by Vicki Tyley
“I’m not too early, am I?”
“Sorry, Fergus,” she said, giving her head a quick shake in the hope it would kick-start her thought processes. “I’m not quite with it this morning.”
His dark eyebrows drew together. “Still not sleeping?”
“I’ll survive,” she said, brushing off his concern with a smile, and at the same time feeling secretly pleased that unlike Trent, he thought of others besides himself. Her stomach gave a loud grumble.
He chuckled. “Sounds like I arrived just in the nick of time.” He wiped his feet on the doormat and stepped inside.
With him in tow, she headed to the kitchen. She suddenly felt hungry, the warm yeasty aroma escaping from the bakery bag in her hands making her mouth water.
Once there, Fergus sniffed the air, took one look at her blistered and blackened slice of toast and laughed. “What is that?”
“That was breakfast. Why don’t you make the coffee, while I organize plates and things?” The nuances of Vegemite toast à la Desley would have to wait for another day.
In double quick time, she set out the freshly baked brioche, raspberry jam and butter Fergus had brought, together with plates, cutlery and even napkins on the beech breakfast bar separating the kitchen and living room.
At the espresso machine, Fergus frothed milk like a pro for his coffee. A man of hidden depths. She wondered what else he could do.
He had an air of quiet assurance about him, an understated strength. Caring yet strong. He wasn’t needy like Trent. He didn’t constantly strive to be the centre of attention. But underlying that, she had a sense he wasn’t being totally open with her. What wasn’t he telling her? With everything that had happened, she couldn’t deny he had been a godsend, but what was in it for him?
She didn’t realize she had been staring until he winked. She felt her face redden and quickly looked away.
“I also come bearing news,” he said, sliding two steaming cups of coffee across the breakfast bar.
Her heart skipped a beat. Why hadn’t he said so sooner?
He climbed onto the barstool next to her. “Sorry,” he said, reading her face, “it’s not to do with Laura, not directly anyway. It’s about our fire victim. We can now rule out the scenario of him being the arsonist. The autopsy showed no evidence of carbon particles in his lungs or carbon monoxide in his blood, which means he died before the fire started. Cause of death: blunt head trauma with skull fractures. Definitely murder, I would say.”
Her head spun. Was it possible he had been killed while Laura and she had sat supping wine a couple of blocks away? Why? Who? “How long before the fire?”
Fergus shook his head. “It’s hard to say. The fire did a good job of destroying evidence. Don’t let your breakfast get cold.”
“Do they know who he is yet?” she asked, pushing aside the plate Fergus had set in front of her. She had lost her appetite somewhere between arson and murder. “Is there any possibility it could be Ryan?”
“Only if he had a hip replacement at some stage,” he said, helping himself to a brioche. “Did he?”
“Not that I know of. Laura never mentioned it.”
“I doubt it is Ryan, but we’ll know for sure soon enough. With any luck, they should be able to use the prosthesis manufacturer’s serial number to track the recipient’s details.”
She watched him break apart the sweet bread bun on his plate, then layer each side with generous quantities of butter and jam. Being an ex-cop, talk of death and body parts would be second nature to him; clearly it had no impact on his appetite.
He swallowed. “You should eat. Need to keep up your strength and all that.”
“Yes, Mum.” He was right, though.
Taking another bite, he nodded at the plate of brioche. Raspberry jam oozed onto his fingers. “Have you heard how Selena’s doing?”
“She’s recuperating at her parents’ place, under the watchful eye of her mother, which is probably a good thing. I don’t think Trent would be up to looking after her, even if he was that way inclined.” Desley found herself picking at a brioche.
He nudged the butter her way. “What’s happening with them, do you know?”
“Not really. I can’t imagine Trent will want to play happy families. Even if it isn’t, as he suspects, Ryan’s baby she’s carrying.”
“Any idea what the connection is between the attack on Selena and the disappearance of your friend, Laura?” he asked, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.
She felt his scrutiny, but couldn’t bring herself to look up. Was he gauging her reaction? Did he think she knew more than she was letting on? She only wished she did. Although she agreed it was all too much of a coincidence, she knew no more than he did. Probably less. She shook her head.
“Besides you I mean.”
Her head shot up.
“Sorry. Let me rephrase that. What I’m trying to determine is who else, besides yourself and Trent, were acquainted with both Laura and Selena?”
She frowned at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Believe it or not, I am on your side.”
“That’s not what I’m referring to. This isn’t about sides. Think about it. Selena is a receptionist with the same advertising company employing Ryan, who happens to be Laura’s spouse. It’s also where Trent used to work and how he met Selena. And although I’m sure Laura would’ve mentioned it if she had met my ex-husband’s new wife-to-be, both would’ve at least known of the other. At the last count, Geary and Associates employed over forty staff. Not to mention their long list of clients.”
Fergus scratched his jaw. “So what you’re saying is the field is wide open?”
“Exactly. What I don’t understand is why you think I would know any better. Are you testing me?”
With a stiff shake of the head, he said, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think you have a right to know…”
Words guaranteed to pique anyone’s curiosity, she thought. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Forensics have matched the blood found on the poker in the kitchen as Selena’s…”
Desley stared open-mouthed at Fergus, and just knew what was coming next.
