Dangerous to Know

by Anne Buist

  She thought about asking Damian, but it would be easier and quicker to get in unofficially, although she might have only one chance at it. She emailed a British colleague, the only one she knew well enough for a favour. Charlie, another psych registrar, had been in Australia for a six-month term and they had done regular pub crawls together. She typed a light message. Hoped she was asking the right question.

  Next she rang Damian to update him, but he was the one with the information.

  ‘They finished the autopsy on Georgia Latimer,’ Damian told her. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘That she OD-ed? Kind of expected that. Doesn’t matter on what, really.’ Patients sometimes showed their anger at their therapist by overdosing on what they had prescribed. At other times they deliberately shopped for drugs other than what their therapist had given them, to show the opposite. Natalie hadn’t prescribed any medications for Georgia.

  ‘Not that.’ Damian cleared his throat. ‘It was early, so she may not have known.’

  ‘Known what?’ If Natalie hadn’t been so preoccupied she would have taken more note of Damian’s reticence and been better prepared.

  ‘She was pregnant.’ After a moment of silence he added, ‘The pathologist was the same one who re-did the autopsy on one of her kids. He cross-checked the DNA.’

  Natalie stared into space, knowing just where Damian was taking her. Georgia’s relationship had always been pathological, albeit in a way that had worked for both her and Paul. At least until they had children. Paul had portrayed himself as an unwitting victim, but she had always wondered—surely the pathology had to be two-way?

  ‘The baby,’ said Damian, ‘was a full sibling.’

  The charity crew were at Mount Malosevic in force; a group of teenagers supervised by an older man were stringing fairy lights down the driveway. A crew of men in shorts, more optimistic about the season change than the current temperature warranted, were erecting a tarpaulin while being served coffee and tea by flustered middle-aged women.

  ‘Hope the weather holds,’ said one of the men, contemplating the task ahead.

  ‘Storm’s forecast.’ Natalie tilted her head at the marquee. ‘That going to hold up okay?’

  The man looked up instinctively, though there were no clouds in the sky. ‘We should have it down again before it hits.’

  Frank appeared from the house and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. She could almost convince herself it was as innocent as it looked. ‘Do you want me to have Drago put your bike around the back?’

  Frank insisted on a tour of the grounds, telling her all about the house as they walked around it, both sipping champagne. Wherever possible she tipped a little out; she wanted her mind to stay clear. He spoke as if the patriarch Antonije was still alive, and his influence certainly was. Frank’s pride was evident in his description of the time, money and sheer work that had gone into first the structure that dominated the hill, and then the painstaking landscaping of its surrounds.

  ‘The drought caused huge problems,’ Frank told her. ‘We ended up boring water to use about ten years ago, and the lake almost dried up completely. Plumbers had a lot of tunnelling to do through the hill to ensure we got water as well. But the tanks are full now so we have enough water for several years, I should think.’

  They paused at the giant tree house Antonije had built for Vesna. The man didn’t do things by half.

  ‘It was their special place,’ said Frank, and Natalie caught a hint of envy. That Antonije hadn’t built him one too, or that Wendell hadn’t? It had a staircase that wound around the tree trunk, and a tiny veranda. Natalie doubted Enid Blyton had ever imagined anything as elaborate.

  The stables had never seen horses. ‘He had seen a mansion in his home country,’ Frank said, ‘one he could never have afforded. This had to be bigger and better in every way.’ Narcissism clearly ran in the family.

  There was a lattice of paths between the exotic plants and sculptures, some of which caught her unawares on corners and seemed to glare ominously in the dimming light. The pet cemetery with its three small, white crosses reminded her of war graves. Pets? She couldn’t see this family with a bounding red-setter chewing their shoes and digging holes in the garden. A disdainful Persian, maybe. She pictured Vesna clutching it like a Bond villain.

  ‘It’s spectacular,’ Natalie said. She might have added, for a mausoleum. ‘But right now, I need to get out of my bike leathers.’

  ‘Of course, how remiss of me. You look…charming… in whatever you’re wearing.’ Frank’s hand brushed her hair behind her ear and for a moment, thinking he was going to kiss her, she wondered how she should react. But Mala saved her.

