Sleight Malice (3 page)

Feeling her
gaze on the top of his head, he looked up. She gave him a weak smile, the dark
hollows underscoring her sunken hazel eyes deepening as her cheek bones lifted.
The harsh morning light cast a blue tinge over her washed-out complexion,
accentuating her obvious lack of sleep. He returned her smile, imbuing it with
what he hoped would come across as compassion, but knowing it still couldn’t go
any way to soothing whatever troubled her.

He handed her
the clear-cased CD. “When you have a chance, check these out. One or two might
be suitable. No rush,” he added, rezipping the black computer bag.

Back on his
feet, he watched Desley’s face as she studied his black scrawl on the CD face.
Was his handwriting that illegible? “It’s the photos we talked about,
remember?”

Looking as if
she was about to say something, she gave him a quick nod but remained mute.

“Call me. Email
me. Or something,” he said, backing down the driveway.

“Fergus…”

He stalled
mid-step, his right foot hovering above the concrete behind him. Drawing it
slowly back to its starting point, he waited for her to continue.

“You’re here now.”
Her gaze roamed the surrounding area. “Let’s talk inside. It’s freezing out
here.”

It wasn’t much
above that inside. Standing in the small foyer, Fergus wondered if Desley had
been away for a time. The townhouse had that same cold closed-up feel his place
had after returning home from a week’s holiday. While Desley rushed around
turning the heating on and booting up her computer, he loitered near the
kitchen. From there he could see straight into the polished wooden-floored
living area.

In contrast to the
townhouse’s banal, bordering on sterile, exterior this room was flooded with
what he saw as a reflection of Desley’s personality. Beige didn’t stand a
chance. The first thing that struck him was the huge oil canvas hanging on the
opposite wall. A vivid blue eye stared out at him from an enormous palm, each
fingertip a portrait of a different expression. The little finger poked its
tongue out at him, while the index finger screamed open-mouthed, baring a full
mouth of teeth.

A large
L-shaped red leather couch dominated the room. Nearby, but positioned as
casually as if it had been tossed onto the floor and left where it landed, lay
a giant black-lacquered dice with white dots. But what really caught his eye
about it were the two wineglasses and the two empty wine bottles sitting on
top. Male or female company? Could it be connected with Desley’s current
downcast demeanor?

Before his
deductive prowess could conjure up any further assumptions, the doorbell rang.
Then a couple of footsteps and the door opening.

“Desley James?”

“Yes.” More
question than statement.

“Detective
Inspector Grant Buchanan and Detective Sergeant Kim Mitchell. May we come in,
please?”

Fergus
recognized the gravelly voice as much as the name, except now his old colleague
was no longer a sergeant.

Exhausted beyond belief, Desley’s
thought processes had slowed to a crawl. The name seemed somehow familiar, but
the square-jawed and rugged face of the thickset man standing on her doorstep
didn’t. Then she remembered the crumpled business card Trent had given her, her
hand automatically feeling for it in her jacket pocket.

At last someone
who could give her some straight answers. She opened the door wide, standing
back as the inspector wiped his feet, stepped inside, and the rosy-cheeked,
freckle-faced blonde sergeant did the same. They then followed her down the
short hall, to where Fergus was in the throes of untangling cables and
unpacking his laptop onto the kitchen’s granite benchtop.

She continued
on, coming to an abrupt standstill half a step into the living room. The sight
of the two abandoned wineglasses, one with Laura’s ruby-red lipstick imprints
clearly visible on the rim, and the empty wine bottles jolted her. Could it
have been only last night that they had talked, laughed and with the help of a
good bottle of Yarra Valley Sauvignon Blanc or two, solved all the world’s
problems?

She spun back
to the two detectives in tow, hoping to divert them before they could see last
night’s remnants. They hadn’t noticed.

Instead, Fergus
had caught their attention.

“Fergus,” said
the detective inspector with a nod in his direction.

“Grant.”
Another nod.

