Folly's Child (27 page)

Undeterred he continued smoothly: ‘I understand you are here on much the same sort of quest as I am. The fact is I have been making progress with my investigations and I wondered how you were getting along with yours.'

Ahah! she thought smugly. He thinks I have something he has missed – and if Maria was as unforthcoming with him as she said she was then he is quite right. But if he thinks I am going to tell him what she told me then he has another think coming!

Aloud she said: ‘I'm progressing too. But I don't want to talk about it at the moment.'

There was a slight pause, then he said: ‘That's rather a pity. I thought if we got together over a spot of dinner perhaps we could pool our information and be of help to one another.'

There was something about the way he said it, a hint of that old confidence, perhaps, that made her curious. Was he bluffing or was there more to it than that?

‘What do you know?' she asked.

At the other end of the line Tom O'Neill smiled. But he did not allow that smile to creep into his voice.

‘Oh, I'm afraid you'll have to have dinner with me to find that out', he said tantalisingly. ‘But I do think it's something you would find very interesting.'

‘Mr O'Neill …'

‘I have a table booked at Alexandra's Restaurant at Hunters Hill for eight. I was hoping you'd meet me there. But if you won't then I suppose I shall have to find some other pretty lady to share it with me.' His tone was light now, she could almost have believed he was trying to date her, not bleed her of whatever information she had managed to gather. ‘ Well, Miss Varna?' he pressed her.

Harriet made up her mind. She was still unsure as to what he was up to, but with no new leads of her own she could not afford to pass up the chance of learning something new. As for the rest … Harriet thought she could handle the situation satisfactorily.

‘Very well. I'll be there. Eight, did you say?'

Hunters Hill – ‘The French Village' – is one of Sydney's most exclusive suburbs. Here on a peninsula of the harbour villas and cottages were built by the finest French stonemasons and Italian artisans from the sandstone beneath its own hills. Bougainvillaea and climbing roses cover the trellis work and balconies, age-old jacaranda and fig trees shade the pathways and pavements.

Harriet's taxi swung west from the city and over the harbour bridge. The setting sun had turned the shimmering blue waters to a pool of flame; seeing it Harriet wished she had her camera with her for the sight was the stuff a photographer dreams of. Then, even as she watched, the sun fell below the horizon and soft velvet blackness dropped like a veil over the harbour with the lights of the Opera House forming the centrepiece of a new and different spectacle – Sydney by night.

Alexandra's Restaurant, historic and beautifully restored, once the main general store for the area, is on the outskirts of Hunters Hill. Harriet paid off her taxi and went in.

Tom O'Neill, casually dressed in open-neck shirt and slacks, was enjoying a pre-dinner drink at the bar which was separated from the dining area by an exquisite stained glass partition.

As she went in – inexplicably nervous – he rose.

‘Well hullo. I'm glad you came. I wasn't sure that you would. What will you have to drink?'

‘Campari and soda,' Harriet said. ‘With ice but no lemon.'

With the drink in her hand she felt some of her confidence returning.

‘Well, Mr O'Neill, I was intrigued by your invitation,' she said. ‘I only hope it's not intended for your benefit only.'

‘Of course not. As I said on the telephone, I think we can both be of help to each other. But what do you say we drop the formalities? I'd much prefer it if you'd call me Tom.'

She nodded briefly. She thought she would have preferred to let the formalities stand, but could not find a way to say so without sounding foolish.

The waiter was hovering with menus; they were a little late for their reservation, Harriet guessed.

‘Shall we order?' Tom suggested, setting his glass down on the hand-carved bar of solid oak which had been brought over from England, it was said.

Harriet was not in the least hungry but she perused the menu and selected the lightest items – oysters and chicken – whilst Tom opted for giant prawns in matafi pastry and pork fillets with a Dijonaise sauce. When the waiter had taken their order they remained in the bar long enough to finish their drinks before being shown through into the dining room with its baby grand piano, polished brass, and so many leafy green plants it gave the appearance of a luxurious conservatory.

When they were seated at a lace-covered table Harriet said:

‘I must confess I was very surprised to get your call. How did you know where to find me?'