  ‘I’ll show her to her room, Frank,’ she said slipping her arm through Natalie’s. Mala looked stunning in a green cat suit. In heels she was at least twenty centimetres taller than Natalie. She led Natalie through the kitchen entrance. A half dozen women were busily cutting sandwiches and heating sausage rolls. Natalie paused in the main living room, looking at the painting that had left her so uneasy. The feeling was back immediately, but it was hard to pinpoint its origin.

  The painting was in the characteristic shades of black and grey; looking harder, she could pick five people partly blurred within the Mount Malosevic landscape. The scene was shrouded in mist, and both trees and people seemed to be emerging from a dream. Two were children. Mala and Frank, she assumed at first. But as she squinted she could make out that there were actually three children, all female. One was clearly Mala. Were the other two Vesna and Lyuba as children? Both had Mala’s large luminescent eyes. Another figure, a late-adolescent Frank, was on the edge of the forest, slightly removed. The only adult—Antonije?—was in the background. He had the look of a man presiding over his kingdom.

  ‘Interesting isn’t it?’ Mala was watching her reaction.

  ‘Interesting? Yes,’ said Natalie.

  ‘The spare room is this way. I trust you don’t mind using it?’

  The room where Reeva died? Better than the boatshed, all things considered, but only just. Mala threw open the door. If Natalie had expected the room to retain any traces of Reeva she was disappointed. There was a bed with a plain fawn bedspread, beige carpet and little else. For a moment she sensed a hesitation before Mala left the room. As if she wanted to hang around while Natalie changed, or had perhaps had been about to say something, then thought better of it.

  It only took her a few minutes to exchange her bike leathers for a black-and-red steam-punk bodice and a leather mini skirt. She wasn’t likely to upstage Mala, but Natalie felt more herself dressed like this and to hell what anyone else thought.

  Glancing out the window, she saw people were starting to arrive, among them Wei. Tonight he was paying homage to his Chinese background, with a high-necked satin jacket in pink and silver, dragons twisting around on the back. It looked like Natalie wouldn’t have to wait until he or Scott Beamish returned her email; she might be able to get to the end of that mystery tonight. She texted Damian quickly to let him know where she was—and who else was also likely to be there. She had the sense of venturing into the unknown; it seemed wise to have a back-up plan.

  Outside the room, the corridor was empty. Further down, the door to Frank’s study was ajar. Did she dare?

  The study was lined with bookshelves but the photo of Frank’s grandparents was where she recalled seeing it when she was last in the room—with Damian, on the night Alison died. There were no photos of Reeva or Alison; no other photos at all. Look closely, Eliza had said. It was a faded black-and-white shot: a bear of a man posed with a rifle, his chest criss-crossed with ammunition, dwarfing the childlike woman next to him—wasted, undoubtedly, from the concentration camp. Natalie looked closer at what Antonije was wearing. She’d probably read too many books or seen too many movies. Maybe he hadn’t been partisan at all: maybe he was one of the Ustase fascists that had run the camp. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, so how would she know? But judging from the
size of him, wherever he spent the war he had been well fed.

  The letters on the building in the background were presumably Croatian—they weren’t English—so they were a mystery too. She’d googled Stara Gradiska. It was a women’s and children’s camp, at least as horrific as Auschwitz. But from the photo she couldn’t even confirm that was where it had been taken.

  Her eyes kept coming back to Antonije; it was hard not to. The camera lens begged you to. He was a very good looking man. She held the photo at arm’s length. What wasn’t she seeing? Lyuba looked terrified. She stood stiffly, as if she was afraid to look at the camera. Or afraid of…Natalie looked at the ground. It was hard to make out because the photo was slightly torn. She removed it from the frame. Part of the torn section was bent over, so she straightened it. It took a moment to understand what she was looking at because of the angle. Antonije had one hand around Lyuba. His other was on a rifle that stood upright next to him. This she now saw, had some kind of bayonet attached, and it was piercing the chest of a man in a black uniform lying on the ground in front of them. Antonije’s foot was resting on what was left of the man’s abdomen. The Ustase, Natalie imagined. Still didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. She tried to put herself in Lyuba’s shoes. Had she been thinking she’d been saved by someone just as bad either way?

