The charred hole in Gibson’s forehead told him the gun had been held close to his skin. To get that close, the antique dealer must have known his assailant. Rigor hadn’t yet gone, so he’d been dead less than twenty-four hours, probably twelve or less, and for the blood to separate like that it had to have been several hours. The pathologist would confirm it, but at a guess Gibson had been shot yesterday in the late afternoon or early evening. Someone must have seen or heard something.
At least he was thinking clinically. His muscles twitched and the Gordian knot in his stomach hadn’t lessened, but he was holding it together. A sign he hadn’t lost his nerve completely.
Linc looked again at the drooping eyelid and the slack face that had lost its ability to express gestures and quirks. Another image flashed in his thoughts. His trembling worsened. Sweat moistened his collar. He’d gone to the morgue. The roaring monster who’d held a shotgun to the head of a four-year-old had looked just like this: bland, doughy, ordinary. Not a monster. Just a dead guy on a slab. Dead, because of Lincoln Drummond’s hero complex.
They were taught to go for the biggest target—the chest—but in his ranting madness the man had stepped off the porch just as Linc fired. That ragged wound in the dead man’s grey skin was an image he could never forget. It was a good shooting, and declared so by the department. It hadn’t made a difference. Not to the dead man, not to his family, and definitely not to Linc. That his colleagues treated him like a hero made everything so much worse. They told him to toughen up, let it go, it’s-all-part-of-the-job-mate. His shrink had prodded away at him, declaring it unhealthy not to dissect his feelings. Linc had shoved it deep inside himself and hoped it would fade with time.
He turned away, needing to breathe but not wanting to suck in any more of the putrid air. He’d secured the scene. Now he could call it in, wait for forensics. But waiting, the silence of it, was the worst. Waiting for the guy to drop his gun, waiting for the ambulance, for the pronouncement the guy was dead while the little boy screamed and screamed. Then waiting at the morgue, waiting for the ruling, waiting for his colleagues to shut the hell up.
The weight of all he’d been through pressed down on him. He straightened up, tried to get a grip on his thoughts, and caught a glimpse of movement in one of the mirrors.
Linc pulled his gun, turned and aimed. His hands trembled worse than a rookie’s.
Chapter 40
MINA SQUARED HER SHOULDERS and lifted her chin as she faced down Bernie Johnstone.
‘I don’t want your dirty money, and I couldn’t care less about your damn kids.’
‘You’re lying.’ The woman turned to her husband. ‘For Christ’s sake, Bernie, toss the bitch out.’
Mina stared at her profile. Her long nose had a bump in the middle that wasn’t unattractive, and her jaw was strong. She was also long-limbed and muscular. Even with plastic surgery, she could never have been the doll-like Brenda Bronson. Yet she knew enough to be afraid.
‘I want you to acknowledge what you did,’ Mina snapped at Bernie. ‘She was never the same, you know. She had to give up her art, had to go out scrubbing floors and mending clothes for people who hated us because of what you did.’
‘What you did?’ Delia frowned. ‘What the hell is she talking about? Why would anyone hate what happened? We rescued them.’
‘Del! Quiet.’
The woman looked at her decorated hands.
For the cost of one of those diamond clusters, her mum could have had a nurse, the best care possible. Without financial stress, with a loving husband by her side, she might have fought harder. She could have continued with her art. Maybe even created enough for an exhibition.
Mina stared at the man who had forced her mother’s decline. He was doing a brilliant job of acting clueless, but in those eyes—darker than she remembered—there was fear.
‘Do you know what MS does to a person? It robs them of function, steals away everything they enjoy.’ Her voice cracked. Grief pressed at her eyes. ‘In the end, they don’t have any dignity or privacy left to them.’
‘I’ve had enough. I’m calling the police.’ Delia thrust herself from the lounge. ‘The girl is deluded.’
Bernie frowned. ‘It seems you’ve got me confused with someone else.’
