In Safe Keeping (10 page)

Laila wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not exactly big on social media. I rarely post anything.’

‘You work too hard.’

All at once, he seemed to remember the reason for his visit. ‘Oh, and I didn’t get up in the ceiling, or ring a workman or anything. I did suffer a blackout though — too much booze.’

While Grind laughed at his own joke, Laila pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Not exactly an active member of neighbourhood watch, are you?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. Come with me.’

She led the way into the bathroom and pointed to a dustpan she’d left on the floor. ‘See that?’

Grind leaned over, exposing more of his red underpants as he peered at the loose bits of ceiling insulation she’d swept up. ‘That stuff’s from inside the roof.’

‘So what’s it doing on my bathroom floor?’

‘I dunno.’ Grind straightened up. ‘Maybe you’ve got a ghost.’

‘A
ghost
?’ Exasperated, Laila turned to face him. ‘What are you on?’

‘Well,
I dunno
. Is anything missing?’

‘Only the settings on my landline.’

He turned away and headed for the phone. ‘What’s the problem with that?’

‘Don’t touch it.’ Laila pushed past him and stood between him and the telephone. ‘I’m only using my mobile.’

‘
Okay
. Jeez, don’t freak out, I was just gonna take a look.’ Grind was staring at her as if she were neurotic.

Was she? Last night she’d lain awake, fearing she might be, then a little while later she’d changed her mind, certain it was all connected. Someone had been in her house and wiped the phone settings. A day later, they’d entered her office, gone through the filing cabinets, copied files from Mike’s computer and, again, wiped the phone settings.

‘Do you want me to try and get them back?’ Grind asked.

‘No. Leave it to the police.’

This time Grind looked at her as though she’d grown two heads. ‘You’re calling the police because your phone settings have disappeared? What if the telephone company had linesmen in the area?’

She hadn’t thought of that. It was possible, but it didn’t explain the problems at work, and Grind didn’t know about those. When she’d spoken to Mike this morning, he’d confirmed he hadn’t turned the computer on last Saturday, and he definitely hadn’t copied anything onto an external drive.

And then there was the fire.

Her mobile rang, fracturing the silence.

Laila slid her phone from her jeans pocket and read the text message.

‘Do you like Archie for a boy’s name?’

Laila’s heart squeezed, the ache radiating through her chest wall until she could feel it between her shoulder blades. ‘Sorry, I have to go out.’

He turned away and headed for the door. ‘No worries.’

‘Grind.’ Suddenly she felt bad for hustling him out. ‘I did a big cook-up this morning. Wait there and I’ll get you some. I can’t fit it all in the freezer.’

‘Oh cool. Thanks.’

‘Do one thing for me, will you?’ Laila said minutes later as she loaded him up and opened the screen door for him. ‘Tell me if you see anyone hanging around. Anything out of the ordinary — even if you don’t think it’s important.’

Grind stared at her through the wire, eyes magnified behind his glasses. ‘You got a crackpot client or something?’

Laila nodded once. ‘Something like that.’

‘Will do.’ He left, raising a hand in farewell. ‘Thanks again.’

Laila locked the door and pulled up the text again.
‘Do you like Archie for a boy’s name?’

She typed in the answer, fingers trembling.
‘Yes. I love the name Archie.’

3:20 p.m. Tuesday

An hour later, Laila stood inside the New South Wales Art Gallery.

Hands clammy, stomach pitching and rolling, she stared at a portrait of a former prime minister, a contestant in this year’s Archibald art prize.

Across the room, a tall, lanky guy with salt-and-pepper hair was studying each painting, while a harassed mother tried to coax her three young children into showing some enthusiasm for the portraits. Down the end of the long, white room, two older ladies wearing sunhats were discussing something in earnest.

Laila walked towards another artwork, this one a portrait of a famous actor. Not a particularly good one, in her opinion.

‘Can you believe that’s the favourite?’

Laila stilled and glanced sideways. The man stood beside her, well disguised as an ‘arty’ type in cream trousers and a floral shirt printed with tiny flowers. A panama hat covered his short, military haircut.

