Gingerly she slipped her fingers under the flap of the pocket and extracted the photograph. Before it was halfway out of the pocket she realised that it wasn’t her photograph at all. It showed a pair of black wrought-iron gates with a huge old vine-clad house—a mansion—rearing in the background. A letterbox fixed to one of the gate supports bore the large number 9.
The focus of the photograph was a man standing just inside the gates. He was turning away from the letterbox, holding some letters in his hand. Holly looked more closely and her stomach turned over. The man was definitely, quite definitely, Andrew!
O’Brien had found Andrew! He’d actually found him! As she looked down at the date printed in white on the bottom of the image, Holly’s vision blurred. She blinked rapidly, but the date remained the same. The photograph had been taken on Holly’s abortive wedding day, Tuesday.
Slowly Holly made herself accept the fact that O’Brien hadn’t been a dud after all. O’Brien had, in fact, been the goods. He’d found Andrew—not just within days, but within hours. Why, then, hadn’t he taken Holly’s calls on Wednesday and Thursday? If he had news for her . . .
He was waiting for the cheque to clear. The still, small voice of reason couldn’t be doubted. O’Brien trusted no one. He wasn’t going to tell Holly anything until he had her money safely in his hand. He’d probably learned that lesson the hard way.
Holly glared at the image of Andrew. He looked relaxed and happy. He was wearing casual clothes—designer jeans, the black knitted silk T-shirt with the V-neck, and his lightweight leather jacket. They were the clothes he’d wear when he wanted to look particularly cool. When he wanted to impress.
His right arm was slightly raised, as if he were gesturing or waving to someone. Holly squinted at the photograph, following the direction of Andrew’s eyes. A pale oval glimmered behind the glass of one of the lower windows of the house. A face. It was vague and indistinct, but it was female, Holly was certain.
Something has come up . . .
Holly realised that she was grinding her teeth, and forced herself to relax. Slowly she turned the photograph over, but the reverse side was blank.
She slid her fingers back into O’Brien’s shirt pocket, felt something else, and drew out a business card. ‘MID-MOUNTAINS TAXIS’ the card declared, ‘24 HOURS’. Only one line of the receipt form under the phone number had been filled in. Beside ‘amount’ someone had scrawled $20 and put a ring around it.
Behind her, the parrot chuckled. Holly ignored it. She turned her attention back to the photograph and stared at the house looming behind Andrew. Somewhere that house existed—that big old brooding house with its showy wrought-iron gates. And it couldn’t be too far away, not if O’Brien had photographed it within hours of leaving Holly at the Victory Hotel. And not if it had only cost him twenty dollars to get there and back.
It was in the mountains. Andrew wasn’t in London, or Darwin, or even in Sydney. He was lurking quite close by. But not too close, Holly thought, examining the photograph so intently that her breath fogged its surface. Andrew looked very relaxed. Wherever the house was, he felt safe— safe enough to saunter out and get the mail, for example. He would have been more wary if he’d thought there was the remotest chance of Holly cruising by and spotting him— not to mention Len Land or Oriana Spillnek.
A wave of heat surged up Holly’s neck, burned in her face, exploded into her scalp. She felt as if her hair was likely to burst into flames, and steam gush, hissing, from her ears.
She walked quickly to the back window and after a few moments’ struggle managed to push it open. Cool autumn air gusted into the room, bringing with it the faint, mingled smells of eucalyptus leaves, car exhaust fumes and garbage bins.
Breathing in regardless, she looked down at the unlovely back yards of Stillwaters Road. Next door, in the butcher’s yard, double gates stood open, revealing the narrow lane that ran behind the sagging paling fences. A refrigerated van stood in the yard. As Holly watched, a very large man emerged from the back of the van, staggering under the dead weight of a huge pig that he was carrying over one shoulder by means of a hook. The pig was wearing a tolerant, humorous expression. The man looked quite jolly, too, considering.
The yard below Holly was a long space filled with a vast array of tall weeds. Little beaten paths, narrow and secret, like animal tracks, threaded through the weeds. One of them led to a lemon tree flourishing against the back fence, which tilted drunkenly under the weight of a rampant vine with yellowing leaves. Another, less clearly marked, trailed to the gate that opened onto the lane.
