Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms Fassbinder?’ As if she’d helped me with anything in the first place.

  ‘Perhaps you could simply nod your head if Serena Kallos had her daughter Calliope enrolled here? That would make my job much easier and I could stop wasting your time,’ I said, hoping I sounded considerably more polite than I felt. I liked to think of three as a magic number, but as this was the third time I’d asked for help and the third time I’d failed to get it, I was beginning to think the magic was running low. I indulged in a warm, fuzzy fantasy about getting McIntyre down here to tear Mrs T. a new one, but dismissed the idea pretty quickly; Rhonda was clearly not well. I’d try to keep the strain on her to a minimum. At some later date, I could stick a sharp knife in Mrs Tinkler’s tyres, but for the moment it was white flag time.

  She knew it, too. ‘As I said, without a warrant—’

  Well, at least I could milk this bit. ‘Can you get this through your skull, Mrs Tinkler? Serena Kallos is dead. She took a swan-dive off a very tall building, and her child – a baby – is missing. I don’t need anything from you except a yes or a no.’

  Mrs T. was completely unfazed. She gave me a supercilious smile as I placed a business card on the counter and said sarcastically, ‘Thank you so much for all your help. I’ll be sure to mention it to Serena Kallos’ family – as well as any journalists I might happen to be in contact with in the course of my investigation into a murdered mother and missing child.’

  It was bullshit, of course – imagine that six o’clock news story! – but she didn’t know that and her gaze went flat and dark. For a moment I wondered if she might be something less than Normal – the idea of her looking after children didn’t inspire confidence in me. I pondered how she came off to the parents who brought their kids here, but she’d probably put on a mask, maybe a cuddly, loving aunty, and suck up to all those mums and dads desperately needing a place to store their offspring for the better part of every day.

  What if . . .?

  ‘You don’t happen to live in Ascot, do you?’

  The question was enough of a change of direction that before she could check herself she’d blurted, ‘No. Tarragindi,’ then she bit her bottom lip as if to punish it for letting slip. I’d get Bela to check on her.

  I let the door slam and was halfway back to the sunny spot where Ziggi was parked before I heard the smack of clacky mules hitting the pavement behind me. Someone grabbed my arm and I swung around, fists clenched – maybe Mrs T. moved faster than expected?

  Except it wasn’t her but a red-headed girl in her early twenties, maybe even late teens. Her big eyes were caked in mascara and too much black eyeliner, yet she looked kind of sweet. Her nose was reddened, as if she’d been crying, and she kept glancing back towards Dinky Darlings.

  ‘Hi?’ I said.

  ‘You were asking about Callie – listen, you can’t tell anyone, ’cause I really need this job.’ She spoke in a rush, as if desperate to get the words out before someone caught her talking to me. ‘Serena used to bring her here, just twice a week, so she could have some time to herself and do the stuff she needed to for the shop.’ Around her throat was a necklace like the ones I’d seen in the cabinet at the Kallos boutique: black stones with a green fire glowing deep within. Labradorite, I guessed. Her dress was vintage; maybe 1950s, not really the best choice for working with dirt magnets all day, but I thought the kids would like how pretty she looked. She’d rushed out without a coat and was shivering.

  ‘When did you last see Serena?’

  ‘Is she really dead?’

  ‘Afraid so. Sorry, your name—?’

  ‘Vicki. Vicki Anderson. Serena was lovely, and she was a good mum. I used to babysit for her sometimes, but— Oh God, don’t tell Mrs Tinkler!’ She wrung her hands so hard the skin started to turn pink.

  ‘No worries there.’ I grabbed her wrists to keep her from hurting herself, then let her go, and she left her arms hanging loosely by her sides. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Last Thursday afternoon when she picked up Calliope. She was fine then.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know who the father is?’

  She tilted her head, her mouth trembling. People always started to clam up after the initial babble, when the relief of telling was overcome by the regret of having let the cat out of the bag. The trick was to distract them to keep them talking, work on whatever guilt got them chatty in the first place.

