Love Thy Neighbour

by Victoria Gordon

  Even after the reconstruction of the impressive structure, the growth in Clarence municipality had continued to become the fastest in Tasmania, and Clarence had gained city status in 1988.

  But for all that, Fiona realised that Dare’s assertions had considerable validity. Still with only three bridges in the metropolitan area, the Derwent River remained a very significant barrier in many parochial minds.

  ‘There might be a few little old ladies in Sandy Bay who think that way, I accept,’ she argued, desperate to hide the uncertainty his comment had raised. ‘But people who really want to train their dogs wouldn’t be so easily put off.’

  ‘The serious ones ... perhaps not,’ he replied with a wry grin. ‘But what percentage of those I saw tonight would you honestly call “serious”? The dolly-birds with the tarted up Afghans? I’m surprised they’re there at all. And the old trout with the poodle?’

  Fiona had to chuckle, although his comments didn’t require much astuteness. ‘That’s my business you’re maligning,’ she replied. ‘I prefer to be thankful they take even that much trouble; most people don’t, and they’re the ones whose dogs end up causing you problems, I might point out.’

  ‘Point taken,’ he admitted, and not as grudgingly as she might have expected. ‘I suppose any positive attitude is better than none at all, especially if it puts them in a situation where they get some responsible advice.’

  The implied compliment took Fiona aback, slightly. For just a moment she didn’t know how to reply, or even if she should. Dare took the pause as leave to continue his own line of enquiry.

  ‘So you’re going to try it from home?’ he continued. ‘But you can’t run your sort of operation outdoors, except maybe during the summer. So what plans have you got for a building, or is that another thing that’s none of my business?’

  ‘It’s ...’ She paused, now half committed through his questioning alone, and no longer sure of herself. Then as suddenly she found herself going and collecting all her plans and proposal details, for some reason instinctively ready to trust him.

  His reaction was far from predictable. ‘You can put up the sort of building you need for a lot less than this,’ he said after a cursory glance through the plans. ‘And a better one, too. But it’s still going to be hellishly expensive and I honestly do think you’re taking a bit of a chance on getting your people here, especially in winter. Still, there’s logic in it; you’re better paying off your own facility than spending the money on rent.’

  He skimmed through the other details of the proposal, most of them arguments she was preparing to use on the council in a bid for development approval.

  ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble with the council given this approach,’ he said. ‘It’s good — very good.’

  Fiona couldn’t see his eyes, and trying to read his voice she found it impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic or complimentary.

  ‘It’s no more than the straight, fair-dinkum facts,’ she interjected, a bit defensively. ‘I’m not trying to pull a fast one or anything.’

  Dare’s head snapped up and he glared at her angrily. ‘For heaven’s sake stop being so damned defensive,’ he growled. ‘I just do not know why you have to be like that, but I do know I don’t like it.’

  Her muttered apology was cut off in midstream. ‘And don’t apologise either; it doesn’t become you and, besides, I don’t believe it,’ he snarled, and returned to his reading without bothering to look up again.

  Fiona didn’t know what to do. She was at once thankful for his openness and resentful of his churlish temper. Damn the man for his attitude, she thought, and took the line of least resistance by going to put the coffee on.

  Dare continued to examine her plans, only bothering to grunt his acceptance when she put a cup of coffee beside him a moment later. Fiona took her own cup and sat down opposite him, taking the opportunity offered by his concentration to study him.

  His long, strong fingers plucked at the various papers as he perused them, laying the discards neatly to one side and handling everything with extreme care. Whatever else, she thought, he was meticulous.

  And single-minded about it! After he twice reached absent-mindedly for something to write with, she got up and found a pencil, which she placed in the appropriate spot. The third time he reached, and found the expected pencil, he didn’t so much as look up, but sifted back through the papers and started scrawling in notes in a swift, precise hand.

  Fiona opened her mouth to object — they were her papers, after all — but she shut it again without a sound, although not really knowing why.

  And when he reached out his empty cup with a soft-spoken, ‘More coffee, please?’ she accepted the politeness of the request and turned the kettle back on without demur.

  This time, at least, he offered more than just a grunt of thanks, and startled her by leaning back to stare first into the coffee-cup and then at her.

  ‘You’ve set yourself a rather heavy load for the next few years, according to this,’ he said, his expression totally serious now. ‘Unless you’re planning to give up the television work and concentrate solely on this.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Fiona replied with a grimace. ‘I’d starve to death, for starters. The dog school alone would hardly keep my own dogs fed, just at the moment.’

  ‘You’re not going to have much of a social life, either,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I haven’t got much of one now,’ she replied, then gasped at the amount that remark revealed.

  Fraser didn’t appear to notice. He reached down to sift through the draft proposal again, eyes flickering from page to page with studied ease. Then he looked straight at Fiona, his eyes unreadable.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want an answer right now, in fact I don’t even want you to think about it in terms of yes or no. Just think about it, and try to set aside your man-hating, distrustful ways long enough to give it serious thought.’