A head was impaled on one of the gateposts. It was the head of a man, face bright red, mouth gaping. Holly stared at the head, befuddled by shock and brandy, dazzled by the light, too appalled to scream.
Directly below her there was the squeak and rattle of an old screen door. The head on the gatepost disappeared abruptly as a figure emerged from the shadows into the yard. It was Abigail Honour. She had a cane basket over her arm and a floppy straw hat on her head. Her scarves fluttered in the breeze. She began drifting along the winding tracks like a gaudy butterfly, now and then snipping at the tops of the weeds with a tiny pair of scissors.
Holly jerked in shock as the straw hat suddenly tilted and Abigail looked up, straight into her eyes.
‘Dead heads,’ trilled Abigail. ‘They’re the bane of my life.’
Holly gaped at her.
‘I suppose you think I’m awful,’ Abigail continued. ‘But life must go on, mustn’t it? I’m sure Mr O’Brien would understand.’
Holly found her voice. ‘It’s not that,’ she called. ‘I saw someone looking over the fence just now, that’s all, and for a minute I thought . . . it gave me a fright.’
‘Oh, just a tourist, probably,’ Abigail said vaguely, snapping her scissors.
Holly waved and backed away from the window.
‘Poor me,’ a voice croaked dismally behind her.
It was the parrot. It was hunched in its cage, rocking from side to side.
‘Shut up,’ said Holly. But the interruption had brought her to her senses—or what were passing for her senses that day. There had been no severed head on the gatepost. And if it pleased Abigail Honour to prune her weeds with a very small pair of scissors, she could get on with it. Holly had other concerns.
The first, and most urgent, she suddenly realised, was to find the bathroom. She strode resolutely to a door behind the red desk and threw it open. The smell of incense gusted from the dim room beyond. She could see the hulking shape of a double bed directly in front of her.
She felt for the switch beside the door, flicked it on and started nervously as the room was flooded with bilious green light.
The walls were painted with luxuriant rainforest scenes. Painted vines snaked across the cracked ceiling, meeting at the central ceiling rose from which the bare green light bulb swung on its cord like a bulbous seed pod, emitting a poisonous glow. Possibly, with Skye and Deirdre in residence, the room had held a bizarre charm. Or perhaps not, thought Holly uneasily. But now that the forest lovers had departed, taking their own moveable possessions and restoring the landlord’s fittings to their appointed places, there was no doubt as to the effect. It was grotesque.
The bed was so massive as to carved oak bed-ends, and so meagre as to sagging mattress, that it looked like a giant, misshapen cradle. It was skimpily covered with a chenille bedspread that might once have been pink. The spread was heavily creased in squares, as though it had been folded and packed away for a long time.
Thick mustard yellow curtains, also heavily creased, covered the window that looked out over Stillwaters Road. Rearing in front of them was a huge dressing table with three tall oval mirrors and three grimy lace mats meticulously spaced across its width. To Holly’s right, the doors of the bulky oak wardrobe hung incontinently open, revealing a bent brass rail and two wire coathangers.
O’Brien must have been desperate. The thought floated through Holly’s mind a
s her eyes searched the writhing walls for signs of a doorknob.
The bathroom would be next to the kitchen, to save on plumbing costs. On the back wall, then. Holly turned left and finally found what she was looking for. The door was beautifully camouflaged, its shape disguised by tree trunks, its knob protruding from the deep red centre of a fleshy purple flower that looked carnivorous.
Every tap in the bathroom dripped, and the walls and ceiling were painted to create the illusion of being inside a waterfall. Luckily, the room was so tiny that Holly was able to make it to the toilet without actually wetting her pants.
Washing her hands afterwards, she stared into the speckled mirror above the hand basin, wondering how she had come to this. How could she, Holly Love, apple of her parents’ eye, competent manipulator of invoices in Gorgon Office Supplies, have ended up alone and starving in a dead man’s flat? She leaned closer to the mirror, fascinated by her unnatural pallor, her sharpened cheekbones, her feverish eyes, fantasising about a hot, home-cooked meal.
It occurred to her that the last person to have looked in this mirror was probably O’Brien—O’Brien, who had used her money to eat and drink himself to death. She imagined what her mother would say if she knew, and found herself snorting with laughter.
