Let Nick Lawson think she was divorced middle-class Ms Moore raising her baby alone and keeping herself fit. Ellie, too, although Ellie knew Tony was dead but not precisely how he died. A heart attack pretty much covered what happened to him. His heart was attacked by a knife.
‘I do like a man in uniform,’ said Ellie. ‘There’s something very sexy about it, don’t you think?’
‘The detective who came this morning didn’t wear a uniform.’ But he was sexy. The instantaneous thought made her frown and grit her teeth against going there.
‘Like Dirty Harry. Even better.’ Ellie was off and babbling happily, oblivious to any tension emanating from her passenger.
‘No.’ Nobody could accuse Nick Lawson of looking like a young Clint Eastwood. An image of weary eyes and stubbled cheeks and chin flashed through her mind. ‘More like Al Pacino in Insomnia. But taller. And younger.’
‘Not really my type.’
Was he Lara’s? Theoretically speaking.
Chapter 2
On the way to the hospital Nick Lawson discovered it was extremely difficult to remove Lara Moore’s face from his mind. She had a haunted beauty that would not leave him be. Deep brown eyes in a pale face, wide sensual mouth, short cropped hair as though she deliberately tried to make herself unsexy and unattractive. Impossible. She couldn’t do that in a million years. Her body was taut from the running but still retained the essential female curves, a full ripeness no amount of dieting or exercise could diminish. Despite the surprising and unaccountable hostility, not to him personally, he suspected, but to police in general, he found her completely and surprisingly entrancing. Just when he thought he was immune to female charms there she was scowling at him like an angry Venus, little realising her aloofness only encouraged a detective to explore. What possible excuse could he devise for visiting her again?
Why was she so antagonistic? What had happened to her? He’d seen enough women trying to raise children in less than ideal circumstances to recognise the signs of struggle. Lara’s problem wasn’t lack of means; her house was in a good area, the furnishings stylish and new. Her baby was happy, loved and well cared for. The troubles clouding Lara’s world came from somewhere else and they clearly involved the police.
The lift doors pinged open. Two blue-garbed nurses stepped out ahead of him and turned left. He swung right to the nurse’s station. A red-haired woman with a jolly, round, freckled face looked up. Just the sight of her should make her patients feel better. How did she maintain that attitude with pain and illness all around?
‘Hello.’
He flashed his badge. ‘I’m here for the attack victim. Any change?’
‘She’s holding on. Dr Yardley is with her now. Room four, bed two.’
Nick waited outside the door. His phone buzzed. Rob. ‘Yep.’
‘Boss, we’ve had a call from someone thinks they know our girl. Jasmine Stone. I’ve sent her over. She’ll be there in ten.’
‘A name for the victim?’
‘Brooke Walsh. Eighteen. Works in an Annandale coffee shop with Jasmine. No family as yet. Jasmine thinks she’s an orphan with no siblings. Never heard her mention relatives but doesn’t know her very well.’
‘Thanks.’
Nick leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Moments like these he hated this job. He should have stayed in the country and found work in the town the way most of his mates did. He might have been on his way to being Mayor of Goolabri by now. Or bored out of his skull. Isn’t that why he’d left in the first place?
The door beside him opened. He straightened, pushing daydreams back where they belonged. ‘Detective Nick Lawson. What can you tell me, Doctor? Can I speak to her?’
‘Good morning, Detective.’ Two grey eyes regarded him through severe black-rimmed glasses. Made the man look like Clark Kent. ‘You can talk to her but she may not be able to tell you much. She has no memory of the event or anything prior to it. She had traces of Rohypnol in her system but that would have worn off by now.’
Date rape drug. Nick exhaled. ‘Is that memory loss permanent?’
‘Hard to say. It’s common in traumatic incidents for victims to blank out the events even without drugs, but she sustained a blow to the head which is the likely cause. Her memories may return slowly with time. It’s quite unpredictable.’ He glared at Nick through his Clark Kent spectacles. ‘Don’t try to force her.’
