Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) (2 page)

The wind whipped up again, tree branches groaning and leaves dropping onto the path. The musky odour of damp earth and rotting vegetation filled the air. He moved quickly, puffing clouds of steam as he slogged up Morphett Street towards North Adelaide. Maybe he’d find a park somewhere to take shelter in.

By the time he reached Wellington Square he was wrecked. A park bench beckoned. He sank onto it and shut his eyes, trying to remind himself why this had seemed like a good idea.

He peered at the face of his watch, struggling to make out numbers in the gloom. Just after eight. It seemed a lot longer than eight hours since he’d left the house. What had passed for lunch was a distant memory. Some fruit and a bag of nuts from the pantry, not exactly a feast. There’d been no time to grab anything more substantial, and he hadn’t been able to work out where Beth had stashed his wallet. He fingered the coins in his pocket, the entire contents of the change jar in the kitchen — about ten bucks worth of silver. It wasn’t going to get him very far.

His backside was going numb. He moved along the park bench, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He ended up trading the warmth of the patch he’d been sitting on for ice-cold wood a few inches further along. His teeth chattered.

He couldn’t stay where he was. Lights from the pub across the square glowed through the darkness. He had enough money for a schooner and a bag of chips. It would get him out of the cold, at any rate.

The door swung open as he approached and a couple of young blokes in suits pushed their way out into the night, laughing at a shared joke. A whoosh of warm air fragrant with the smell of beer and deep-fried food followed them. Len’s stomach rumbled. He stepped inside, letting the waves of sound and heat wrap around him before heading to the front bar.

He spotted an empty stool tucked up next to the wall and made a beeline for it, shedding his jacket along the way. The barmaid was young, probably not much past twenty. She wore a tight black t-shirt and black pants, her blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail. She had piercings in her nose and right eyebrow. A large tattoo of a pair of cherries nestled just under her left ear, as if they were earrings. Why cherries? Len watched her, trying to imagine her as a sixty-year-old woman with the cherries tucked away in her neck folds. It took her a good while to make her way to him along the bar.

‘What’ll you have?’

Her tone was friendly enough, but her look said otherwise. Her eyes were flat and a slight curl to her lip told him he’d failed her respectability test.

As she moved away to get his schooner and chips, he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was sticking up, his collar was crooked and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his singlet beneath. No wonder she’d given him a look. He straightened his clothing and tried to pat his hair into something resembling normal. He looked like a vagrant. The thought made his gut churn. Was that what he was now?

The barmaid returned a minute later and plonked a coaster and a beer in front of him then snatched a bag of plain chips and a bowl off the shelves behind her and dumped them next to the beer. The plastic bowl rattled on the counter as it spun a couple of times before settling into place.

‘That’s eight dollars fifty.’

‘Eight-fifty? Really?’

She didn’t answer him, just stood there, giving him the same flat look. He fumbled in his pocket for his change and counted out the coins. A hot flush crept from under his collar and spread up his neck until he could feel the tips of his ears glowing red.

When he was done, the barmaid scooped up the pile and turned away. He didn’t need to look at her to know what expression she’d be wearing.

The first mouthful of beer was enough to banish her from his thoughts. It’d been a long time since he’d had a beer. He wasn’t allowed to drink; apparently it was bad for his health. Living in that house had been bad for his health too. How could Beth expect him to stay locked away like that?

Would she be worried about him? Probably. And mad as hell, but she had left him no choice. He took another draught of beer, feeling it slide down his throat. The unopened chip packet demanded his attention. He ripped open the foil and tipped the contents into the bowl before grabbing a huge handful and stuffing them into his mouth. Chips. When was the last time he’d had chips? Beth’d say they had too much fat …

Twenty minutes later, the bowl was empty except for a few crumbs and he was nursing the last two centimetres of beer in the bottom of his glass, reluctant to finish it. He didn’t have enough for another glass and the prospect of swapping the warmth of the bar for the freezing park bench … he couldn’t face it.

He fumbled with the few remaining coins in his pocket. He had enough to make a phone call. Did they still have pay phones in pubs? He looked around, then gave himself a mental slap. Surely he could survive for more than nine hours on his own? He couldn’t go running back to Beth with his tail between his legs. The repercussions would be dreadful. He could already hear the tirade, and the chances of him ever getting hold of the key again … no. This was his only shot at getting away.

A voice made him look up from the contents of his glass.

‘You look like you’ve had a tough day.’

The bloke was standing behind the bar, watching him. Len shook his head, worried he was about to be fast-tracked back to the park bench.

The barman pulled another schooner and put it in front of Len. ‘This one’s on me. I own this place.’

‘Thanks,’ Len mumbled, lifting the glass in salute.

‘You’re welcome. And if you need it, here’s a card for a hostel just around the corner. Woman who runs it’s supposed to be a legendary cook.’

Len looked down at the card then opened his mouth to respond, but the barman had moved away to serve someone else. Len looked back at the card. A hostel. The thought wasn’t appealing, but neither was a night freezing to death in the park.

Len stamped his feet and jogged up and down on the spot, trying to force the ice from his veins. Stepping out of the pub and into the night had been brutal. The temperature felt like it’d dropped ten degrees in an hour. How did people live on the streets? Len couldn’t imagine surviving even one night without shelter, and it wasn’t even winter yet.

He reached out and rang the bell again then looked nervously at the card in his hand, squinting at the address in the shadows. It was too dark to read.

He looked up at the bank of windows above his head. The building was a large, two-storey Edwardian with wooden fretwork and a bullnose veranda. The tiles below his feet had been intricately laid in the mosaic pattern popular in the era. He wondered how such a stately home had become a hostel — assuming he had the right place. Was this the right place? There was no sign out the front, but large brass numbers fixed to the sandstone wall told him this was it.

