Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  After that awful moment in Gwen’s kitchen, she’d raced home and raided the old photo albums shoved in the box room with the rest of Jacko’s stuff. She’d ripped images from the album and torn some of them to shreds before she got a hold on her temper and taken a really good look at his face. Thirteen years hadn’t just changed who he’d become. It had warped the image she’d held of him. Certain of his new name, she’d located his address in the phonebook, grabbed her packed duffel bag and hauled Spirit into the car. Now he was asleep, curled into the passenger seat that was barely large enough to hold him.

  The nosey old girl waved at a man walking his beagle. Whatever she said was obscured by distance and the car windows. The man raised his paper in an off-hand hello and kept walking. Along the quiet street, a couple in running gear stretched against a fence. Despite last night’s downpour, most of the houses had their sprinklers on, delicate sprays of water keeping the emerald lawns and manicured rose gardens lush through days of scorching heat. The immaculate garden across the road was no different. Its green lawns glistened in the brilliant morning light. Though less than half an hour from Failie, the leafy suburb could have been in another world.

  Love hadn’t been enough because this was what Jacko coveted—a million-dollar bungalow in an exclusive suburb removed from the unwashed masses. In the letter, he’d claimed her mother’s illness was too hard to manage. What he’d really meant was he couldn’t stand the clogged drains and leaking roof of their little villa in working class Failie.

  Bastard.

  Mina pulled her bag onto her lap, felt the weight of Gibson’s gun. The image of his horrified face flashed across her mind. She couldn’t think about that. Not while she had another man to confront. From the front pocket of her bag she retrieved the watch, let it rest in her palm for a moment. Unable to help herself, she ran her fingers over the embossed image.

  ‘I never noticed how much you resemble this dog, Spirit.’

  At the sound of his name the dog jerked awake, his inner eyelids still half closed and bloodshot.

  ‘It’s okay, boy.’ She fondled the soft fur behind his ear. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  When Spirit had refused to leave his place beside the old workshop last night, she had nearly lost her temper. He had some weird fascination with the crumbling stone building, but leaving him behind hadn’t been an option. When she didn’t show up, Carlson would come looking for her, ready to make good on his threats, and he wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter Spirit in revenge. He thought she’d do what he wanted because of fear of losing her reputation and fledgling business. Now she had none to lose. He thought he’d threaten those she loved, but she’d dealt with that by pushing everyone out of her life. She couldn’t lose Spirit too.

  All she had to do was confront the man who lived here, and Carlson would lose all hold over her.

  She still wasn’t sure if she’d been meant to figure it out. If she hadn’t read the letter and been mad enough at everyone to have a good long rant as she drove away from Gwen’s, she might not have put it together.

  “You were looking right at him and you didn’t even know him,” Carlson had said.

  She had been so sure she would know her father no matter how much he’d changed, and Carlson had laid it on so thick, she hadn’t believed him. It was only once she got fired-up enough to dig out those old photos of Jacko in the box room, imagined him heavier, dissipated, no longer the bleached-blond surfer she remembered. Only then had she recognised the truth.

  Jacko Everton may have fled town on the night of the barbeque, and maybe he had stayed away for a while, but he’d returned as Bernie Johnstone, a key figure in Carlson’s little empire. Somehow he’d lost his fob watch. For all she knew, Carlson had manipulated that so that she’d come across it, though there was no way he could have known she’d get lost and go looking for directions in Kegs’ junk store.

  Mina gazed at the imposing door of the home that should have been her mother’s. After all these years, she finally had the chance to face him, to make him see what he’d done, make him acknowledge that his greed and selfishness killed her mother. She took a steadying breath.

  ‘Right. Time for the truth.’

  Spirit sat up, alert and ready.

  ‘Stay. I won’t be long.’

  After all these years, her questions would be answered and once she’d done what she came for, she and Spirit would be gone. To where, she didn’t know, but wherever it was, it would be a long way from here. A long way from the past.

