Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  He smiled at her, as if he really expected her to answer. Delia snorted with disgust and he shot her a look of loathing. It was some comfort to know he hadn’t abandoned them for a happy marriage.

  ‘Check the inscription.’ Mina kept her voice low though she wanted to scream.

  He clicked open the watch cover. ‘Forever. That’s nice. Is it a love token?’

  ‘You said that was for us. You, me, and Mum. A family. Forever.’ She fisted her hands to stop from lashing out. ‘You said you’d never part with it. Remember? You said it was as precious to you as me and Mum. I believed you.’

  Tears fractured her voice. She felt them on her cheeks and didn’t care. The man who called himself Bernie stared at her with a mix of fear and tenderness. Her heart ached with how much she’d longed for that tenderness, and her thoughts tumbled forth.

  ‘I thought it had been taken from you. Stolen. Like everything in that old creep’s store. See how stupid I am? Even after all that time, after you ran off with the money, I still fooled myself with your lies.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not who you think I am. I can’t be.’

  ‘You are and you can be. You’re my father.’

  Delia shot to her feet. ‘That’s enough. You barge into my home and spread your deluded filth—I’m calling the police.’

  ‘Delia,’ Bernie said. ‘Sit down and for once in your life shut up.’

  The woman stared at him, her jaw slack. ‘How dare you! In all our twenty-three years you’ve never—’

  ‘Twenty-three years?’ Mina looked at their self-satisfied faces. ‘You’re lying. It’s nearly thirteen years. Thirteen!’

  Delia scowled. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Sweetheart. It’s Mina, isn’t it?’ Bernie led her back to the couch. ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, but no matter how much you need it to be true, I can’t be your dad.’

  ‘You are.’ Mina stared at the heavy brocade curtains and the matching pelmets. ‘You have to be.’

  ‘Your dad took off thirteen years ago, right?’

  ‘I just told you that.’

  ‘Well, at that time Delia and I had not long left Western Australia. I was studying for my CPA. We’d been married several years by then.’

  He told Delia to go and get their wedding album. The woman grumbled her disapproval but left the room.

  Mina swallowed. She couldn’t be wrong. This man was lying. ‘Carlson said—’

  ‘You can’t believe anything he says. You seemed so confident when I met you at his penthouse, I expected you knew that.’

  ‘I didn’t believe him until—’ She swallowed, tried again. ‘You look so much like him. And you say that phrase my dad always said: “I love it when a plan comes together.” From the A-Team.’

  ‘A lot of men my age might say that. It was a catchphrase when we were young enough that we thought that stuff was funny.’

  ‘But the way you reacted when we met. You recognised me. You wanted to get away.’

  ‘I was startled someone else was there. We always meet alone. There has never been anyone there during one of our meetings.’

  Mina shook her head. Panic pushed against her diaphragm until she could hardly catch a breath. This couldn’t be true. Not after all she’d done.

  She fished in her bag for more proof.

  §

  Bernie took the faded colour snapshot the girl thrust at him. The strong chin, the straight nose, the square forehead—there were enough similarities that he could have been a relative.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mina, but this isn’t me. I was never that good looking, or that fit.’

  ‘You surfed.’ The girl looked down at her lap, uncertain.

  ‘I never did.’ Bernie tried a conciliatory smile. ‘I’m not him.’

  The girl lifted her head, her eyes full of fire. ‘Protect your kids and family all you want. Just don’t pretend it isn’t true. I’m your daughter.’

  Soft smiles and gentle talk weren’t getting through to her. Maybe Delia was right and this girl was, well, not deranged, but obsessed. Bernie squared his shoulders and resumed the hard exterior he wore around Slab Carlson.

  ‘It simply isn’t true.’

  ‘It better not be.’ Delia dumped a fat album bound in white leather on the coffee table.

  Her sour look made it possible she’d been observing them from the doorway for a while. The woman had no compassion. It had taken him a few years to realise the aloof sophistication that had attracted him was not a cover for shyness or tenderness. Delia was cold to the core.