The two men
eyed each other off, both undoubtedly wondering why the other was there.
Although they were both tall, that was where the similarities ended. Fergus
with his mop of loose, dark curls, slim build and finer features looked almost
bohemian beside the shorn DI Buchanan, the detective’s fair hair cropped so
close more pink scalp than hair was visible.

Detective
Inspector Buchanan's gaze strayed to Fergus. “It’s probably best we speak in
private,” he said to Desley.

“Perhaps I
should go.” Fergus closed his laptop.

“No. I have
nothing to hide.” As it was, Desley felt unnerved by Grant Buchanan’s physical
presence. With his burly front-row forward physique, she was glad he was one of
the good guys. At least if Fergus stayed, she wouldn’t be outnumbered.

Kim Mitchell
perhaps sensing that intimidation, and who to that stage had not uttered a
word, stepped forward. Chubby with masses of frizzy blonde shoulder-length
hair, the detective sergeant was at odds with the stereotypical image in
Desley’s head of what a police officer should look like.

“Ms James – or
can I call you Desley?” One eyebrow cocked.

Desley nodded.

“If we could
all sit down, we’ll get to the reason for our visit. We won’t take much of your
time, I promise. Fergus, is it?” she asked, turning her attention to him, but
not waiting for his answer. “Why don’t you put the kettle on for a cup of tea?”

From the
bewildered expression on Fergus’s face, anyone could be mistaken for thinking
he had been asked to whip up a five-course meal. Of course, DS Mitchell wasn’t
to know it was the first time Fergus had set foot inside the townhouse, let
alone its kitchen.

“I’ll do it,”
Desley said, squeezing past Fergus to fill the kettle, irritated that the
detective thought the old time-honored panacea would help in this situation.
She hated tea.

Waving a hand
in the direction of the dining room, she dispatched first the two detectives
and then Fergus. She opened the refrigerator. No fresh milk. She scoured the
cupboards. No tea, stale or otherwise. Hoping black coffee would suffice
instead, she switched on the small espresso machine on the bench next to the
microwave, checking the water-level before leaving it to heat and joined the
others.

Seated on the
far side of the large solid-jarrah dining table in the centre of the room, DI
Buchanan stared wide-eyed at the violet painted walls, seemingly transfixed by
Desley’s collection of brightly-colored Joan Miró surrealist art prints.
Directly opposite him on the other side of the table, Fergus appeared to be
willing the mobile phone in his hand to ring. The townhouse’s heating finally
working, DS Mitchell was shedding her long navy coat. Desley followed suit and
instantly felt less like a visitor in her own home.

“Coffee
machine’s heating. Sorry but I'm all out of tea,” she said, not feeling in the
least hospitable as she sat down in the chair next to Fergus. “Please just tell
me what’s happened to Laura. Do you know where she is? And Ryan, has he turned
up yet?”

A fleeting
glance passed between the detectives, the twitch at the corner of DI Buchanan’s
eye almost imperceptible. “Actually we were hoping you could help us with the
whereabouts of Ms Noble. What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?”

Desley frowned.
“Like what? Laura was perfectly okay when she left here at around ten last
night, give or take a few minutes.”

“How did she
seem?”

“Happy, tipsy,
excited about having Ryan home again. Why? What is all this about?”

“She didn’t
seem distracted or out of sorts at all?” continued the inspector, ignoring her
questions.

“No. Just what
are you implying?”

“What did the
two of you talk about?”

She rolled her
eyes. “You mean what didn’t we talk about? Come on, Inspector, we had a girl’s
night in. What did you expect? We certainly weren’t plotting to overthrow the
world or anything sinister like that,” she said, frustration driving her
sarcasm.

DI Buchanan’s
eye twitch wasn’t so subtle this time. “All we’re trying to establish is what
Ms Noble’s frame of mind was last night, if she talked to you about her plans
for today or the weekend or next week. Had anything – trivial or otherwise –
been troubling her of late?” He paused. “We need your help in determining if
her disappearance was voluntary or not,” he added, cleverly putting it back on
her.