***
Lara didn’t run the next day. She read about the girl in the morning paper, skimming the pages until she found the small headline ‘Brutal Attack in Waterside Park’ on page seven. Her name was Brooke Walsh, eighteen, and she worked in a coffee shop in Annandale. The report said nothing about why she was where she was or who had attacked her, but she was recovering well. Police were investigating. How hard? Other more important things were happening.
Page one was saturated with the details of a brazen suburban bank robbery and a celebrity marriage. Lara folded the paper and shoved it into the recycling bin. That was that.
She lifted Petey down from his chair, couldn’t resist kissing his warm cheek on the way. Saturday. Sun shining again. Time to get into the garden and prepare the veggie patch for tomatoes, cucumbers, chives, strawberries and lettuce. The ground would be soft and diggable after the rain. According to elderly John next door, now was the time to get her summer crops in. Tomorrow they were going on an expedition to a garden centre together to buy seedlings.
She’d never tried to grow vegetables before. Her family didn’t go in for that type of thing — work, in other words. But she was determined to change, determined not to be governed by any genetic inheritance and to make quite sure Petey grew up with no knowledge of the disaster that was his ancestry. Leaving Melbourne, changing her name and Petey’s by deed poll, buying into a respectable, quiet Sydney harbourside suburb, growing vegetables, running, forging her new life. Soon she’d look for a job, part-time until Petey started school.
Ellie would mind Petey while she worked, she’d adore to, she said. She was lonely for family. One of her own sons was single and unlikely to produce offspring apparently, reason unspecified. Her grandchildren lived in Switzerland, her other son sent there with his work for an investment company.
Half his luck. All Lara could do was waitress, tend bar or serve in a shop and she’d only done that work in the short gap between leaving school and marrying Tony. After the wedding she wasn’t allowed. He was older by sixteen years with strong views on a wife’s place in the home, backed up with a fist if necessary. Which seemed to be often.
With Petey toddling about the yard clutching his little yellow plastic spade and green bucket, Lara concentrated on turning over the neglected garden bed. The cat from over the back fence joined them and sprawled in a patch of sun until Petey poked it with his spade whereupon it sprang to its feet and leapt onto the fence in two graceful bounds.
‘No sweetie, don’t hurt the pussycat,’ she called, leaning on her fork and stretching her aching back.
‘Pussycat go way.’ He pointed to the black and white cat, now washing its face with nonchalant disdain.
‘You mustn’t frighten him.’
‘No.’ He banged the spade on the grass a few times.
‘Don’t frighten the pussycat,’ she repeated and resumed forking lumps of earth and sifting out weeds. The wheelbarrow was almost full. Backbreaking work but incredibly satisfying. Fifteen minutes later she stopped and trundled the barrow to the corner where a pile of garden waste grew ever larger. John suggested starting a compost heap so all her organic waste could be recycled. He was a mine of information and generous with his advice. Good thing she was receptive because she doubted he’d stop offering it even if she wasn’t interested.
Ellie said he was an old, know-it-all gasbag but he was nonthreatening and kind, a retired schoolteacher, widowed five years ago and Lara liked him instinctively. At seventy three he was the grandfather she’d never had and Petey never would.
***
Nick rapped on the door again. No answer. The living room window was slightly ajar so she must be home. He walked across the to the narrow concrete driveway which ran down the side of the house through an unused carport. She didn’t own a car. Why not? The little boy’s high-pitched voice carried on the humid air followed by Lara’s lower tones. They were in the backyard. He managed to figure out the childproof latch and pushed the gate open.
Lara had her back to him, wielding a fork and displaying long sexy legs leading to a perfect rear end in khaki shorts. A white tank top revealed lightly tanned shoulders and arms and a wide-brimmed straw hat protected her face from the sun which had gained some sting since earlier this morning.
The click of the closing gate startled her and she swung around, expression fierce, gardening fork ready to fend off an intruder. After what she’d seen yesterday morning he was prepared to give her some leeway. A woman alone could feel vulnerable.
