Sleight Malice

by Vicki Tyley

  Trent shook his head. “Not yet as far as I know. From what they told me, identification isn’t going to be easy. The body is badly charred.”

  Desley shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut, desperate to block the unbidden image of a blackened, contorted corpse from her mind. “But what I don’t understand is why the police would be talking to you about it. How did they even know you knew Laura and Ryan?”

  Before he could reply, the waiter arrived with their order, including a dessert dish piled high with fluffy pink and white marshmallows. Trent offered them to her first, only popping two in his own mouth when she shook her head. Her double-espresso remained untouched in front of her.

  “You were about to say?” she prompted.

  He wiped icing sugar from his fingers and picked up his steaming mug. “The guys at the office must have told them.” He sipped his mocha.

  “Told them what, Trent?” She was getting nowhere fast. Her interrogation techniques obviously needed work. “I’m not a mind-reader.”

  For a long moment he said nothing, more intent on loading his mug with as many marshmallows as he could fit. She cleared her throat. His gaze flicked to her face and away again.

  “Ryan had me fired, Des.”

  “Say that again.”

  “It’s true. I didn’t want to believe it either, but Ryan somehow convinced the directors I had become a liability. Sure, I had been having a couple of hard months, but I would’ve come good.” He paused, adding under his breath, “Smarmy bastard.”

  That explained the casual dress and why he wasn’t at work, but not why his colleagues at Geary and Associates, the advertising agency he worked for – or rather had worked for – would have pointed the police in his direction. “So what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing much. You know how it is; we all say things in the heat of the moment that we don’t mean. It’s only because all this has happened that some people now think I might have been serious. Honestly, can you see me harming another person?”

  That depends if you’re talking physically or psychologically, she thought, remembering the mental pain his deceit had inflicted on her. “Forget about Ryan for a minute. What about Laura? What’s happened with her? Where is she?”

  Trent started to shrug, saw her expression and stopped. “Sorry, Des, I’m as much in the dark as you are. The police weren’t exactly confiding in me.” He cocked his head to the side, his attempt at an apologetic smile falling flat.

  “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?” She jumped to her feet, wrapping her scarf around her neck in a tight knot, almost strangling herself. “Laura and Ryan are missing, could be in trouble or worse, and you want to play happy families over coffee,” she shouted down at him, heedless to the curious stares she was drawing from the café’s other patrons. “You haven’t changed one iota. It’s always been about you.”

  He cringed, red blotches flaring on his cheeks as if she had physically slapped him.

  She struggled with her jacket, cursing when she couldn’t get her left arm into the sleeve. “I can’t believe you got me here under false pretences. Damn you, Trent James. Damn you—”

  “Wait. Don’t go.” He shuffled awkwardly along the bench, leaning to his left as his right hand fumbled in his trouser pocket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It wasn’t my intention. Here,” he said, presenting her with the business card he had fished from his pocket. “Talk to this guy. He’s the detective in charge of the investigation. If anyone knows anything, he will.”

  She snatched the buckled card from his fingers and without a backward glance stormed off.

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he called after her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fergus Coleman smiled. Even from a distance, he easily recognized the woman he had employed to design and build his website. What Desley James lacked in stature, she more than made up for in attitude; the shocking pink slashes of color in her short black hair testament to that. Not to mention the dragonfly tattoo he had glimpsed when she’d bent forward once, her shirt gaping.

  He tooted, giving her a cheery wave as he drove past and parked on the street outside her terracotta-colored brick townhouse. Collecting his laptop and camera from the passenger seat, he stepped out of his almost showroom-new Ford Falcon, double-checking he had locked it before walking around the back to wait for Desley on the footpath. In a feeble attempt to prevent what little body heat he had escaping, he clutched his collar closed around his neck. The bright winter sun gave only the illusion of warmth.

  Desley strode toward him, head down. He started in her direction, a smile and greeting at the ready, but before he could do either, she did an abrupt right turn and walked up her driveway.

  He called to her. “Desley!” he repeated, louder this time as he closed the gap between them.

  She looked up, stared at him, her eyes blank as if she was looking through him, not at him. He waved a hand through her gaze, trying to break whatever spell she was under.

  “Don’t tell me I have the wrong day.” Although he wasn’t the best of record keepers, he tried hard to keep his diary in order. “Wasn’t it today we were going to go over the new templates and discuss what photos you wanted to incorporate?” he asked, patting the strap of the Nikon camera bag slung over his shoulder.

  Recognition gradually dawned in her eyes. “Fergus!” Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Yes,” she said in answer to his question. “Yes, it was today we were scheduled to meet, but something’s…” Her voice trailed off, her face a conflict of emotions as she averted her gaze.

  “Are you okay?” On impulse he reached out his hand, whipping it back before she had a chance to notice. What was he thinking? He took half a step back, giving her space, and offered her an out. “If there’s a problem, we can make it another time. I’m easy.”

  Her head remained bowed, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. I affect some people that way, he almost said out loud. Now was not the time for jokes. Feeling distinctly ill at ease and at a loss to what to do, he stood scratching his jaw and studied the pale rust-colored concrete at his feet.