‘It’s a mystery how they judge these things.’ She drew in a breath and kept her eyes fixed on the painting. This was their third meeting, always in the gallery. Each time she grew progressively more nervous.

The man made a show of reading the vinyl lettering on the wall beside the artwork. ‘There’s been another incident.’

A ring of dread tightened around Laila’s throat as she moved onto the next painting and waited for the man to join her. Hopefully, to anyone watching, they looked like a couple of strangers, sharing a few comments about the paintings exhibited.

‘What happened?’

‘Chopper too low. The paratroopers had good visibility though. If they’d jumped at that altitude, it would have been lights out.’

Laila closed her eyes, stomach churning at the thought of another horror accident. As the man recounted the incident, she stared at the angry strokes of oil paint, the black and grey tones giving the female subject a look of total despair.

‘Many are scared. Numerous night-time mishaps have been reported. Understandably, the men are frightened of the reprimands that come with being a whistle-blower.’

Laila nodded. The entry criteria for the SAS was gruelling. No-one wanted to leave once they’d made it in. The sad fact was that more SAS soldiers were killed and injured in training situations than in actual combat.

‘Thank you. I know you’re taking a huge risk. Do you have a name?’

The man spoke in a low voice.

Laila repeated the name, then committed it to memory.

‘I’ll move on. Take care.’ He moved away, strolling through a wide doorway and into an adjoining room, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his cream pants.

Laila didn’t leave immediately either. She wandered through to a different part of the gallery where some Brett Whiteley works were housed. She had enough information to get the class action underway now. She had plaintiffs, the names of men she could subpoena, and costs coming in from the Peyton case.

She stared at the vivid oranges in Brett Whiteley’s
The Night Cafe
. There was no denying it, she needed Scarlett Peyton as a client more than ever now. Time was of the essence if they were to stop more soldiers dying.

Her mobile phone vibrated against her hip.

Had her contact forgotten something?

Laila swiped her thumb across the screen. The message was from the New South Wales Police Department.

Special arrangements have been made for emergency access only, for tenants of 402 College Street, Sydney. Any tenant wishing to access the building can do so, via a restricted entryway, for one hour between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. today. It is expected that normal operation of the building will resume from 7 a.m. tomorrow.

***

Thirty minutes later, still puffing from the climb up to the fourth floor, Laila stepped inside her office and cast an anxious look around.

Late-afternoon sun filtered through the windows, highlighting the smoky haze lingering throughout the room. Small puddles of water pooled on the coffee table, the filing cabinets, the reception desk and bookcases.

Laila sent a silent thank you to Mike. Despite the risk he’d taken, he’d covered the computer and photocopier with their plastic dust jackets. When she slipped her hand beneath the covers, the machines themselves were quite dry.

Buoyed by the fact that it appeared to be sprinkler damage only, Laila pressed her toe into the carpet. While her boot left a damp imprint, the floor coverings hardly squelched beneath her feet.

Blowing out a relieved breath, she walked through to her private office, smoke particles irritating her nostrils. There were benefits to being a neat freak, she thought, gazing at the puddles of water on her cleared desk. Again, the computer was protected, and while the vinyl chairs were wet, it was nothing a quick wipe over wouldn’t fix.

She crossed to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. A little water had seeped inside, but only the corners of the manila folders appeared to be wet.

Laila checked her watch. She had roughly forty minutes. If she mopped up now, the office would dry out even more overnight.

She took two garbage bags and half a dozen dry handtowels from the drawer in the kitchen and spent the next half hour soaking up the water. In her office, she wiped over the desk and chairs, noting with relief that the wall prints and practising certificate were hung too high to have been affected.

Back in reception, she dropped sodden magazines from the coffee table into one garbage bag, followed by the stack of business cards from the holder on Mike’s desk, and anything else unsalvageable. The steel cupboard housing the stationery was closed, and from Laila’s observations, the printer was the only piece of electronic equipment that had really copped a drenching. Mike had managed to clear every other surface.

