Brittle Shadows

by Vicki Tyley

  “How do I go about getting details of the coronial inquest?”

  “You don’t.” Chris pulled up in front of an older-style red brick bungalow and turned the ignition off.

  “But aren’t inquests public hearings? Anyone can attend?”

  “Correct. Except in Sean’s case there were no suspicious circumstances, so there was no inquest.” He unbuckled his seatbelt.

  “What about the autopsy report?” She felt the strap across her chest slacken as Chris released her seatbelt buckle.

  “You know that only a member of the person's family – or their doctor or their lawyer – can request a copy of the autopsy report.” He opened his door. “How about we forget about death for now and go and enjoy ourselves?”

  Jemma gathered up her shoulder bag and the bottle of Chardonnay from the footwell and joined Chris and his six-pack of VB on the footpath.

  “It’s the cream place,” he said, pointing out a two-storey weatherboard house three properties further up the street.

  She followed half a step behind, no longer sure she felt up to socializing. Especially with people she had never met.

  At the door, his finger poised over the doorbell, Chris turned to her. “Just say the word and we’ll go.”

  Was she that transparent? She rallied up a smile. “No, I would like to meet your friends. Really,” she added when he didn’t look convinced.

  He pressed the doorbell. Footsteps soon followed.

  Chris introduced the stocky, square-jawed man who answered the door as their host, Paul Hester. Following him down the high-ceilinged hall, through to the back, they emerged outside onto a wooden deck the width of the house and almost as deep. Congregated beneath the large sailcloth shading half of it were about twenty or so men and women, all with drinks in hand. Jemma didn’t hear the punchline, but they all laughed. One of the party, a wiry middle-aged man, caught sight of the new arrivals and waved them over.

  Jemma felt herself drawn into the group, a wineglass thrust into her hand. Chris made the introductions, but by the time she had shaken the last hand, she had lost track of who was who. The only person she had encountered before was Chris’s sidekick, the untalkative DC Lee Tait. How many of Chris’s friends were cops?

  Most of them as she soon discovered, shoptalk dominating not only the conversation but also their jokes.

  “…found the ice cream man lying on the floor of his van covered with hundreds and thousands. Seems he topped himself.”

  As a collective groan rose, she turned to ask Chris for directions to the toilet, only to find he had disappeared. Instead, a swarthy-skinned man with dark, deep-set eyes grinned back at her. She racked her brain for a name. Myles? Myron?

  He leered at her, his face coming within pore-viewing range of hers. “Jenny, isn’t it?”

  “Jemma.” His closeness and beery breath too much to handle, she backed away. He kept coming. She looked past him, searching for Chris. Where the hell was he?

  “Jemma. Sexy name.”

  Something hard hit her in the back, bringing her up sharp. A wall.

  “You and the DS an item or what?” he asked, now so close, she could see the black hairs inside his nostrils. He had her trapped, his hands either side of her head.

  She had two choices. One: try to talk her way out of it. Two: knee him in the balls. She knew which one she preferred, but these were Chris’s friends and colleagues. Humiliating one of them would not be a good look.

  “Yes,” she lied. “Yes, we are.”

  “How about a little kiss for cousin Milo?” He puckered his lips.

  Her knee tensed. The next second he was flying backwards through the air.

  “Keep your dirty, fuckin’ hands to yourself!” Chris had Milo by the scruff of his neck, his feet dangling in midair. His arms and legs jerked like a marionette’s. “Do you hear me?” The marionette, whose face was getting redder by the second, clawed at Chris’s wrists. “You better.” An audience gathering, he dumped Milo on the deck.

  “Shit, man, I didn’t know yous were together. Not like that, I mean.”

  Chris scowled down at him, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  Milo stumbled to his feet and out of Chris’s reach. “Sorry, man. I mean it.”

  Their host arrived on the scene, aproned and armed with salad tongs. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Paul,” Chris said. “It’s sorted.”

  Paul pointed his tongs at Milo. “You, kitchen.”

  Jemma waited until Paul and Milo had gone inside. “Good to see chivalry isn’t dead, but don’t you think that was just a tad over the top?”

  “He’s a slow learner. Someone has to teach him that not all women are fair game.”

  “Makes a habit of it, does he?”

  “Only when he’s had one or ten too many beers. Come on, get your bag. I don’t think this was such a good idea after all. I’ll let Paul know we’re off.”

  She started to protest and then thought better of it. Making polite conversation with a bunch of people she might never meet again was probably the last thing she felt like doing. She was only there at Chris’s behest and if he didn’t want to stay, nor did she.

  Instead of returning the same way they came in, Chris ushered her down a narrow crushed quartz path between the boundary fence and the side of the house, through a steel gate and out onto the street.

  “Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have left you on your own.” He grunted. “Sometimes you learn the hard way who your friends are. How about I make it up to you with dinner?”

  She climbed into the four-wheel-drive. “To be honest, Chris, I would rather be back at the apartment putting my feet up—”

  “Fine,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ll take you home then.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that if you had nothing better to do, you were welcome to join me. We can order dinner in.”

