Holly threw the mobile aside, started her car and glanced at the clock. It was exactly ten-forty-five.
A small green van emblazoned in bright yellow with Trevor Purse’s name, profession and phone number, and decorated with pictures of rats, mice and assorted magnified creepy-crawlies, backed cautiously from the garage. Purse was at the wheel. He got out to close the garage door, then returned to the van and reversed through the gateway. He saw Holly, showed the whites of his eyes, and sped off.
Less than a minute later, the front door opened and Leanne Purse peered out. She seemed to be checking that the coast was clear. Holly grabbed O’Brien’s phone and pretended to be listening again, but obviously Leanne was only interested in making sure her husband had gone, because her gaze swept without interest over the white car parked across the road. Apparently reassured, she left the house, a trifle chubby but neat and pretty in a blue floral skirt, lemon-coloured blouse, pale blue cardigan and dainty sling-back shoes. Her fair hair, bouncing in shining waves on her shoulders, looked freshly washed. She was carrying a small overnight bag.
There was definitely something furtive about the way she scuttled to the carport and slung the bag into the boot of the Mazda, shutting it in quickly as if it were something disgraceful she didn’t want the neighbours to see. It looked as if poor Trevor Purse was right. His wife was up to no good. His ordered little world was falling apart. Holly felt depressed. She thought of O’Brien, remembered his world-weary eyes, and felt she understood why he had taken to drink.
Leanne got into her car and backed rapidly up the drive. Just beyond the fenceline she halted with a little screech of tyres and jumped out to close the gates. Cheating on her husband, but still dutifully following his security rules, thought Holly. Feeling cynical and hard-bitten she clutched the wheel, her hands sweating.
Back in the driver’s seat, Leanne put on her seatbelt and reversed into the street. Barely glancing at Holly, she took off at a brisk pace towards the highway. Holly eased her car away from the kerb and followed.
It wasn’t difficult to keep Leanne in sight while she stayed on the back roads, but things became more complicated once she reached the highway and turned west. Traffic was heavy. Escapees from the city had now joined the throng of locals heading for the shops or driving their children to Saturday morning sport. Every second car seemed to be a white Mazda.
Holly soon found that keeping a discreet distance behind her quarry was dangerous. Leanne Purse was clearly impatient to reach her destination. She drove as fast as she legally could, changing lanes frequently, and in minutes was much too far ahead for comfort. Holly decided that discretion would have to be abandoned.
She gritted her teeth and began to weave through the traffic, intent on her goal. At last she caught up with the Mazda on which her eyes had been trained for five minutes, only to find that it had a ‘Baby on Board’ sticker on its back window and was being driven by a large man with dreadlocks.
Holly felt a sort of sickening lurch, exactly as if she was in a lift that had dropped too fast. She goggled, appalled, at the impostor in front of her. She saw him glance at her curiously in his rear-vision mirror, quickly looked away, and by pure chance caught sight of Leanne’s car just ahead, turning left at a sign reading ‘Misty Views International Motel’.
Holly slammed on her indicator and recklessly forced her way into the left lane. She managed it just in time to swing into the motel entrance herself, to a chorus of angry horn blasts that brought the blood rushing into her face.
She pulled up on the concrete apron, her hands slippery on the wheel, her cheeks on fire. Belatedly she realised that her life-threatening exit from the highway had been totally unnecessary. She could just as easily have driven past the motel and circled back at her own convenience. It might have taken a while, but Leanne Purse obviously wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
Sending a silent word of thanks to whichever saint it was who protected feckless motorists, Holly peered around, getting her bearings.
The Misty Views International Motel was not the sort of place she would have chosen for a romantic rendezvous. It was a no-frills establishment. A narrow, flat-faced rectangle two storeys high, with a pale blue aluminium awning jutting over the central entrance door, it looked more like a barracks than a lovers’ hideaway. A row of dusty succulents and a single, depressed-looking cypress did little to screen it from the highway traffic speeding past towards more desirable locations. The best that could be said for the place was that it was tidy and functional, and looked cheap. Leanne’s car was nowhere to be seen, but an arrow directing visitors down a steep driveway to the parking area at the back of the motel told Holly where to go.