She might have believed him if she hadn’t been certain. She’d done enough staring at her father’s picture last night to know that this man’s jawline, though sagging, was the same, and though he had greyed and thickened over the years he was still the tall, broad-shouldered man he’d been in his surfing days. Once he saw the evidence, he’d have a harder time denying it. Mina thrust her hand into her bag, felt the cold, hard handle of the gun. Her eyes hurt, as if all her fear and misery were locked behind them. How much more would be sacrificed because of Jacko Everton?
The man who called himself Bernie knelt beside her. ‘Come now. I know it’s hard to hear, but don’t cry.’
He smelled of Old Spice and soap and she was thrust back to that night, just before he disappeared and she’d been crying over Pete Davison.
‘Are you ready to talk to me now, Mina Mouse?’ her Dad had asked.
She’d rolled on her back and rubbed her swollen eyes. Her cheeks were hot. ‘Why won’t you let him come to the barbeque tonight? I’ll die if you make him stay away.’
‘I know it feels like it, sweetheart, but you won’t.’
‘But …’ She sniffled. ‘What if he dumps me?’
He could have laughed at her, but he didn’t. She’d loved him for that.
‘Any boy who dumps you isn’t worth having.’ He’d taken her chin in his hand. ‘You’re sweet and smart and beautiful. So like your mother.’
His gaze drifted away from her face.
‘She dropped another mould the other day,’ she whispered. ‘She had the bronze melted, and everything. The mould smashed all over the shed floor.’
‘I know, baby.’ He’d smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.
If she’d known then what was coming, could she have stopped it? She looked at the man kneeling beside her. For just a moment, his face wavered and he looked nothing like Jacko, but then his hand inched forward as though he would once more rub her back and soothe away her tears, and she was certain. He looked on the verge of confession. She thrust the letter at him.
‘Think about your own family.’ Delia snapped.
‘Where’s your famous mothering instinct, Delia? Can’t you see she’s only a kid?’
‘She’s old enough to get your number.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He got to his feet and moved to the fireplace, away from the letter he’d refused to touch.
‘You deserted us,’ Mina said. ‘We had to handle all the crap you left behind. And because Mum was sick, guess who wore it? Guess who’s still wearing it?’
‘She is clearly unbalanced. I want her out. Bernie, kick her out!’
Mina gazed pointedly about the room. ‘You sit here, in your perfect house, with your perfect family, while Mum and I …’ If she went down that road again she wouldn’t be able to breathe. ‘I wasn’t going to do it this way.’
She let the letter float to the glass-topped table and reached into her bag.
Chapter 41
‘WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?’
Slab paced his balcony. The sun was well up and the Everton chick should have been at his doorstep ready to deliver. She must be too dense to understand he’d make good on his threats.
‘Can’t find her, boss,’ Tiny said. ‘Hasn’t been home all night. Got people out looking for her.’
‘Bloody Gibson. This is all his fault. Prick. Putting my business in danger so he could skim a few quid.’
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out over the racetrack that would soon be reduced to tilled soil and concrete footings ready for his newest development. It just needed the funds. Thanks to Gibson’s little sideline and the cops’ crackdown on the nightclub drug trade, he currently had a cashflow prob
lem. He couldn’t afford to lose the Europeans. He’d fixed them up with a suite at the Hyatt and sent Candii and some of the girls to keep them busy ’til morning. He’d wanted them distracted, off their game, so that any blunders by the Everton girl would be overlooked. Now the success of this venture hung on the bitch doing what she was told. Starting with showing up.
‘Tiny, get onto Candii. Tell her to get some fresh talent and keep those Euro blokes busy ’til the limo comes for them. Give them anything they want, anything that’ll keep them sweet or knock them cold while we sort this out. Could be all day. If I haven’t found the chick by tomorrow I’ll have to improvise.’
‘No worries, boss.’
Slab pulled out his flick-knife, clicked it open and shut. Improvising worried him. Thanks to the love-sick art teacher, he knew enough to fool the average stooge, but these guys were switched on. If he tried it with them they’d laugh ’til their guts split.