  She shoved the fob watch back in her bag, and it rustled against the crumpled letter. Her fingers chilled at the touch of Gibson’s gun.

  Chapter 38

  WHEN THE DOORBELL rang a second time, Bernie assured his wife there was nothing to worry about.

  ‘Carlson’s got it under control,’ he said.

  ‘How the hell would you know?’ Delia snapped. ‘You think Carlson tells you what’s really on his mind?’

  Behind her, the early sun streamed through the wall of glass she refused to cover with blinds or an awning. He didn’t need to see her face to know she scowled. When it came to him, it was her permanent expression. He shifted his gaze to the garden on which she lavished so much care. When had it changed? When had he ceased to be the centre of her world?

  The doorbell rang again, this one longer. Whoever was at their front door was persistent.

  Bernie suppressed a sigh and pushed away the last of his breakfast croissant.

  ‘Don’t answer it.’ Delia moved to head him off. She’d pushed her fingers through her short hair, ruining the salon-perfect styling. With her flushed cheeks and messy hair she almost looked like the woman he’d risked everything for.

  ‘I told you, Del. We’re in no danger.’

  He hefted himself from the kitchen stool. He should never have mentioned Gibson’s little embellishments to the provenance of his stock. Not to Delia. And it would have been infinitely better if he hadn’t felt obliged to clue in Slab Carlson, because that’s what started everything—when Carlson got spooked Gibson’s fraud would end his lucrative deal with the Europeans. Thanks to that Gibson twerp, his comfortable suburban life now teetered on the goodwill of a thug and Delia’s taut nerves.

  The doorbell rang, then again and again.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Delia followed as he moved into the hallway. ‘How can you be sure Carlson doesn’t know about—’ She jerked her head toward the kids’ rooms upstairs.

  ‘It’s been years. And we were careful.’

  Delia’s shrill voice joined the cacophonous noise coming from the bell as she harped on about Carlson, their incessantly inquisitive neighbour and the blonde who’d been parked outside all night.

  Bernie kept his eyes on the hallway’s bleached timber boards, wishing it was afternoon and he could distract himself with the colourful patches cast by the stained-glass panels beside the entrance door. When they were small, the kids used to try to jump from spotlight to spotlight, pretending bears would eat them if they stepped on the dark patches. In hindsight, he should have stayed in the light himself.

  ‘Bernie! I’m talking to you. What if that girl talked to Mavis?’ Delia’s heels snapped on the floorboards as she hissed her warnings. ‘That woman’s already suspicious of us. I can’t even go outside without her cauliflower head popping over the fence to interrogate me. She’s even got herself a ladder so she can chat to me while I garden.’

  All he could see through the stained glass was a blurred human shape. The doorbell ceased. Then a fist pounded on the door. Delia gasped.

  Only cops pounded on doors.

  ‘Christ, Bernie. What’ll we do if the kids find out?’

  She ran her hand through her hair again. Her distress hadn’t stopped her getting her nails done or distracted her from buying another knuckle-duster diamond for her finger.

  ‘Just let me do the talking.’

  Bernie opened the door. On the porch was the girl whose presence had disrupted his carefu
lly constructed life. The moment he’d seen her in Slab’s penthouse, he knew she spelled trouble.

  ‘I need to talk with you,’ the girl said.

  ‘Your business with Carlson is just that,’ he said. ‘Your business.’

  Delia muscled her way forward. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at watching us all night? What do you want?’

  ‘I’ll take it from here, Del.’

  ‘Whatever she’s got to say, she can say it to both of us. Better yet, she can get lost and take that revolting car with her. Just look at her. What will the neighbours think?’

  The Everton girl was dressed in sweats and running shoes, with a red leather backpack gripped in one hand. Even in that get-up, she could have modelled for Myer. No wonder Delia looked her over with the glare that could strip paint off a wall at one hundred meters.

  To spite his wife, he said, ‘Ms Everton, you look like you could use a coffee.’

