Devil's Lair

by Sarah Barrie

  ‘Afternoon off?’

  ‘I’m looking at a stallion for Flash,’ Tess said. ‘Indy was interested in seeing who I had in mind.’

  ‘Don’t want to use Rex?’

  ‘Nope. I want patches.’

  ‘Patches?’

  ‘Of colour, yeah.’ She spun the laptop around, showed him a picture of an impressive looking buckskin pinto. ‘This boy’s every bit as good as Rex, his conformation complements Flash’s down to the ground, he has a great temperament and he’s homozygous tobiano. I’ll get patches.’

  ‘You’ve already got patches.’

  ‘No, I’ve got a sabino. This is different.’

  ‘Good for you. I’ll be in the office. Paying you money. So you can spend it on patches.’

  Tess grinned cheekily. ‘I earn every cent. Hey, the news is starting. Turn it up on your way out?’

  He saw the remote on the coffee table and did as requested.

  ‘The jury has returned,’ the reporter said. ‘We’ll take you live for the results of the trial as soon as it breaks …’

  ‘What’s that about?’ he asked.

  ‘That trial for Paisley Waldron’s boss,’ Tess said.

  Paisley Waldron—Ned’s little sister. Connor hadn’t seen her since they were both small children. ‘What trial?’

  ‘The one where the wife killed the husband after he’d apparently slaughtered some poor woman to try and cover up an affair,’ Indy told him, getting to her feet to follow Tess to the lounge.

  At his blank stare, she shook her head. ‘Connor, where have you been—under a rock? It’s all photos and hearsay and the police can’t find the woman’s body. This has been in the headlines for months.’

  ‘Yeah—I know the case. I just didn’t realise it had anything to do with Paisley. Ned never said.’

  Tess flopped down beside Indy and couldn’t have looked less surprised. ‘Paisley witnessed the husband’s attack on her boss. She’s a key witness.’

  ‘That’s quite a mob outside that courthouse,’ he commented, watching the screen.

  ‘It doesn’t seem all that long since we went through the whole trial thing ourselves, does it?’ Tess said.

  ‘No. It was hell. And we weren’t the ones on trial.’ It wasn’t as though Connor didn’t already know he was an idiot. The girl he’d loved since primary school, been engaged to—almost had a baby with—was a drug-manufacturing criminal, and he’d point blank refused to believe it until she’d put a bullet in him and left him for dead. The consequences of her actions had culminated in a guilty verdict and finally, at sentencing, the judge passing down a couple of life sentences. Connor had sat in that courtroom through all of it. And now that it was done, he couldn’t see any point in rehashing it. ‘Still hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘That Jules fell in love with a moron like Kyle Cartwright when she could have had you?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Actually, that she could have tied herself up with a family of criminals and made all that money off other people’s suffering, but yeah, your answer will do.’

  They grinned at each other, but there was regret on both faces. ‘She made her choice. Now she’ll live with it,’ Tess said.

  He watched as the female reporter fought with large gusts of wind to comment on the wife’s possible sentence. ‘So … wasn’t there some debate about whether or not he actually killed the woman?’

  ‘Not really,’ Indy said. ‘The police found the murder scene, and there were matching traces of female DNA from the site under his fingernails and a hair in the shower drain. But there was nothing in any of his vehicles, so they don’t know how he moved her or where to. They’ll know more when they find the body.’

  ‘After all this time?’ Tess asked sceptically. ‘You think they will? They don’t even know who she was.’

  ‘That depends on a lot of things. The murder was particularly vicious, suggesting an emotionally driven, frenzied attack. A lot of times these murders aren’t particularly well covered up, so it could just be a matter of turning over the right leaf. And no one by the name of Lisa or anyone matching that description has been reported missing. But I know one of the detectives on the case up there, and Pat’s pretty thorough. If it’s possible to find the body or make an ID, she’ll find a way.’

