Sleight Malice (12 page)

“I didn’t.”
Naming names didn’t sit comfortably with him, especially when the way he’d come
about the information hadn’t been above board. “Is it important?”

“We could talk
to his ex-wife, find out what sort of man he is, find out what he’s capable of.
See if he had a favorite spot: some place that meant something to him, maybe
from his childhood. Anything’s worth a try isn’t it?”

“You don’t
think—” His mobile phone rang. “It’s Kim,” he said, answering it.

“Fergus, can’t
talk long. Just thought you ought to know Ryan Moore’s mobile phone has just
been used to book flights for two adults from Sydney to Perth for tonight.”

Unable to stay put for more than a
few seconds, Desley roamed from room to room. The police were staking out
Sydney Airport’s domestic terminal, waiting for the couple calling themselves
Ray and Cathy Nimbus to show. Though she longed for it to be Laura and Ryan
traveling under assumed names, Desley didn’t want to get her hopes up.

What could Ryan
have over Laura that would convince her to get on a plane with him and travel
to the other side of Australia? Desley refused to entertain the idea that her
best friend might be a willing party. If Laura had left of her own accord, she
would’ve got word to her. Somehow. She wouldn’t just up and go, leaving Desley
thinking something terrible had befallen her.

But then where
did Ryan’s disgruntled ex business partner fit in? The flight booking had been
for a man and a woman. Was it possible he was the male traveler? Where was Ryan
then? Was he even alive?

She thought
about calling Fergus, but he had promised her he would let her know as soon as
he knew anything.
God, I hope it’s soon
, she thought, flopping on her
stomach across her bed.

Rolling onto
her back, she stared at the white ceiling. Fergus had passed on everything she
had confided to Kim Mitchell: a police detective and his friend. If Desley were
to believe Fergus, it was all about trading information. But why? What was in
it for him? Who was he trying to impress? The rosy-cheeked Kim Mitchell? Was
his story about dating Kim being like dating his sister a cover-up?

Desley sat up
and scooted to the edge of the bed. If Fergus had any respect for her, he
wouldn’t have gone behind her back. Forgiving was easy, forgetting not so. The
only person she could trust was herself; experience ought to have taught her
that by now.

She was halfway
down the stairs when her doorbell rang. For a second she froze. She had
expected Fergus to phone. Leaping down the stairs two at a time, she rushed to
answer the door.

“Hi, Sis.”

Her mouth
dropped. “Brandon! What are you doing here?”

Rolling his
shoulders back, her younger brother shrugged off his battered backpack, dumping
it on the doorstep. “And I love you, too,” he said, his arms wide as his grin.

She didn’t know
whether to laugh or cry as he lifted her off her feet and enveloped her in a
bear hug. Until then, she hadn’t realized just how cut off and alone she had
been feeling.

He put her down
and held her at arm’s length. Staring into her brother’s eyes was like looking
into her own: the same dark-lash framed hazel eyes they shared with their
mother.

“It looks like
Mum had every reason to be concerned,” he said. “You’re fading away to nothing,
girl.”

“She worries
too much,” Desley said, silently thanking her mother. Unable to make the trip
herself, her mother had sent Brandon in her place.

Her brother,
laughing at her attempts to lug his backpack into the hallway, reached around
her and relieved her of the lead weight. As his wavy black hair, softer and
finer than her own, brushed past her face, she caught the clean scent of
shampoo and soap. Not even a hint of his usual eau de mechanic.

“How long are
you over for?” she asked, closing the door behind them.

“Trying to get
rid of me already?”

“That’s not
what I meant.”

“I was joking,
Des. Remember it’s your adorable, but ever so slightly loopy, baby brother
you’re talking to here. Sorry,” he said, flashing a Cheshire grin, “you’re
stuck with me for a week at least.”

“Only a week?”

They looked at
each other and burst out laughing. Her madcap brother’s frivolity was exactly
the tonic she needed. God, how she missed her family. Tasmania was little more
than an hour’s flying time across Bass Strait, but it might’ve well have been
on the other side of the world for all the times she managed to make it home.

“I want you to
fill me in on everything, and I mean everything, that’s been happening, but
let’s do it over dinner. My treat. Quick,” Brandon said, sensing her
hesitation, “say yes, before I change my mind.”

The idea of
time away from the house with her brother as company, not to mention real food
and if she were lucky, a glass or two of a good Shiraz, was temptation enough.
“At least let me get changed into something decent,” she said, heading for the
stairs.

Less than an
hour later, they were ensconced in one of the booths at her local pub, Brandon
supping a lager and she a peppery Shiraz. With the wine warming her insides and
the heat radiating from the big open fire in the centre of the room she could
have easily curled up and gone to sleep.

Brandon pointed
at the huge ragged hole in the recycled brick, some with bits of the original
mortar still attached. “This place looks more like a demolition site than a
pub.” He paused, and then said, “Strangely appealing, though.”

Desley laughed,
adding to the bar’s echoey but vibrant medley of voices and music. She placed
her hand over the top of his. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he
asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a mischievous smile.

“For being
here. For caring…” She bit her lip, determined not to cry. “For everything…”

He laid his
other hand on hers, sandwiching her small hand between his large work-roughened
ones. “Laura’s going to be okay, you’ll see,” he said, his expression solemn.
“She’s much stronger than you give her credit for.”

Desley wanted
to believe that. Extracting her hand, she foraged in her handbag for a tissue.

“One thing’s
for sure,” he said, picking up one of the laminated menus from the table, “she
wouldn’t want you starving on her account. Besides, I promised Mum I would make
sure you were eating properly.” He shoved the menu into her hands. “By force if
necessary.”

