by Autumn Dawn
Verity had trusted her to stand by her word and Camille couldn't turn her back on the last promise she had made to her little sister.
She studied the now familiar house as she parked the car. There was no evidence that anyone had visited in their absence. As she opened the garden gate, she had the idea of leaving a small pebble on top of it while she was out. She needed one small enough that it wouldn't be noticed but heavy enough not be blown off by the often gusty sea breeze. If someone did come to the house, the pebble would drop off as soon as they opened the gate and Camille would know to be wary on her return.
There was no reason for anyone to come to the house, not even the postal service. Her mail was being redirected to a post office box in Sydney while she was away. Likewise, the utility bills for the old house were delivered to Noelene's agency. Townspeople never used Bluey's Beach when Sapphire Cove was so much more convenient and more exciting as a surfing beach, and the forest wasn't classified as national park so bushwalkers rarely ventured this way. The only person she'd seen out here since her arrival was the cop.
Nathan. That's what Noelene had called him. It surprised Camille that he was on first name terms with the townsfolk but then she knew nothing about country detectives.
She wondered if she could expect a visit from him later today after her high-speed exit from the town this morning. Hopefully not. But she wouldn't be surprised to encounter him again sometime soon. In just two brief conversations, he'd made it clear as day that he liked to know everything that was going on in his neck of the woods. And she knew he wouldn't rest until Camille had given him the answers he sought. Too bad she was equally determined to keep her mouth shut.
* * * *
Nathan stared thoughtfully after the small SUV as it took the corner a little too fast, before turning to Noelene. “Is there something I need to know about my deodorant?"
She chuckled and dug him companionably in the ribs. “You smell just fine, Detective."
"Don't think your friend thought so."
"Oh, Camille. No, she just needed to get home,” said Noelene. “Rush, rush, rush, these city folk. Just like the bloke who stayed here for a few days the week before last. Said he wanted to take it easy for a while, commune with nature.” She gave a gust of laughter. “Never seen a less likely tree-hugger in my life. And as for bushwalking ... the furthest I saw him walk was down to the newsagent to see if they stocked those fancy ciggies of his."
Nathan laughed out loud. “I thought you liked him. You said he was so cagey he was probably a secret millionaire come to sweep you off your feet?"
"Yeah, well, he hightailed it out of here quick enough when I mentioned that he might want some company at the fair next week."
"Now come on, Noelene, you know men get scared when you ask their marital status in your second sentence,” Nathan teased her.
Noelene folded her arms across her bosom. “Well, he didn't mind asking me a whole buncha questions, I can tell you. But he played his own cards close to his chest.” She grimaced. “Anyway, if he can't stand a little direct talk from a woman, good riddance!"
Nathan frowned, the cogs in his brain clicking into gear. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a strip of bright red packaging that had caught his eye in the bush behind Camille Aston's house the other day. He'd been carrying it around ever since, wondering. He held it up.
"Do you know if this is from the cigarettes that bloke was smoking?"
Noelene peered at it. “Looks like it. Can't remember what he called them. Red Light or something.” She gave Nathan a look. “Garbage collection part of your duties now?"
Nathan grinned. “Would be charging him with littering if he wasn't long gone. And I don't suppose he left a name or forwarding address?” he asked casually.
"That bloke didn't leave anything except a trail of dust behind him.” Noelene grimaced as she turned to head back to her office.
Nathan thought for a second. “And you're certain he wasn't the bushwalking type?"
Noelene turned. “Oh yeah,” she said sarcastically. “He was as much the bushwalking type as I'm the shy and retiring type.” She winked at Nathan and bustled off back to the agency, leaving him staring intently down the road after an SUV that was long gone and an enigma that irritated the hell out of him.