  An oval cut-out on the album’s cover framed a photograph of him and Delia in their wedding finery. Christ, had they really been that young and joyful? His hair had been thicker then and longish. They’d bought their outfits in an op shop, laughing at the retro theme. He’d embraced the tacky blue suit and a ruffled shirt. The crocheted lace of Delia’s dress covered her from neck to ankle, and a crown of daisies topped her flowing hair. They’d thought it made them cool. From the distance of twenty-odd years it merely placed them a decade before their time.

  Bernie turned the album to face the girl, who was probably only a few years older than Delia had been when they married.

  ‘This is 1989. Even with a full head of hair, I never looked like that man in the photo.’

  The girl had her arms folded and her mouth set in a stubborn line. She needed more convincing than this photograph. Ironic, considering her whole theory was based on the same medium. People never gave up their obsessions easily. Delia had shown him that.

  Bernie encouraged her to open the album. She did so with the same reverence his mother had reserved for her Bible. On the first page was a copy of their marriage certificate.

  ‘See? All dated, signed and legal. I haven’t changed my name. And I wasn’t committing bigamy in Failie.’

  The girl scrutinised the certificate and then his face, comparing it to the happy groom in the images. ‘I was so sure.’

  Outside, a car door closed. A dog barked. The girl glanced toward the window. Delia looked at her watch.

  ‘The kids! They’re back from their sleepover early.’ She lunged at the girl and grabbed her arm. ‘Stop your snivelling and get on your way.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Del! Leave her alone.’

  Delia was all sharp edges. ‘Get out. Never come back.’

  The dog’s bark had become insistent. Bernie couldn’t think of one close neighbour who had a dog with a bark like that. The girl looked at the window again, shoved the letter and watch into her bag then snatched the photograph from Bernie. He hadn’t realised he was still holding it.

  He asked, ‘Have you tried a private detective?’

  The girl didn’t look up from thrusting her treasures into her bag. ‘I don’t have the money.’

  ‘Don’t expect a cent from us.’ Delia virtually dragged her toward the front door.

  He followed them along the hallway. When had his wife become such a cold-hearted bitch? In anger, he’d once asked her. She’d told him to think about it. He didn’t need to. Their decision about the kids was written in blood.

  Though it did little to atone for his wife’s behaviour, he found himself telling the Everton girl to let it go and move on. She pulled her arm from Delia’s grip and turned to face them. He expected more defiance, but she looked pale and very young.

  ‘Two weeks ago I thought I had,’ she said. ‘I was finally building a life for myself. I should have known it didn’t work that way. What he did …’ she shook her head. ‘It cast too long a shadow.’

  ‘Get out!’ Delia yanked open the door.

  On the porch stood a uniformed policeman, his hand raised ready to knock. His squad car was parked in the driveway.

  ‘Mina Everton?’ he said.

  ‘She is.’ Delia pushed the girl forward and stepped back into the shadows of the hallway.

  ‘Mina Everton,’ the policeman said. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

>   Chapter 44

  THIS PHONE IS SWITCHED off or out of range.

  Forbes slammed the handset on the tinny recording. This was ridiculous. It had been almost eighteen hours since they fought. She should have forgiven him by now. Sure, this was bigger than any of their other arguments about Jacko, but there was no need for her to be so stubborn. She usually forgave him within hours, turning up on his doorstep or sweeping into his office with an apology and an expensive bottle of Shiraz. When she was little, she’d shared her troubles over pizza and Coke. As she grew older, only the beverage had changed.

  Why hadn’t she answered his calls? Was she in trouble? Or had she turned to someone else—a man without the taint of Failie in his past?

  Drummond picked up on the first ring.

  Forbes snapped, ‘Is Mina with you?’

  Silence. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just tell me if she is with you?’

  ‘You sound tense. Is there something I should know?’