  Music started up outside, and Natalie figured Frank would soon come looking for her, so she slipped out of the study. Rather than exiting via the front door, she followed a corridor into the kitchen, through which she’d passed earlier. It was larger than she’d thought, one end a glass wall that looked into the cellar. Another wall had a double stove and sinks opposite a long marble bench. It was cluttered with urns, paper plates and sandwich-making ingredients. Wei was standing there, trying to take charge but mostly the women were ignoring him.

  ‘You moonlight as a caterer?’ Natalie asked in disbelief.

  Wei as usual was hard to read. He smiled tightly. ‘Just helping out.’

  Natalie waited until he looked as if he was about to disappear with a plate of mini quiches and followed him towards the door. ‘Wei, could you clear up something for me?’

  Wei adjusted his collar with his spare hand and smiled politely.

  ‘Who is Scott Beamish?’

  Whatever Wei had been expecting her to ask, it wasn’t this. He opened his mouth then closed it. Leaning in to her, he hissed, ‘None of your business,’ and walked off without looking back. Natalie stared after him. She thought about his CV and his year of birth. British. A researcher. And he was ten years younger than Frank.

  Behind her, someone spoke.

  ‘You’re the latest doctor.’ There was a strong trace of an accent, though the words were clear. Gordana, the chef. Sitting on a crate of wine, smoking and peering through the open door of the glass-walled cellar.

  ‘Natalie.’

  The woman was stick thin, with the bony hardness you saw in the smokers who hung around outside cancer wards. She looked older than Natalie imagined she was, and the yellow tinge to her eyes suggested that if cancer didn’t get her, her liver probably would.

  Natalie moved to sit on a crate next to her. She didn’t seem to care if Natalie stayed or not.

  ‘You knew Reeva and Alison.’

  Gordana took a drag and said nothing.

  ‘Did they fit in here?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I imagine you know quite a lot.’ Natalie looked around. Behind her was the Chablis, in front the Bordeaux, all carefully labelled. There were a lot of empty spaces. Antonije’s collection was being drunk and not replenished. ‘Like how fussy they were when they got pregnant. No salami, no seafood?’

  ‘Yeah, the second was like that. Blamed me, like I set the menu.’

  So if she hadn’t wanted to push Alison’s listeria hysteria button, who had?

  ‘But Reeva wasn’t?’

  Gordana laughed. ‘Who knows? She used to eat in her room.’

  ‘She didn’t like your food?’

  ‘Wasn’t that.’

  Evidence of the psychosis that Frank talked about… unless there was a basis for her fears.

  ‘Do you know Jasper Carson?’

  ‘You with the pigs?’

  ‘No. Just curious. He doesn’t seem to like me being here.’

  Gordana picked up a beer that Natalie hadn’t noticed until then. ‘Jasper was seeing Senka.’

  ‘Not now?’

  Gordana shrugged. ‘The boy likes being around here. Not sure it was Senka he was after.’

  ‘When was he last around?’

  ‘He’ll be here now,’ said Gordana. ‘He never misses any public event.’

  Jasper had the motive, however warped, and the access via Senka. But he was only twenty. Would he have had the knowledge or skill to inject Reeva with insulin? Perhaps with Senka’s help. Had he just been lucky? Not twice, surely. Unless Mala and Frank had covered for him because at the end of the day he was a blood relative…

  Then of course there was Wei, who might also have had access to the house via both Frank and Mala. And to both previous wives. The son of the woman Wendell Moreton had killed was a researcher, according to Damian. And hadn’t Mala said Wei was raised by his father? He was the same age as the baby saved in the crash—she would have to re-check the CV to see if he was born on the same day. Or better, get Damian to. Wei was hard to read; but he could have sabotaged Frank’s research team if he was intent on destroying the family that had killed his mother. Would he have killed Frank’s wives with this as a motive?