  He started the engine and released the handbrake. “No offence, but I think I’ll pass. Early shift tomorrow.”

  Touché, she thought. “Another time then?”

  He didn’t respond, more intent on squeezing the vehicle into the traffic.

  Leaning back against the headrest, she closed her eyes. She had tried. She had neither the energy nor the want to persevere. Her day had been long enough as it was. Truth be told, the only company she was up to was her own, anyway.

  A knock to the side of her head woke her. Blinking, she massaged the crick in her neck and pushed herself upright. She let out an involuntary gasp, recoiling as a backpacker brushed past the passenger window, almost taking the side mirror with him. More pedestrians. Only then did she realize Chris had driven up over the curb and onto the footpath, parking right outside the apartment building’s entrance. “Talk about door to door service,” she said, voicing the first thought that popped into her head.

  “I aim to please. Now get some rest. You obviously need it.”

  She thanked him and, ignoring the glare from the grey-bearded man forced to walk out of his way, scrambled out of the four-wheel-drive and crossed the short distance to the glass swing doors. Solitude beckoned.

  Except when she felt for her keys, she couldn’t find them. Expletives flew. Grateful that no one was around to witness her hissy fit, she emptied her bag’s contents onto the marble tiles. She was sure she had picked them up off the kitchen counter. Damned sure.

  Sighing, she sat back on her haunches and started piling it all back into the bag one item at a time. Wallet. Mobile phone. Cosmetics’ purse. Tissue pack. Breath mints. Everything bar the keys was there. So much for a restful evening.

  She weighed up her options. A: request duplicate keys and security card from the property managers, though she doubted they would still be open at that hour on a Saturday. B: ring Chris and ask if he could come back and pick her up, but then what? That left plan C: a visit to the security office in the hope she could convince them to give her access to the apartment. An unen
viable task at the best of times, but her only real alternative.

  Psyching herself up, she shouldered through the glass doors back out onto the street. Soft golds and dusty pinks washed the sky, the temperature beginning to dip with the setting sun. High-pitched laughter from her right cut through the thrum of the passing traffic. A swarm of giggling girls dressed in the tightest, skimpiest outfits imaginable filled the footpath. She waited until they had passed and then headed off in the opposite direction.

  It only took a couple of minutes to reach the security office and another to take stock. Taking a deep breath, she mustered up a smile and went in.

  A thickset man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut glanced up from his newspaper and smirked at her. “Well, well, look who we have here.”

  Her expression froze. Though she had only ever seen him in half-light from a distance, she knew instinctively who he was. For some reason, she had assumed Gerry Hobson only ever worked the graveyard shift. He definitely recognized her.

  She forced herself to walk toward the counter, hoping that by the time she got there, her brain and mouth would be in sync.

  He dropped his feet from the desk and stood up. Only then did she fully appreciate how large he was. He advanced, his bulky gait reminding her of a rugby player – a front row forward – she had once known. “So what con are you trying to pull today?” He folded his burly arms.

  She stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated, but still unable to speak. What could she say without it coming out as a plea for help?

  “Pussy got your tongue?” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Whatever you want it to be, darlin’. Whatever you want it to be.”

  Resisting the urge to claw his eyes out, she drew herself up to her full height and fixed him with her best don’t-mess-with-me stare. “Would you rather I talk to your supervisor?”

  “Nobody here but you and me, darlin’.”

  A night on the streets was looking more preferable by the second. She swallowed. Hard. “In that case, could you please let me into my apartment. I seem to have locked myself out.”

  He laughed, the guttural sound filling the small office. “You want my help? Well, well.”

  She averted her gaze. “Yes.”

  “Sorry, didn’t quite hear that.”

  How much more did she have to endure? “Yes,” she repeated through gritted teeth. “Please.”

  “What’s in it for me then, eh?” He licked his lips.

  “You get to keep your job,” she retorted without thinking.

  “Oh yeah?” He unsnibbed the counter gate.

  Jemma’s mobile phone rang. She ignored it. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. Just let me into my apartment and I’ll say nothing more about it.”

  His fingers encircled her wrist. She tried to wrench it loose, but he held tight. “Keep your sticky nose out of where it don’t belong,” he hissed, his breath hot in her ear.

  With her free hand, she pushed against his solid chest. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Believe me, darlin’, that’s no threat.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Jemma rubbed her wrist. When would she learn to keep her big mouth shut? It got her into more trouble than it got her out of. She spotted Chris’s RAV4 and stepped to the curb.

  He double-parked the four-wheel-drive, leaving the engine idling, and lowered the passenger side window. She sidled between the bumpers of the two adjacent cars and reached in, plucking the key ring and PDA from Chris’s outstretched palm. “What would I do without you?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I'm sure you would manage. Sleep well.”