  Delia narrowed her eyes and shot him the look he got whenever he talked to a pretty girl. His wife had no desire for anything but his money, and she made damn sure she wouldn’t have to share it with anyone. Delia could do with having her cage rattled.

  The girl stepped tentatively across the threshold and gazed around the opulent house as if awe-struck. A designer had done the interiors, and the house had plenty of character—good bones, as his mum would’ve said—but it wasn’t a patch on Slab’s penthouse, and there the girl hadn’t been in the least awed. He led her into the formal lounge room and watched her perch on the end of the cream leather armchair, clutching her backpack to her stomach, her face drawn.

  ‘Why don’t you start,’ he said, ‘by explaining why you’ve been outside our house all night?’

  She took in the modern artwork that adorned his walls then slid her gaze across the art deco furniture. If she thought he’d have any of Gibson’s fakes in his house, she wasn’t as sharp as she seemed.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ Delia leaned against the fireplace, one thin arm draped across the mantle. ‘Or did you just come to gawp at how the other half lives?’

  The girl flashed a glare that would give Del a run for her money, but her cheeks flushed and she looked down at the Turkish carpet.

  ‘Did Carlson send you here?’ Bernie watched her face. ‘No. Carlson’s crew know better than to park right across the road.’

  The Everton girl raised her head, a wry twist to her lips. ‘Is that so?’

  Some of Carlson’s crew were pretty thick, but he wasn’t going to concede a thing to this girl. When they’d met at the penthouse, it had been obvious that Slab Carlson had big plans for her. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out she was to replace Gibson in their dealings with the Europeans. The question was how much Carlson might have told her.

  ‘Are you spying for Carlson’s purposes or your own?’ he asked.

  ‘Spying?’

  ‘I know you’re not homeless, so what reason would you have for sleeping in your car outside my house?’

  ‘I’m not spying. And I would never, ever work for a scumbag like Carlson.’

  Delia snorted disbelief. Bernie hushed her with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I want some answers. I want you to acknowledge what you did to my mother. To me.’

  Delia muttered something. He heard the rasp of the lighter and his nose stung with the smell of tobacco. He stared at the girl, trying to assess her age, how many years it had been since he and Delia had put their plan into action. Had Delia been right all along?

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘How much what?’

  ‘Money. That’s why you’re here. To blackmail us.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  The girl seemed horrified by the thought, but she was a good little actress. He’d seen that at the penthouse. She’d played it cool and distant, someone toughing out her fear of Carlson, but in the restaurant they’d had their hands all over each other.

  ‘Why are you so interested in the kids?’

  ‘Kids?’ The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Oh my God, Bernie.’ Delia staggered to the couch. ‘How—? We were so careful.’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Del.’

  Delia butted out her cigarette and lit another, a sure sign of distress. Of her three vices—lavish spending, obsessive gardening and nervous smoking—he preferred the smoking. At least then he knew how she felt.

  He turned to the girl. ‘Spit it out. No more acting. No more stories. Why are you really here?’

  Chapter 39

  LINC COULD SEE NO SIGN of Gibson in his shop. The Jag was parked in its place near the loading bay, and the water beading on the duco plus the dry patch beneath the car made it clear it had been there since before last night’s rain. Perhaps he’d been waylaid by Candii looking for a thick wad of cash as thanks for letting him know Carlson was onto his ‘fake antiques’ scam.

  Pompous as he was, Gibson was too smart to stick around once he knew he’d been made.

  Linc peered through the front window of the antiques store. The place was so crammed with collectibles and furniture it was hard to see anything properly. The Chinese screen, so prized by Gibson, blocked his desk from view. No doubt that was the idea. That guy would take pleasure in observing his customers when they thought they were alone, then pouncing when they least expected it. A gentle glow lit the rear of the shop. It was possible Gibson had left a light on overnight so that any movement in the shop could be seen from the street, an old-fashioned form of security that had disappeared with the loss of community-mindedness and the increase in security alarms. The dealer was here somewhere. He was too precious about his car to leave it unattended, even if he had decided to remove himself from Slab Carlson’s reach.