‘Good morning, Ms Moore, I’m sorry I startled you. You didn’t answer my knock.’
‘I didn’t hear it.’ To his relief she lowered the fork but the unsmiling mouth beneath the dark glasses showed how unwelcome he was. She jammed the fork into the ground and waited for him to speak. The little boy stared then squatted down and began filling a plastic bucket with soft moist earth.
‘For vegetables?’ he asked. The mouth tightened. She took off the hat and her brow creased in a frown. He gestured at the half dug plot behind her. ‘Planting time.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘What are you putting in?’ His own little garden was already gaining ground. He’d grabbed a few hours the previous weekend and done what Lara was doing today. Grubbing about in the rich damp earth was balm to his soul. He’d been brought up with his mother’s vegetable garden supplying the household needs. Growing his own tomatoes, lettuce and herbs was second nature.
‘What do you want?’
She didn’t mean in the way of vegetables but he debated whether to tease her a little and deliberately misunderstand. Better not. But he’d very much like to fool around with Lara Moore, see her relax, hear her laugh. He’d bet she had a good laugh when she let go. Her mouth indicated a generous nature.
‘The girl you found is Brooke Walsh. She has a suspected cracked rib, a concussion and severe bruising to her face and body, but she’s young and healthy and the doctor thinks she’ll recover quickly.’
A tiny smile flicked on and off, a tantalising hint of what could be. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘Yes. Mental recovery is another thing, of course.’
‘Is that why you came? To tell me that?’ One dark eyebrow rose ever so slightly above the upper rim of the glasses.
Nick licked his lips, dragged his mind away from thoughts of her smile and the possibilities of that delicious mouth. She knew the drill. Senior police didn’t traipse about doing footwork like this, they sent uniforms, they telephoned or, more likely, didn’t bother doing anything.
‘I wanted to see you again,’ he said, straight-faced.
She froze for a split second then snorted her disbelief. Her lip curled.
He permitted himself a tiny smile for successfully throwing her off balance even if only for a moment. ‘It’s true. But there is another reason. I’m not the only one who wants to see you and I wanted to tell you in person.’
He had her attention now but he wasn’t prepared for the naked fear which flashed across her face before she gained control.
‘Who?’ She barely managed to get the word out.
He hesitated, wanted to step forward and reassure her with a physical touch, a gentle hand on her arm but knew she’d probably panic and retreat completely if he did.
‘Brooke,’ he said clearly. ‘The girl wants to meet you. She wants to thank you.’
‘No.’ She almost shouted it then clamped her mouth closed. The toddler looked up in alarm, his face crumpled in a pre-wail collapse and big fat tears gathered on his cheeks. She rushed to scoop him up in her arms as the first cry broke loose. ‘Not you, sweetheart. Mummy wasn’t talking to you.’ She pressed kisses onto his red cheeks as he gulped and sobbed. ‘You’re a good boy.’
Nick walked over and picked up the discarded fork. ‘Come on, mate, let’s help Mum dig,’ he said. He stuck the tines into the earth and lifted.
The wails ceased and after a few moments of intense scrutiny which Nick casually ignored, the little boy squirmed to be put down. He ran across and squatted beside him to jam his spade into the soil.
‘That’s it. Dig the spade in and then turn the earth over.’ A spadeful of dirt flew into the centre of the garden bed. ‘Good job.’ Nick removed his jacket and slung it over the handles of the wheelbarrow then continued forking and sifting the remaining patch. ‘Hot work.’
‘Hot work,’ echoed the toddler.
‘My name’s Nick. What’s your name?’
‘Petey.’
‘You’re a good gardener, Petey.’ He didn’t dare look at the boy’s mother. She was sure to be seething and he was amazed she hadn’t wrested the fork from his hands and run him through with it already. Maybe she’d had enough of the digging. It was hard enough work in the heat. She’d have blisters tomorrow.
Lara stood watching, her mind in turmoil. What was this cop doing? There he was, nonchalant as could be, distracting Petey from the consequences of her harshness, in his shirtsleeves finishing the garden. And what did he mean he wanted to see her again? As a witness, to answer more questions? But he hadn’t asked her any questions, there was nothing left to ask. Did he mean it? He really wanted to see her again? Why? Her stomach tightened.