“They’ve also matched your fingerprints.”
“Of course they have. I told you, I didn’t know what I was walking into. It was the first thing that came to hand. What would you have done in my place?”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“And please don’t say, ‘stayed outside and called the police.’”
“Yours were the only prints found on the poker,” he said, his gaze not moving from her face.
It took a moment to digest what he was saying. “Doesn’t that in itself tell you something? I can’t be the only person to have ever touched it with my bare hands. There should’ve been dozens of prints.”
“You’re right, but that leads to the next question—“
“Stop right there—” The thought that his breakfast home-delivery might be nothing more than a Trojan horse hit her. She leapt off the barstool and stepped back. “What’s with all the questions, Fergus? You are a private investigator, right? Not an undercover cop or something equally devious?”
A slow grin replaced his startled look. “Fergus Coleman,” he replied, tipping an invisible cap in her direction, “private investigator, at your service.”
She crossed her arms, making a theatrical show of tapping her foot.
He laughed and held up his long-fingered hands in surrender. “I swear to you I’m not working for the police. It’s a hard habit to break. However I do have someone on the inside feeding me details about the case. I’m only asking you the same questions they will.” He glanced at his watch. “When they eventually get their act together, that is. Think of it as a practice run if you will.”
“Who is this person on the inside who’s prepared to risk his or her career for you?”
“I’d rather not say. The fewer people who know the b
etter.”
“And I’d rather not answer your questions.”
Checkmate…
CHAPTER 12
Desley resisted clawing at the rollneck of her thick woolen jumper. After the briskness of the day outside, the cramped confines of the airless, overheated room felt claustrophobic, but she couldn’t let her discomfort show.
“Please take a seat,” said DS Kim Mitchell, gesturing to the lone chair on the far side of the steel-framed table. “I’ll be back in a moment. Can I get you anything?”
Yes, out of here, Desley thought. She shook her head.
Shut in the bare-walled, fluoro-lit interview room she felt like a prisoner. The air had that institution-green smell, the same color as the scuffed floor. She couldn’t see outside, the only window in the room a small pane of frosted glass set high in the outer wall. She could hear voices, but it sounded like they were talking under water and she couldn’t make out individual words.
She stood, paced the room twice and sat down again. Informal chat, they had said. She had her doubts. Had they left her alone intentionally? Was it part of their ploy to unsettle her? Why couldn’t they have talked to her in the familiar surroundings of her own home, or anywhere less official than a police station? She narrowed her eyes, squinting at a metal grate above the door. Were they watching her?
Back on her feet, she told herself not to be ridiculous, but rolled her eyes at the probably non-existent camera anyway. Where were they?
She didn’t have to stay; she wasn’t under arrest. Not prepared to wait any longer without some sort of explanation, she headed for the door. Before she could open it, someone on the other side pushed down on the door handle. She leapt back, her hand recoiling as if the bronze lever were alive.
“Sorry to keep you,” DI Grant Buchanan said, looking anything but, his grey eyes steely. He motioned her back to the table.
“I’m free to go at any time, right?” She still wasn’t sure why she was there, but had to know she had an out if she needed it.
“Correct,” he said, holding the door open.
DS Kim Mitchell bustled into the room, a notebook and a beige file tucked under one arm and three full steaming foam cups clamped in her hands. Setting the hot drinks on the table, she gave Desley a quick smile.
The detectives waited until she was seated before settling themselves in the chairs on the opposite side of the table. Simple courtesy or a show of control?
Past caring, Desley reached for the one black coffee on the table. She hadn’t asked for it, but her body could certainly do with the caffeine shot. Though the hot, strong instant coffee left a bitter aftertaste, she continued drinking it.
In between mouthfuls, she answered their questions, covering old ground about her relationships with Laura, with Ryan and with Trent for what felt like the umpteenth time. Were they trying to trip her up, hoping she would reveal something she hadn’t yet?
“How many times do we have to go over this? My answers aren’t going to change, you know.” She pushed back in her chair.
“Pleased to hear that,” DI Buchanan said, stony-faced.
DS Mitchell glanced at him and leaned forward. “Desley,” she said, her voice soft and low, “we want the same outcome as you: to find out what happened to your friend, Laura, and her husband. We also need to determine if the attack on Selena Papa is related. Unfortunately, whether you like it or not, you are a common factor in both.”
“I hardly know the woman.” The foam coffee cup in Desley’s grip warped under her tensing fingers. “You can’t seriously think I’m in any way involved.”
“I take it you’re referring to Selena Papa and not your good friend Laura,” the DS said, not pausing long enough for Desley to retort. “Relax; we’re not accusing you of anything.”
Not yet, Desley thought. “Laura was… is my best friend. Selena Papa happens to be engaged to my ex-husband. They may know of each other; I probably mentioned Selena in passing to Laura…” Slight understatement. Who else do you vent to about the ‘other woman’, but your best friend? She sighed. “But as far as I’m aware, they’ve never actually met.”
“So it’s pure chance that Selena Papa turned up in the same place you went looking for Laura Noble?”