She glanced
sideways at Fergus. Although he had stopped fidgeting with his mobile, his mind
seemed to be elsewhere. What had possessed her to drag a man she barely knew,
her client, into her personal crisis? Convenience? Would she have clutched at
the postman or the neighbor or some other bystander the same way?

Then he turned
his head, his intense green eyes questioning. She blinked. He wasn’t the
postman. He was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and a man her instinct was
telling her she could trust. And she needed all the help she could get to
unravel whatever the hell had happened.

Was still
happening
, she thought, her stomach sinking as she
took in the grave faces around the table. She could no longer deceive herself
into thinking it was all some big mistake. Her best friend was missing, a man
was dead and somehow the two were linked.

Fergus cleared
his throat and straightened his back. “I know you’re just trying to do your
job, Grant, but let’s cut through all the protocol crap and get to the point.
Except for what I’ve just heard, I don’t know anything about the case you’re
working on, but it’s obvious by the way you’re avoiding Desley’s questions that
you’re withholding information. Don’t forget I know how the system works.”

The detective
gave a half-laugh-half-snort. “And so do I.”

“And do you
want Desley’s help or not?” Fergus snapped.

A loud buzzing
from the inspector’s side of the table interrupted the conversation before it
could degenerate any further. DI Buchanan’s hand delved into the inside pocket
of his black-and-grey mottled leather jacket, withdrawing a tiny fliptop mobile
phone. He opened it, muttered under his breath and stood up.

“I have to take
this. DS Mitchell can, I’m sure, answer your questions. And if you want to help
your friend, I would hope you’ll return the courtesy. Press conference.” His
last two words were directed at the sergeant.

Kim Mitchell
nodded, her face expressionless but her eyes silently communicating with him as
he paused in the doorway.

Then Desley
heard him bark, “Buchanan,” followed by the sound of the front door opening and
closing. She exhaled, releasing the breath she hadn’t until then realized she
had been holding. She had nothing to feel guilty about, but something about the
way Detective Inspector Grant Buchanan looked at her made her feel like a
suspect, as if she were part of some deep, dark conspiracy.

“Okay,” said DS
Kim Mitchell, thumping the side of her hand against the table. “As much as we
would like to give you the answers to all your questions we can’t. We just
don’t have them yet. No hidden agenda; it’s as simple as that.”

Fergus grunted.

The detective’s
pale-blue eyes narrowed. “As you know,” she said, her voice tightening, “it
takes time to analyze evidence, talk to witnesses, follow-up leads and the
like. Granted, the sooner we can do that the better, but at this stage, there
is little in the way of facts I can tell you.”

Desley sat
forward on her chair. “What can you tell me?” So far, all they had done was
talk in circles, and as much as Fergus probably thought he was helping, he
wasn’t. She had yet to learn anything new.

“Okay, from
what you told us today and our officers last night, your friend Laura left here
to go home somewhere around 10 p.m. Correct?”

What did she
have to do? Engrave it in stone? She had lost count of the number of times she
had been asked the same question. Were they expecting her to change her story,
hoping to catch her out? Maybe the timing didn’t sit neatly with their
perceived timeline of events. Who knew? She sighed. “Yes.”

“As far as you
were aware, where was her de facto, Ryan Moore?”

“Sydney,” she
said, for what felt like the tenth time in as many hours. “Just how many times
do we have to go through this? Why don’t you ask the man himself?”

The detective
glanced at Desley and then back at her notes. “The fire investigator tells us
that the fire had been burning inside the house for quite some time when the
next-door neighbor called triple-O at 2.17 this morning. Burn patterns and
residual accelerant traces point to arson. Remains of an unidentified male
found in what was probably the master bedroom. Cause of death yet to be
ascertained. That’s it,” she said, closing her notepad.