Chapter Four
Nathan ducked as a chair came hurtling in his direction. The muscle behind it belonged to Mad Dog, whose birth certificate pronounced him as Shane Mason, a former amateur boxer whose biggest battle these days was with the bottle. Looking across at his constable Michael Dawes who'd taken shelter behind the bar, Nathan rolled his eyes. The scene wasn't untypical of Friday night at The Bald Eagle, one of the rougher pubs just outside World's End. Mostly the crowd were a bit on the wild side but hardly dangerous. Mad Dog was something else, and Nathan already had a tiny scar on the side of his head to remind him of that.
The other drunks had cleared out as soon as the law had appeared but not Mad Dog. Warnings like “last drinks” didn't apply to him, even if he'd heed them the state he was in, and it seemed he was determined to get another pot or two down his gullet even though it was well on the ugly side of midnight.
Nathan was equally determined that he was going to end this once and for all, preferably without needing after-hours stitching courtesy of Rowan or Max. It was early Sunday morning and he'd been on duty for nearly eighteen hours. His eyes felt gritty and his head sluggish. He needed some peace and quiet. He needed sleep.
The thing that really pissed him off was that he wasn't even supposed to be on duty this evening. In fact, he'd had hazy plans for Saturday night that involved a couple of gourmet pizzas and a beer or two up at Ravenswood House with Ro and Max. Not that Rowan was drinking more than half a glass now, as her pregnancy advanced.
He always enjoyed seeing them, particularly now that the relationship between he and Max had relaxed to the stage where they could both be in Rowan's presence at the same time without reducing themselves to dogs yapping over the same bone.
Nathan smiled as he recalled Max's early response to his protectiveness over Rowan. There'd been suspicion on both sides, and it had taken most of their five-month relationship for Rowan to completely convince Max that there had never been anything between her and Nathan. He and Max had even had a guy's weekend in Sydney for the football finals back in October, cheering on Max's old mate, Flynn Carmichael, although that would be the last jaunt for Max for a while, Nathan suspected. Until the baby was born, Max was sticking like glue to Rowan's side.
But there was a particular reason he'd wanted to see Rowan tonight, and that reason's name was Camille Aston. The lady was proving to be rather jumpy when Nathan was around, and Ro might be the perfect person to find out what was up with the mystery lady. Not that she'd simply agree to be Nathan's informant. Nathan knew that Rowan would want to know exactly where his interest in Camille lay. Professional or personal. And that was a dilemma for Nathan, assuming he answered her truthfully. Mind you, there was little point trying to pull the wool over Rowan's eyes. She pretty much knew when people were playing her for a fool.
To be honest, Nathan himself didn't know quite what the truth was. All his professional instincts were screaming that Camille Aston was hiding something. But if he were brutally honest, it was more than her air of secrecy. There was just something about her fine bones and air of aloofness that caught a man's attention. Well, his attention. And her flightiness aroused every protective instinct he possessed—and he possessed a lot. And even his distinct impression that she wouldn't spit on him if he'd been on fire, hadn't quelled his need to look out for her.
For damn certain, Camille needed a shoulder or an ear, or some such support. And if she wouldn't allow him to provide it, maybe Rowan would be more acceptable to her. Rowan made confiding easy, compelling even. So compelling that Nathan had once fooled himself into thinking there was something between them when there patently wasn't.
Anyway, he planned to ask her to tal
k to Camille, suggest a coffee or shopping date, or whatever it was that women did. And now, damn it, he'd have to wait until breakfast.
When one of his officers, Jason Chan, had called in sick, Nathan had no option but to cover for him. It was one of the down sides to working on a small team. He was officially or unofficially on call twenty-four/seven, and as the senior cop covering World's End and the small surrounding villages, responsibility for staffing fell squarely on his shoulders. Not to mention responsibility for those members of the community who refused to take responsibility for themselves.
Like Mad Dog. Sighing, he turned his attention to the raving lunatic whose slurred cursing was becoming ever more indistinct. It didn't do to let your mind wander when dealing with Mad Dog, as he'd discovered last year when he'd failed to duck quickly enough when a bar stool was hurled in his direction.
