by Jaye Ford
‘He rescheduled. When was the last time you had painkillers?’
‘A while ago.’ She winced as she flexed her injured hand.
‘Tee,’ Kelly called into reception. ‘Get some water for Liv, will you? And what time is our accountant coming in?’
‘Five o’clock,’ Teagan told her.
Liv looked at her watch. It was quarter to one. Four and a bit hours.
‘You don’t look like you’ll live till then,’ Kelly said.
It was possible she wouldn’t. ‘Do you want to see if he can come tomorrow?’
‘No, I want to know what he has to say. But I can handle it myself and go over it with you later.’
The familiar guilt over the God-awful mess they were in washed through her. Kelly shouldn’t have to handle it. The call centre had been Liv’s client. She’d believed them when they said it was just a cash flow problem, had convinced Kelly it was safe to keep sending staff. She’d been gobsmacked when the bankruptcy was announced then stunned at the effect on their business. Prescott and Weeks had been left on a financial precipice and if they didn’t win new business soon – real soon – they’d topple over the edge. It would be a horrible end to their dream and the five years of hard work. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Back in the beginning, both couples had taken out loans to finance the start-up. Kelly and Jason used their home as surety; Liv and Thomas secured theirs with an investment property. After Thomas left, when Liv realised the other woman wasn’t a fling but a mistress already installed in an apartment, she got out. All the way out. Before the details of the divorce were even drawn up, they’d sold everything – their lovely two-storey home by the beach, the boat, the holiday apartment up the coast. Liv spent her half of the money buying out his share in the business and paying cash for the townhouse. She didn’t owe a cent and she owned everything she needed. If Prescott and Weeks fell over, she’d be out of a job but she’d have a roof over her head. Kelly and Jason could lose their house.
‘No, I want to be here,’ Liv said firmly. ‘I’ll take my car out of the lot, go home, get some sleep and come back in for the meeting.’ She found the hospital medication in her bag then decided to take a couple of over-the-counter painkillers she kept in her drawer instead. They wouldn’t be as effective but they wouldn’t make her groggy either, and she needed to be on the ball both to drive and for the meeting later. She met Teagan in reception and took the glass of water she held out.
‘Did you find that phone?’ Kelly asked her as Liv downed the pills.
Teagan placed a battered flip-top mobile and a charger onto the counter. ‘I swapped Liv’s memory card over. It works but it’s only been plugged in for an hour.’
‘It’s my old one,’ Kelly explained as Teagan answered yet another call. ‘It should keep you going until you can get a replacement.’
‘I’d forgotten about my phone. Thanks.’ She gave her a kiss and a quick hug.
‘Are you okay to drive?’
Liv tested her wounded hand. It hurt but she figured there was enough movement to hold the steering wheel. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll walk you to the car.’ Kelly pulled the door open.
‘Hold up, Kelly,’ Teagan said. ‘Toby Wright’s on the phone for you.’
Liv and Kelly exchanged raised eyebrows. Toby Wright was CEO of an insurance company and they’d been trying to see him for weeks.
‘He heard about last night and left a message this morning,’ Kelly told her.
‘Go,’ Liv said. ‘And good luck. Let me know what he says.’
The bastard in the car park might have started something good.
8
The security door at the end of the office suite opened outwards as Liv reached for the handle. She looked up in surprise, saw Daniel Beck step in from the sunlight and backed up a couple of paces to let him through.
He raised his eyebrows at the sight of her face. ‘Nice shiner you got there, Slugger.’
‘You like it?’ She smiled. ‘It’s got some impressive colours brewing, huh?’
He let the door swing shut, stopped against the opposite wall of the corridor. ‘It’s an artwork.’
‘So is this.’ She held up her injured hand.
He kept his eyes on hers for a moment before examining it. ‘Nice. You ditched the sling, I see.’
Maybe the painkillers were starting to kick in or maybe his lack of shock and awe was making her feel better. ‘Slings are for sissies.’
One side of his mouth curled up just a tad. ‘And you’re still walking and talking.’
She remembered her rant at the hospital. ‘Oh, that. Sorry for chewing you out. I was . . . upset.’
‘Whatever gets you through the night.’
She smiled again. ‘I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to say thanks better than I did last night. So . . . thank you. For the car park and the hospital and for talking me into calling Kelly. Going home would’ve been a mistake.’
He nodded once. Maybe he’d heard it all before. Maybe covering her legs and calling an ambulance was easy compared to other rescues. ‘Well, it’s just good to see you breathing this morning,’ he said.
‘Did you think I might not be?’
‘Always good to know for sure.’
‘Oh.’ She hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder. Okay, Liv, you’ve said it, you can go now. ‘I spoke to the police again this morning. Detectives are handling the investigation.’
‘Good.’
‘I talked to a Detective Sergeant Rachel Quest. She said she knows you.’
Something passed through his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know her.’
‘She asked me about you, how we knew each other.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
Liv frowned. Thanks? She opened her mouth to ask and the door swung out again. Ray stood there, a pencil behind one ear, a hand resting on the fat wrench in his tool belt.