  He didn’t know Desley James well enough to know how she would react if he were too forward. Or for that matter what constituted too forward. But even if she had been a complete stranger, he would have sensed something serious was amiss. Any sane person with a trace of sensitivity would have.

  Buying himself thinking time and Desley more time to compose herself, he crouched down and unzipped his laptop case, fishing in the inside front pocket for the CD of images he had transferred from his hard drive. She had requested copies of any photographs he had that might be suitable as a background or sidebar for his new private investigator services website. Even though he had every electronic, audio, video and forensic gadget a successful investigator could possibly need, it had taken more than eight years in the business to convince him he needed a web presence to remain competitive.

  Feeling her gaze on the top of his head, he looked up. She gave him a weak smile, the dark hollows underscoring her sunken hazel eyes deepening as her cheek bones lifted. The harsh morning light cast a blue tinge over her washed-out complexion, accentuating her obvious lack of sleep. He returned her smile, imbuing it with what he hoped would come across as compassion, but knowing it still couldn’t go any way to soothing whatever troubled her.

  He handed her the clear-cased CD. “When you have a chance, check these out. One or two might be suitable. No rush,” he added, rezipping the black computer bag.

  Back on his feet, he watched Desley’s face as she studied his black scrawl on the CD face. Was his handwriting that illegible? “It’s the photos we talked about, remember?”

  Looking as if she was about to say something, she gave him a quick nod but remained mute.

  “Call me. Email me. Or something,” he said, backing down the driveway.

  “Fergus…”

  He stalled mid-step, his
right foot hovering above the concrete behind him. Drawing it slowly back to its starting point, he waited for her to continue.

  “You’re here now.” Her gaze roamed the surrounding area. “Let’s talk inside. It’s freezing out here.”

  It wasn’t much above that inside. Standing in the small foyer, Fergus wondered if Desley had been away for a time. The townhouse had that same cold closed-up feel his place had after returning home from a week’s holiday. While Desley rushed around turning the heating on and booting up her computer, he loitered near the kitchen. From there he could see straight into the polished wooden-floored living area.

  In contrast to the townhouse’s banal, bordering on sterile, exterior this room was flooded with what he saw as a reflection of Desley’s personality. Beige didn’t stand a chance. The first thing that struck him was the huge oil canvas hanging on the opposite wall. A vivid blue eye stared out at him from an enormous palm, each fingertip a portrait of a different expression. The little finger poked its tongue out at him, while the index finger screamed open-mouthed, baring a full mouth of teeth.

  A large L-shaped red leather couch dominated the room. Nearby, but positioned as casually as if it had been tossed onto the floor and left where it landed, lay a giant black-lacquered dice with white dots. But what really caught his eye about it were the two wineglasses and the two empty wine bottles sitting on top. Male or female company? Could it be connected with Desley’s current downcast demeanor?

  Before his deductive prowess could conjure up any further assumptions, the doorbell rang. Then a couple of footsteps and the door opening.

  “Desley James?”

  “Yes.” More question than statement.

  “Detective Inspector Grant Buchanan and Detective Sergeant Kim Mitchell. May we come in, please?”

  Fergus recognized the gravelly voice as much as the name, except now his old colleague was no longer a sergeant.

  CHAPTER 4

  Exhausted beyond belief, Desley’s thought processes had slowed to a crawl. The name seemed somehow familiar, but the square-jawed and rugged face of the thickset man standing on her doorstep didn’t. Then she remembered the crumpled business card Trent had given her, her hand automatically feeling for it in her jacket pocket.

  At last someone who could give her some straight answers. She opened the door wide, standing back as the inspector wiped his feet, stepped inside, and the rosy-cheeked, freckle-faced blonde sergeant did the same. They then followed her down the short hall, to where Fergus was in the throes of untangling cables and unpacking his laptop onto the kitchen’s granite benchtop.

  She continued on, coming to an abrupt standstill half a step into the living room. The sight of the two abandoned wineglasses, one with Laura’s ruby-red lipstick imprints clearly visible on the rim, and the empty wine bottles jolted her. Could it have been only last night that they had talked, laughed and with the help of a good bottle of Yarra Valley Sauvignon Blanc or two, solved all the world’s problems?

  She spun back to the two detectives in tow, hoping to divert them before they could see last night’s remnants. They hadn’t noticed.

  Instead, Fergus had caught their attention.

  “Fergus,” said the detective inspector with a nod in his direction.

  “Grant.” Another nod.

  The two men eyed each other off, both undoubtedly wondering why the other was there. Although they were both tall, that was where the similarities ended. Fergus with his mop of loose, dark curls, slim build and finer features looked almost bohemian beside the shorn DI Buchanan, the detective’s fair hair cropped so close more pink scalp than hair was visible.

  Detective Inspector Buchanan's gaze strayed to Fergus. “It’s probably best we speak in private,” he said to Desley.

  “Perhaps I should go.” Fergus closed his laptop.

  “No. I have nothing to hide.” As it was, Desley felt unnerved by Grant Buchanan’s physical presence. With his burly front-row forward physique, she was glad he was one of the good guys. At least if Fergus stayed, she wouldn’t be outnumbered.

