Sleight Malice (28 page)

“He’s been
identified?” she asked, her voice tightening. “Really?”

“Still
provisional at this stage, but yes.”

“Well, tell me:
who was he? What was he?”

“A man with
multiple lives by all accounts.”

She frowned.
“You mean he lead a double-life?”

“Not exactly.
Jeremy Stillson died sixteen years ago. Or rather, he was presumed dead then.
His fiberglass runabout was found washed-up on rocks with a broken windscreen
and three empty champagne bottles on the floor. Extensive aerial and sea
searches failed to find his body, but it was assumed he had drowned and ended
up as fish fodder.”

Desley hunched
forward, the knuckles of her clenched hands pressed together, her face
expectant.

He continued.
“Rather convenient really. He was due to face embezzlement charges in the US.
He siphoned off close to a million dollars of his employer’s money before they
caught up with him. A lot of money for a dead man, wouldn’t you say?”

Desley gave a
low whistle. “So he’s an American, then?”

“No, he was
born and raised in Canada, but he worked in the States.”

She looked
thoughtful, her gaze unblinking. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before,
but…” She paused, looking straight at him. The hairs on the back his neck
started to rise. “Ryan spent a few of his early teenage years in Canada. Lived
with an aunt or something. He even picked up a slight accent. Do you think…”
Her voice trailed off.

“Do I think
what?” he urged, more interested in what she thought

“Well, do you
think this Jeremy Stillson and Ryan could’ve known each other in Canada?”

“You tell me,”
he said. Canada was a big place and so was Australia, but he wasn’t one for
coincidences. “What part of Canada did Ryan live in?”

She shook her
head. “No idea, sorry. I don’t think it was ever talked about. But there’ll be
records somewhere, surely. If they’re around the same age, they might’ve even
been classmates…” She went quiet, her eyes getting that faraway look he had
come to recognize as Desley in thinking mode.

“Tell me what
you’re thinking.”

She blinked.
“I’m just wondering what possible connection this man could have had with Laura
and Ryan that led to him having his head stoved in and his body left to burn in
their home. And did the killer set fire to the house in an attempt to destroy
evidence, or was there some other reason? Was he acting alone? Was it
premeditated murder or did something go wrong? Perhaps there was a struggle and
this Jeremy fell and hit his head. Why was he there in the first place? Is it
possible he wanted something from Ryan? Why else would a fugitive who’s conned
the authorities into thinking he was dead, risk making contact with someone from
his past? And they must’ve known each other…” She looked up, one corner of her
mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. “Well, you did ask.”

“No, that’s
great. If we’re going to unravel this thing, we have to look at every scenario.
I have no doubt Grant is already liaising with the US and Canadian authorities
to find out as much as he can about this guy. We should tell him about Ryan
spending time in Canada, though, if he doesn’t already know.”

She nodded, her
gaze drifting off.

“And,” he
continued, not sure if she was still listening or not, “if you think of
anything else – no matter how far-fetched you think it might be – please share
it.” He stood. “For what it’s worth, I think you could be on to something with
the Moore-Stillson connection.”

She gave no
indication she had heard him, her expression unchanged.

“Desley?”

She turned her
face to him, but her eyes seemed to stare straight through him.

“Have I done
something to upset you?”

Frowning, she
shook her head. “No. Why?”

“Ever since I
told you who I thought it was who had planted that camera in your bedroom,
you’ve been…” He rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Well, you’ve been
rather standoffish.” There, he had said it.

Her frown
deepened. “Have I? Sorry, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Don’t worry,”
she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “it’s not you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Are you
leaving?” she asked, as if only just realizing he was standing.

He checked his
watch. “Thomas still can’t be sure if the woman who duped him into thinking she
was you, and Christine Lynas are one and the same. But I’m damned sure it is,
and though I can’t prove it, I want her to know we’re on to her. One of my guys
is tailing her and keeping me informed of her movements and when the time is
right, I’ll just happen to show up in the same place with my good mate, the
locksmith.” He chuckled. “Shame we won’t be videoing that little meeting.”

Desley raked
her fingers through her short, black hair, the slashes of pink vivid against
her white hands. “Fergus, I need a favor.”

“Sure, if I
can.”

Her eyes
narrowed. “No questions asked?”

He hesitated,
unsure of what he could be getting himself into. “Sounds ominous.”

“No questions,”
she repeated, her voice strained. “Please, Fergus, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t
important.”

“All right,” he
said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “so
long as it doesn’t involve killing anyone.”

“It doesn’t. I
need you to do a background check on Selena Papa; as much as you can find out.”

Desley breathed deeply, the
sun-warmed winter air filling her lungs, her eyes blinking in the sudden glare.
She had been cooped up inside for far too long. But since Fergus had tabs on
her stalker, it was safe for her to venture out on the streets again. No one
was watching her. No one was waiting to abduct her. No one wanted to harm her.
Or so she tried to tell herself.

She had only
been threatened the once anyway, the break-in and hidden camera incident
nothing to do with Laura and Ryan’s case or indeed Desley herself. If Fergus
was right, he had been the target and she, simply a way to get at him, payback
for something his client’s wife had brought on herself.

Desley
quickened her step, intent on leaving the deserted backstreets for the
hurly-burly of the shopping strip with its Saturday shoppers, fresh produce
stalls, bakeries and cafés. She turned the corner, shivering as she passed
through the damp shade of a tall pittosporum hedge, and crossed to the other
side of the street. She relaxed more as people, baby strollers, dogs and the
odd rackety skateboard began to populate the footpaths.

