Times of Trouble

by Victoria Rollison

  ‘Nice house, boss, must be a nice change from freezing cold London.’

  He glared at the one who spoke. It wasn’t his business to talk about nice houses, weather, or where he came from. This nervous prattling was making him feel angry, so he quickly cut to the chase.

  ‘I like to sit out on the deck to discuss business.’

  He led the way through the giant glass bi-fold doors that looked out over the beach. It was a habit of his to take this sort of meeting outside. He knew beyond an inch of a doubt there were no recording devices hidden in this house, but old habits were familiar and comfortable.

  The men had thankfully worked out silence was the best option; they sat at the wooden outdoor seating on the deck, and waited to be spoken to. Vince let the tension hang in the air for what must have seemed an eternity to the men, before he turned away from the view, finished his glass of wine, and started to speak.

  ‘I've been told you lads can be handy when someone has a problem they need sorted.’

  The visitors nodded. Vince felt a sudden flare of irritation. The men were obviously nervous, but did they have to look so spineless? He couldn't stand wimps.

  ‘Take those ridiculous sunglasses off. I wanted you to come here so I could firstly congratulate you on your excellent work. You saw a situation might get out of hand, and you acted to ensure it didn’t.’

  One of the men started to relax, letting a small grin slip onto his face, enjoying the praise. The other man, however, still looked petrified. Maybe he heard the note of sarcasm. Or maybe he knew about these ‘meetings’, and how unlikely it was they had been summoned to the beach house for a pat on the back.

  ‘Secondly, I would like to ask you whose idea it was to dispose of the target in front of so many witnesses?’

  The small grin disappeared. The men's eyes met, each urging the other to say something. The seconds ticked by, and neither of them found an answer. They each secretly blamed the other.

  ‘I had a suspicion we might have this problem, two mute men. Don’t worry. I won't hold it against one of you. I’ll just hold it against both of you.’

  Before either of them had time to protest, Vince saw Jared appear on the deck. His right hand man always had impeccable timing. Sometimes it was like he could read Vince's mind. Jared was older than Vince, and shorter and thinner, with an impassive face. He was, as always, dressed in a suit, which today looked incongruous at the beach.

  ‘Jared, good to see you,’ said the one with the sunglasses – now in his pocket, relief in his voice. But Jared didn’t react. He held a gun in his hand, with a silencer on the end of it. The silencer was probably unnecessary, since the beach house was so isolated. But this was another old habit Vince insisted on keeping up. Jared lifted the gun, directing it at the face of the more timid of the two men, who had gone as white as a sheet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ In his panic, he suddenly had his voice back. His eyes were frozen on the gun.

  ‘The witnesses didn’t see how she got on the tracks. The news, the police, they all said it was just an accident, she must have tripped. Honest, it was a clean hit.’

  ‘So you watch the news do you?’ Vince asked. His tone was patronising. ‘But do you read the newspaper? Obviously not.’

  He reached for the paper that lay at the end of the table, and flipped to the second page. He looked at an article for a moment, reading the first few lines to himself, the silence excruciating for the frightened men.

  Then he started to read aloud, his voice emotionless: ‘Police are yet to identify the woman who was struck by a train at Central Station yesterday afternoon. Although police initially assumed her death to be a tragic accident, subsequent investigations, witness statements and evidence at the scene suggest she may have been pushed onto the tracks. Police are now treating the death as highly suspicious. There is no known motive or suspects, but police are anxious to interview two men who were seen with the woman moments before she fell. If members of the public have any information, please phone Crimestoppers....’

  He looked up from the paper. The two men stared at him, their faces white, their eyes filled with terror. Jared took a step towards them. His voice was cold and clear.

  ‘So, as you’ve heard, I’m afraid you couldn’t call that a clean hit. This is a clean hit.’