  ‘Vicki, I just need to find Callie – if her father’s got her, then that’s fine.’ I neglected to say he might soon find himself a person of interest in a murder investigation; she didn’t need to know that. ‘I just have to make sure that little girl’s okay.’

  She ran a hand through her messy red curls. ‘He used to pick Callie up sometimes – and he was always here for parents’ days. He’s a nice guy, but honestly, I didn’t think he liked girls. Maybe it was an arrangement?’

  ‘Can you tell me what his name is?’ I kept my voice soft and restrained myself from punching the air.

  ‘Chris – Christos. I don’t know his last name, but he designs jewellery. He’s got a store somewhere in Paddington.’ She touched her necklace. ‘Serena had a heap of his stuff on display in her shop.’

  I remembered the price tags I’d seen and must have stayed quiet a moment too long because she said defensively, ‘Serena gave me this last Christmas.’

  I raised my hands to say I’m not arguing, but she started to cry, and when I patted her shoulder ineffectually she attached herself to me like a limpet, bawling as if her heart was breaking. It was more close contact than I was used to from strangers and it took all my self-control to make myself relax and emit comforting noises.

  When she at last pulled away she looked embarrassed, muttering, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You lost your friend. You don’t need to apologise,’ I said quietly. ‘Here’s my card. You’d better go back before the old bat notices you’re gone, okay? And, thank you.’

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks and spread the kohl even further afield. I pointed to my face, then hers. ‘You might want to tidy up before she sees you. Give me a call if you think of anything else, okay?’

  The sniffling girl smiled wanly and set off down the street, her mules beating out a sad little tarantella as she went.

  *

  Facet, nestled in the very chic, very boutiquey, very hilly suburb of Paddington, was one of those expensive stores filled with very little. I’d had to push a button to signal my interest in being let in, so it was a good thing I’d had the foresight to dress well for my second day of trying to extract information from people who weren’t necessarily happy to reveal anything to a stranger. My standard attire of faded jeans and an old Cure T-shirt wouldn’t have got me across the threshold of this particular shop – it might even have resulted in an uncomfortable phone call to the police – so I was glad I’d opted for my charcoal skirt, granite button-up top, ebony boots (a fashionable way of saying ‘a lot of black’) and my good winter coat. The fit of the right boot was a little tight with the dagger slid inside, but it was tolerable. I’d achieved quite a respectable appearance, I’d thought proudly as I’d brushed my hair, all the while studiously ignoring the greys peeking through the brown. I even managed to paint on some lipstick inside the lines. Never let it be said we’re a society without miracles.

  Through the spotless plate-glass window, instead of traditional display cases, I could see eight waist-high pillars spread around the space, each holding a red velvet pillow draped with a single item of jewellery and protected by a glass cover. I spotted security cameras in every corner of the room too, then a figure came in sight and I smiled and waved, apparently looking non-threatening and affluent enough for the lock to click and the door to jerk open a few inches. I stepped inside.

  A pale man with light green eyes and long dark hair that kissed his collar gave me a professional smile and began to bustle. His navy wool trousers had dangerously
sharp creases and his white shirt looked as if it had just come out of the wrapping. His handshake was gentle, the palm damp and soft-skinned. A heavy bracelet hung about his slim wrist: haematite and dragon-vein agate set in what looked like silver, but I bet was platinum.

  ‘Christos?’ I asked. I was willing to bet he’d been born a Christopher.

  ‘And what can I help you with today, my lovely?’ His manner was full-blown dahling, but he was trying too hard. He was nervous, and I swear I could smell fear beneath his pricey cologne. He started fidgeting, first checking a cufflink, then a button; stroking his belt buckle, feeling the weight of the bracelet, pulling an earlobe, generally trying to distract himself with a series of busy-nothings. The broad business smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were shifting to and fro as if constant vigilance was the only thing that could save him. He might have been right.