  She watched him drive off. He had phoned while Gerry Hobson had her bailed up, leaving a message to say he had found her Palm Pilot – which until then she hadn’t realized was missing – and keys sliding around in the footwell. When she returned his call, she neglected to mention the incident with the security guard. She saw no point. Chris would insist she make it official, or at the very least, he would want to confront her assaulter himself. What good would either do? It would only be her word against his. Any incriminating security footage would be long gone.

  Heaving a weary sigh, she let herself into the apartment building and crossed to the lifts. She kept her gaze trained on the floor, careful not to eyeball any of the cameras. She knew he would be tracking her every move.

  The first thing she did when she entered the apartment was to lock the door and secure the latch. The second was to kick off her shoes. She left them where they lay, tempted to join them. She breathed in. Adrenaline had carried her this far; it could take her the extra few steps to the couch.

  The cushioned leather cradled her body, but not her mind. She craved sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, the blackness would remind her of how alone she really was. She missed Perth, her aunt, her friends. She even missed Ross, or at least the memory of what used to be. She missed home, but most of all she missed her sister. Estranged as they were, she and Tanya were still siblings. Nothing or no one could take that away. Nothing that is, except death.

  Choking on a sob, Jemma pushed herself upright. She concentrated on slowing her breathing. Caving in to her emotions would be too easy. She had to stay strong.

  She stared out into the deepening dusk. Windows of light patterned the buildings, like some giant LED panel. If only she knew the code. No matter how welcome everyone tried to make her feel, she was still a stranger in a strange city. And as well-wishing as they all were, she sensed she wasn’t getting the whole picture.

  Her hand closed over her mobile phone. She found the number and pressed call.

  “Hello.” A pause. “Hello – anyone there? Can you hear me?”

  Her chest welled at the familiar sound of her aunt’s voice. “Gail…”

  “Jemma, is that you?”

  She swallowed. “The one and only,” she said, her voice buoyant. “How are you? The pugs?”

  “Jemma, love, are you all right?”

  No fooling Gail. “Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  “Positive.” Jemma clamped the phone to her ear, as if doing so would pull her aunt closer. “Anyway, I rang up to see how you were, not talk about me.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. You’re the one who doesn’t know how to take care of herself. When are you coming home?”

  Good question, Jemma thought. Until she made some decisions, her life would remain in limbo. “Not sure. I haven’t seen the lawyer yet about finalizing the estate, but I hope to do that this week. And I still haven’t finished sorting through Tanya’s things.” Not quite true.

  “So what then, another week?”

  “Hmmn.”

  “Not longer? What about your job, Jemma, love? You must have nearly used up all your leave.”

  Bereavement, sick and annual leaves combined. “Troy’s been really good about it, though I don’t expect him to hold my job open forever. I can always get another one.”

  Silence… “You are coming home, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. Just not sure exactly when, but hey, I’m only a phone call away,” she said, reminding herself as well as Gail.

  After she hung up, she pulled her PDA from her bag, opened the calendar application and selected the coming Monday. Except for the hour blocked out in red from 3:30 to 4:30PM, her diary for that day was clear. She tapped the entry and added a reminder to phone her manager, Troy Orbost, first thing Monday morning to postpone their review meeting. Next, she added a reminder to a make an appointment with the lawyer handling Tanya’s estate. The will had been straightforward: she had left everything to Sean, but if he predeceased her then Jemma became the sole beneficiary. All that was left for Jemma to do was to finalize the legal paperwork. But until she did that, it gave her a legitimate excuse to stay on in Melbourne.


  The brief conversation with Gail had rallied her spirits, though not her flagging body. She headed to the kitchen to make tea and toast. Not the nutritionally balanced meal her aunt would have dictated, but sustenance nevertheless.

  She had just taken her first bite when the intercom buzzed. She stopped chewing and scowled at the video monitor. She could always ignore it. The caller, whoever it was, had no way of knowing if she was there or not. Curiosity, however, got the better of her.

  A black-and-white image of Ash’s face, his wide mouth set in a hard line, filled the monitor. She picked up the handset. “Hi—”

  “We need to talk.”

  She gave a half-laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Please, Jemma, it’s important.”

  Her finger hovered over the door release button. “What is?”

  “Not over the intercom.”

  After she buzzed him in, she waited at the door.

  “I’m not long back. You almost had a wasted trip,” she said, letting him into the apartment. “Why didn’t you phone first?”

  “I thought if I turned up in person you would be less likely to fob me off.”

  She frowned. “And why would you think that?”

  “I was talking to Fen earlier.”

  Her mind did a quick backtrack to lunch, hunting for something – anything – she could have said to Fen that would have provoked Ash’s reaction. She shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “She said that you thought I was coming on too strong. That you thought I was treating you like a Tanya substitute.”

  “I said nothing of the sort. I don’t think that at all. Why would I? Are you sure she’s not just winding you up?” Jemma wouldn’t put it past her.

  He shrugged, his expression as despondent as his demeanor.

  “Or maybe she’s trying to get your attention.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just think about it, Ash.” She gave him an exaggerated wink.

  His eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. No bloody way. She eats men like me for breakfast.”

  Jemma threw her head back and laughed. “I thought that was every man’s dream.”