"Mad Dog, put that bottle down now,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “It's nearly one. The hotel needs to close and Mike and I want to go home."
"Piss off, copper,” roared Mad Dog. “A man's gotta right to finish his beer."
"Not when it's past closing time,” said Nathan. “The pub could lose its licence for this and then where would you drink?"
Mad Dog looked a little nonplussed at that but then a lot of things confused him these days.
"C'mon, mate,” Nathan urged the squat figure still gripping a bottle as though it were a weapon. “Put it down, now and let's get going."
"Nowhere to go,” said Mad Dog, suddenly looking sorry for himself.
It was true. As his drinking had increased, his family and friends had disappeared one by one, and now even Marge, his long-suffering but loyal wife had thrown him out. Nathan assumed that this latest setback in his disastrous life was the catalyst for the guy's Saturday night drinking binge.
He sighed. “You can sleep in a cell for tonight.” Nathan generally tried to avoid holding people overnight—and in World's End it happened only rarely in any case—but it wasn't likely anyone would take Mad Dog in, given the state he was in.
Staggering drunkenly, Mad Dog slowly put down the bottle. Nathan and Michael pulled him out of the door, acknowledging the thanks of the bar manager with a wave, before putting the drunk in the back of the squad car. Nathan hoped the guy didn't throw up over the upholstery. He knew from his years in the service that it was nearly impossible to get the stink out, even with rigorous steam cleaning.
Nathan helped Mike lock up Mad Dog and then left the constable with his head bent industriously over the paperwork as he headed out to his Landcruiser. The night was clear and crisp, and with World's End shrouded in darkness, the stars were crystal clear. It was one of the things he appreciated about country living. In the city, earthly lights made it impossible to see the heavenly ones with any clarity, but out here a man had a direct line of sight to the wider universe.
For a moment, he stood, leaning against his car staring up at the Southern Cross, a bright constellation that featured on the Australian flag. He traced its points with his finger as he had as a boy, before shaking his head at his own whimsy and sliding behind the wheel.
Tired as he was, something in him urged him to take a detour out to Bluey's Beach. Not that he thought Camille Aston would still be up and about. If his knowledge of young mothers was right—and as all three of his sisters had offspring, he should know—she would have turned in about the same time as the baby. But still, he wanted to take a run past the house and check that everything seemed in order. He didn't like what he'd found out in the forest behind her house the other day and he liked even less those old bruises on her body. It could be just a mugging as she'd said, but his cop instincts were telling him otherwise and he never ignored that feel in his gut.
As a young copper learning his stuff in a country town, he'd seen the tragic consequences of domestic violence. Even today, with all the cases he'd seen and those he'd handled personally, that early experience still shook him to his core. A middle-aged woman, Angela Baker, had left her husband after years of mental and physical abuse. When her ex-husband began to harass her, she had sought the help of Nathan's superiors at the small station. In those days domestic situations were a low priority for police, and with little evidence, they'd declined to intervene.
Little more than a week later, the station got an emergency call from the local shopping mall. When they got there, they discovered Herb Baker standing with a lit match just an arm's reach from where his terrified, petrol-drenched wife stood, shaking uncontrollably. Before the horrified eyes of both police and shoppers, he had casually flicked the match to the ground. Angela had still been alive when the ambulance reached hospital but she died the following night having never regained consciousness. Herb's subsequent life sentence was little consolation.
Since then, Nathan had never ignored any suggestion of intimidation or harassment however insignificant it seemed, and he regularly spoke at the local high school on the subject to both boys and girls.
But the issue had never before been complicated by his feelings for a victim. Not these kinds of feelings, anyway. Sympathy, anger, frustration—he knew how to deal with it when those emotions arose in the course of his job, but it was the gut-churning sensation that seemed permanently stuck somewhere between excitement and dread, that he didn't like. And he trusted it even less. It left him feeling compromised and uncertain. Was he following his instincts or just hot for a woman?