  One bullet each, straight into the forehead. His experience was obvious in the speed of his actions. The two men slumped backwards, their chairs close enough to the edge of the deck to ensure the bodies hit only sand, not polished wood. Neither required a second bullet. Vince watched as Jared efficiently dragged the bodies down the side of the house, heaving them into the boot of the car they had arrived in. Then he washed his hands at the tap and joined Vince on the deck.

  ‘Any news of the baby?’ Jared asked, not showing a hint of concern, just sly curiosity.

  Vince grunted, without committing to an answer. He was expert at only speaking when it suited him, which was usually when he was giving orders.

  ‘Good to hear things went well for you in London, Jared. But we’ve still got one little problem. We need more information.’

  Jared nodded and replied: ‘Time for some more pressure? Do you want me to give him a call?’

  ‘No, I'll do it. And lose that car out front.’

  Jared let himself out. Vince waited to hear the car reversing out of the driveway, and went back into the house.

  ‘Melissa, you can come back down now. I’m ready for dinner.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘Mum, you’re not cleaning the house because Liam is coming today, are you?’ I teased, knowing full well why she had been up so early, dusting, vacuuming and polishing every visible surface. It made me thankful we didn’t have visitors more often, as the flurry of activity was exhausting to watch.

  ‘I’m just giving everything a once over. I wouldn’t want him to think we live in a pig sty.’

  The house was far from a pig sty before mum started cleaning, and now it looked more like a display home, with 1980s furniture instead of modern white sofas. While she busied herself scrubbing the kitchen sink, I started mentally to prepare myself for Picasso’s exit. Even after all the anxiety and misery over the last couple of days, I still hadn’t completely come to terms with the fact my piano was about to leave the house. The realisation that I wouldn’t be able to play anymore filled me with dread.

  Eager to stop staring at Picasso like a love sick teenager, I logged onto Facebook to see if I had found the right Tina Gianopoulos. Much to my excitement, there she was, under the heading ‘Friends’. Thank goodness. Wasting no time, I emailed her to see if she knew anything.

  ‘Dear Tina, I wasn’t sure if you would remember me, but you obviously do as I can see you've added me as a friend. This may seem like a strange request from someone you haven’t seen for over 10 years, but I was wondering if you are still in touch with my sister Sophie? The reason I ask is she moved to London a few years ago and, as awkward as it is to admit, we haven’t heard from her since. Now I’d really like to get back in contact with her. If you could give me any idea where she is, or what she is up to, or even a phone number, I’d be really grateful. Hope all is well with you, Ellen’.

  It was a bit of a rambling email. I hoped it didn’t sound too full-on or crazy. It seemed ridiculous, even to me, to ask someone you hardly knew if they still spoke to your sister, who you had lost touch with. Who loses touch with their immediate family? Mum and I do, that’s who. It was a long shot, as the chances of Sophie still having a friendship with Tina were very slim. But I might as well try to do something useful. I might not be a lawyer or a private investigator, but I was sure there were some things I could do to help find Sophie. I clicked over my profile for a while, wondering if I should fill in my ‘likes’ and ‘hobbies’ or if I should add a photo like everyone else seemed to. Then I clicked onto Tina’s name on my friendship list and realised I could look at her entire profile, which included her list of friends. So this must be how p
eople network! With a rush of adrenalin, it became clear that if Tina was still friends with Sophie, there was a chance she was in her list of friends. If Sophie had got married, or changed her name, surely I'd recognise her in her profile picture? Tina had over 200 friends; I hastily scrolled through the names. The most expensive search in the world would be over very quickly if I could find Sophie through Facebook. I wondered again if Liam had ever thought of looking for Sophie online. But my hopes disappeared as I got to the end of the list, and Sophie wasn’t there. Her life must have been far too exciting for her to have time to join Facebook. Not that this was my reason for not joining, it just seemed a more likely reason why Sophie wouldn’t be there.