She eased her car down the driveway and found herself in a wasteland of bumpy asphalt newly marked with glaring yellow lines. There were only a few cars dotted about. Leanne Purse’s Mazda was one of them, nestled inconspicuously in a corner not far from a steep flight of concrete steps that provided a shortcut back up to the motel for those guests able-bodied enough to negotiate it.
There was no sign of Leanne herself. She had obviously wasted no time in hurrying up the steps. By now she had probably slipped through a side door—a fire door, perhaps, opened by her lover. She wouldn’t risk walking boldly through the main door and braving the receptionist, Holly thought. Not carrying that overnight bag.
For the first time, Holly let herself wonder what that neat little bag contained. A black silk nightie, perhaps? Red lace lingerie? Fishnet stockings and spiked heels? Smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of champagne? Whips and chains? She made herself stop thinking and moved her car into a space that gave her a good view of the back of the motel, the steps, and Leanne’s Mazda.
The back of the motel was marginally less brutal-looking than the front because of the railed walkways (no doubt described as ‘balconies’ on the motel’s website) that stretched across the building on both ground and first floors, providing access to the rooms. There were twelve pale blue doors on the top floor, and twelve on the bottom. Having counted them, as if somehow the number mattered, Holly waited in suspense for Leanne, alone or with a companion, to appear on one of the walkways.
Nothing happened, and after five minutes she began to wonder just how long she had dithered at the front of the motel, recovering from her brush with death on the highway.
After another five minutes she faced the fact that Leanne, with the speed and efficiency made possible by long practice, must have disappeared behind one of the twenty-four plain blue doors before Holly even reached the parking area.
Holly sighed. All she could do now was watch until Leanne emerged from one or other of the doors. No doubt it would be a long wait.
Feeling at one with the spirit of O’Brien, she sipped from the plastic bottle she had filled in the Mealey Marshes flat, and took perverse pleasure in the tepid water’s slightly rusty, slightly chemical taste. This was what being a detective was all about. It wasn’t about thrills and dark alleys and guns and fights and being hit on the head. It was about sitting in the parking area of a second-rate motel, putting up with discomfort. It’s a dirty job, she could almost hear O’Brien saying. But someone has to do it.
Another ten minutes passed before Holly, hot, cramped, uncomfortable and bored out of her mind, asked herself why someone had to do it, and more specifically, why she did. Why couldn’t Trevor Purse simply ask his wife what she was doing on Saturdays? They had been married for eight years, for heaven’s sake! If he’d forgive Leanne anything, why didn’t he just tell her so and get the whole thing out in the open?
Holly instructed herself to settle down. She tried playing word and memory games, but found she couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t dare listen to the radio, in case she ran down the Mazda’s battery. Her mind, like nature abhorring a vacuum, had begun buzzing with unwelcome thoughts.
Thoughts of Una Maggottt, alone and afraid, waiting for her return. Thoughts of Solicitor Allnut, insulted and vengeful, pursuing his
enquiries about Andrew’s accomplice. Thoughts of Eric, disappointed in her. Thoughts of Una’s missing rings. Thoughts of Andrew sunning himself by the pool of a tropical hotel while the languorous, long-limbed redhead beside him ordered another round of margaritas. Thoughts of the forty dollars in the envelope on the fridge, the stripped house, the empty bank account, the pitying eyes of Oriana Spillnek. Thoughts of her mother and father, and how appalled they would be if they knew what she was doing at this moment. Thoughts of Abigail Honour reading the cards, telling her that she should trust her instincts.
And what were Holly’s instincts telling her now? They were telling her to flee—to shake the dust of this sordid car-park from her wheels, regain the highway and drive down to Sydney with all possible speed. They were telling her to forget Trevor Purse, forget Una Maggott, forget Andrew McNish, forget Abigail . . .