  And he grinned as Fiona bristled instinctively at the bold criticism, grinned as if to say, ‘See, I told you so!’

  ‘I...’ She started, then paused, then said, ‘All right.’ And was surprised to see how his grin widened and his entire attitude relaxed.

  He slurped down the remainder of his coffee and was on his feet in a single, lithe movement. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Now consider this! Come by tomorrow, or whenever it’s next convenient, and have a look at my shearing shed. 1 reckon it would do you for a bit, at least long enough to see if having your school this far out is a goer or not. We might have to reorganise things a bit; sure as hell it’ll need a clean-out, but it’s definitely worth considering. The power’s there, and parking isn’t an issue, and the space is more than sufficient.’

  Fiona’s eyes widened at the enormity of the suggestion, and the sheer unexpectedness and the apparent generosity. Rising to stand in front of him, to at least try and reduce the feeling of inferiority he so easily created by towering over her, she immediately sought to object.

  ‘No. You’re to consider it, not make snap decisions,’ he admonished, reaching out to place one finger gently against her lips, effectively stilling her. ‘Come and look, see if there’s any logic in it, and then we’ll talk about it.’

  And before she could even think to object, he replaced his finger with his lips in a brief kiss, a kiss that was almost impersonal but not quite.

  ‘It’s late, little girl, and you’ve had a busy day,’ he said in that soft, smoky voice that had such power to touch her. There was an instant when she could have reached out to him, obeying her body’s wish to continue the kiss, to extend it, to build it into something she suddenly wanted more than almost anything.

  But the moment passed, helped on by his immediate release of her lips, by his stepping sideways and past her to reach and open the door and walk into the night, throwing behind him the typical country farewell, ‘See you on the next trip.’

  Fiona could only stand in t
he doorway, one hand lifted to touch her lips, her entire being suddenly filled with a strange emptiness, a surprising sense of emptiness. Even the thrusting confusion of her dogs round her feet couldn’t quite diminish it, and it persisted as she did the dishes and tidied up her kitchen table.

  They like him too damned much, she thought, and began to fear that she did, too. It was a sobering thought, and not a comfortable one. Dare Fraser was no man to take lightly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fiona slept fitfully after Dare’s abrupt departure, her mind incapable of ignoring his instructions to think without making a decision.

  She had to make a decision, even though it was ludicrous to consider doing so without so much as inspecting his shearing shed’s potential.

  Presuming it suitable, the advantages were obvious; the disadvantages, unfortunately, were far less easy to determine. She had great problems with the concept of being further beholden to him, yet her financial circumstances dictated that she reason this out on logic, not pure emotion.

  The ramifications still rode nightmares through her mind when first the alarm clock, then the sound of riotous dogs told her she’d slept well into the beginning of what had to be a significant day. How significant, she couldn’t possibly realise until she’d thrown on a dressing-gown and rushed to see who was at the door.

  She half expected it to be Dare Fraser, but as her sleepy mind came alive she realised it couldn’t possibly be. The dogs’ alarm barks announced a stranger, and when she opened the door it turned out to be a stranger in uniform.

  ‘Miss Boyd? Miss Fiona Boyd?’ The policeman was young, perhaps her own age, and his fiery hair and moustache did nothing to add maturity, though she supposed it was meant to.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied hesitantly, leaning sideways to peer past him to count the dogs. All there, thank heavens.

  He introduced himself, but she didn’t catch his name and only glanced at the identification he tendered. But it was clear he expected to be invited inside, so Fiona obliged, curiosity now getting the better of her.

  Her dogs were home; her vehicle was safely in the yard. What on earth could he want? she wondered, and mentally added, At this hour of the morning, before she looked at the kitchen clock and realised it was closer to lunch than breakfast.

  He accepted her offer of coffee, sat at the table and took out his notebook, but declined to offer any explanation or begin his questions until the kettle had boiled and she could sit down across from him and give her full attention to the situation.

  Just as well! If she hadn’t been sitting down, Fiona thought, there could have been a nasty accident with the boiling water.

  ‘Trashed?’ she finally asked. ‘As in vandalised, I suppose you mean?’

  His nod was sufficient confirmation; his next question brought her worst fears to life.

  ‘1 understand you were there last night, with your, um, dog training school?’

  A mute nod was all she could muster.

  ‘And you would have locked up after yourself?’

  ‘Of course!’ Her voice was firm; her certainty far less so. She had locked up, hadn’t she?

  The young policeman’s expression was one of neither belief nor disbelief. Whatever doubt might exist was in her mind, she thought. And not entirely without reason.

  Because she honestly couldn’t remember!

  She could remember the hassles of Dare’s appearance, the spates of jealousy at her female students’ reaction to him, their heated discussion outside the building and his final departure.

  But actually, specifically, remember locking the door when she finally left? No, damn it, she couldn’t! Fiona sat there, staring into her coffee, then up to the silent police constable whose glance had become frighteningly impersonal.

  She must have locked up, she thought. It would have been habit, if nothing else, after so long, so many regular classes. ‘Or would it? For a horrifying instant, she found herself too ready to believe that in the disruption of Dare Fraser’s visit she might have forgotten.