He walked into the lounge and called Tiny back.
Tiny stuck his hand out to stop the elevator door from closing. ‘Yeah, boss?’
‘Find that waitress. The one with the nice phoenix tat on her arse. Tell her I want some breakfast or something and I want her to deliver it to me personally.’
‘No worries.’
‘And make sure you don’t let her know you saw her talking to Drummond.’
‘Ah, boss, that just hurts my feelings.’
Chapter 42
‘IDENTIFY YOURSELF.’
Linc held his gun on the stranger who hovered in the doorway between the front and back rooms of the store. The man’s censorious frown was undermined by his slight frame and nervous body language.
‘Warner.’ It came out thin as a reed. The stranger cleared his throat. ‘About time someone turned up.’
‘Sir, you need to leave. This is a crime scene.’
His heart beat way too fast for a seasoned detective. He was just grateful the gun had stopped shaking by the time he spotted Warner.
‘Crime scene?’ Warner craned to see. ‘He’s dead then?’
Linc took his arm and steered him through the back room toward the rear door. Neglecting to latch it was a mistake that might have cost him his life, and if he hadn’t spent so many years keeping his emotions locked up, it might have cost Warner his.
‘God, what a smell.’ Warner coughed and then covered his nose with a handkerchief. ‘Never see that on Midsomer Murders, do you?’
Once they were outside, with the door firmly closed, Linc called it in then rang Stella.
‘See if Strzelecki and Dubois are available, and I want CSO Peterson. This time I want a decent sweep of forensic evidence.’
‘No problem,’ Stella told him. ‘Wainright’s still on night shift.’
He itched to ask who was on earlies in Criminal Investigations. Knowing his luck, the attending would be Engles, the detective in charge of the Schmidt murder and the man who’d already told him in no uncertain terms to back off. He got down to the business of a witness statement. Warner would have to give it all over again when the team arrived, but at least Linc would have the information firsthand, and before he got cut out of the investigation.
‘Seen you here before, haven’t I?’ Warner tilted his head inquisitively. ‘Has Gibson been under investigation for something?’
Linc raised an eyebrow. If the man’s curiosity was any indication, Warner could be a good witness to the comings and goings at Gibson’s Fine Antiques.
‘Like that, is it?’ Warner nodded knowingly and tapped his nose.
‘How did you come to know something was wrong, Mr Warner.’
‘Well, I didn’t, not for sure.’
‘What made you come over? Did you see or hear something?’
‘Not me. My wife.’
When he asked to speak to the wife, Warner became protective, claiming she was too shaken up to make much sense. Linc let it go. Whoever caught this murder case would not want him butting in, and with any luck Dubois was on her way. He’d let her talk to the woman. Then they could compare notes.
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘Wife was in her dress shop until the wee hours putting the finishing touches on a frock. Designs them herself.’ He raised a slender hand and indicated the array of frothy white dresses in the window of a shop across the road. ‘I was getting supper ready when she called me. Said she heard raised voices then something like a car backfiring.’ Warner raised his pale eyebrows. ‘I suppose it was a gunshot.’
‘What time was this?’
‘When she called? Around seven last night. I’d already fed the kids and had them tucked up in bed. We’ve got two girls still in primary school. Devil’s-own to wake them if we let them stay up past seven-thirty.’
‘Why wait until this morning to check on him?’
‘I didn’t. This is the second time I’ve been over. Nights can get a bit rowdy, what with the pub across the road, and my wife was insistent. So I popped down.’
‘And what time would that have been?’
‘Oh, not much after seven fifteen. We just live up the road a bit.’ He gave Linc his address and contact numbers.
‘You didn’t go inside last night?’
‘Well, no. That nice young fellow said he’d check on it.’
‘What nice young fellow?’
‘The policeman. Nearly ran me down as I was crossing the road, but I wasn’t expecting a cop car to come tearing down the street. It’s a forty kilometre zone, after all.’