Then she heard, coming from behind the bathroom door, an orchestra playing the first bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The shock was terrific. Holly froze. Her heart gave a tremendous thump. Her laughter died in her throat.
Da-da-da-dah! Da-da-da-dah—
The music stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Holly swallowed. Her heart was still beating wildly. She couldn’t breathe. Was she going to have a heart attack like O’Brien? Was this her punishment for laughing? Would Constable Chloe Gruff suspect the supernatural when Holly’s death was discovered? Or would she put it down simply to bad luck?
It came to Holly that if she were going to die, it would be better not to die in the bathroom. For a start, the door opened inwards and her body would block it. Also, when you heard of someone dying in the bathroom you always thought they had probably died on the toilet, like Elvis. She didn’t want her friends back in Perth thinking she’d died on the toilet. And it would make her mother sad.
With a superhuman effort she made herself move. As she pulled open the bathroom door and stumbled into the bedroom, something buzzed sharply three times. It was an inhuman but strangely familiar sound.
Two words floated to the top of the boiling soup that was Holly’s mind: mobile phone. Her heart slowed. She took a couple of deep breaths. Her brain began to function.
The buzzing sounds had come from the direction of the bed. Slowly Holly walked over to the bed, peering at it through the green gloom. The mighty headboard reared up against the jungle-painted wall, so absurdly out of proportion to the spindly cane bedside tables that flanked it that they looked like furniture filched from a child’s playhouse.
There was no sign of a mobile phone anywhere, but Holly knew what she had heard. She pushed the nearer of the cane tables aside and scored first try. There, perfectly camouflaged against the darkness of the skirting board, was a phone charger sucking juice from a single power point. The charger’s cord snaked under the bed. Holly pulled the cord gingerly, and a mobile phone slid from beneath the dangling chenille.
Holly picked up the phone and released it gently from the cord. It was a duplicate of her phone—the one that had drowned in what seemed another life. It fitted into her hand like an old friend. But it was O’Brien’s phone, she knew. Plugging his phone in to recharge was probably the only piece of housekeeping O’Brien had thought worth doing before plugging himself into his first bottle of whisky.
The phone had probably been on the little cane table originally. It had vibrated itself over the edge and into hiding the first time it had buzzed to signal a message. That’s why the police hadn’t found it and taken it away.
What a piece of luck, Holly thought, then gave herself a little shake. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t keep O’Brien’s phone! She had to hand it in to the police. Apart from everything else, there were probably important numbers in its memory—numbers belonging to O’Brien’s friends and relations.
Of course, O’Brien might not have had any friends and relations, a sly voice whispered in her mind. He didn’t look like a man with friends and relations. For all she knew, the only numbers in his phone belonged to his dentist, the liquor store, the person who fixed his car . . .
Holly decided to check the stored numbers. What harm could it do? She carried the phone out of the bedroom, seeking light.
‘Give us a biscuit,’ the parrot said, the moment she appeared. It sounded like blackmail.
‘I haven’t got any more biscuits,’ Holly snapped. ‘Do your worst.’ She turned her attention back to the phone.
There was a tap on the door. Holly jumped. The parrot cackled.
‘It’s only me,’ trilled Abigail Honour, poking her head around the door.
‘Hi,’ Holly said brightly, resisting with all her might the urge to put the phone behind her back.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Abigail said, easing into the room and averting her eyes from the spot where O’Brien had lain. ‘I just popped up to say that if you’re really staying tonight . . . well, I was just picking the herbs for my casserole and it suddenly came to me that you might like a nice, hot, home-cooked meal, so I thought I’d—you know, ask?’
Holly felt her eyes bulging. ‘Oh . . . that’s really nice of you,’ she said, little chills running up and down her spine.
‘Of course, you might rather get takeaway or something,’ Abigail added hastily. ‘But Mealey Meals in Minutes closes at five, and it’s not the best anyway, quite frankly. Lawrence at the bookshop swears there was half a mouse in a rissole he got there once, but that mightn’t be true. Lawrence is very imaginative. Anyway, I just thought—I mean, after the day we’ve had . . .’
