by Vicki Tyley
He took it without a word, shoving it in his top pocket. Seconds later the ambulance crew whisked away their patient.
Outside on the back porch, Fergus glanced at Desley as she sagged against the wall, watching the helicopter lift-off and soar away. She looked like he felt. Drained.
The air ambulance soon disappeared from sight, the thrum of the rotor blades trailing in its wake. With a weary sigh, she pushed off from the wall and walked away from him. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them again in a flash when he realized she had gone back into the cottage.
“Desley,” he shouted, pulling back the flyscreen-door and kicking the ajar inner door open further with his boot, “don’t touch anything. It’s a crime scene now.”
No response.
He reached the kitchen just in time to see her bend down for the poker. “No, don’t!” He lunged across the floor and grabbed her wrist. “You’ll contaminate the evidence.”
She wrenched her arm from his grip, rubbing it as she glared at him. “Did you have to be so heavy-handed about it?”
“Sorry, but the last thing you need is for the cops to find your fingerprints all over the weapon.”
“Too late. I was the one who dropped…” Her eyes widened, the gravity of the situation plainly sinking in. “Oh shit, you don’t think they’ll think I did it, do you?”
He hesitated a moment too long.
“You don’t seriously…” Her jaw dropped. “Thanks for nothing, Fergus.” She stormed off, muttering something he couldn’t catch.
Christ, he thought, I’ll never understand women. Nevertheless, he had to admit he could have handled it better. She had read him right. Everyone was a suspect until he or she could be ruled out. The local cops would be there soon enough, asking questions and laying down the law. He didn’t want her thinking he was ganging up on her as well. Blaming his police training, he went to look for her.
He found her pacing up and down the road, the set of her face as fixed as her crossed arms. Falling into step beside her, he pleaded his case.
“I’m really sorry, Desley, if you thought for one moment I was doubting you. It wasn’t my intention.” He chuckled. “Once a cop, always a cop, eh?”
His pathetic attempt at levity had the opposite effect. She scowled at him, her pale lips tightly pursed.
“And do cops always jump to conclusions?”
“Please hear me out.”
She came to an abrupt halt, turned and faced him. “Okay,” she said, dropping her hands to her hips, “I’m listening.”
“Why don’t we talk in my car where it’s warmer? Or your car, if you prefer,” he hastily added. Besides having more legroom, his Ford Falcon had to be more comfortable than her compact Peugeot hatchback, but he wanted the decision to be hers. He needed the brownie points.
Sizing up the cars, she walked over to the Falcon. He darted over to open the car door for her, scoring a glimmer of what he hoped was a smile as she sunk into the velour passenger seat. Who said chivalry was dead? He closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side.
Inside the closed-up car, a faint hint of meat pie, a reminder of his unorthodox breakfast grabbed on the go, overlaid the new car smell. He started the car, turning the heater to high. In a few minutes, it would be like a furnace.
He stretched out in his seat, skewing his body so he could see Desley’s face. She lay back, her eyes closed, the Falcon’s seat swallowing her diminutive frame. Her dark eyelashes accentuated her pallid and drawn complexion. He wondered about the faint scar just below her right eyebrow. She looked fragile, but he suspected she was anything but. She must have sensed him watching her.
“I’m not as clueless as you think.” She opened her eyes, twisting her head to meet his gaze.
“I didn’t—”
She held up a hand, only dropping it when he shut his mouth. “I was about to add that I also understand where you were coming from…”
A woman apologizing?
“And no, I’m not apologizing,” she said, reading his mind, “I’m trying to explain.”
He managed to keep a straight face, but had to cover his mouth with his hand, coughing to disguise his chortle.
“Something I said?”
He leaned forward and turned the heater down. “Dry air,” he croaked, hoping he wasn’t overplaying it. Any hint of amusement on his part, and he knew she would clam up. Experience had taught him women didn’t appreciate a guy laughing when they were in serious mode. He coughed again.
She studied his face. “By the way, how did you come to be here?”
He cocked an eyebrow. Amnesia?
“I’m not saying that I wasn’t happy to see you, but…” She sat up, the set of her face rigid. “Have you been following me?”
“Don’t you remember? You sent me an email.”
“Oh,” she said, slumping back in her seat, her chin resting on her chest. “I must’ve stuffed up. It wasn’t scheduled to be delivered until tomorrow and only then if I didn’t get back in time to delete it.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
She shook her head. “No, it would’ve been a bad thing if you hadn’t turned up. Especially for Selena,” she added in a whisper.
The woman finally had a name. Though it meant nothing to him, she had to be more than a passing acquaintance to Desley. How else would she have been able to give the paramedics the name and phone number of the woman’s fiancé off the top of her head?
“You were explaining,” he prompted.
“What?”
“You said you weren’t apologizing, you were explaining.”
“It’s a long story…”
“Something to fill in the time until the police arrive then.”
She rested her head against the window strut and stared into the distance.
“How about we start with something easy like who the woman is we just saved?”
