by C. A. Larmer
“What is?”
“His departure from the university, of course. He didn’t leave, Ms Parker. At least not by choice. He was thrown out.”
“Really? What did he do?” Roxy half expected the answer to be something simple and benign. Perhaps he’d played up too much, or missed too many tutorials. Most of her university friends had barely scraped through, their loyalty torn between getting a degree and getting as drunk as possible in the process.
Professor Green cleared his throat then glanced around the room before saying, “You will not quote me on this. You will do your own research and find the facts for yourself. They are easy enough to find. I’m surprised nobody has yet stumbled upon them, to be honest.”
“Of course, yes,” she said, clicking her digital recorder off, her curiosity now intensified.
He sighed. “David Lone was found guilty of plagiarism.” As he said it, his top lip curled upwards, as though he’d just said the word murder, and she winced. It might as well be murder, at least, in a writing degree. It was the ultimate sin.
“Plagiarism,” she repeated softly, stunned. She had not been expecting that.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Not once, but twice, I might add. He handed in two fictional stories that were largely lifted straight from previously published works by a university student in Finland, if I recall correctly. Perhaps it was Sweden. In any case, it was mere chance that we happened upon it—this was pre-Internet age, you understand? And it made me wonder what else he’d stolen and got away with. In any case, we had no choice but to expel him. No choice at all. Of course, Mr Lone was not my first student to be guilty of plagiarism and he certainly wasn’t my last. Still, it’s a hanging offence at university and he had to pay the price.”
She nodded, wondering, like him, why this story had not leaked earlier.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Mr Lone ... asked me to keep it private. I obliged. It was no skin off my nose. But, as I say, it’s in the record books. For all to see.” Then, sensing her mood, he added, “Ms Parker, I had very little respect for David Lone back then and I’m afraid it does rather tarnish my view of him. You have to remember he was a young man then and if what you say is true, if his work is now critically acclaimed, then he has clearly turned over a new leaf. And that’s good to see. Those days are obviously well behind him. Still, it ought to be said. It ought to be said.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have my own research to get on with.”
“Of course, yes, of course,” she said, glancing down to gather her things and wishing, suddenly, that she hadn’t come here after all.
She felt like a traitor, and she knew that once spoken, words could not be forgotten. Or ignored. She could not quote the professor, but she did need to follow this up one day, when she had more time, and it was not a cheerful thought. For now, though, she would try to ignore it, and head back to Sydney. She was keen to get back on the Oliver Horowitz case.
That afternoon, realizing that she had neither the energy nor the time to begin the long drive home, Roxy found a decent looking motel by the side of the road and booked a room for the night. Then, after unloading her bag, she made her way to a nearby Chinese restaurant for an early dinner. The place was packed, mostly with boisterous young families or frowning older couples, but she managed to find a table in one corner and promptly ordered a glass of house red from the flustered young waitress. She had brought Tina’s book along to keep herself company and, after ordering from the greasy menu, turned to chapter one and began to read.
As she did so, the bell began clanging again in the back of her mind. There was something about this book. Something important. If only she could work out what. A sudden, loud beep cried out from her phone and several of the oldies turned around to stare at her, their frowns deepening further as she pulled it out. She smiled at them and quickly checked the message. It was from her mother.
Damn it, she’d forgotten to call. But she wasn’t about to do it now. They clearly didn’t appreciate digital interruptions at this restaurant—although, apparently, screaming kids and flying toys was perfectly acceptable—so she slipped the phone back into her bag and decided to call when she returned to her motel room. Her mum could wait thirty minutes more.
Several spring rolls and a bowl of wonton soup later, Roxy shut the book, paid the bill and made her way back to the nearby motel. The night was now dark, very dark, and there wasn’t a soul about. She felt a prickle of apprehension as she walked and she was not sure why. She had that strange sense that someone was watching her again and she tried to shake it off. It was silly. There was no good reason why the paparazzi would follow her all the way up here.
Still the prickle did not go away, so she pulled her handbag closer, placing one hand in to touch her alarm, and picked up her pace. At the motel room door, she grappled for the key and quickly let herself in dropping her bag to the floor with relief before reaching for the light.
But her hand never made it. Instead, a thick wad of cloth was suddenly, violently pressed against her nose and mouth and the overwhelming smell of chloroform blasted her senses. She tried to cry out, tried to push it away, but it was no use, her hands and legs were already turning to jelly and within seconds she had dropped to the floor with one final thought remaining.
She had finally worked out where she had seen Tina’s last book, and it struck fear in her heart. But it was no use now. Everything was turning black.
Chapter 34
Something hard hit Roxy’s head and she opened her eyes, feeling groggy and disoriented. Everything was dark and there was something cold and sharp underneath her right hip and wedged against her cheek. There was an overwhelming smell of grease and rubber, and the ground on which she was lying was rattling and shaking violently.
Where the hell was she?
Roxy went to sit up but her head smacked against something and she cried out in pain, then realized, with horror, that she was in a tiny, contained space, her hands bound together and legs squished up against her chest. She struggled to break free but could barely move an inch. The rattling intensified and it took a few seconds to understand that she was moving fast. Very fast.