He strained his ears, listening over the din of wind and passing cars for sounds of movement inside. Nothing. It must be the wrong place. With chattering teeth he turned and headed back towards the gate. As he reached to pull it open, he heard the rattling of a lock. With a surge of hope he turned towards the light now spilling from the open front door.

‘Lockout is 9pm,’ a female voice said.

‘Sorry?’ Len walked towards the voice, squinting into the light, painful after the gloom.

‘I lock the doors at nine. You’re too late for tonight, come back tomorrow and try again,’ she said.

‘Tomorrow? But what am I supposed to do tonight? It’s only a little bit past nine. Please?’ He realised he sounded pathetic, but the prospect of being turned away felt like a physical blow.

The woman was probably in her sixties. She had iron-grey hair pulled back into a bun and gold-framed reading glasses that sat well down on her nose and were secured by a pink plastic chain looped around her neck. She was short, no more than five-foot-two, with a stocky barrel-build dominated by an impressive bust. A half-apron was tied around her waist.

The woman sighed.

‘I’m sorry, we’re full tonight. I always have a queue waiting when I open the doors at 5.30pm. Most of my regulars know not to bother this late. You’re new around here.’

Len nodded, thinking of the wasted hours he’d spent wandering.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look like you’ve been living rough. You look too well fed and healthy. Isn’t there someone you can call? You can use my phone.’

An image of a glowering Beth flashed through Len’s mind. He shook his head. ‘No, no one. Thanks anyway.’ He turned away.

‘Wait! Maybe there’s something I can do. Have you eaten dinner?’

He stopped again. ‘I had a bag of chips.’

‘Chips? That won’t keep you warm tonight. You look like you’re used to eating three good meals a day. Come on, I’ve got a bit left over.’

A half-smile tweaked the corners of his mouth before he remembered the state of his finances. His hand went back to the small collection of coins in his pocket.

‘I don’t have much money.’

‘No charge. My son’s just reorganising our supplies. Would you mind giving him a hand while I fix you a plate?’

‘You’re very kind. I’d be happy to work for my dinner. The bloke who gave me your card said you’re a terrific cook.’

She smiled at him. ‘I make do. I’m Mrs Jacobs. I run this place. Follow me.’

CHAPTER
1

‘Don’t you look disgustingly happy?’

Claire collapsed into the chair opposite me, wafting a cloud of light, summery perfume in my direction.

‘I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ I looked at my watch and pulled a mock-serious face.

‘I know, I’m sorry. Student dramas. One of my second-years bailed me up as I was making a dash for the lift. A new lecturer in the Classics department’s got them all in a tizzy. Apparently he’s set them assignments that actually require research. But seriously, look at you! You look really well!’

‘Is that a euphemism for fat?’

‘Cass, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I’m not. I’ve put on half a stone since I’ve been living with Ed.’

‘Well, it suits you.’ She flipped her long brown hair over her shoulders and reached for a menu. ‘So, what looks good? I haven’t eaten here in ages.’

We were seated at a table in one of Adelaide’s best-loved Italian restaurants, Amalfi. It was Friday dinnertime and every table was full. Waiters were cranking into top gear and the pizza chefs were hard at work in the open kitchen. Conversation was building to a roar, accompanied by the percussion of cutlery on plates, as wine flowed and everyone eased into weekend mode.

‘I thought this was one of your favourites?’ I said.

‘It is, but I have lots of favourites so I haven’t been here in months.’

We ordered a pizza to share and a bottle of McLaren Vale Shiraz then settled back into our chairs.

‘I’ve missed you. I don’t know if I approve of all this domestic harmony. Ed’s been keeping you all to himself.’ She tried to pout at me but failed miserably.

I laughed. ‘Ed hasn’t got anything to do with it! I’ve been busy working.’

‘The freelancing’s going OK then?’

‘A few of my regulars have sent me manuscripts but I’ve also had a bunch of new clients since I got that write-up in the paper.’

‘Clients who want you to edit for them or solve murders?’

‘Editing! You know I don’t do the other for money.’

‘You should. You’d make a killing.’

I rolled my eyes at the bad pun.

Our wine arrived and we grabbed our glasses like parched survivors who’d just crawled out of the desert.

‘Cheers!’ Claire raised her glass and took a huge slurp. ‘God, I needed that. Tell me you didn’t drive tonight.’

‘Nope, Ed’s working late. He’ll pick me up when I call him.’

‘Ah, ain’t love grand? So things are going well with you two?’

‘This is my first real relationship, so I guess I don’t have a lot to compare to. It’s hard work, but it’s mostly good. We fight a lot but he makes me happy. I’d like an interpreter who speaks male though.’

Claire snorted. ‘Wouldn’t we all. Sounds like the honeymoon’s wearing off a bit?’

‘Maybe. His job doesn’t make things easy.’

‘Is he working a big case?’

‘He’s just finishing one off. Paperwork.’

‘You weren’t involved?’

‘Nah, I haven’t been asked to help since what happened …’ My mouth went dry and I gulped at my wine.

Claire was giving me that intense look that made me feel like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board. ‘You OK with that now?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really. There are some things that stay with you. Occupational hazard.’

‘I’m just glad you and your mum are OK.’

‘Mum’s doing well. She’s back doing readings again.’

‘And your gran?’

‘She’s retired.’

‘I didn’t know psychics retired. How does that work?’

‘Gran’s a healer not a psychic. Mum’s the psychic.’

‘Uh-huh … you guys have freaky DNA, you know that, right? Seriously though, are you any better?’

‘I’m OK.’ It was a lie. My eyes fell away from her face. I’d been having nightmares for months — ever since I’d got tangled up in a case Ed was investigating. The end result was not only a dead killer, but a close call for both me and my mum. Too close.