He saw her tense, her breathing suddenly tight.
Silence.
He waited.
She gave a loud sigh, her breath fogging the side window. “Selena,” she said. “Selena Papa…”
He waited.
“…the woman who stole my husband…”
CHAPTER 8
Desley touched her face, the warmth of her skin a stark reminder of the victim’s icy cheek. “Oh God, Selena, please don’t die,” she said, real concern overriding any animosity she felt toward her.
Back out on the highway with the bitumen road stretching for kilometers ahead of her, she drove on automatic pilot, her mind elsewhere. Who had attacked Selena? Could it simply be a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? But more perplexing was why her ex-husband’s fiancée would be at the cottage owned by Laura’s friend of a friend in the first place. As far as she knew, Selena and Laura had never met. What would bring her out here, and why now? Desley’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.
Her mobile phone rang. Without taking her eyes off the road, she pressed the answer button.
“Desley, it’s Fergus.”
“Where are you? Have you heard any news yet? Is she all right?”
“Look in your rear view mirror. And two, not yet.”
She did as he said and was surprised to see his silver Falcon less than a car-length behind her. He waved. How long had he been there? The last time she had seen him was when she stopped to use the public toilets in Mansfield and he’d driven past her on his way out of town.
“But I have had a call from our mutual friend, DI Buchanan…”
She held her breath.
“You wouldn’t know where that ex-husband of yours you mentioned is by any chance?”
The question caught her off guard. “Pardon?”
“Grant tried calling you direct, but you didn’t answer.” A pause. “We were probably still out of range then, though.”
“Not that. Why would I know where he is? We’re not married anymore, you know,” she said, unable to suppress the sa
rcasm in her voice. Any mention of Trent always brought out the best in her. Hearing Fergus's sharp intake of breath, she immediately wished she could take it back.
“Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Sorry, Fergus, I’m not normally such a bitch.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replied, his voice softening. For a moment, he didn’t speak. She imagined his brain working overtime, looking for the best way to tell her what he wanted to without raising her hackles again.
“Really, my bark is worse than my bite,” she prompted. “Think terrier.”
His low, throaty laugh filled the car.
She couldn’t help but smile, her mood lightening. “In answer to your earlier question, I can only assume that if the hospital managed to contact Trent, he’ll either be sitting anxiously at Selena’s bedside or pacing the corridors. And hospitals being hospitals, he will of course have his mobile phone switched off. Anyway, what do the police want with my ex?”
“I did suggest that to Grant, but although his phone is switched off, he hasn’t made an appearance at the hospital yet.”
“Okay then, do you know if they tried him at home?” She paused. “Mind you, if he had a heavy night, they would almost have to bash the door down to rouse him,” she added as an afterthought.
“He’s definitely not there, either, unless he’s hiding under the bed. All the curtains were open.”
She let out a loud huff. Where the hell was he? “Shit, I don’t know then,” she said, angry with herself for letting Trent get under her skin. “Tried the morgue?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said, getting to the crux of the matter. “I’m sure he’s okay.”
Was she that transparent? Damn you, Trent James, she thought. Why can’t you get out of my life and stay out? “And what else did DI Buchanan have to say?” she asked, changing the subject completely.
“Grant didn’t tell me, but I did hear on the grapevine that the autopsy results on the fire victim will be released soon. No ID yet, but they’re still working on that.”
“How does that help us track down Laura and Ryan?” Though she felt for the unknown man and his family, her main objective was finding out what had happened to her best friend. Dead or alive, people just didn’t vanish into thin air without a good reason.
“If they can positively identify the victim, then they’ll be that bit closer to ascertaining his link to your friends and thus one step closer to uncovering motive. At this stage, the police have very little to work with.”
“Thanks, Fergus.” At least he gave her straight answers. The same couldn’t be said about the hotshot DI Grant Buchanan and his sidekick, DS Kim Mitchell. Police training 101: never give a direct answer to a direct question. “Please let me know as soon as you hear anything.”
She glanced in the rear view mirror, adding another silent thank you as she hung up. She dreaded to think what might have been the outcome if Fergus hadn’t turned up when he had. Thank God the email alerting him to her whereabouts had not been delivered 24 hours later as intended.
More importantly, he had acted on the email. She couldn’t have blamed him if he had ignored it, thinking it was the ramblings of an irrational woman. In the past week, she hadn’t exactly given him any reason to think otherwise. It was a wonder he wanted anything to do with her at all. During the course of a day, her emotions would range from being full of hope to utter despair and back again. She wanted off the mood merry-go-round.
She took a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, she vowed to show Fergus and everyone else what she was really made of. Whatever happened, she couldn’t give up until she had the answers, and for that, she needed strength and tenacity. Forget terrier, she thought, think mastiff.
Nearing the outskirts of Melbourne, she rang home to check her answering machine. Ten messages. An anxious one from Fergus hoping to catch her before she left the house; three from her mother, each more panicky than the last; one from her father asking her to call her mother; one from her brother asking her to call her mother; one from DI Buchanan; a disjointed almost incoherent one from Trent; and two from clients.