But she had promised Una that she’d return, and she still had Una’s money. Trevor Purse believed that she was going to report back to him on his wife, and she had already spent most of his money. Her clothes and other belongings were still in the flat at Mealey Marshes . . . And by late this afternoon, O’Brien’s parrot would have run out of seed and water, and if she left without a word, no one would know she had gone. Trapped in its cage, the parrot might call vainly for hours till at last, parched, its beak gaping, it toppled from its perch . . .
Holly threw open the car door and jumped out, shaking her head violently to rid herself of the nightmarish dead-parrot images that had taken possession of her mind. The moment her feet hit the asphalt she understood that images of drought-stricken parrots were the least of her worries. She had drunk three-quarters of her water just to break the monotony. This, combined with the large latte of the early morning, meant that her bladder was at bursting point.
She had read that detectives on a stakeout sometimes used bottles to pee in. Well, that wasn’t an option for her. She had her talents, but peeing into a bottle wasn’t one of them.
It appeared that her next move had been decided for her. She hobbled to the steps and, slightly crouched, began climbing painfully towards the motel.
17
The reception area of the Misty Views International Motel featured royal blue carpet decorated with frantic yellow squiggles, two blue vinyl armchairs, a humming drink machine and a long desk that faced the door. Behind the desk, which was equipped with computer, phone and a selection of brochures displaying Blue Mountains tourist attractions, sat a woman with glossy, perfectly straight, copper-coloured hair that just brushed her shoulders, and a face so like a beautifully painted mask that Holly couldn’t even guess at her age. She could have been a mature eighteen or a well-preserved forty. She could have been a vampire who had manned the Misty Views reception desk for a hundred years.
The woman smiled professionally as Holly entered, her eyes automatically flicking up and down, sizing Holly up as feminine competition and quickly dismissing her as a serious threat.
Holly smiled brightly back, her own eyes darting around in search of a sign pointing to a toilet. Finally she saw one, directing her into the narrow opening between the reception desk and the stairs leading up to the next floor. She moved forward confidently.
‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist asked in a breathy, little-girl voice that contrasted weirdly with her glamorous appearance.
‘Oh, I’m fine, thanks,’ said Holly. ‘I’m visiting a friend who’s staying here, but I’ll just pop into the ladies’ room first.’
The receptionist blinked at her. ‘All our suites have ensuites, madam,’ she said. ‘What is your guest’s name? Who shall I say?’ Her hand moved to the telephone and hovered suggestively.
‘Yes, but I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ babbled Holly. ‘Long drive, you know, heh, heh, heh.’
Without waiting for a reply she bolted past the desk. Just beyond the staircase she found a door marked Ladies. She shot through it, locking herself into one of the two meagre cubicles she found inside with a sense of defiant elation.
When she returned to the reception area, much relieved and with a new plan, the receptionist was gazing with absorbed interest at her own fingernails, which were so long and perfect as to be clearly ceramic, and were painted the colour of dried blood to match her lipstick. So great was her concentration that it would probably have been possible for Holly to make a discreet exit. But while Holly had been in the ladies’ room it had occurred to her that now she was actually in the motel, she might take the opportunity to nose around a bit.
Sure, she could justify her fifty dollar fee by simply watching and waiting outside, but as her father so often said, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. In childhood this maxim had irritated Holly no end, applied as it had usually been to jobs like tidying her room, which in her opinion deserved the bare minimum of time and effort, but it suited her to quote it to herself on this occasion. Doing some subtle investigating would be a lot more interesting than sitting in a carpark for hours.
And besides, she told herself righteously, what if Leanne’s visit to the motel was perfectly innocent? What if, for example, the motel’s breakfast room was the venue for meetings of the local dramatic society? Or a first aid course? Or mac-ramé classes? What if Holly told Trevor Purse that his wife went to the Misty Views International Motel every Saturday, leaving him to draw the obvious conclusion and suffer agonies, when all the time Leanne was only working on a knotted string plant hanger as a surprise for his birthday?