She stopped at the first café she came to, a hole-in-the-wall affair
with seating for less than a dozen patrons, and ordered a double-shot espresso.
Perched atop a stool at the communal, street-facing bench, she savored both the
coffee and the feeling of being back in civilization. So everyday. So normal.
So good.

Except Laura wasn’t there to share it.

After paying for her coffee, she wandered up the street, looking in
shop windows, listening to chatter, picking up the latest APC magazine at the
newsagent, treating herself to a still warm French breadstick from the
Vietnamese bakery, trying hard to distract herself from thinking about her
missing friend.

She heard a laugh she thought she recognized and ducked into the
doorway of an Amcal chemist. The last person she wanted to talk to was her
ex-husband. Partially concealed behind a display board, she peered out to the
street. And sure enough, cosying up at a table under one of the gas patio
heaters next door, were Trent and Selena.

“Can I help you with anything?”

Desley jumped. “Uh, just looking, thanks.” She picked up a tube of
hair removal cream from the shelf beside her, forcing a smile for the shop
assistant.

On the pretence of reading the instructions on the back of the tube,
she watched as Selena leaned toward Trent, popped something in his mouth, and
then slowly licked her fingers one at a time. Desley almost gagged. She felt
well and truly used.

She hadn’t been able to tell Fergus about Selena and her mind games.
She already felt too much of a fool. Why hadn’t she learned her lesson the
first time?
Because
, she thought,
you felt sorry for her, pregnant
and alone
. But had Selena set out to manipulate her all along; used her to
play the patsy in her damsel-in-distress routines in some perverted attempt to
win back Trent? Had the pregnant woman’s injuries been self-inflicted or had
she simply taken advantage of a genuine accident with a door to further her
agenda.

Trent laid his arm along the back of Selena’s chair and, leaning in
close, appeared to be whispering something in her ear. He looked happy and
while Desley couldn’t begrudge him that, she worried about Selena’s motives.
Did she really love Trent as she claimed or was it all a sham; a way of
ensuring her unborn baby would have a father. Why was Trent being so accepting
of it all?

You walked away from our marriage for her
, Desley thought, replacing the hair removal cream on the shelf.
And
now, she’s carrying your nemesis’s child
.

Except for patches of blackened
sand, no trace remained of the burnt out shell Laura and Ryan had once called
home. Desley thrust her hands deeper into her coat pockets and turned away.
Memories weren’t as easily razed.

Head down against the wind, she hurried back the way she had come.
Returning to the scene of the crime hadn’t provided any more clues, not that
she had expected it to. But then what had she expected? To see the ghost of
Jeremy Stillson rising from the ashes?
Is that how it had seemed to Ryan
when the man, presumed dead all those years ago, had turned up?
she
wondered.

Back home, she headed straight to her computer. The key, she felt
sure, lay in finding the link between the two men. Fergus had assured her that
the Australian police, along with the Canadian and American authorities, would
uncover whatever there was to find. Even so, it had been playing on her mind
and she had reached the point where she couldn’t sit back and do nothing any
longer. Besides, the professionals didn’t get it right all the time: Jeremy
Stillson’s presumed drowning, case in point.

Googling the name ‘Jeremy Stillson’ resulted in only 24 hits, none
of whom appeared to be the man who had faked his own death sixteen years
earlier.
But then again sixteen years ago
, she thought,
the Internet
wasn’t so mainstrea
m. News articles were published in newspapers on real
paper then – not on the web.

She stared at the screen, her fingers drumming against the mouse
pad. If he and Ryan had met as teenagers, then it was possible they had
attended the same school. She didn’t think Ryan was the sort of person to have
registered with one of the ‘old friends’ websites, but if an old school friend
happened to be searching for him, then at least she would have a school and a
location.

Limiting her next search to pages from Canada, she typed in ‘find
old friends’ and pressed Enter. She clicked on the first link, a US based
people search and reunion website, and plugged in Ryan’s details.

314 Profiles Found for "Ryan Moore."

She groaned.

She tried Jeremy Stillson’s name and came up with eight hits, except
none of those originated from Canada. She went back to the results for Ryan
Moore, scrolling through the list in the hope that something might jump out at
her. It didn’t. She started again, slower this time, opening each profile and
reviewing it.

The next time she looked up, dusk was closing in, her eyes hurt and
she was no closer to finding any answers. Blinking, she rolled her chair back
from the desk, stood and stretched her cramped muscles. Disheartened with her
lack of progress, she decided to leave it for a while and return when her mind
was fresh.

She did a circuit of the ground floor, closing curtains and blinds,
checking locks, and turning on lights. In the living area, she switched on the
television, turning up the volume, and upped the heater’s thermostat. She used
to enjoy living alone, doing her own thing when and how she pleased, without
having to think about anyone else, except now she wasn’t so sure.

She headed upstairs. A soak in a hot Radox bath would help her
unwind and put her thoughts in order.

While she waited for the bath to fill, she did a series of
stretching exercises. She was lying on her back on the floor, her bent knees
clasped to her chest, when she heard a car door slam and then raised voices.
She scrambled to her feet and peered out through the bedroom’s balcony doors. A
white sedan she didn’t recognize had pulled up outside her townhouse. The front
passenger door was open, a woman standing on the footpath remonstrating with
the reluctant occupant. She couldn’t make out the words, but the body language
said it all, the woman’s arms flailing around like she was looking for
something to grab hold of.