Roxy tried to twist around but she couldn’t budge so she lay still for several seconds trying to work out where she was and what was going on. That’s when she noticed it. The sound.
“Cha-chaa-clunk! Eeeee! Cha-chaa-clunk!”
She had heard that sound before. Roxy’s heart lurched. Oh my God, she was in the boot of Oliver’s car!
Relief swept through her momentarily before it was quickly consumed by anger and then a sudden, piercing fear. She swallowed hard, felt violently sick, could not believe what was happening.
Oliver Horowitz! Had he done this to her? Had he knocked her out and bound her up and dumped her in the back of his car?
And if so, why? Surely he was not really a killer as the police believed?
No way, she thought, not her beloved agent.
The car rattled to a halt and Roxy shrank back, waiting, her eyes wide with terror, every muscle achingly alert, her heart pounding in her chest. A few seconds later the car started up again and continued driving and she felt a rush of relief. She had no idea where she was going or even how long she had been tied up in the car, but she knew one thing: she had to use this time wisely.
Think, Roxy, think.
Back in Sydney, Lorraine was staring at her phone, her own anger quickly turning to worry, and then something that resembled panic. She glanced across at Charlie who was busily cleaning away the remains of dinner, oblivious to it all, then down at her phone again.
Why hadn’t Roxanne called!?
She had a thought. She jumped up and fetched her old Filofax, the brown leather-bound diary she rarely looked at these days, and flipped through the pages until she got to the letter M. With one long nail she scrolled through the names, then re-scrolled until she found it—Max’s home number scribbled in faded blue ink. Thank goodne
ss Roxy had insisted she add him to her contacts a few years ago. She’d never once called that number, couldn’t see the point, and hoped as she did so now, that it still applied. Or did he only use mobile phones like most young people these days?
Max picked up after a few rings, his voice sounding sleepy, and Lorraine felt her shoulders drop.
“Hello Max, I’m so sorry to call so late,” she began. “It’s Lorraine Jones here. Roxanne’s mother.”
There was a pause on the other end as Max tried to compute this fact and then a rushed, “Oh, hi, Mrs Jones. Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, dear, please, call me Lorraine. Look, I’m so sorry to bother you but ...” She half laughed. “Silly of me, I know, and Roxy will never forgive me for doing this, but I was just wondering if you’d heard from my daughter? If you know where she might be?”
“Um ... no, I haven’t spoken to her since Sunday night. Should I have?”
“Oh no, no, probably not. It’s just that I know she went away, up the coast, and she’d promised to call and well ... she hasn’t. And she should be back by now, but there’s no answer at home, or on her mobile. That’s all.” She half laughed again. “Silly of me. I know.”
“No, you’re worried, that’s fair enough. Went up the coast, you say?”
“Yes, she had some research to do on another book. She didn’t mention it to you?”
“No ... no she didn’t. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from her. Um, just a sec.” The phone went muffled for a few minutes before he returned. “Listen, I just checked my mobile, there’s no messages from her there and my sister hasn’t heard a word either. Have you called Oliver, her agent? Maybe she went straight to his place when she got back.”
“No, well, I don’t have his number, so ...”
“Look, leave it with me. I’ll call him and get back to you. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. You know what Roxy’s like, she hates to be tied down. Just asking her to call makes her want to do the opposite.”
Lorraine smiled. He was right. Max clearly knew her daughter better than she’d given him credit for. “Yes, I’m sure she’s just teaching me to mind my own business. That’s what Charlie thinks I should do, but ... Well, she just never normally waits this long to return my calls, and what with a maniac on the loose ...”
Her voice choked a little and trailed off so Max assured her again that he’d check with Oliver and get back to her. That seemed to placate Lorraine and she gave him her home number and hung up feeling a little more assured.
Max, however, was now starting to panic. He had been on his way to bed when Lorraine called and he sat down on the sofa now, Caroline beside him.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“Not sure,” he replied, grabbing his mobile and looking up Oliver’s numbers. His home phone went straight to voice mail, so Max tried the mobile number, which rang and rang before also converting to voice mail. He tried again. On the second ring it picked up and Max sighed with relief.
“Oliver, great, glad I got you. Just wondering if you’ve seen or heard from Roxy.”
“Ro— ... Sorr— ... Max ...” The phone was going in and out of range and Max could hear traffic in the background.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Can you call me back?”
Oliver’s phone went dead and Max growled, staring at it angrily. He turned to his sister. “He’s out of range. Hopefully he’ll get back to me soon.”
Caroline nodded. “What’s going on with Roxy?”
He shrugged. “I wish I knew. Roxy’s mum is worried, reckons she should be back by now from some trip up the coast. I didn’t even know she was going away.”
A ringing phone caught them both off guard and Max jumped on it, quickly pressing the answer button.
“Sorry, mate,” said Oliver, the line still a little crackly. “Friggin’ useless mobile coverage out here in the sticks.”