Mix-ups like that were standard fare in the TV sitcoms to which Holly’s first fiancé, Lloyd, had been addicted. Holly had seen the same scenario in various guises hundreds of times, watching with glazed eyes as the story creaked to its predictable close, and Lloyd chortled along with the canned laughter. Still, the way life had been going for her lately, the clichés of situation comedy were surely relevant, and she felt it would be wise to take their lessons into account.
She sidled to the desk and stood waiting. The receptionist looked up and blinked at her vacantly. It was almost as if she had forgotten that Holly existed.
‘Is there a place here where my friend and I could have a coffee?’ Holly asked craftily. ‘A café, or breakfast room, or something? Or is it occupied at this time of day?’
The receptionist blinked again. She seemed to blink before every thought. Maybe, Holly thought charitably, it wasn’t stupidity. Maybe it was just that all the mascara made her eyelids heavy.
‘We don’t have a café or breakfast room, madam,’ the receptionist said. ‘Every suite has complimentary tea and coffee making facilities.’ She blinked. ‘We don’t do breakfasts,’ she added, to make sure Holly understood. ‘We just do suites.’
‘I see. Right.’ So much for the macramé classes.
The receptionist was looking slightly uneasy. Her hand strayed to the telephone again. ‘If you’ll just tell me the name of your guest, madam . . .’
Holly decided to bring out the big guns. She leaned impulsively over the desk. The receptionist drew back a little and blinked twice.
‘Look, I’m going to be frank with you,’ Holly said in a low voice. ‘I’m not really here to visit a guest. I just want to have a look around the motel. It’s very confidential, but actually, I’m a researcher.’
The receptionist looked alarmed. ‘For the health and safety people?’ she squeaked. ‘But the manager isn’t here on—’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’ Holly took a deep breath and resisted crossing her fingers. ‘Between you and me, I’m a researcher for a film producer.’
The receptionist’s mouth fell open.
‘We need a motel setting for a movie, you see,’ Holly went on, ‘and this place could be just what we’re—’
‘A movie?’the receptionist breathed. Little stars sparkled in her eyes. A faint stain of natural colour had appeared beneath the blusher that defined her perfect cheekbones.
And after that, it was easy. Within five minutes, Holly had established (and noted i
n her diary) that the motel’s only rooms were the twenty-four ‘suites’ accessed from the walkways (‘shared balconies’) at the back, and that all the downstairs rooms had been booked in a block by a tour party, due to check in at any moment.
She had also learned a great deal about her new best friend, Aimee Rice, twenty-four, motel receptionist and would-be movie star. She had learned more than she’d bargained for, in fact, so that as she climbed the stairs to examine the upper floor of the motel, with Aimee’s wholehearted blessing, she was feeling shaken rather than smug.
Aimee Rice, who was proficient at tap dancing, clog dancing, ballet and modern dance, who had seen Chorus Line nine times and who was working as a receptionist only while waiting to be ‘discovered’, had been with Misty Views International for only a few months. Before that she had been working ‘in finance’, in Springwood. She had further to travel to get to this job, but she enjoyed it because she liked meeting people. Also, here she was paid on time. Her previous boss was always behind with her pay.
At first she’d put up with his excuses, because he said he had contacts in the film industry, but after six months she’d started to think that maybe he was spinning her a line, so when she’d seen the Misty Views job advertised in the Blue Mountains Gazette, she had applied.
Aimee’s old boss still owed her a fortnight’s pay, in fact, and it looked as if she’d never get it now, because her mum, who had her toes done once a month at the podiatrist’s across the road from the office, said the place was closed, with a ‘To Let’ sign on the door, and according to the podiatrist, Andrew had done a runner owing money all over town.
The coincidence had taken Holly’s breath away. Staring with something like superstitious dread at Aimee, the redheaded rival of her jealous imaginings, shockingly sitting before her in the vulnerable, if thickly painted, flesh, she could barely croak the appropriate words of commiseration. It had probably been lucky for her that, at that moment, a half-empty tourist bus had pulled up outside the motel with a squeaky puff of brakes and begun discharging eager white-haired men and women from both front and middle doors.
Love, Honour & O'Brien Page 19