Da-da-da-dah! Da-da-da-dah!
Holly goggled at the roaring phone in her hand, then looked up at Abigail.
‘Go ahead,’ said Abigail, flapping her hands. ‘I’m fine.’ She drifted over to the parrot’s cage.
There was no way out. Holly answered the phone. ‘Hello?’ she said faintly.
‘I’m ringing about the advert,’ a cracked voice barked in her ear. ‘Sulphur-crested cocky? Talks? Fifty bucks? Has it gone yet?’
‘Um—no,’ muttered Holly. Over Abigail’s plump shoulder, the parrot regarded her balefully. She turned slightly away.
‘What sort of stuff does it say?’ the voice demanded. ‘Dirty words?’
‘Not so far,’ said Holly. ‘It just—’
‘Aw,’ the voice cut in, sounding disappointed. ‘Bummer. It’s for me old Mum, see. She’s in a Home, see, and one of her mates there’s got a parrot talks filthy! Cracks the old tarts up. I wouldn’t want to get Mum one that’s not as good.’
‘No,’ said Holly.
‘Better leave it then,’ said the voice. ‘Sorry about that.’
The phone went dead.
‘Bye,’ said Holly. She turned back to Abigail, who was cooing to the parrot sympathetically.
‘I hate to see a bird in a cage,’ Abigail sighed, straightening up.
‘Silly old bat!’ said the parrot.
Abigail cleared her throat. ‘Anyway,’ she said to Holly, ‘I’ve got clients till six but if you feel like a little something after that . . . very simple, you know . . . About seven, say?’
‘That would be great,’ said Holly, her stomach growling. ‘Thank you so—’
Da-da-da-dah! Da-da-da-dah!
Holly jumped.
‘You’re in demand,’ said Abigail, a little enviously, Holly thought. ‘I haven’t got a mobile myself. They’re so intrusive! Enid has to have one, of course, but she only uses it for work. Well, I’d better get back and compose myself for my three-thirty.’
She bustled to the door, glancing back in surprise as the phone continued to roar.
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Holly met her eyes.
‘It might be important,’ said Abigail.
Holly smiled weakly and answered the phone.
‘O’Brien Investigations?’ an authoritative female voice demanded.
‘Oh . . . yes,’ gasped Holly, instantly cursing herself for not saying no.
‘This is Una Maggott,’ the woman announced. ‘I spoke to Mr O’Brien yesterday.’
‘Oh . . . yes?’ mumbled Holly. Had the woman really said her name was Maggot?
‘See you at seven,’ Abigail mouthed elaborately. She wiggled her fingers and left.
‘Mr O’Brien said he would ring me back today to make an appointment,’ the voice on the phone went on severely. ‘It’s past three now and I still haven’t heard from him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Holly said. ‘Mr O’Brien’s—um—he was 82 called away.’
‘What?’ The voice on the phone cracked, suddenly sounding more human. ‘But—he can’t just leave me hanging like this! He promised he’d see me about Andrew today without—what did you say?’
Holly realised that she must have made a strangled sound. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
‘Andrew . . . McNish?’ she croaked.
‘Well, he’s been going by that name, yes,’ the woman said coldly. ‘So you know about this too, do you?’
‘I’m—his . . . partner,’ said Holly. She couldn’t say ‘fiancée’. It was just too pathetic, under the circumstances.
‘I see,’ said Una Maggott. ‘Well, if I’d known Mr O’Brien had a female partner I’d have insisted on dealing with you in the first place. I prefer conducting business with women. They’re more straightforward. Presumably you’re authorised to discuss terms? Are you free this afternoon? Hello? Are you there?’
‘Ah—yes,’ said Holly, the phone pressed to her ear, her mind racing like a mouse on a wheel.
‘Your name?’
‘Um . . . Cage,’ said Holly wildly, meeting the parrot’s mocking eye.
‘Cage,’ repeated Una Maggott, obviously writing it down. ‘Very well, Ms Cage, let’s not fence any longer. I won’t stand for any more delays. We’re hard to find so I’ll send my driver to fetch you. The address I have is . . . 16A Stillwaters Road, Mealey Marshes. Is that correct?’
Love, Honour & O'Brien Page 7