  Kim Mitchell perhaps sensing that intimidation, and who to that stage had not uttered a word, stepped forward. Chubby with masses of frizzy blonde shoulder-length hair, the detective sergeant was at odds with the stereotypical image in Desley’s head of what a police officer should look like.

  “Ms James – or can I call you Desley?” One eyebrow cocked.

  Desley nodded.

  “If we could all sit down, we’ll get to the reason for our visit. We won’t take much of your time, I promise. Fergus, is it?” she asked, turning her attention to him, but not waiting for his answer. “Why don’t you put the kettle on for a cup of tea?”

  From the bewildered expression on Fergus’s face, anyone could be mistaken for thinking he had been asked to whip up a five-course meal. Of course, DS Mitchell wasn’t to know it was the first time Fergus had set foot inside the townhouse, let alone its kitchen.

  “I’ll do it,” Desley said, squeezing past Fergus to fill the kettle, irritated that the detective thought the old time-honored panacea would help in this situation. She hated tea.

  Waving a hand in the direction of the dining room, she dispatched first the two detectives and then Fergus. She opened the refrigerator. No fresh milk. She scoured the cupboards. No tea, stale or otherwise. Hoping black coffee would suffice instead, she switched on the small espresso machine on the bench next to the microwave, checking the water-level before leaving it to heat and joined the others.

  Seated on the far side of the large solid-jarrah dining table in the centre of the room, DI Buchanan stared wide-eyed at the violet painted walls, seemingly transfixed by Desley’s collection of brightly-colored Joan Miró surrealist art prints. Directly opposite him on the other side of the table, Fergus appeared to be willing the mobile phone in his hand to ring. The townhouse’s heating finally working, DS Mitchell was shedding her long navy coat. Desley followed suit and instantly felt less like a visitor in her own home.

  “Coffee machine’s heating. Sorry but I'm all out of tea,” she said, not feeling in the least hospitable as she sat down in the chair next to Fergus. “Please just tell me what’s happened to Laura. Do you know where she is? And Ryan, has he turned up yet?”

  A fleeting glance passed between the detectives, the twitch at the corner of DI Buchanan’s eye almost imperceptible. “Actually we were hoping you could help us with the whereabouts of Ms Noble. What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?”

  Desley frowned. “Like what? Laura was perfectly okay when she left here at around ten last night, give or take a few minutes.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Happy, tipsy, excited about having Ryan home again. Why? What is all this about?”

  “She didn’t seem distracted or out of sorts at all?” continued the inspector, ignoring her questions.

  “No. Just what are you implying?”

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You mean what didn’t we talk about? Come on, Inspector, we had a girl’s night in. What did you expect? We certainly weren’t plotting to overthrow the world or anything sinister like that,” she said, frustration driving her sarcasm.

  DI Buchanan’s eye twitch wasn’t so subtle this time. “All we’re trying to establish is what Ms Noble’s frame of mind was last night, if she talked to you about her plans for today or the weekend or next week. Had anything – trivial or otherwise – been troubling her of late?” He paused. “We need your help in determining if her disappearance was voluntary or not,” he added, cleverly putting it back on her.

  She glanced sideways at Fergus. Although he had stopped fidgeting with his mobile, his mind seemed to be elsewhere. What had possessed her to drag a man she barely knew, her client, into her personal crisis? Convenience? Would she have clutched at the postman or the neighbor or some other bystander the same way?

  Then he turned his head, his intense green eyes quest
ioning. She blinked. He wasn’t the postman. He was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and a man her instinct was telling her she could trust. And she needed all the help she could get to unravel whatever the hell had happened.

  Was still happening, she thought, her stomach sinking as she took in the grave faces around the table. She could no longer deceive herself into thinking it was all some big mistake. Her best friend was missing, a man was dead and somehow the two were linked.

  Fergus cleared his throat and straightened his back. “I know you’re just trying to do your job, Grant, but let’s cut through all the protocol crap and get to the point. Except for what I’ve just heard, I don’t know anything about the case you’re working on, but it’s obvious by the way you’re avoiding Desley’s questions that you’re withholding information. Don’t forget I know how the system works.”

  The detective gave a half-laugh-half-snort. “And so do I.”

  “And do you want Desley’s help or not?” Fergus snapped.

  A loud buzzing from the inspector’s side of the table interrupted the conversation before it could degenerate any further. DI Buchanan’s hand delved into the inside pocket of his black-and-grey mottled leather jacket, withdrawing a tiny fliptop mobile phone. He opened it, muttered under his breath and stood up.

  “I have to take this. DS Mitchell can, I’m sure, answer your questions. And if you want to help your friend, I would hope you’ll return the courtesy. Press conference.” His last two words were directed at the sergeant.

  Kim Mitchell nodded, her face expressionless but her eyes silently communicating with him as he paused in the doorway.

  Then Desley heard him bark, “Buchanan,” followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing. She exhaled, releasing the breath she hadn’t until then realized she had been holding. She had nothing to feel guilty about, but something about the way Detective Inspector Grant Buchanan looked at her made her feel like a suspect, as if she were part of some deep, dark conspiracy.