“The sticks?”
“Yeah, been staying at my receptionist’s place but I’m on my way back to mine now. Can I call you from there or is it urgent?”
“Actually, it could be urgent. We’re just wondering if you’ve heard from Roxy.”
“Roxy? Not in the last couple of days, why?”
“Did you know she was heading up the coast?”
“Yeah, doing some research on the David Lone book.” There was a pause. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Don’t know yet, but she’s gone AWOL.”
“Maybe she got distracted. Caught in traffic?”
“Yeah, maybe ...”
“Listen I’ll make some calls. Davo should know.”
“Great, thanks. Don’t mean to sound melodramatic but her mum’s worried and you know what she’s like. The sooner we sort this out and get Roxy to call her, the sooner we can all get some sleep. Just call the second you know more. Okay?”
Oliver promised to do that and hung up. Max turned back to his sister, a deep furrow across his brow.
“I’m starting to get really worried, Caro,” he said, his voice now a strained whisper.
“Oh, she’ll be fine!”
“How do you know that?” he asked. “There’s a lunatic out there, in case you’ve forgotten. Slaughtering writers. Roxy’s a writer.”
“And she’s very, very far away up the coast,” said Caroline, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “If anything, she’s as safe as houses.”
Chapter 35
The house was dark and silent when the old Holden pulled up in front of it, and the man stepped out of the front seat and stared at it for a few minutes before reaching in for a balaclava he’d tossed on the passenger seat. He pulled it on, then shut the front door and moved around to the boot. Using the keys, he unlocked it quickly and then stepped back as the boot swung upwards and open. He wasn’t taking any chances. Knowing this woman as he did, he was half expecting her to come jumping out, all guns blazing.
Surprisingly, she was still out cold. He checked his watch. He must have used more chloroform than he’d intended. Oh well, it’ll be easier this way.
He reached down and grabbed the rope around her wrists with one hand and placed the other under her legs, then hauled her up and out like a limp rag doll. He swung her over his right shoulder and began walking towards the house. He staggered up the few stairs and then dropped her gently on the veranda, before stepping over her and towards the front door. It was locked, but he’d expected that.
He crossed to a front window and peered in through the smudge and grime, then pulled his jacket over his elbow and smashed the glass. He reached in and unlocked the latch from the inside, pulled the creaking window up and, brushing the remaining glass away, jumped up and over the ledge into the house. He looked around.
The old place stank of mould and possum piss and decades of dust, and it would do the job very nicely indeed. Barely containing a smile, he moved through the living area back to the front door to open it. As he stepped out and back on to the veranda, he gasped.
Roxy was gone.
“What the hell!” He looked around frantically until he saw her, hobbling slightly in the direction of the main road. “Shit!” he said and began racing after her.
After playing dead in the boot, Roxy had taken the chance to flee while he was inside. But her right hip was aching, and her legs felt heavy, and she knew he was hot on her trail. Far ahead she could see a street light, and beyond that several more lights showing homes, people, safety. She forged ahead and had just reached the end of the driveway when a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder, whipping her around and down, smashing onto the gravel. She held her bonded hands up to protect her face but it was too late, his fist came crashing down and smacked her hard, knocking her out again.
Some time later, she did not know when, Roxy came to, her right cheek throbbing, her head pounding, her throat bone dry. There was something over her eyes, a dark cloth, so she couldn’t see anything but she whipped her head around anyway, franti
cally trying to get a grasp on where she was, if she was alone. She had been strapped down into what felt like a scratchy old armchair, just like the one in Oliver’s office, and her hands and legs were bound more tightly now so they, too, throbbed beneath the rope. It was cold and damp, a stale, musty smell in the air, and a soft scuttling sound at one side.
“Hello?” she croaked, as desperate to hear a voice as not. There was nothing but silence now. “Anyone there?”
Again nothing. She took deep breaths, trying to contain the fear that was racing through her. A small creak startled Roxy and she swung her head around again, a lash of adrenaline whipping down her spine. She craned her neck, trying to hear where the noise was coming from.
There was another creak, then a sudden bang, and she sat upright, trying to steel herself. A door could be heard swinging open somewhere above her head, and then heavy footsteps began to descend what sounded like a wooden staircase. As they got louder they slowed down and then stopped completely. The silence returned, but she wasn’t alone anymore. She knew she was being watched, and every hair on her body stood on end.
“I ... I know you’re there,” she stammered, trying to draw him out. “I know who you are ...”
Her heart was beating a million miles a minute. She was terrified but she was angry, too, and growing angrier by the second. She knew she should harness that, to help stay alive.
She swallowed hard, breathed deeply and said, “I’ve worked it all out, you know. I ... I know who killed Seymour, and I know who killed William and Tina.”
The footsteps started up again and began to move closer, stopping just inches from her shaking knees. Then she could feel someone’s breath, hot and heavy against her cheek, and she could smell him, a spicy, sickly aftershave. She did not recoil. She had smelt that aftershave before. That’s when she knew for certain what she had suspected for some time.