  ‘He kept photos,’ Tess continued, screwing up her nose in disgust. ‘Who does that?’

  Indy shrugged. ‘That’s a separate investigation. He’s not on trial. She is.’

  She’s lovely, Connor thought as the wife appeared on screen being guided into the courtroom through a sea of reporters. Petite, with a flaming halo of auburn hair and a face as fragile as porcelain. Her skin was too pale, her features strained, exaggerating the big green eyes that looked … lost.

  ‘He attacked her when he found out she’d seen the photos,’ Tess said. ‘She was trying to get away from him, not kill him.’

  Connor found himself immediately on the wife’s side. What real chance would a woman like that have in a physical fight against the man in the photo in the corner of the screen? He had trouble believing she’d take that man on on purpose with nothing more than a broken piece of crystal.

  ‘So she said,’ Indy reminded Tess, ‘and Paisley Waldron backed that up. But the important question in this trial has been whether she actually killed him. If the jury decide she didn’t cause the slip and fall that broke his neck, the worst she should get is manslaughter, or she could get off completely. But if they think she did cause the fall that killed him, it could be murder. Second, if the jury decide to pin her with his murder or manslaughter, what was the reason—self-defence or something else? It’s possible to walk away from either charge if it’s proven to be self-defence; anything else could see her in prison for decades.’

  Connor cringed. ‘What do you think?’

  Indy shrugged. ‘I can’t call it. It looks like self-defence and sheer bad luck on the surface, but she’d also just discovered he was seeing the woman behind her back, possibly planning to leave her. And the report in the paper said he had a serious life insurance policy. All I know for sure is that I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes—especially if she’s innocent.’

  ‘Well, if the reporter’s right,’ Tess said, getting to her feet, ‘we’ll soon find out. Want a beer?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Indy stretched, put her legs on the coffee table.

  ‘Let me know how it turns out,’ Connor said. ‘I still have work to do.’

  CHAPTER

  6

  Sydney, New South Wales

  The courtroom held its breath, a tense silence that filled Callie’s already upset stomach with a sense of impending doom. She chewed on the stub of her little fingernail, then realised she was doing it and pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her hands were shaking so she linked them in her lap. Her legs were so tightly pressed together they threatened to cramp. Her back ached from tension, and if the proceedings didn’t hurry up, she was going to be sick on the perfectly vacuumed carpet.

  ‘All stand. This court is now in session,’ the court official said.

  There was a general shuffling of people. A trickle of nervous perspiration tickled Callie’s shoulder blades. She barely kept her legs underneath her while the judge settled himself behind the bench, draped in robes that fit his imposing demeanour.

  As everyone took their seats, the urge to get up and run screaming from the building was overwhelming. The room that smelled of wood polish and thrummed with too many people was closing in around her. She dragged in a ragged breath and glanced around her, caught the eye of her husband’s parents. Cold hate seeped into her already frigid body.

  Looking quickly away meant her eyes swept over hungry reporters. There were many more on the other side of the courtroom door, waiting like scavengers for their piece of her. Whatever was left.

  At the request of the judge, the jury was brought in. Callie tried to gauge what they might be thinking by the looks on their faces, but they showed nothing but hints
of tension and fatigue.

  She was asked to stand, but it didn’t register until her barrister nudged her from her seat.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?’

  The jury foreperson, a tall man with thinning grey hair and a very ordinary brown suit, stood up. The paper in his hand trembled slightly; he was nervous. She supposed there were vastly different experiences of nervous. Why was he staring at the paper? Was he really likely to forget the verdict?

  ‘We have, Your Honour.’

  ‘Do you find the accused guilty or not guilty of murder?’

  Callie’s stomach turned inside out and she swallowed bile as time seemed to stand still. The juror flicked his gaze in her direction. ‘We, the jury, find the accused not guilty.’

  Her breath rushed out with a trembling sob and some of her rigidity eased. She held herself up, just, as the courtroom erupted into a frenzy of murmurs and hushed whispers. But it wasn’t over yet, and they silenced quickly, expectantly.