  Sophie was always surrounded by friends. When I was 10 years old, she was a grown up 13, and allowed to have a sleepover party. She told mum she was just having ‘a few friends’. But twenty people turned up. Sophie found somewhere for everyone to sleep, and she happily put up with mum’s fussing about the overcrowded house. Dad laughed at mum for suggesting Sophie was selfish for expecting me to give up my room for some of the girls. He told mum parties should always be ‘the more the merrier’. And Sophie said, ‘I’ll ask more people if that’s the case’, which put mum into an even more hysterical spin. I ended up sleeping in mum and dad's bed, my room hijacked by five guests. Mum tossed and turned all night, fretting about the music and laughter coming out of the living room. But dad didn’t lose any sleep. Sophie and dad were two of a kind, breezing through life, leaving all the worry to mum, and eventually me. I wondered if mum and dad ever found it strange I never had sleepovers, nor went to any. I was never good at making friends. I blamed all the piano practice, and my complete devotion to making it as a musician. But what could I blame now? I was 24 years old, and if I disappeared, no one would notice. Except mum of course.

  When the two piano removalists arrived, I cowardly hid in my room. Mum called out when she heard them pull into the drive, and I pretended not to hear. I didn’t want to witness them loading Picasso into their truck, and taking him god knows where. I could just hear them discussing the easiest way of getting the piano through the door. I closed my eyes, wishing they would just get it over with. After a few moments of grunting, I heard a trolley rolling across the living room floor. Mum was fussing, asking them to be careful. And then I heard a large crunch, and one of the men swore. Had they just dropped Picasso? I had to find out whether he was damaged, so I raced towards the living room. To my relief, the piano was still on the trolley, but had tipped sideways, and the two huge removalists were struggling to hold it upright. As they pulled, I noticed a third man also steadying the piano, partly obscured behind it. He wasn’t a removalist; he wasn’t dressed like someone who moved things for a living. It had to be Liam Kingsley.

  My first thought was that he looked much younger than I expected. He mentioned in one of the emails to mum when he finished his law degree, and I calculated he must be around 30. But he didn’t look much older than me. He was wearing knee length shorts, in a conservative cream colour, a collared light blue polo T-shirt and what looked like brown suede thongs. Not exactly formal business attire. His hair was a light blonde wave on top of darker curls, shaped long but neat around his neck. His toned arms had bulging muscles, put to good use moving my piano. I was incredibly disappointed to find myself noting he was extremely good looking. Just what I needed. To find my arch nemesis attractive! I reminded myself it was typical for con men to be attractive; it was how they got away with everything, with a bat of the eyelids and a huge row of smiling, perfect white teeth.

  Liam noticed me just as I saw him, and yelled across the room: ‘Hi Ellen, I’m Liam, nice to meet you.’

  His manners weren’t at all awkward or forced. Even with the huge weight of the piano to contend with, he looked unflustered and cheerful. I felt suddenly shy and ugly, wishing I had brushed my hair before I came out of my room. Why did the fact he was good looking make me so nervous? I reminded myself that most people made me nervous, especially when I met them for the first time. And Liam was still potentially a con man who had shafted my mum out of more money than she could ever afford to repay. Why did I care if I’d brushed my hair or not? I quickly waved at Liam and then excused myself back to my bedroom, to hide from the whole wretched scene.

  I watched from my window as the three of them took Picasso across the lawn and then manoeuvred him onto the hydraulic platform jutting off the back of the truck. Liam stood by, chatting to the men, having bonded over the heavy lifting, as they padded Picasso’s edges with blankets and tied him up with ropes. A shudder ran through me as they slammed the back doors of the truck. I silently said goodbye. As the truck reversed, Liam walked back towards the house, so I took a deep breath, ready to meet him properly at the front door. I wouldn’t show him any gratitude for helping with Picasso. I wanted him to know I wasn’t as easy to sweet talk as mum.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Is that your piano?’ Liam asked innocently.

  I scowled at him, tempted to tell him exactly why my piano was about to disappear from view.

  ‘Yes, that was my piano. But it’s not mine anymore.’