  And I sensed something else which was really interesting. He was ordinary. I could feel it through his skin when we touched: a very solid ordinariness that permeated his flesh and lined his bones: Christos was Normal, and whatever trouble had found Serena, he wasn’t able to cope with it. So how was he involved?

  Every lie I’d thought of and every cunning half-truth I’d planned to use to inveigle him dried up on my lips. I pitied him, and it made me honest. ‘I’m here about Serena and Calliope.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.’ Dread flickered in his face and a muscle started twitching involuntarily in his cheek. He retreated towards a long black velvet curtain at the back of the shop. I didn’t follow immediately, just raised my hands, as if that might convince him he had nothing to fear from me.

  ‘Christos, my name is Verity Fassbinder and I’m a private investigator. Serena called me before she died. We were supposed to meet, but I . . . I didn’t make it.’ My voice shook. ‘Do you know what she wanted to discuss with me?’

  ‘She’s really dead?’ he whispered, slumping against one of the pillars that wobbled dangerously. ‘I couldn’t contact her while I was away—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Christos, yes. Serena’s dead and Calliope is missing.’

  He hesitated, as if weighing up my trustworthiness, then, slow as a cat consenting to be stroked, motioned for me to join him. Behind the curtain was a small office; a nappy bag and a baby carrier were piled in one corner. He fell into a chair at the desk and took a couple of deep breaths before saying, ‘I was in Sydney on a buying trip. I didn’t know anything had happened until I got home yesterday – that awful woman from Dinky Darlings called.’

  Mrs Tinkler certainly did have a way about her.

  ‘She demanded to know where Callie was – she started shouting about limited places and fees and waiting lists.’ His bottom lip trembled. ‘But I don’t know! Callie mostly stayed with Serena.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude or offensive, Christos, but are you really Calliope’s father?’

  There was a moment when he looked like he was considering lying – when I could tell he yearned to do so – but I think he knew he wasn’t good at untruths. After a pause he shook his head. ‘Serena wanted a name to give people, to put on the birth certificate. But I did everything a father could and should. Serena and I are . . . we were best friends; I’d have done anything to help her. And that little girl – my little girl – she is just so beautiful. I loved her the moment I set eyes on her.’ His smile was tremulous, but I had no doubt it was genuine.

  ‘And you knew what Serena was?’

  Again a pause, then he admitted, ‘So strange, so lovely. Like a piece of art or something from history, so exquisitely old.’ He sniffled. ‘I just loved to be around them. I was privileged to be part of their lives.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you who the sperm donor was?’ I made a point of not saying ‘real father’.

  He said sadly, ‘She wouldn’t talk about it, and I didn’t push. I suppose I thought that if I didn’t know then I could pretend Callie really was mine.’

  Serena would have known that Christos wasn’t a keeper of secrets; anyone who wanted to get information out of him wouldn’t have to push too hard, so what he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell.

  ‘And you don’t know what Serena was upset about?’

  He looked at the toes of his gleaming shoes. ‘Either she kept it from me or it didn’t start until after I went away.’

  ‘You don’t—’

  ‘I don’t know where Callie is! I can’t even begin to imagine – if the other sirens don’t have her . . .’ He let the statement hang, the weight of what was left unsaid . . . Serena Kallos had been dead for almost a week. Even though the little girl was half-siren, there was no guarantee she was any hardier than the average infant. Without food, without water, without care she wouldn’t last long.

  ‘Please find her,’ he begged.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I said.

  We swapped business cards, and then I opened my mouth to give the usual exhortation to call if he thought of anything, but what actually came out was, ‘Christos, maybe you should go away for a break.’

  Tradition dictated that people be told not to leave town, but I didn’t think he’d do well against whatever had killed Serena, and I really didn’t want a call from McIntyre telling me this gentle man – or parts of him – had been found in a tree or scattered across a park somewhere. If I could do something positive for at least one life I’d feel better about myself.