‘Guesswork. Let's put it this way – I didn't think you'd be at the People's Palace.'

‘I see.' Harriet, always touchy about her wealthy background, coloured slightly. Was she so obvious? She liked to think of herself as an ordinary working girl, facing the world in denim jeans with a camera slung around her neck, but when the chips were down she had automatically gone for the best. Suddenly she was acutely conscious of her dress, a deceptively simple Comme des Garcons which had cost half a month's salary. Without money behind her she would never have dared buy it – all very well to play at being like everyone else, truth to tell she wasn't. Harriet wished heartily she had not worn it this evening. It wasn't ostentatious, none of her clothes were, but she felt sure Tom O'Neill was quite capable of looking at it with that cool blue gaze and putting a very accurately assessed price tag on it.

‘So, what is it you've learned that is going to be of interest to me?' she asked crisply to hide her discomfort.

Tom speared a prawn before answering.

‘I know where Greg Martin might be found.'

His tone was casual, throwaway almost, but taken completely, by surprise Harriet's skin began to prickle as if every tiny nerve ending had suddenly become sensitised.

‘You know where he is?'

‘I have a very good idea.'

‘Where?'

‘Oh!' He shook his head. ‘Not so fast. It's your turn now.'

‘What do you mean – my turn?'

‘You're going to tell me how you have been getting on.'

She shrugged. ‘There's nothing really to tell.'

‘Come on, Harriet. I thought we were going to work together. What did Maria tell you?'

She looked up sharply. ‘What makes you think she told me anything?'

‘She assured me she did. It's a fair trade, isn't it? You tell me what Maria Vincenti said – I'll tell you where I think Greg Martin might be found.'

Harriet hesitated. This was exactly what she had hoped to avoid. She didn't want to talk about what Maria had said. For practically the first time in her life she knew how her father felt when he buried his head in the sand. Talking about something gave it substance. Better to just press on to the next hurdle – finding Greg Martin. Then perhaps she would be more prepared to face whatever unpalatable truths had been hidden all these years …

‘She's a very strange lady,' she hedged.

‘Granted. But also a very frightened one. That means she knows a good deal about things it might be safer not to know. Did she tell you how it was done?' Harriet was silent. He put down his knife and fork. ‘Look, we are going to have to start trusting one another some time.'

Harriet looked up, meeting his eyes. Tonight they looked less cold; in fact there was something about the very hardness, of his face that was almost comforting. ‘We have to start trusting one another …' Perhaps he was right. She was getting nowhere on her own and wouldn't unless she traded some information. But how much?

‘All right,' she said. ‘Maria says Greg rigged the whole thing with her assistance. She claims she picked him up at Pizzo and helped him to get out of the country.'

‘And your mother?' he asked steadily.

Her eyes fell away but not before he had seen the flash of pain. She crumbled a bread roll between her fingers, watching the crumbs fall in a steady stream onto her plate. He waited. When she spoke her voice was steady but the effort needed to control it was obvious.

‘Maria believes Greg murdered my mother.'

‘
Murdered
?'

‘I know it sounds melodramatic' She gave a small apologetic laugh. ‘But you have to admit it fits the facts.'

‘I think it's a little early to be sure of that. This investigation has only just begun.'

Harriet dropped the remains of her bread roll onto her plate and looked up at him.

‘Don't think I want to believe it,' she said passionately. ‘ It's my mother we are talking about, remember. All my life I believed she was dead. Then the news broke that Greg Martin was alive and for a little while I hoped … yes, I did. Stupid, wasn't it? To actually hope that my mother had walked out on me
by choice
, not been there any of the times I needed her, just so that she could be alive. I just wanted her to be alive! But I don't think she is. Maria suspects Greg murdered her and I believe her. But not because I want to. Accepting it is just like losing her all over again.'

Suddenly he thought how very vulnerable she looked. Her hands were clenched into fists on the lace-covered table, her eyes were deep and liquid. In that moment he could almost believe she was telling the truth and he felt a brief pang of guilt knowing he was using her. Then he brushed the moment of weakness aside. She was Paula Varna's daughter and there was a small fortune riding on the case. He, Tom O'Neill, had a job to do. He couldn't afford to go soft now.