Not that he planned to do anything about it. Nathan had a few rules and one near the top of the list was to never get involved with a married woman. His heart had leapt when he'd caught his first sight of her at the side of the road that day—and sunk just as rapidly when the sun had caught on the gold band she wore on her left hand. Her husband might have bashed her—and Nathan was almost convinced that he had—but while she wore the ring, she was unavailable. Which meant he needed to put that cloud-soft mouth right out of his head.
Ah Jeez! Nathan rapped his hand against the steering wheel and turned the wheel smartly round, heading away from Bluey's Beach and toward home. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. So why then did his gut continue to churn?
* * * *
Nathan could tell that Rowan had felt the strain in him the moment she took his hand to pull him into the house the next morning, after admonishing the labradors Violet and Jet, who'd left muddy paw prints on his shirt where they'd leapt up to greet him.
"Sorry,” she said, dragging him into the kitchen, taking the bakery box he carried. “They're full of energy and I haven't been able to take them out much in the last few weeks.” She patted her stomach. “Max tries to get out with them every day or so but he's been so busy interviewing doctors to help out at the practice when I have the baby.... “She shrugged her shoulders and peered into the box, inhaling deeply. “Yum. Fresh croissants.” She looked up at him sharply. “So, what's up with you?"
Nathan looked away from those all too perceptive eyes and poured himself coffee from the pot on the table. He smiled at Max as the tall, dark doctor loped in wearing a tee-shirt and sweat pants, looking grouchy.
Max held up a hand in greeting, then turned to Rowan. “Your child kept me awake half the night,” he accused. “Kicking, prodding, doing acrobatics in there. What is it? A bloody Olympic gymnast?"
"Oh, great. Another joyous soul to bring happiness to my day,” muttered Rowan.
Max raised an eyebrow, and Rowan nodded at Nathan.
Max took a long draw of coffee and sat down opposite Nathan. “You have a bad night, too? What's up, mate?"
Nathan felt like an insect held between a pair of tweezers, and shifted uncomfortably. “Ah,” he said succinctly and took another mouthful of courage-bolstering java.
Max and Rowan continued to drill him with their eyes, one set lake-grey, the other black. He looked away. “Um,” he said, unsure of where to start.
Rowan sighed. “Look. Let me help you with this. Camille Aston."
Both men stared at her. “Why
do you say that?” asked Nathan after a long second.
"Never mind that. I'm right aren't I?"
"Yeah, okay,” he said grudgingly.
"You've got the hots for her."
"No!” He knocked over his coffee mug and spent the next five seconds cursing and cleaning up the spillage. “Rowan, for God's sake!” He couldn't meet her eyes, knowing she'd see right through him.
"So, what then?” said Rowan.
Nathan scowled. “She's setting off my antenna in other ways."
Rowan's glance said oh really but she stayed mute.
"She's just moved into the old place at Bluey's Beach. Used to belong to her grandmother, according to Noelene."
Rowan nodded. “Millie Jessop. I vaguely remember her. Always went out of her way to be friendly to Mom and me, but well ... anyway ... go on."
"Turned up last week with a bunch of bruises on her neck and arms. Said she was mugged in Sydney."
"And you don't believe her?” Max chipped in.
Nathan shook his head. “At first she said it was an accident, then she changed her story to a mugging. The way she said it, it was too off-hand. None of it rang true to me. I think she's on the run from her wife-beating bastard of a husband."
"Well, you can't do anything if she hasn't made a complaint,” said Rowan. “Did you ask her?"
"Well, yeah, I told her I'd dealt with domestic violence cases but, hell, she's a prickly one."
"Didn't seem prickly to me,” chipped in Rowan. “A little reserved maybe."
Nathan stared at her. “You've met her? When?"
"Few days ago."
Max got up, muttering something about making lemon crepes, and left them to it.
"You could have said you'd met her.” Nathan sat forward in his chair. “So, what did you think? Did you get any ... you know, vibes?"