura—it wasn’t protecting, it was smothering. Too dark. She squeezed a lighter green onto her palette and mixed it with what was there. A few light strokes broke the gloom but it still wasn’t enough.
She put the palette and brush down. Enough. She’d look at it later, have a break, a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Being kissed was a surprise and he was about to kiss her again when Rita interrupted. She smiled. Typical of Rita. But it was nice, that kiss, and the next one would have been even better. She’d been ready and more than willing, his hand gentle and warm on her cheek, his eyes all soft and smiling. Had she shut him down with her reticence, her lack of response when he left?
Would he try again? If he didn’t, she might have to give him a little push. She snorted softly. She sounded like Georgia and her girlfriends at thirteen, giggling over the latest heart-throb boy at school.
What the hell was she thinking? Had she learnt nothing from what had happened? Her mother always said she’d get herself into trouble chasing boys. She had to learn to control herself and her urges, that’s what she’d said to the teenage Abbie—‘Or you’ll be sorry’.
She was sorry. Rupe was too fragile and nice to be messed around and she was too unstable at the moment. No more kisses.
While she waited for the jug to boil she tried the phone. Still out. Her line wouldn’t be on the top of the list for repairs. Last time it took nearly a week and it was the main line to her and the neighbours. They wouldn’t put themselves out for one house.
At least the power hadn’t gone off. She could do without the phone line, it just meant she had to go for a walk to get the mobile signal. In fact she should do that now, in case someone had tried to call. Louise for instance, about the paintings. The tea could wait.
Mobile phone in her pocket Abbie locked the back door, pocketed her keys and walked across the yard, past the vegetable plot and the old Hill’s Hoist, through the gate in the yard fence and along the track leading up the hill. She loved this area. Within minutes she was out of sight of her house, surrounded by the scents and sounds of the untouched bushland. Where had that disturbing image of the tree come from? These eucalypts were tall and stately, majestic. They were what she’d pictured when she sketched the outline, whereas the tree that had emerged was hunched over with a brooding sense of … was it evil?
Abbie shuddered, paused and glanced around. A parrot swooped through the branches with a flash of green and red feathers, then its mate, close behind. Leaves murmured in the light breeze. Something scuttled in the dead leaves. Normal. Beautiful. She pulled out the phone. Not far enough yet. She’d have to go up to the rocks on the ridge.
She was puffing by the time she’d covered the last steep couple of metres and turned to look out at the view. The trees thinned here on the rocky outcrop, giving a clear vista of the land west towards Taylor’s Bend. She was nearly at the northern boundary of her land where it met the Benson’s but their house was obscured by the rise to her right and access this way was virtually impossible due to the terrain.
She perched on a rock ledge, warmed by the sun, and turned on the phone. Missed messages and one call. The messages were both from Louise, one asking how she was doing with the remaining three works and the other asking did she have any watercolours as she’d had an enquiry. Abbie frowned. An enquiry?
Louise p
icked up almost immediately. After the ‘how are you?’ chitchat, Abbie’s assurance that the painting was on schedule, that her landline was out so communication was limited and Louise’s promise to get onto the telco and hurry them up, Abbie asked who was after a watercolour.
‘A woman phoned, a name like Susanna or Sylvia Meadows, I think. Or maybe Martin? Can’t remember although I wrote it down. She said she wanted a gift for her husband who’d grown up in your area and your work was perfect.’
‘But how did she know I did watercolours?’
‘She didn’t say. She must have seen one somewhere.’ Louise wouldn’t care. A sale was her only interest.
‘The only one on display is in the local store here. I gave it to the owner as a gift.’ Her memory pinged. ‘Actually … he did say a man had asked who painted it and when Laurie told him, he knew my name.’
‘That’ll be it then. The important question is, do you have any more?’
‘Yes I do. Should I send them?’
‘Yes, you should. How many?’
‘About five or six.’
‘Great.’
Abbie disconnected. While that was good, it meant she had to take half a day and drive to Wagga to have the paintings packed properly for sending. It also solved the little mystery of who recognised her name at Laurie’s.
She checked the missed call. The number was unfamiliar but not many people had her mobile number so it had to be a friend. She dialled. It rang for so long she thought it would go to voicemail, but then a familiar voice said, ‘Mum?’
‘Georgia?’ Tears sprang to her eyes and clogged her throat so she could barely speak.
‘Yeah, it’s me unless you have another daughter.’ How familiar was that dry sarcasm?
‘No, of course not. Are you all right? Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Where are you? I’m so glad you called, I …’ She sniffed and wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve.
‘I’ve been trying to phone you for a few days.’ An accusation, as though Abbie had deliberately missed her calls.
‘My landline’s out. A tree fell on the wire and I have to walk up a hill to get mobile reception.’
‘Yeah, well that’s what you get for going to the outback. I thought you mightn’t want to talk to me.’
‘Of course I do. It’s not the outback, it’s rural. It’s beautiful. Why don’t you visit?’ She said it in the vain hope her invitation might register somewhere in her daughter’s mind.
‘All right.’
‘Really? When? Do you know where I am?’
‘Yeah. I was there a few days ago but you weren’t home.’ Again the accusing tone.
‘Here? When?’
‘Monday.’
‘You should have phoned to tell me you were coming.’
‘It was spur of the moment. Kind of. Anyway, if your phone doesn’t work I couldn’t, could I?’
‘It was working on Monday. Why didn’t you wait?’
‘Couldn’t be bothered. You might have been away for days for all I knew.’
Abbie swallowed the annoyed retort. Following that up could easily lead to Georgia bolting like a wild horse. ‘Where are you now?’
‘Canberra. Staying with friends. Remember Sophie?’