Desley ordered
the spiced calamari skewers with snow pea, oyster mushroom and chili salad. Her
brother opted for the more traditional pub fare of fillet steak, chips and
garden salad.

While they
waited for their meals to arrive, she took Brandon through the events since the
night of the fire, revealing thoughts she hadn’t voiced aloud to anyone else.

“The only
explanation I can come up with for why Selena might have been at the Howqua
cottage is that she was looking for Ryan, which means they had to have been
there together before. Perhaps she went there to tell him about the pregnancy.
Then again, perhaps they arranged to meet and they argued. Who knows?”

Brandon
continued to listen as she unburdened herself, nodding occasionally but saying
little. By the time dinner arrived, she felt talked out but lighter. And
famished.

“You were
saying the police hope to identify the fire victim from a hip implant?” Brandon
asked, his knife poised over the thick steak in front of him.

Her mouth full
of succulent calamari, Desley nodded. She finished chewing and swallowed.
“That’s if the manufacturer can track down the records for that particular
batch.”

“What happens
if they can’t?”

“Let’s hope it
doesn’t come to that. The police need a breakthrough of some sort. If he can’t
be identified, it’s going to make coming up with a motive near on impossible.
Identify him and we might just be able to figure out how he’s connected to Ryan
and Laura.” She set her fork on the side of the plate and picked up her wine
glass. “Tell me, Brandon, what possible reason could anyone have to want to
hurt Laura?”

“Sometimes we
don’t know people as well as we think we do.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Have you
thought maybe it’s not about her? Maybe it’s—” Something to her right caught
his attention.

She followed
his gaze, catching her mobile phone before it could vibrate over the table
edge.

“Someone you
don’t want to talk to?”

“It’s Fergus,”
she said, steeling herself. What if it was bad news? Sucking in a couple of
quick breaths, she pressed the answer button.

“Where are
you?”

She was about
to tell him. Instead the only word that came was, “Out.”

“Tell me
something I don’t know,” Fergus said. “I see you’ve left a light on for the
burglars.”

Across the
table, Brandon waved his hands around in a sign language only known to him. She
covered the mouthpiece. “What?”

“Why don’t you
get him to meet you here? I’d like to meet this Fergus guy.”

Without
thinking, she poked her tongue out at him, immediately transporting herself
back to when he was a cheeky five-year-old and she a petulant teenager. She
felt her face redden.

Brandon simply
laughed.

She turned her
attention back to Fergus, blinkering her eyes with her left hand. “The airport…
Have you heard anything?” she asked, already sensing his answer.

“Whoever those
tickets were intended for didn’t show. The flight to Perth left with the two
seats empty. However, Ryan’s mobile phone has turned up in a rubbish bin in the
men’s toilets at Melbourne Airport.”

“Melbourne not
Sydney?”

“Correct. The
police now suspect the Sydney-Perth booking was nothing more than a ruse.
They’re trawling through security footage for both Melbourne’s international
and domestic terminals now, as well as checking passenger lists.”

Her head spun
as the ramifications of what she had just heard sunk in. Had the
arsonist-turned-murderer-turned-kidnapper managed to escape the country
unnoticed, taking with him all he knew? Would she ever see Laura again? Was
Laura even alive? What about Ryan? Where did he fit in? Victim or perpetrator?

Desley checked the street both
ways and crossed, narrowly avoiding being run down by a small dark car that
appeared out of nowhere. Safe on the other side, she paused, took a couple of
deep breaths and looked around.

Houses and
gardens shadowy in the overcast drizzly day seemed almost intangible; dark
shapes without edges. Even the quiet felt ghostly, the usual Saturday afternoon
lawnmower and whipper-snipper noise conspicuous by its absence. She shivered.

A curtain
twitch in the window of number 56 reassured her suburbia hadn’t died, only
retreated indoors to the warm and dry. Pulling her coat in close, she turned
her back on the curious neighbor and walked up the footpath to the next house,
a tidy cream with olive green trim weatherboard bungalow. Rose bushes, pruned
and devoid of any foliage, bordered the wire loop-top front fence. A
square-clipped box hedge skirting the unadorned front veranda added to the
rigid formalness.

Her mobile
phone rang. She cursed, her hand groping for it in the depths of her shoulder
bag. Fergus. No sooner had she cancelled his call than it rang again. Brandon.
She turned it off and dropped it back in her bag. Between them, they had
managed to keep tabs on her day and night. Now she wanted out from under their
overprotective mantle. Besides, she knew neither would approve of her visit to
Helen Escott.

Fergus probably
didn’t realize it, but he had let slip the name of Ryan’s old business partner.
From there it had been a matter of calling every Escott in the phone book. She
was only grateful Paul Escott’s ex-wife hadn’t reverted to her maiden name or
remarried. Moreover, if his surname had been Smith, she would still be dialing.

Over the phone,
Helen Escott had come across as being a small fragile woman, wary of the world.
The leggy mahogany-haired woman who answered the door looked anything but.

Noting Helen’s
stocking feet, Desley removed her own boots and stepped inside. “Thank you for
agreeing to see me, Helen.”

“You’re
definitely not a reporter, are you?” Helen asked, some of that distrust
returning.

Desley shook
her head. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” And she meant it too. The woman had been
through enough already. “Here’s my business card. Check me out if you like.”

Helen took the
proffered fluorescent yellow-and-blue card, tucking it into her jeans pocket
without comment. “Come through,” she said.

Desley followed
her past two closed doors to one at the far end of the hall. Once through,
Helen closed it again, Desley presumed to prevent the warm air blowing from the
fan heater from escaping. The light lemony scent of furniture polish tickled
her nostrils, but she resisted the urge to scratch her nose.