  ‘In the alternative, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty of manslaughter?’

  This time the juror looked Callie in the eyes for two long beats, his expression softening. ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

  She dissolved into the chair. The judge demanded order over the sounds of general chaos in the courtroom, but the rest was lost as a hum like swarming bees filled Callie’s ears, her vision swam and the tension turned to shaking.

  ‘Congratulations, Callie,’ her barrister said from beside her.

  She looked into the face of the sharp-looking, middle-aged woman who’d defended her, unable to take it in. Was that it? Had the judge told her she was free to go? Was it over? She must have asked the questions out loud because her barrister nodded.

  ‘We should get you out of here.’

  Tears erupted from her eyes, unable to be held back. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Thank the jury.’ She looked at the men and women already leaving their seats. Some smiled, others were solemn and a couple more didn’t look entirely happy. But she was free. They’d given their decision.

  Callie stumbled out of the courtroom. Cameras flashed in her eyes and microphones were shoved under her nose. Everyone was talking, shouting—someone grabbed her arm. She tripped, righted herself, pushed through the throng of bodies. A security guard, then two, ploughed a way for her and her barrister. It reminded her of one of those crazy movies where celebrities dashed to waiting cars and zoomed away. Except this wasn’t a movie, and there was no limo waiting at the bottom of the steps.

  She heard support and condemnation in the questions and comments crashing around her. She spotted reporters who’d written facts and outright lies. The first few had cut deep, before she’d learnt to let them wash over her. And as she escaped, she wondered if she would ever really be completely free of all this. How long was it going to take for the hype to die down? How could she possibly get back to any semblance of a normal life, with this … chaos?

  ‘You murdering bitch!’

  She recognised Dale’s mother’s voice as it somehow drowned out all the others. Madeline Johnson had never been stable, but Dale’s death had well and truly sent her over the edge.

  ‘After everything we did for you!’ Madeline hurled more abuse as the cameras turned and some of the congestion decreased as the reporters headed for her. Callie spared Dale’s parents one short, apologetic glance, and noticed a man standing just to the right of them. Why he caught her eye she couldn’t have said, except for maybe the intensity with which he was watching her. Had she seen him before? Dark hair—short and neatly cut, cold blue eyes, a well-worn suit that displayed rather than hid a tough physique. He stood absolutely still against the fluidity of the surroundings. Almost unnaturally so.

  Something crashed into her and she turned away as the crowd closed in again. She had to keep her feet under her and keep moving.

  ‘Caroline! This way.’ Her barrister pointed to a car idling in front of them. Paisley’s little red Honda wasn’t a limo, but it would do.

  She made a grateful dash for it. ‘Thank you!’

  Her barrister leant over the open door. ‘We’ll talk soon,’ she promised. Then the door was closed and they were inching away.

  ‘There was a man.’ Callie immediately craned her neck to look for him. ‘Standing just next to Dale’s parents. Did you see him?’ she asked Paisley.

  ‘No. Just reporters.’

  As they crawled through the crowd, Callie briefly thought reporters were going to climb onto the car.

  ‘It’s almost as bad back at your place,’ Paisley told her. ‘I’ve hired security for your front gate.’

  Callie let out a long, relieved breath, and felt the prick of grateful tears at the back of her eyes. ‘Thank you. I hadn’t thought of that. Without your help, I’m not sure I would have gotten this far.’

  ‘Hey, of course you would have.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve done all this. You’ve been more like a mother or a big sister than a friend. You’ve gone above and beyond what most friends would do, over and over again.’ She noticed Paisley’s eyes sheen with tears, wondered at the stress she must also have been under recently, but then she was smiling.