She was wiping over the waiting-room chairs when she spotted Evan’s discarded suit coat and sunglasses. Dumping the garbage bags and towels on the carpet, she picked up the jacket and held it open for inspection. The fine wool material had mostly dried in the thirty or so hours since the fire, but when she held it next to her cheek, the familiar, sexy aroma she associated with him was missing, replaced with the strong smell of acrid smoke.

Wrinkling her nose, she put the garment inside the clean garbage bag and popped the Ray Bans into her handbag. Back in the kitchen, she dumped the garbage bag containing the rubbish into the bin, and threw out the milk in the silent fridge. According to the detective she’d spoken to downstairs, the electricity would be switched on at 6 a.m. tomorrow, an hour before the tenants were given access. All except the businesses conducted on level three, which would remain inaccessible until the cause of the fire was determined.

Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, Laila picked up the garbage bag containing Evan’s jacket. She’d drop it into the drycleaners on her way to the train. The mediation was the day after tomorrow; not that she could give it to him there. Maybe she’d ask him out for coffee on the weekend. She wanted to thank him properly for what he’d done for Mike, and she wanted to ask about his hand.

The light was fading as Laila took one last look around the room. She was glad she’d rushed down here from the art gallery. It had put her mind at ease, and hopefully she’d sleep better tonight.

Picking the office keys out of her handbag, she glanced at the picture of the Blackhawk on the wall and thought about what the man had told her at the gallery. Once the mediation was over, she’d put in some serious hours on the class action. In the meantime, as the detective downstairs had pointed out, the most important thing was to lock up the office and make sure the premises were secure.

11 a.m. Wednesday

Laila fetched the morning coffees whenever she could. Sometimes it was a rushed espresso, other times she got held up and they made do with instant. But with Mike supervising the guys pulling up the sodden carpet, she’d made it down to the coffee bar in the basement.

Now, as she stood waiting for two chai lattes, Laila tried warding off the uncomfortable feeling she was being watched.

It was nothing tangible, just an uneasy sixth sense that had stayed with her after the break-in. Sometimes it was a shadow at the corner of her vision, other times a subtle stirring of air. Now it was a sensation of eyes on her back, strong enough to make her turn around and scan the people behind her.

Her gaze fell on Dickson Cross, the trim detective with the shaved head and brash manner who’d given her access into the building yesterday. Now, he was five deep in the line, phone in one hand, the other in the pocket of his trousers.

With a sigh of relief, Laila walked over to him. ‘Hello. I got the feeling someone was watching me.’

He put his phone away. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘I’m waiting on the coffees. They’re taking an age today.’

‘Get that often?’

Laila frowned. ‘Coffee?’

‘The feeling someone’s watching you?’

Shrewd eyes studied her face, and Laila got the impression that, charmer though he was, Dickson Cross missed very little.

‘Sometimes.’

‘You should take particular notice. You work in an emotionally volatile field.’ He gave a shrug, the movement quick, like he was permanently hyped on caffeine. ‘Then again, it could be because you’re a babe.’

Laila smiled. Some would think him inappropriate, but Dickson Cross had the knack of delivering a line without it being offensive. And he’d uttered the words like an afterthought, as if his previous statement might have worried her.

She looked him over thoughtfully. ‘I have a feeling you get away with a lot, detective.

A shallow dimple flashed in one cheek and he jiggled some loose change in his pocket. ‘You have a
lot
of feelings, Ms Richards.’

She pointed an index finger at him. ‘Now
that’s
inappropriate.’

He tried looking contrite, but failed to disguise the twinkle in his eyes. ‘Are to going to report me?’

‘Probably not.’

The barista called her number.

‘Do you have time to see me now?’ he asked, as she made to leave. ‘You’re first on my list because of the problem you reported over the weekend.’

She nodded. ‘Bring your coffee upstairs. My calendar’s wiped until midday tomorrow.’

Tomorrow.

The day of the Peyton mediation.

An email had arrived late yesterday. A retired judge would oversee the matter at the family court.

Nervous excitement ran through Laila’s body at the thought of seeing Evan again. Not that she was marking off the days or anything.