‘Yes, of course.’ One of the gigglers. The best friend. Highly intelligent, tall, dark-haired, her Indian mother giving her features a fine, exotic beauty.
‘She’s at the ANU. Will you be home tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I’m working on some pieces for the gallery. When do you think you’ll get here?’
‘I’d hate to interrupt your work.’ And that remark, delivered in a tone dripping with bitterness, sent a shaft of remorse slicing through Abbie’s joy—for all the times she’d snapped at the child Georgia to leave her alone while she was painting. This is my time. Wait till I finish. Close the door. Out. You know I don’t want to be interrupted when I’m painting.
‘You won’t be interrupting,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve missed you … I’m so pleased you rang.’ The last words stumbled into the phone.
Georgia didn’t reply for a moment and Abbie held her breath, expecting the click of disconnection.
‘I’ll be there about twelve.’ The same dry tone of earlier.
‘I’ll make us lunch. Drive carefully, my love.’
‘See you.’
The line went dead.
Abbie ran down the track, slipping and sliding on the rough surface until she almost fell and had to slow down. Georgia was the last person she expected to see and the person she most wanted to see. What brought her here on Monday and why was she trying to call? She’d said she was fine but was she really? Was she in the silver car? That would make an odd sort of sense but she couldn’t speculate, she’d find out soon enough.
Georgia sounded friendly if wary. A bit withdrawn and cynical, but that was typical of her since the shock Callum had given them. That total bastard. Drowning had given him an easy way out. She, and her daughter in particular, had to live on with the memory of his betrayal, his despicable crimes, his lies. His death.
She slammed on the brakes as she gathered momentum again and grabbed the nearest tree to stay upright. She should tell Rupe.
No signal. She had to backtrack until the bars appeared.
‘Hi, Abbie.’ He sounded pleased but it was hard to tell with that laidback delivery of his.
‘Hello.’ A wave of shyness enveloped her as the feel of his lips on hers crashed in and the awareness she wanted him to kiss her again. Her face and neck prickled with heat that hadn’t come from running. Ridiculous. Wrong. Stop it!
‘Anything the matter?’ he said into the silence.
‘No, not at all. The opposite. I just had a call from Georgia, my daughter. She’s coming to visit.’
‘That’s great. When?’
‘Tomorrow. She’s been trying to phone but, of course, couldn’t get onto me.’
‘Is your line fixed?’
‘No, I’m up the hill on the ridge. I came up to check messages.’
‘Nice surprise for you.’
‘Yes, I’m really excited, but nervous too. You know?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll know what to say to her. Whether she still blames me.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Okay. Her usual sarcastic self. A bit brittle.’
‘I guess you just listen and try not to upset her.’
‘Of course I’ll try not to upset her. It’s more likely to be the other way round.’
‘Sorry. I just meant try not to … I don’t know.’
‘No, neither do I.’
He didn’t say anything. Was she expecting a more animated response than he was giving? Was capable of giving? Why had she called him? Run back up the hill to call him, no less. Idiot.
‘Did she say why she’s coming?’
‘No.’
The silence stretched. Hang up.
‘You think this is a coincidence too, don’t you?’ he said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Not if seeing Kaelee and talking to her about me made her want to see me. Or it could be her father dying so recently—that would upset her regardless of what he did. He was a good father, weird as that sounds. He loved her.’
‘Okay. I’m sorry. I hope I get to meet her.’
‘I don’t know how long she’s staying.’ Would he take that hint? The last thing she wanted was Rupe asking awkward questions when her daughter was taking tentative steps towards her.
‘I’m taking a look along the fire trail behind you and Rita tomorrow, checking out her intruders. Might call in.’
‘Rupe, don’t take this the wrong way, but can you leave it a day or two? Georgia’s … had enough of police lately.’
‘I was more interested in seeing you but … perhaps you feel the same.’
‘No, of course not. You know that.’
Another silence expanded between them. A sudden firmer gust of wind rattled the branches overhead and she looked up quickly.
‘Georgia was here on Monday,’ she said. ‘While I was out.’
‘The silver car.’ He’d pounced on the idea as swiftly as she had but as swiftly he pounced off again. ‘No, that was Tuesday.’
‘Was it? I’ve lost track. Yes, you’re right. I was down by the river sketching on Monday.’ One of the rare occasions she’d locked the house, knowing she’d be out most of the day.
‘But why didn’t she call you, or wait?’
‘She said she couldn’t be bothered. She thought I might be away.’
When he didn’t comment she said, ‘She’s like that. At least since our … trouble, she has been.’
‘Maybe she’s here to make amends.’
‘Maybe. I hope so.’ She laughed softly. ‘I was going over to Wagga tomorrow to send off those watercolours you looked at but I’m not game to go out now in case she turns up early.’
‘Have you sold them?’
‘Not yet. One, maybe. Someone is interested. She wants a gift for her husband. He grew up in this area.’
‘Wonder what the name is. Hannah will know. Or Dot and Laurie.’
‘Something beginning with M. Louise couldn’t remember. He might have been the man who dropped into Laurie’s store a while ago and recognised my name on his painting. Did I tell you about him?’ As she said it she knew it was a stupid question. Everyone would have known all about it by lunchtime.
‘No need to,’ he said and chuckled. ‘Another little mystery solved.’
‘It’s a relief. See? It’s not all a major conspiracy.’
‘I’m not keen on coincidences.’
‘I can tell. Anyway, I have to go and clean the house and get the spare room ready.’
‘Right. Thanks for calling, Abbie. I’ll catch up later.’
‘Rupe, don’t be offended. I promise I’ll bring her into town to meet you in a day or two.’
‘I’m not offended. I understand, really I do. Take care. Hope it goes well.’
The Secrets that Lie Within (Taylor's Bend, #1) Page 8