‘Oh, hi, Livia.’ He looked surprised and pleased to see her.
She smiled cautiously at his earnest face. ‘Ray, hi.’
Daniel interjected. ‘I’ve got to go. Be careful with that fracture, Livia.’ He took the few steps to his office door and left her with Ray.
‘Need a hand? Looks like you could do with an extra one.’ Ray grinned at his own joke.
She winced inwardly. He was a nice guy, did a good job around the offices, but he was hard to escape once he’d started talking and she didn’t want to get stuck with him for the next twenty minutes. ‘Thanks, Ray, but I can manage.’
He held the door open with his whole body and looked like he was readying for a chat. ‘Someone said Sheridan Marr is a friend of yours.’
‘Yes, we went to uni together,’ Liv said as she passed.
He let the door swing shut, leaving both of them on the outside. ‘I let her in this morning.’ He tapped the security exit at his back. ‘Kept it locked a little later than usual, just in case the police wanted to check it, you know.’
‘Good idea.’ Liv started towards the ramp then remembered what Mariella had told her. ‘You were here last night when it happened.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No, I just heard the sirens and went out to see what was going on. I showed the police where the CCTV cameras are up there.’
‘Oh, right, thanks.’ She figured it must be his job to oversee the cameras – he lived in one of the flats upstairs and was responsible for maintenance in three or four of the buildings on this side of the street.
He lifted his voice as she moved off again. ‘And I told them about the vandals we’ve been getting up there at night. Remember I told you last week they’d been at it again?’
Liv wondered whether he was feeling some guilt for what happened. ‘The m
an who attacked me wasn’t a vandal.’
‘I’m here cleaning every night, you know. I can walk you back to your car. I do that for the other ladies when they’re leaving late.’
‘Well, thanks, Ray,’ she said although she wondered how much protection he’d be. He had to be almost fifty, wore nicely pressed work shirts and was too genial to do more than smile ingratiatingly. Maybe he thought he could talk an attacker out of hurting someone. Wear them down with information about cleaning schedules and maintenance details. No, that was mean. He knew everyone around the office, probably felt some kind of duty to keep the place safe as well as in good working order. Maybe he was upset about a violent creep hanging around his turf. She sure as hell was and she only worked there. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
With a brief wave, she headed up the ramp, wound her way around the zigzag path to the third level and stopped at the entrance. It was daytime but the place still felt big and eerie. She walked fast across the tarmac, scanning the open space, feeling edgy on her own. There was a woman strapping a toddler into a pram, an elderly couple making slow progress between parking allotments, a man in a suit down the far end. He was too far away for her to check his face but the other man was bruise-free. Come on, Liv. An eighty-year-old assailant?
As she approached her car, she eyed the big concrete column nearby, lifted her gaze and checked the lights overhead. The one above it was smashed, the wire cage around it dented with the force of whatever had been hurled up there. The two either side were also broken, so was the one behind her. Maybe the man in the balaclava was the vandal. Maybe he’d broken the lights so he could hide in the dark. Ray said the damage had been done last week. Had that bastard been hiding up here for a week? Waiting in the dark for a woman? For her?
Would he come back in the daylight?
That thought made her move a little quicker. She slid into her car, locked the doors, checked her mirrors. She noticed the flyer tucked under a windscreen wiper as she pushed the key into the ignition. Ray should crack down on the damn leaflet drops in the car park while he was dealing with the vandals. She got out of the car, felt a tingle of apprehension as she stretched across the glass to grab it, ducked quickly back inside.
It was bigger than the usual flyers and folded in quarters. She opened it and her heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t a flyer. Nothing like a flyer. It was a handwritten note.
Alarm made her head snap up. Was it a joke? Was someone waiting for her to keel over with heart failure? She checked the rear-view mirror again. There was a woman walking at the far end, moving away, not looking back. Liv glanced at the huge column to her right where the man in black must have hidden last night.
No one was out there but the strip of police tape still hanging from it made her hit central locking once more.
As she read the note again, she heard the throaty whisper of a muffled voice in her head – You’re mine, slut – and something sour crept into her throat.
The note said Livia. He knew her name now. And he’d been back to her car sometime in the last hour because there’d been nothing under the wiper when she was here with Sheridan. She checked her mirrors one more time, the empty view making her suddenly agitated.
She was alone. Like last night. Get the hell out, Liv.
Her fingers shook as she turned the ignition and rammed the stick into reverse. She drove fast around the circular route of the exit ramps, her injured right hand struggling to work the steering wheel. As she entered the street, she winced at the sudden glare and the pain that shot through her bruised left eye. She should pull over, find her sunglasses but she glanced at her mirror and kept driving.
She didn’t think about where to go, just found herself fifteen minutes later driving into the hospital grounds. It was where she’d intended to go when she left the office. Her subconscious must have held onto the plan. Or maybe her father would always be her safe haven.
She bypassed the multi-level parking station, following the road around the main hospital to the original old brick building that now served as the hospice, her brain slowly emerging from its fright. Okay, okay, take a breath. She’d just panicked because she was bruised and tired and overwrought.