  Outside the music and applause suggested the event was getting under way. Some gentle classical piece that meant nothing to Natalie. She didn’t pay it much attention; she had to be quick, or the family would wonder where she was. This was her last chance to make sense of the Malosevics, and possibly the deaths of Reeva and Alison: she wanted to find Antonije’s paintings, the ones that only the family had seen.

  There was noise in the kitchen as Natalie stole up to the landing. She spotted the master bedroom, Frank’s, through an open door. It was a big room, with an ensuite. Wooden panels to waist height, walls above painted in off-white. Windows made up one entire side and looked out across the garden to the ocean in the distance. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  She turned back to the room’s contents. A large bed was covered in a quilt that matched the upholstery of two chairs; blue and gold, tasteful; straight out of an interior designer’s portfolio. The carpet was in neutral tones, the chest of drawers a pristine low-key antique. On the walls were two small paintings of Australian scenes that could have been expensive originals or cheap prints, as far as Natalie could tell. They were clearly not Malosevics. Nothing in the room gave any hint of the character or mood of the owner.

  It had been a little more than two months since Alison died. If she’d left her mark on the room, it was hard to know where it might have been. Natalie looked at the bedside tables. The only sound she could hear was the soft drone of the heater. No footsteps on the landing.

  She went to the right side first. Bare, it suggested that the book Alison had been reading, the glass of water, the tissues and the anti-reflux meds had all been swept into a bin. Or maybe into the cupboard below.

  But that was empty. So were the wardrobes where she imagined Alison’s clothes would have been. They held only suits and men’s shoes. Alison had been erased.

  On the left side of the bed were some pens and what looked like a thesis Frank was marking. The cupboard below was stuffed with books. Only one stood out: a text on pregnancy. The rest were a mix of philosophy and history.

  The bathroom was no more illuminating. No prescription medications, just the usual array of analgesics, antihistamines and antacids. A packet of condoms suggested he was hopeful: but they could have been there for a long time.

  Natalie walked back into the bedroom and stood, trying to see what she wasn’t seeing. She walked over to the only wall that would have been large enough for
a substantial piece of art. The Australian landscape—a print, she could now see—was a Streeton. She lifted it off, and did the same with the other landscape. Both were on fairly heavy-duty hooks that could have taken a far larger object. And very faintly, when she got up close, Natalie could see the difference in paint colour. One much larger piece had hung there once.

  As she slipped out into the corridor the noise from the kitchen was still all that she could hear. From the mezzanine, the living room below, when she peered over the rail, was empty.

  The next bedroom was dominated by a queen-size bed with a red and green bohemian velvet quilt. In the lamplight the walls glowed a soft, deep pink. Rugs and cushions were scattered over the floor. Chairs and heavy drapes covered the wall of windows. Vesna trying to get in touch with her Romani ancestry, Natalie suspected. But she doubted Lyuba had ever lived like this. Not with her own mother, anyway.

  Natalie glanced around. It was hard not to see the pill boxes in disarray. Diazepam, amitriptyline, olanzapine—and those were just the ones she could make out. She knew them all. She wondered about the last. It was an antipsychotic that could be used as a mood stabiliser, sometimes as a sedative. Why was Vesna on it? The painting on the wall opposite the bed was obviously a Malosevic, even to her untrained eye. Antonije, daughter and granddaughter. The dark swirls against the white skin of the women were startling in the dim light. But there was something far more malevolent about the picture. Somehow, she decided, he had managed to capture innocence and knowing in one look of inescapable sadness.

  The last room off the landing was Mala’s. Natalie made the paintings her first priority, and sure enough there were two. One that was hung as it had been positioned originally and one that had, presumably, been on the wall of Frank’s room. Now it was propped below its companion.

  It was all there for Natalie to put together. It was only a matter of who knew what; the answer had always been within the family.

  She was trying to make sense of all of the possibilities when she heard a new sound. Footsteps, and already along the landing. If it was Mala she had no more than two seconds; the first got her to the walk-in wardrobe, the second had her pressed behind the disarray of designer-label dresses, her feet edging under a pile of carelessly tossed-in shoes.