‘This was a patrol car?’
‘That’s right. White with the blue checks on the side.’
‘And the driver was in uniform?’
Warner frowned. ‘I think so.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man.’ Warner said it like the idea of a woman in a patrol car was outlandish.
‘Did he go inside?’
‘Not sure. He told me not to worry. Said he’d call it in.’
‘Did he stay at the scene?’
Warner shook his head. ‘I was making the wife a cup of tea—calm her nerves a little, you know—and I heard the car take off. I assumed he was waiting elsewhere, or there was another emergency.’
Further questioning didn’t yield much of a description. Still, there would be a log of the radio call and from there it would be easy to track. If he’d called it in. Candii had said Carlson wasn’t pleased with Gibson, and hinted that he had cops on his payroll.
Linc asked, ‘Why did you come across this morning?’
‘His car. That Jag. Been here all night, you see. Gibson never stays late unless there’s a delivery.’ Warner tugged at his lower lip. ‘Come to think of it, a truck did go out last night.’
They’d get on to transport in a minute. ‘Before or after your wife heard the arguing?’
‘Before. I was still here. Must have been four-thirty or so.’
‘Did your wife see anyone at the time she heard this alleged gunshot?’
‘Says she didn’t.’ Warner paused, frowned then shook his head.
‘Was there something else, Mr Warner?’
‘Well, it’s probably nothing.’
‘Even the smallest detail could be important.’
‘Just before the usual lock-up time, when the delivery van was being packed, I saw… Well, I don’t know. They didn’t look too happy with each other, but you can’t arrest someone for that, can you?’
‘Who was Gibson talking with?’ Please let it be Carlson. That would really make his day.
‘Like I said, they didn’t look too happy with each other, but I reckon those two had lots of arguments. She’s a spirited girl.’
Girl? Oh, Christ. ‘Which girl?’
‘That young blonde of his. Drives a beat up Datsun 180b.’
Chapter 43
‘WHAT IS THIS?’ Delia had snatched up the letter Mina let fall to the table. ‘Who the heck is this Jacko character and what does it have to do with us?’
‘Why don’t you explain, Ber
nie?’
Mina laid heavy emphasis on his name, but he didn’t seem to notice, merely took the letter his wife thrust at him with a look of curiosity. God, he was good. Of course he was. He wouldn’t have got away with a fake identity if he couldn’t play clueless when he needed to. She pulled the watch from her bag, itching to throw it at Bernie or Delia or the antique mirror above the fireplace.
‘What’s that?’ Delia’s hawklike gaze zeroed on the watch.
‘It’s his.’ Mina lifted her chin at Bernie. ‘A family heirloom. He said he’d never let it out of his sight.’
Delia’s nose narrowed with disgust. ‘Bernie, what does this girl have to do with you? You’d better give me some answers right now or—’
‘Or what, Delia?’
Her answer was to shake her head and light another cigarette.
Bernie turned to Mina. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Everton, but there’s some mistake here. I’m not who you think I am.’
‘You are! You’re the man who deserted us. You’re my father, Jacko Everton.’
‘Are you deranged?’ Delia cackled through her cigarette smoke.
Mina launched herself from the couch, ready to slap the cow who revelled in the comforts her mother had deserved.
Bernie touched her wrist. ‘Sit down. I’m sure we can sort this out.’
It was too late for sorting things out. She saw that now. The solid case of the watch dug into her palm. Ever since she found it in that horrible shop she’d been on a mission to find him and confront him. She had told herself that was all she wanted, but now she was here, it wasn’t enough. The hurt little girl she kept buried inside expected more—a happy reconciliation, the ability to turn back time with the ease of winding the watch.
‘Look at it.’ Mina opened her palm and showed him the fob watch.
‘Nice piece.’ He took it and tilted it toward the window to get a good look at the detail on the cover, no suggestion of recognition in his mild expression. ‘So this was your dad’s watch?’
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