  ‘You’re positive, I gather?’ Even more impersonal, now; did he suspect her uncertainty? Or was it just the standard police attitude in such matters? she wondered.

  ‘I ... just a moment,’ she replied, a sudden, terrible thought spearing into existence. She reached out to sort through her handbag, then sighed heavily with relief at finding her keys, including the warehouse key, just where they should be.

  ‘As positive as I can be,’ she replied. ‘And as you can see, my key is here, so I didn’t leave it in the lock or anything like that.’

  ‘No other keys that you know of?’ He didn’t seem terribly impressed by her disclosure, she thought. Or else he was just putting on his policeman’s persona. Fiona had much preferred the politeness of his original approach.

  ‘Not from me,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘I’ve no idea, of course, who else the owner might have entrusted with them.’

  ‘Everybody else who was renting the building had already returned their keys before last night, I understand,’ the policeman said, then firmed up his lip as if realising he was supposed to be asking questions, not answering them.

  ‘I was planning to return mine this morning,’ she said. ‘Last night was my final class. How much damage was there?’ Fiona asked then, reckoning it was best to have the worst news now.

  ‘About as much as you could do to a building that was empty to start with,’ was the reply. ‘Broken windows, smashed wall-panelling, broken lights, spray paint all over everything. Pretty much the usual thing.’

  The usual thing! Fiona had no experience to guide her in this regard, except for a casual interest in the evening television news which reported such vandalism with — especially now — frightening regularity.

  ‘And... You’re here because ... well, am I being accused of anything?’ It was difficult to frame the question properly, because quite obviously she was being suspected of having failed to lock up properly, or something.

  ‘The problem is that there’s no sign of forced entry,’ the policeman admitted. ‘You’re not being accused of anything; we’re just making enquiries, at this stage.’

  ‘1 see.’ And she did see—only too well. She wasn’t being accused, but if the vandals hadn’t broken into the warehouse, then...

  Fiona’s jaw dropped. She stared at the policeman without really seeing him, her mind awhirl with nightmares far worse than anything of the night before. If she hadn’t locked up properly — and considering the disconcerting effect Dare Fraser had created last night, it was only too possible — then she was responsible!

  ‘But... but surely somebody could have picked the lock, or ... whatever,’ she protested lamely. And thought. How stupid! She knew as much about such things as she did about flying jumbo jets, and from the policeman’s expression she’d just made that patently obvious.

  ‘Usually vandals aren’t that sophisticated,’ he replied wearily, as if he’d heard that excuse before.

  Then he continued his interrogation. Had she noticed anyone hanging about the place? Was she definitely the last one to leave? Were any of her students still around when she left? Was the door especially difficult to close or lock? It went on and on and on.

  And each individual answer went into his little notebook with agonising slowness, excruciating exactness. Fiona, whose replies became an endless chain of monosyllables, was increasingly frustrated by it all. She wanted to do something, something positive, like going to see her ex-landlord, or going to see the damage for herself, first-hand!

  After what seemed an endless time, she managed just that; she finally finished answering the policeman’s questions, saw him out, then flung hurriedly through her morning ablutions and was in the city with plenty of time to spare before she had to be at work.

  The time factor, however, was about the only thing going right. Her landlord/ex-landlord was less than pleased to see her, and Fiona could hardly blame him. It was when he began to detail his reasons that she r
eally started to worry.

  ‘There were only three keys — mine and yours and one that I gave the new owners,’ he said. ‘The new owners who were supposed to settle today. Now they’re starting to jack up about the damage and all, and who knows when it’ll get sorted out?’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Fiona said. Wasted sentiment.

  ‘You’re certain you locked up properly?’ he asked for the sixth time, ignoring her condolences. And even when she replied, also for the sixth time, that she was morally certain she had locked up properly, it was only too clear that he didn’t believe her.

  Which is hardly surprising, she thought. I hardly believe myself! And yet she did! She simply couldn’t imagine not going through her normal routine of shutting off the lights, locking the door, yanking on the handle to check. She just couldn’t.

  Finally it became obvious there was nothing else she could say or do that would improve the situation in any way. He was at least half convinced of her guilt, and Fiona left feeling that he’d stay that way, regardless of the outcome.

  Which worried her, so much that on arriving at work she telephoned her lawyer and dropped the problem in his lap.

  ‘I can’t see that you’ve anything to worry about,’ was the reply. ‘Nobody can prove that you didn’t lock up properly, and you’re certainly not responsible for the vandalism itself.’

  ‘But what if I didn’t lock up right? What if I’m morally responsible for the whole thing?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer, not a moralist,’ was the blunt reply. ‘If the police come round wanting to lay charges or anything, or if your landlord starts making loud noises about some sort of lawsuit, we’ll have another look. But for now I suggest you stop worrying.’

  Far easier said than done, she thought as the day slowly passed and her mind kept backtracking to try and pinpoint that exact moment of putting the key in the door, locking up. Work-wise, it was a terrible day.