‘So,' she said, gathering herself together, ‘ I've told you what Maria told me. Now it's your turn. Where is Greg Martin?'

‘Very well. Fair's fair. I think he may be in Darwin.'

‘Darwin! That's right up in the north, isn't it? What makes you think he is in Darwin?'

‘My investigations suggest that he might be. I'm flying up there first thing tomorrow to try and locate him.'

The waiter appeared at Harriet's elbow. They waited in silence whilst he cleared their plates and brought the main course. Tom began on his pork but Harriet sat, fingertips pressed to her chin.

‘Aren't you going to eat?' he asked.

She folded her fingers into a basket, looking at him directly.

‘Could I … do you think I could possibly come with you?'

‘Come with me?'

‘To Darwin. I'm every bit as anxious to see Greg Martin as you are.'

Tom's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He still was not completely certain he trusted her, but if she was feeding him a line as to what Maria had told her then she was one hell of an actress. It wasn't impossible, of course. He'd met consummate actresses before – and some of them had never so much as set foot on a stage. Tom O'Neill always believed in travelling fight. But at least if he took her with him to Darwin he would be able to keep an eye on her.

And besides … he cast a glance at her across the table. Without a doubt she was a very attractive woman. Taking her along would not be an unpleasant exercise.

‘My plane leaves early in the morning,' he said. ‘ I suggest you telephone the airline right away to see if there are any seats available.'

When he returned to his hotel room Tom put a call through to his London office and asked to speak to Karen Spooner, his assistant.

‘Tom? Hi! How y'doing, boss? What's it like in Oz?' Her voice was breathless, with a slight affected American accent, and Tom smiled to himself. Karen watched too many detective movies and worked hard at styling herself on her archetypal heroine, hence the twang and the habit of addressing him as ‘boss'. She also had spiky black hair, large sooty eyes and dressed in black leather jackets and skin-tight jeans with ‘designer rips' in the knee and seat, but she was a good girl, bright and keen, and he knew he could trust her to do an efficient job.

‘Fine. Look – I'm off to Darwin tomorrow, and I'm taking Harriet Varna with me.'

‘Harriet Varna? The daughter?' Karen sounded peeved; like so many others she carried a torch for Tom, and though he had never given her the slightest encouragement he also knew better than to upset her.

‘I don't entirely trust her,' he explained. ‘I want to be where I can keep an eye on her. And I think she might be useful to me. Now listen, what I want you to do is check up on the movements of the Varna family around the time of the explosion. It won't be easy of course. In fact after all this time it may be nigh on impossible, but …'

‘Leave it to me, boss,' Karen said. She liked nothing better than a challenge.

‘Good girl. I'll let you have the number where I can be reached as soon as I'm installed and again when I move on. I want to know the minute you come up with anything, no matter when it is, so don't worry checking time differences. Right?'

‘Right. Wilco.'

Tom replaced the receiver and went back to packing his bags.

‘Hey, Terri, I think I just might have swung it for you!'

Linda came bouncing into Theresa's workroom, slightly out of breath from running up the stairs. Theresa looked up.

‘Swung what?'

‘A deal, a big beautiful deal.'

‘What sort of deal?'

‘Sit down and I'll tell you. No – don't sit down – keep working! If this comes off you won't have time to draw breath!'

‘For heaven's sake, Linda, will you tell me what this is all about?'

‘OK. I went out ‘‘on the knocker'' as they say, looking for business for you and I happened to call on a boutique called
Gypsy
– very trendy, very exclusive and
very
expensive. I didn't think I was getting very far. The owner was a snooty bitch and she was saying she only sold established names – ones she could put the right price tag on presumably, without anyone batting an eyelid. Then she was called away to deal with a customer and I got chatting to her husband – or rather he got chatting to me. He'd popped in to see her and had been sitting in a corner listening to everything I'd been saying. It seems he's rolling in money – he bought the boutique for his wife to give her an interest, would you believe?'