  ‘Big sister, sure, but seven years is not a mother–daughter gap,’ she said indignantly, then sent Callie a soft look and a small shrug. ‘I do think of you as family. From the day you gave me a job when I really needed one. I know when Dale first mentioned me you didn’t think you wanted an assistant around the place, but you gave me a chance. That’s important to me. And we just clicked, didn’t we? How many days in the past four years haven’t we seen each other? Our friendship is important to me. I saw what Dale did, I know what you’ve been through. I couldn’t ever just walk away.’

  ‘I’m so grateful. I don’t how I can ever repay you.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Paisley insisted.

  But if Callie could ever come up with a way, she promised herself she was going to.

  Exhausted, she dropped her head back onto the headrest and closed her eyes against the headache and nausea still battering her system. As the car finally made it above a crawl, she slept.

  The reception at her home was as bad as Paisley had warned. The driveway was completely blocked and the thought of getting out to open the gate was frightening. But the crowd parted under a uniformed guard’s instruction, though they tapped on the windows and did their best to get photographs. Paisley drove through the gates, which closed swiftly behind them, and a few moments later they were safely inside the house. She fell into a chair, propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. Callie’s thoughts were foggy, her body stiff and fatigued. It occurred to her to wonder, Now what?

  ‘Callie. Hey.’

  She looked up to see Paisley grinning at her, eyes bright.

  ‘You should smile. It’s over. You’re free.’

  ‘I am,’ she said and felt her lips curve up at the edges. ‘I just can’t quite make it sink in.’ But it was, slowly. Home, with Paisley in a celebratory mood and a couple of hours sleep behind her, Callie could feel the relief creeping in. ‘I want to thank the jury,’ she decided. ‘I just want to find and hug every single one of them.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. At some stage you’ll end up making some statement or other, just throw in some general thanks there.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Paisley’s smile faded as she studied Callie’s face. ‘You’re still wiped. You should go and have a proper sleep.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. I want to call the real estate agent, make sure we’re good to go ahead.’ She looked around and all she saw was the past and misery. ‘I don’t want to be here a day longer than I need to be.’

  ‘She’s already negotiating figures,’ Paisley said as though that was what she’d been waiting for Callie to say all along. ‘I think leaving is the right move.’

  ‘My solicitor said the same thing. S
he suggested I lay low somewhere for a while. Just until the media hype settles down.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Paisley sat opposite and the smile returned. ‘So come with me.’

  ‘I thought a bit about that,’ Callie admitted. ‘About what I would do if I didn’t go to prison … or when I got out. I need to work, to rebuild my life somewhere else. I think I’d like to go back to landscaping, kick off the business again. I want to change my name back to my maiden name, and officially make it Callie instead of Caroline. Tassie’s as good a place as any to start over, but I’m worried the reporters will follow me, make your dad’s place a prison like this one.’

  ‘How will they find out? I’ll somehow restrain myself from taking out advertising space in the newspaper.’

  Callie got up and looked out the kitchen window down the long, winding drive to the front gates, watching the reporters. With her solicitor’s help she’d prepare a statement to release to the media: she was relieved to have that chapter in her life over, was looking forward to putting it behind her—or something. That would have to do them. She’d already refused stupid amounts of money for interviews and decided to donate Dale’s life insurance to charity. She could never take money from either source. It would feel dirty. Wrong.

  It would be best for Paisley to get away from it all, too. She’d never missed a beat; dealt as best she could with the media, and the phone calls, the letters—those horrible, hateful phone calls and letters from Dale’s family and friends that had threatened all kinds of retribution. No doubt that would get worse. They’d believe they’d been denied justice. She pressed her hand to her stomach and grimaced.

  ‘It makes me feel so sick. You heard the reporters at the courthouse? They kept calling out, asking how could I not know? How could he keep that from me?’

  Paisley put a hand on her shoulder. ‘How could you end up being the one on trial for murder? Sometimes, there is no reasonable answer. Come on, just ignore them.’ Paisley peeked out the window then closed the curtains with a snap. ‘The sooner we get out of here, the better.’