  Why the hell would he say that? Why not just answer the question? Honestly, the man had the makings of a federal politician.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ Forbes tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Did he imagine urgency in Drummond’s voice? Was he worried too? At least worry meant he felt something and perhaps would be less inclined to colour her with family misdeeds. ‘I can’t reach her. She’s not answering her phone.’

  Silence again. ‘Did something happen between you to upset her?’

  Forbes remembered the look on her face as she read the letter, the fierce way she’d looked at him when she ordered him out. How could he explain all that to an outsider?

  ‘Look, can you swing by her house and check on her?’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  Fear knotted his stomach. ‘You are? Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘A lot of packing, judging by the state of the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse. Is she there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I’ve checked every room. She’s—’

  ‘You’re inside?’

  ‘—gone, and so is the dog.’

  Dog? There was no bloody dog. Hadn’t the great detective figured that out yet? Mina was gone. Gone. He’d let himself believe she wouldn’t leave him, though her desperation had been plain enough. And Drummond was at her house, inside, looking at the mess of her life, searching—

  Drummond was talking to him, asking something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked, when did you last see her?’

  ‘Last night. Around nine.’

  ‘You argued.’

  Forbes couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question. This was about Gibson. It had to be. He’d heard it on the news: the man had been shot. Point blank. In his own shop, for Christ’s sake. Mina had to be a suspect. He couldn’t forget how mad she’d been about Gibson. And then there was that comment, so out of character, about making the birdy sing. With hindsight, it made terrible sense. Whatever Mina might have done, he had to protect her. If he hadn’t given her that damn letter, if he’d given her the news gently, let her come around to the idea Jacko was alive and living with another woman before he dropped the bombshell that he had another family, she might have turned to him now. He couldn’t tell Drummond the truth about the argument. It would only lead to more questions.

  He grasped at the only thing he could think of. ‘We argued about the dog.’

  Silence. If they’d been in an interrogation room he was sure Drummond would have fixed him with the steely gaze, one eyebrow raised, and waited for him to crack. Not that he would crack. Forbes Monroe was himself a master at the silent treatment. It still amazed him how much people would reveal to avoid an awkward silence.

  Drummond said, ‘So you told her your theory about the dog, that it’s a figment of her overwrought imagination?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  It made him sound like an arsehole. Maybe he should have mentioned the letter after all. Down the line came a familiar squeal of hinges and a hollow slam. Drummond must have walked into the backyard to look for the dog.

  ‘Any signs?’ Forbes asked. ‘A bowl? A blanket? Dog food?’

  ‘She would have taken all that with her.’

  ‘If you say so, mate.’

  Baldwin appeared in his office doorway, smelling of too much aftershave and tapping his watch. Forbes nodded and waved him off. They could bloody start without him. They’d end up telling him what to do anyway. Not that any of it mattered. Not if Mina was missing. He heard the door squeal again and slam shut.

  Drummond said, ‘Do you agree you know her better than anyone?’

  ‘I’m the only one who’s taken the time.’

  ‘Any idea where she might go?’

  ‘If I did, I would have gone there.’

  Baldwin, who hadn’t budged from the doorway, tapped his watch again.

  ‘Drummond, I have to go. Find my girl, all right?’

  ‘What about that boyfriend of hers? Carlson.’

  ‘Carlson? Her boyfriend? Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘You say you left her here at nine last night?’

  ‘Yes. Look, what’s—’

  ‘How did she seem? Like herself, or agitated?’

  ‘Agitated. She was packing up her parents’ things. She wouldn’t—’

  The dial tone purred in his ear.

  §

  Linc surveyed the mess of Mina’s home. Packing boxes littered every room. The kitchen had disappeared beneath newspaper, cardboard and items yet to be packed. Her bedroom was in disarray, but her bed, incongruously neat amid the upheaval, told him Mina hadn’t slept here last night. She, or someone, had taken the car. The dog—if it did exist, and he was certain it must—was also missing.