  A long mirror hanging on the back wall reflected Linc’s image. He looked like a kid locked out of the toy store—or the dining room at Christmas. He hadn’t thought of that in years. Boarding school might have been tough, but it got him away from his father’s bullying. There were things about this case that dredged up the muck he’d tried to forget; perhaps it was Mina wringing out her heart over her deadbeat dad.

  Mina. Had she always known what Gibson was up to? Was that why she’d been reluctant to introduce him to her mentor, why she’d suddenly become so cosy with Carlson? The three of them—Gibson, Mina, Carlson—shared something that was about to explode, and if Mina was going to have any chance at getting away unscathed, he had to get Derek Gibson to talk.

  He moved to the second window. Visible beneath the panels of the Chinese room screen were the Oriental rug and the delicate legs of Gibson’s desk. He saw brogues, the hem of a corduroy trouser leg. And something else. A dark patch on the rug that had nothing to do with the pattern.

  Linc checked the safety on his weapon. Just the feel of the grip in his hand and the kid’s face flashed into his thoughts. His ears seemed filled with cotton wool, but his vision sharpened. Rain pools glistened with brittle light. The sun on his neck bit deeper. This was straightforward: call it in, secure the scene, wait for back-up. But what if it was more than that? If it came to a showdown, would he have the courage to do what he had to?

  Sunshine baked the ground. Already the rain was evaporating, leaving patchy shades of grey upon the road. He thrust the gun into its holster. It had been almost four months. Of course he could handle it. He’d check it out first then call it in.

  He tried the front door of the antiques store. Locked.

  In the car park, he used Gibson’s Jag as cover and took a moment to get his bearings. On his previous visit, the roller door on the loading bay had been closed, yet now it was up, revealing nothing more than a stack of crates and some blankets. It might be as good as empty, but Gibson wasn’t the type to be so careless. He checked the back door. Shut. He tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  It was at least ten degrees cooler than outside. He called out Gibson’s name. Ide
ntified himself. The returning silence was deep and heavy. He checked the small kitchen. Clear. The minuscule bathroom. Clear. The connecting door to the display rooms stood closed. He tried the handle. It moved easily. He cracked open the door. The arctic air hit him first, followed by a sickly, metallic odour underscored by a heavier, noxious stench. Linc pushed the door just wide enough to slide into the room. It was a maze of furniture. Mirrors and glass cabinets reflected the shop’s many alcoves and hollows. His muscles tensed. He’d done this countless times before. A few mirrors didn’t make a difference. He tried to breathe through his nose, shallow breaths that wouldn’t leave him with the taste of death. It didn’t do anything to loosen the knot in his chest as he slipped into the showroom.

  He found Gibson slumped over his desk.

  Spattered across the handpainted screen he’d cheated out of Mina was the matter that had made him unique. A mess of gore-filled hair replaced the back of his skull. The bullet had entered just above his right temple, leaving a ragged star surrounded by scorch marks. His eyes weren’t quite shut, and the drooping right eyelid gave the dealer a boozy, degenerate look that would have horrified him in life. Linc touched the back of his hand to Gibson’s pale one, a reflex only, because the state of the man was clear. His abdomen trembled like he’d done too many crunches.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t a rookie at his first murder scene.

  Blood pooled beneath Gibson’s head. It had soaked into all the papers on his desk then dripped to the floor. Where it hadn’t been swallowed by the Oriental rug, it had congealed and separated into clots and viscous serum. The stench crawled into Linc’s mouth, along with the other odours of sudden death. It wasn’t the smell making his stomach tremble. The chill of Gibson’s death passed over his entire body and set his nerves twitching the way they did when he kept going on nothing but coffee. He hadn’t touched a drop since yesterday.