Desley shrugged, her gaze dropping to the tabletop. Of course, she didn’t think it had been a coincidence.
“Selena’s pregnancy.” DI Buchanan. Blunt but cutting.
Desley flinched. “Excuse me?” She forced herself to meet the inspector’s penetrating stare. “What does that have to do with me?”
“How do you feel about it?”
“You should be talking to Trent about that, not me.” Not that he’s the father of her unborn child, she added silently.
“Please answer the question.”
“Her pregnancy has nothing to do with me. How should I feel?”
“Hurt? Jealous? Resentful?” A pause. “Angry perhaps?”
“No! What are you on about?”
“Didn’t you and Trent James try for many years to have a child without success?” the DI said, goading her.
Desley’s jaw dropped. Who had told him that? Not Trent, that was for sure. “Why don’t you just say what you really think?” she snapped.
DI Buchanan leaned back in his seat, his arms folded loosely over his broad chest. He contemplated her, one eyebrow arched, a tiny tic playing with the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not the bad guy here, you know. I don’t know why Selena was at the cottage. I don’t know who attacked her. In fact, I could’ve very well saved her life. She would still be lying there if I hadn’t turned up.” She took a breath. “Anyway, talk to her. She’ll tell you it wasn’t me.”
“She has no memory of what happened, but she was hit from behind, so it’s quite plausible that she didn’t see her assailant,” DI Buchanan said.
“And you believe her?”
“We have no reason not to, unless you have something to tell us otherwise.”
Desley gave her head a dismissive shake. Why couldn’t they extend her the same courtesy? “And this amnesia has wiped her memory of why she was there in the first place? Convenient that.”
“They weren’t her fingerprints on the weapon.”
Fergus had warned her that they would try to rattle her, provoke her into saying something she hadn’t intended. She bit down hard on her tongue.
DS Mitchell drew her chair in closer to the table, as if distancing herself from the DI’s remarks. “Desley,” she said, sliding a hand in her direction, “it might help you to see where we’re coming from if you think of the police investigation as a giant jigsaw, one without straight edges.”
Good cop. Desley studied the sergeant’s lightly freckled hand, waiting for the rest of the analogy. She would go well with Trent and his word games.
“No two pieces are alike,” the DS continued. “And we don’t know how many pieces we’re missing.”
DS Kim Mitchell’s fingers bore no rings, nor the indents of any. Her nails were clean, cut short and left unpainted. Plain and simple. Desley looked up, waiting for the inevitable punchline.
“On top of that, we don’t have the benefit of the picture on the lid to guide us.” With a sheepish, half-smile, she added, “I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m rambling, but I thought it might help explain where we’re coming from.”
Desley poked her right hand up. “Desley Piece present.”
The DS’s eyes lit up. “Exactly.”
Desley pretended she didn’t hear DI Buchanan’s stifled snort. DS Mitchell’s roundabout explanation had given Desley breathing space and she wasn’t about to give Bad Cop the satisfaction of winding her up again.
He didn’t have the chance, a sharp rap at the door diverting his attention. He rocked back in his chair, his head tipped toward the narrow opening, and nodded. Excusing himself, he left.
Desley let out a long, slow breath. She didn’t have the energy to continually match wits with the man, weighing every word s
he uttered in case it could be misconstrued and turned against her. “Well, if that’s all,” she said, standing, “I would like to go home now.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want. But if you were Laura, wouldn’t you want your best friend exploring every avenue to find you, even if they turned out to be blind?”
Blind avenues? “Have you met my ex-husband? Never mind,” she added as DS Mitchell’s forehead puckered. “In answer to your question: yes, but I wouldn’t want the police wasting time looking in the wrong direction.”
The DS smiled. “I agree entirely. So what is the right direction?”
Desley opened her mouth, closing it again when she realized she had been outmaneuvered. She didn’t have the answer. The detective was right: if she were in Laura’s shoes, she would want her best friend to do everything within her power to help the police, regardless of who it compromised. Every lead, no matter how improbable or unlikely, had to be followed.
Her hands locked together in a tug-of-war under the table, radiated tension up her arms, across her shoulders and into her neck. She flexed her fingers and took a deep breath. “I don’t see how this has any relevance on Laura’s case, but it may have something to do with Selena being in Howqua…”
DS Mitchell gave a half nod, prompting.
Desley swallowed. “Trent isn’t the father of Selena’s baby. Rumor,” she continued, watching the DS for a reaction, “has it that Selena and Ryan Moore were having an affair.”
Another nod. The detective’s face remained impassive. Was Desley not telling her anything new? Had Selena, while claiming amnesia for the attack, confessed her dirty secret? Desley couldn’t see Trent disclosing his infertility to the police and thus, his fiancée’s infidelity. Then a thought struck her.
“You must know Fergus Coleman quite well then?” Desley said, expecting her words to either hit their target square on or miss altogether.
A deep blush enveloped DS Mitchell’s neck and face.
Bullseye.
CHAPTER 13
Fergus sighed. He should’ve known better. He should’ve been upfront with her from the start. She hadn’t yet broached the issue of Kim, avoiding all reference to anything not strictly business and web related.