  Was this chaos her own doing, or had the place been done over? Had she and the dog driven off voluntarily, or been forced? If the dog was as big as she described—a husky, she’d said—he couldn’t see anyone forcing it into the car. They’d be more likely to poison it, or whack it on the head. There was no sign of a dog, dead or alive. He didn’t understand her. And he couldn’t see a way to protect her from the fallout of Gibson’s murder.

  The thought pulled him up short. If she was guilty, she had to take her chances in a court of law. How he felt about her shouldn’t make any difference. It didn’t make a difference. He wasn’t even sure how he felt. Yes, his heart beat faster when she was around, but most of the time she did her best to rile him. And yes, he couldn’t forget how she’d felt wrapped around him, but was that love or just normal red-blooded lust?

  He stared through the kitchen window at the garden. In the few days since they’d stood there, the little oasis near the shed had wilted. Though it had rained steadily for most of yesterday, the parched grass looked like straw. She’d neglected her home and precious business, had been secretive about the robberies, and had significant relationships with Gibson and Carlson.

  The scene from the restaurant clung to his thoughts: Slab Carlson with his filthy, murdering hands all over Mina, the way she’d smiled at him as she let him touch her. He’d wanted to believe it was all an act, convinced himself that Carlson had made sure he was watching from the café, that the whole thing was a performance with her an unwitting, unknowing player.

  And now a man was dead and a witness had named her as the last person at the scene. He wanted her to be the innocent, sexy girl she’d seemed when she first opened her door, but what he wanted made no difference.

  The time had come for him to face the truth.

  Chapter 45

  WHEN THE BIG COP SLAPPED the handcuffs on her, Mina had assumed they’d head to the police station, that Linc or Forbes would set things right. But this—a back alley near the deserted woolsheds—this was all wrong.

  With a firm grip on her arm, the cop put his huge shoulder to the woolshed door and shoved.
The rusted sheeting rattled and clattered. He snatched up her bag from where he’d dropped it and dragged her inside. The place stank of decayed timber and something newly dead. Every tall window had been boarded up, but a light from above cast a mottled glow on the walls. Stairs led to a mezzanine two-thirds the length of the building from which rose a strut for an overhead hoist. Pigeons fluttered in the rafters. In the dank gloom, the strange whistle of their wings was haunting.

  ‘Move it.’

  The muscular cop tightened his grip and yanked her forward. Her running shoes slipped across the grimy concrete floor like it was ice. A chuckle came from somewhere above. She caught the whiff of cigar smoke.

  Carlson. Oh God.

  Everything Linc had told her about him came back in a rush of technicolour images. A scream built in her chest. She tried to run, tried to pull her hands free of the cuffs, but the cop just kept dragging her toward the stairs. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be true. She’d wake up and find it had all been a nightmare—all of it. Right back to the news reports about Arnie Schmidt’s death. She’d wake up and it would be just another day.

  They were at the stairs now. Pigeon shit whitened the chequer-plate treads and pitted handrail. The rotting stench thickened around her and clung to the back of her throat. Pinpricks of daylight pushed through the corrugated roof and made it seem like a thousand eyes watched.

  She couldn’t let him take her up there, where Carlson waited.

  Mina clutched the handrail, dragged in a breath and screamed. Screamed as loud and as long as she could. Startled pigeons fluttered around them. The cop shouted and tugged at her. She clutched the rail tighter, felt the crush of pigeon shit beneath her sweaty palms, and screamed again. A thud against the side of her head. Her knees went soft. Pain blossomed as the punch registered. She lost her grip, would have fallen if not for the hand clamped tight about her arm.

  The policeman hustled her up to the mezzanine. Her ears rang from the punch. She could barely focus. They reached the top and she had to shut her eyes against the brilliance of the overhead light. Her jagged breath filled the new silence. She clamped down on the terror squeezing her chest. Carlson loved fear. To get out of this she had to stay alert, poised. She had to use his temper against him.