She pulled into a spot near the hospice entrance, eyed the note on the passenger seat. The three words were smallish and scrawled, written across the middle of the page. No, she hadn’t panicked for nothing. The man with the balaclava and the fists had come back.
She found Kelly’s old phone in her bag and the detective’s business card.
‘Detective Sergeant Quest.’ It was Rachel’s neutral voice but loud and forced. She was outside somewhere, yelling over the roar of traffic.
Liv told her about the note.
‘Where are you now?’ Rachel asked.
‘At the hospital.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, I’m visiting my father.’
There was a short pause. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was so ill. I’m going to be tied up with work until late. Can you put the note in a plastic bag and bring it into the station tomorrow? I’ll send it off for fingerprinting so try not to handle it any more than you already have.’
Rachel spoke as though she got calls about assailants and threatening notes every other day. Maybe she did. Maybe nothing surprised her.
‘Should I be concerned?’ Liv asked.
‘Hold on.’ Rachel spoke unintelligible words to someone else and the sound of a large vehicle came and went in the background. ‘Sorry about that. I think a reasonable level of concern is appropriate at this point. Make use of whatever security precautions you have at home, don’t take any unnecessary risks and call triple-0 if you’re worried.’
She’d wanted reassurance, not safety instructions. She pressed her lips together, fought back the image of a black-clad man lunging at her. ‘Okay.’
Rachel yelled, ‘Hey, over here,’ to someone on her end of the phone. ‘I’m sorry, Livia, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Liv folded the phone closed, shoved the note in her bag out of sight and looked around the parking area. ‘Don’t go to unpopulated places on your own,’ Rachel had said at the station. It was after one, slap-bang in the patient rest period. All she could see were cars and wide-open space. The epitome of unpopulated.
As she stepped out of the car, her eye pulsed in the gloriously sunny afternoon and strands of hair fluttered against her face on a gentle breeze. The lot was maybe a third full, vehicles scattered randomly about. She strode quickly to the entrance, pushed through the door into the hushed atmosphere of the Palliative Care Unit and paused a moment to slow her breathing. Anxious and uneasy was no way to greet her father. He didn’t need it and she didn’t want to spend the waning days of his life with him that way.
‘Jeez, what happened to you?’ Liv’s favourite nurse looked aghast at her from the nurses’ station.
‘Hey, Wendy. Bit of a mishap. How’s he doing today?’
‘Oh, he’s in good form. Being a real hard-arse.’
‘Just the way I like him.’
Liv tapped lightly at his door then pushed it open, saw his wasted shape under the sheet and smiled for him. ‘Hi, Dad.’
He watched her walk across the room and sit beside his bed, said nothing for a long time. Liv rested her forearms on the edge of his mattress and waited while he took in her face, her hand, then her face again. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than it used to be but still held the gravelly rasp of someone who’d done a lot of shouting in his life. ‘I hope you threw a few, too.’
She laughed a little, thankful that while he was losing the battle for his body, he hadn’t lost his attitude. ‘Oh yeah. He’ll be hurting today. He should have a fair shiner.’ She held up her taped hand. ‘I hit him hard. Just like you taught me.’
He nodded. A gnar
ly hand emerged from under his sheet, took hold of her uninjured one and gripped it like a vice. ‘Good girl.’ His face was as leathery and stoic as it had ever been but there was a wetness in his eyes. More than the moisture from a sick man’s tear ducts and it made Liv’s chest feel like it was being crushed.
‘I was walking back to my car last night and a man jumped me.’ She told him about it quickly and sparely. Then about Daniel Beck, describing him as a heavyweight. Her dad had always referenced a man by his weight division. Sometimes he added an adjective when the guy didn’t measure up, like a porky lightweight or a scanty welterweight. When he’d first met Thomas, he’d called him on the light side of welter. When she told him he’d left her, Dad called him a snivelling runt of a welter who didn’t deserve to breathe the same damn air as his daughter. If he hadn’t been stuck in bed with the after-effects of chemo, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him paying her husband a visit. Seventy-one and full of cancer wouldn’t have saved Thomas from a smack in the mouth.
She told him about the TV interview. He remembered Sheridan from her uni days, called her that rich girl who liked to slum it at his gym sometimes. Liv said Sheridan planned to mention him because people still talked about him.
His throat rumbled a grunt of cynicism. ‘Damn people should find something better to talk about.’
Liv knew it wouldn’t impress him. It never had. It made her feel good, though. He’d done it the hard way all his life. Harder than most. Harder still after her mother died. But he’d done it his way. He hadn’t left her for others to raise, hadn’t taken the advice to keep fighting while his star was shining. He’d given up a chance at a world title fight and carved out a living instead, made a home for them, rough as it was, and brought her up himself. Made her who she was. Sheridan had taught her how to look like a sophisticated woman, Thomas had shown her how to live like one, but she was still her father’s daughter.
She told him Cameron’s latest, how he was trying out for striker this afternoon at the local soccer club.
‘He’s scrawny but he’s got mettle, that boy,’ he told her.