And Brooke. No way was Lara involving herself in this incident any more than she already had. She walked across to the edge of the garden bed, scooped up the pile of discarded weeds and dumped them in the wheelbarrow.
‘Watch me digging, Mummy.’ Petey grinned up at her proudly.
‘You’re very good at it.’
Nick kept working beside her, not even glancing her way, focussed on the task at hand, chatting to Petey. He worked faster and way more efficiently than she did. A rising blister on her right palm had slowed her pace considerably.
‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ she said.
‘Raised in the country. Mum grew all our vegetables. We kids had weeding duty.’ He dragged the fork through the now cleared soil a few times then jammed it into the earth and straightened. ‘Got any compost in there?’
‘I’m going to the garden centre tomorrow with my neighbour. He’s my advisor.’ She added that so he didn’t get any ideas about becoming a self-appointed overseer.
‘It’s a good spot, plenty of sun.’ He looked at his hands. She did too. Strong, square, workmanlike fingers, dark soil clinging to the skin. ‘Mind if I have a wash before I go?’
She pointed to the laundry door at the rear of the house. ‘There’s a washbasin and soap in there.’
‘Thanks.’ He caught her eye briefly and smiled. She looked away but not before the smile wormed its way in and nudged at the hard casing around her heart.
He sauntered across the grass. Petey flung his spade to the ground and ran after the tall figure. ‘Me too,’ he called. ‘Wash me, too. My hands are dirty.’
Lara sighed and followed them. Did her son need a male figure in his life already? At two and a half? Nick had hoisted Petey up and held him so he could wash his filthy little hands under the running water. Petey slapped them together and water flew everywhere. He chortled with glee and did it again before Nick could swing him away.
‘Hey, watch out.’ He laughed and put Petey down. Lara grabbed the old frayed towel off the rail and dried her son’s face and hands then handed the towel to Nick.
‘So you won’t reconsider?’ He said casually as he wielded the towel. The front of his shirt was wet from Petey’s messing about. ‘About meeting Brooke.’
‘I don’t want to get involved,’ Lara said. It sounded churlish spoken aloud. ‘Tell her I appreciate her thanks and
I’m glad she’s recovering.’
Nick hung the towel neatly on the rail. He turned to face her. ‘She’s lost her memory,’ he said. ‘The girl who reported her missing is a work colleague. Brooke doesn’t remember her or anything preceding the attack but she remembers you.’
Lara rubbed her lips together. ‘What do you expect me to say?’
He shrugged and stepped past her to walk over and collect his jacket from the wheelbarrow. Petey trotted after him like a puppy-dog. Nick smiled down at him as he put the coat on. ‘You made my shirt wet, you villain.’
Petey returned the smile. Nick tousled his curls. ‘See you later, alligator.’
‘See you later, agator,’ crowed Petey.
‘When your legs are straighter.’ Nick glanced at Lara. ‘If you change your mind, let me know. She’s young and she’s scared. She could do with a friend like you.’
Lara watched him stroll towards the gate to the driveway, too gobsmacked to say goodbye. Or thank him for finishing her garden.
Chapter 3
For the rest of the weekend Nick’s strange remark rolled around in her mind.
‘A friend like you.’ What did that mean? He had no idea who she was. His impression was based on her as a witness and his erroneous summation of her as a single, middle-class mother. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
On Sunday, with Petey’s enthusiastic if inept assistance and barrage of bizarre questions, she planted the seedlings and seeds John recommended, and stood back to survey the completed project with pride. She unrolled the green plastic-coated chicken wire and placed it around the bed to thwart the possums John said would feast on her handiwork given half a chance. They were definitely about, she heard them thumping up and down on the roof at night, having races by the sound of it.
‘That’ll stop those possums,’ she said to Petey as she clipped the ends together to complete the fence.
Evidence of Love Page 2