  Liam chatted to me like we’d known each other forever as I showed him through the house to the kitchen. Mum had gone overboard preparing the house for his arrival. There were flowers in a vase on the kitchen table, and she had Bach playing on the stereo, making our home feel like a guest house. I was painfully aware of how nervous I was, at a total loss for words as he told me all about his flight, his taxi ride from the airport and his pleasure at seeing his family.

  ‘It’s mum’s 50th, I wouldn’t miss that. They were disappointed when I …’ he stopped. Then he grinned and said: ‘I guess I’m the black sheep of the family.’

  So much for my idea he had manufactured an excuse to come to Adelaide to protect his lucrative income.

  But I wasn’t going to get involved with the small talk. Apart from the fact I didn’t trust him, I have never been comfortable with chatty people who seemed to be able to talk about anything to anyone. I wanted to psych myself up to grill him for information, so I offered him a ginger beer and directed him to the lounge, waiting for mum to join us. But I wasn’t prepared for the shock of what I found - or rather, didn’t find - there. I could feel him watching me as I stared, open mouthed at the huge void in the room. There were three round dents in the rug, forming a Picasso-sized triangle that I feared would never go away; a constant reminder of what used to stand there. I was still staring when mum walked in. She knew intuitively we would have to move if we were to have a normal conversation.

  ‘Honey, why don’t we sit at the table under the veranda? It’s a lovely summery day.’

  Liam chatted to mum on his way outside, getting a much better response from her than he had from me. It occurred to me he might be talking out of nervousness, just as I was speechless for the same reason. Could nervous people fake confidence so effectively? I doubted it.

  Mum showed Liam outside and went back into the kitchen to prepare some sandwiches. My first instinct was to offer to help, and avoid confronting Liam on my own. But it would be rude to leave him sitting outside. So as we settled into our deck chairs, I decided to start the conversation, just as I planned in my head.

  ‘So Liam, how close do you think you are to finding Sophie?’

  Liam shifted on his seat. He obviously wasn’t expecting to have to get straight to the point. To his credit, he didn’t squirm for long. He looked me straight in the eyes as he spoke.

  ‘I’m really glad we’ve had this opportunity to talk privately, before your mum comes out. I have been finding it very difficult to express what is happening in emails to her...’

  Liam had a look of compassion that only a very good actor could fake.

  'Why is that?' I asked, failing to hide my accusing tone.

  'It's a long story...' he started to say, and then noticed me roll my eyes.

  'Why don't you try to explain? Lunch won’t be re
ady for a while.'

  Liam sat forward in his chair, staring at his feet now instead of at me. He looked like he was carefully planning his words. ‘You’ve read the emails I sent haven’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And you’ve read the ones your mum sent me?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Did you get any sense that your mum was hoping for Sophie to be found, but was anxious about hearing anything bad about her in the meantime? Didn’t you notice she never asked any questions?’

  ‘That’s because she trusted you,' I replied. 'She trusted you would tell her everything she needed to know.'

  ‘I’m not talking about questioning what was happening, I’m talking about simple questions anyone might ask, except someone who doesn’t want to know. You must have had questions when you read the emails?’

  ‘It would be fair to say I had some.’ There was no way to rattle this man.

  ‘Ok, ask me them.’

  ‘You must have found out what Sophie had been doing for a living after she left the café. You spoke to her employer. Why didn’t you tell us any details?’

  ‘Before I answer, ask yourself why your mum might have avoided this question.’

  Liam had a point. I’d prefer him not to know this, though. Mum couldn’t cope with too much bad news, and the fewer questions she asked, the less bad news she had to deal with.

  ‘I guess she just wanted Sophie found, and this was her focus. She didn’t feel a need to look into the past.’

  ‘Might that be because she was worried about what she might learn?’

  Damn. I knew then I was going to be told something I didn’t really want to hear either.

  ‘Ok, then what was she doing? I thought she might have just worked in another café, or a bar or something... But what you’re implying makes me think it was something bad, something a mother wouldn’t want to know.’