  It was almost five by the time I left Christos and the day was pretty much gone. What little progress I’d made was nowhere near enough and that was lying heavily on me, as was the suspicion there would be some tail-chasing in my future, and while I was wandering around in the dark, that little girl’s time might have already run out. I wasn’t sure I was even asking the right questions, or looking in the right places.

  I said as much to Ziggi as he negotiated the traffic to get me home.

  ‘Can’t think like that or you might as well just give up breathing,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re annoyingly tenacious. You’ve got a brain. Use it,’ he ordered.

  Watching the vehicles around us, cars moving back and forth like a high-speed game of Tetris, I realised there was one place I might learn more: someone who knew a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot of things. But the privilege of talking to her was going to cost me. I’d be rearranging my priorities. I pulled out my mobile and resentfully thumbed a contact.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Every so often Mel had clients on a Saturday for acupuncture, cupping, Thai massage and other natural ways of leaving bruises, so I occasionally acted in loco parentis – after unsuccessfully trying to convince my charge that it did not mean crazy parent. That often meant schlepping Lizzie to relevant sporting events, for which Ziggi appointed himself fairy god-chauffeur – he claimed that if he was driving me it counted as work, for which Bela would pay, but I think he just liked the kid. Given the whole Winemaker business, I was lucky Mel still trusted me with her daughter.

  That was how I came to be watching a game of under-tens soccer, a sport I’d previously understood to be non-contact. The noise generated by the crowd was phenomenal, but not enough to drown the voice in my head shouting that I wasn’t doing enough to find Calliope. But I reminded myself sternly that I didn’t have too many options: my dearly bought appointment wasn’t until the next day. I was praying it would yield some leads, but in the meantime there was nothing to do except worry about a missing child whose mother I’d failed, while trying to immerse myself for a while in the flow of the ordinary world of a child I had managed to save . . . nothing to do but wonder, foolishly, if one day I’d be sitting here watching my own mini-me run after a stupid ball, to wonder if David would be beside me.

  Mind you, observing those grownups at close quarters as they yelled violent advice at their children was not the best advertisement for parenthood. I pondered how and when life had changed for them – when they’d stopped thinking this was all meant to be fun. And when they’d stopped hoping for th
emselves and started dousing their offspring with their own dead ambitions, as if enough might soak in and resuscitate lost dreams. They might as well have been shouting, ‘Let Daddy re-live his youth through you!’ or, ‘Become a star and keep Mummy in the manner to which she should already have become accustomed!’ because that was clearly what they were seeking. And however much they loved their progeny, they had no true idea of their value – and they wouldn’t, not until one was gone forever.

  Watching all those cared-for kids made me think about the ones who had no one to worry about them: the ones who’d been lured to the gingerbread house and never got away, and the others, like Sally, who’d do anything to survive, no matter how awful. I was definitely conflicted about that little guttersnipe. Part of me felt desperately sorry for her, but the rest of me couldn’t forgive her for the appalling harm she’d done. And that started me wondering: why’d she come by my place, only to disappear when she saw Anders Baker? Or was it me she was afraid of? Had she changed her mind at the sight of me? Perhaps she hadn’t known I’d got to Lizzie in time and was terrified I’d failed and that I’d blame her? I tried to put the questions aside, before my mind started to feel like an out-of-control hamster wheel, and focused on the game.

  Lizzie and I had had a long talk about good sportsmanship and she was following the rules to the letter – and doing an impressive job of keeping her temper in check, which was all the more remarkable since it appeared no one else had bothered to give their darlings a similar spiel. In the space of ten minutes she’d taken three falls, tripped by the same little grub each time, yet she’d neither popped him one nor grabbed him by his mullet and twirled him around like a streamer. I, on the other hand, was verging on enraged. I’d have given someone’s right arm for the power to hex, so it was probably a good thing I had no magical talent whatsoever.