She called her mother, reassuring her that she wasn’t going to disappear like Laura and promising to phone again when she arrived home. The clients would have to hold on until she was in front of her computer. That left the DI and Trent. One of whom was looking for the other. Both could wait. She had city traffic to battle.
Three-quarters of an hour later, she pulled into her driveway. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she savored the feeling of being in a place where she felt safe and in control. She had lost Fergus a few kilometers back, assuming he had turned off for home, but as she was getting out of the car, his Falcon pulled up in the street outside. The least she could do was invite him in for a cup of coffee.
Fumbling in her bag for her house keys, she walked across to meet him coming up the path. Outside the front door, he laid a hand on her forearm, stopping her from unlocking the door. When she looked at him, he held a finger to his lips. She listened, but heard nothing.
“Do you have someone staying with you?” he whispered, edging closer to the door.
She shook her head slowly and listened again. Then she heard it: the muted but unmistakable sound of someone walking around inside. She gasped, her mind racing as she tried to think who it could be. A brazen burglar? Someone with a key…
Fergus leaned his head in close to her face. “Call the police,” he said softly, his warm breath tickling her ear. “I’m going to check around the back.”
She snagged his jacket as he turned to go. “No police. Not yet. What if it’s Laura?” She was the only one Desley knew of who had a key.
CHAPTER 9
“What the hell are you doing here?”
A bleary-eyed Trent emerged from behind the open refrigerator door, his face as crumpled as his blue-and-black striped shirt.
“Looking for the cheese.”
Desley yanked him backwards, slammed the fridge door and stood with her back against it. “You’re fucking unbelievable, do you know that? Don’t you think I have enough to deal with without having you interfering in my life as well? You left me, remember? Not the other way around.”
He cocked his head at her, his bottom lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout.
“And don’t think you’re going to get by me with one of your stupid puppy-dog faces.” She pushed past him, her hands clenched at her side to stop her from punching him on the chin.
Fergus, who until then had been silently observing from the sidelines, stepped aside as she charged from the kitchen. From behind her, she heard him say, “I think it’s time you left, mate.”
“I’m not your mate,” Trent retorted, his tone suddenly sharp, “whatever the fuck your name is.”
Uh oh. She spun around and headed back to the kitchen before it could degenerate any further.
“Although it’s none of your business,” she said to Trent, positioning herself between the two men, “Fergus is a good friend of mine. He’s actually here because I invited him in.” She pointed a finger at her ex-husband’s chest. “You, I didn’t!”
“Are you screwing him?”
She gasped. “That’s it, I’ve had enough.” It crossed her mind to say yes, and if Fergus hadn’t been standing there, she might have. Maybe then Trent would realize her world didn’t revolve around him. Before she could physically evict him, Fergus’s mobile phone rang.
He checked the caller display. “Grant,” he said, already moving away. “I should take it.”
She tried to hear what Fergus was saying, but then Trent sidled up to her. “Not your usual type,” he said, nodding in Fergus’s direction.
She bit down hard, refusing to rise to the bait. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital with the future Mrs James?”
Bewilderment and something else she didn’t recognize flashed across his unshaven face, his mouth twisting. “What?” he stammered.
She studied his features, trying to read his expres
sion. “Haven’t you answered your phone at all today? Or at least cleared your messages?”
He patted his shirt pocket and then his trouser pockets. “What the hell did I do with it?”
Gripping her upper arms, he brought his face in so close she could see every vein in his bloodshot eyes. She felt his tremor; smelt his stale, alcohol-laced breath.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me what’s happened.”
She shook him off, rubbing her arms where his fingers had dug in as she stepped out of his reach. Either he had honed his acting skills or he genuinely didn’t know. But then again he had always been a convincing liar.
“I don’t know how bad she is, Trent, but Selena’s in The Alfred with head injuries and suspected concussion. We think someone hit her over the back of the head. You should be with her—”
“Good news,” Fergus said, walking in from the hall. “The scans were clear. Ms Papa is conscious and out of immediate danger. They’ll be keeping her under observation for a day or two, though.” He stopped beside Desley, nodding at Trent. “And you’ll be happy to know, Trent Junior doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects from the trauma.”
For a few long seconds, Desley couldn’t breathe in or out. Looking at Trent, she watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, saw the torment in his eyes and immediately understood. He bowed his head, averting his gaze.
“Oh God, Trent,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She knew how much he had wanted children. After all, they had tried for over three years themselves without success, only giving up when fertility tests showed Trent could never father a child. The news had crushed him and he had never really fully recovered. It had marked the beginning of the end of their marriage. No matter how hard she tried to convince him it didn’t change how she felt about him, he wouldn’t believe her. Perhaps womanizing had been his way of proving to himself that he was still a man.
Fergus gave her a strange look. Glad he was there but hoping he wouldn’t interfere, she acknowledged his presence with a raised hand. He nodded and moved back.