Sleight Malice (5 page)

“Aren’t you
going to let me in?” he asked, his lips peeled back in what he no doubt
considered a winning smile.

She cringed.
“Why should I?”

“Don’t be like
that, Des. We were good together once.”

“Oh now I get
it. You’ve had another row with Selena, haven’t you? Jesus Christ, Trent,” she
said, shaking her head at his audacity. “Only you could think that crying on
your ex’s shoulder about the woman you left her for would be acceptable
behavior.”

“Please, Des,
it’s cold out here.”

She opened the
door, standing well back as he bounced from wall to wall down the short
hallway, leaving a haze of sour alcohol in his wake. She couldn’t send him
packing in his state. Well, not at least until she called another taxi to take
him home. Bastard or not, ‘Drunk dies of hypothermia in gutter’ was not
something she wanted on her conscience.

“Sit down
before you fall down,” she said, doing her best to guide him into the living
room without actually touching him. “I’ll make coffee.”
Then you’re out of
here
, she added silently.

In the kitchen,
she made a double-strength espresso. She still had no milk and she knew he
would screw his nose up at it. But then again, he wasn’t in a position to
quibble. In a last-minute compromise, she added a heaped teaspoon of sugar and
carried it through to the living room.

Letting out an
exasperated sigh, she sat the cup on the coffee table. On the couch she had
just vacated, lay Trent passed out, open-mouthed and snoring. Not an attractive
look. She debated what to do, deciding her best option was to let him sleep it
off. That way at least, he couldn’t do himself or anyone else any harm.

She dragged her
old tiger-striped beanbag out from the corner, plopped it directly in front of
the TV and settled down to wait for the 4:30 news. She turned up the volume not
to listen to the children’s program currently screening, but to drown out the
loud, guttural snores coming from the couch.

News about the
arson, suspicious death and suspected kidnapping she expected to be the lead
item was usurped by the shocking announcement of the senseless rape and murder
of an 8-year-old Perth girl in a shopping centre toilet. Desley jammed her fist
into her mouth, the bitter taste of revulsion welling in her throat. An
innocent child’s life had been cut brutally short. Although it didn’t lessen
her anguish any, Desley knew Laura and Ryan’s disappearance just couldn’t
compare. She still had hope; the little girl’s family didn’t.

Detective
Inspector Grant Buchanan’s head and broad shoulders filled the screen, his
fierce grey eyes boring straight into hers, replaced a moment later by footage
of the fire. Almost against her will, she leaned in closer to the television,
taking in the harrowing detail like a hungry voyeur. Her breath caught in her
throat as she recognized herself being manhandled away from the burning house.
Then it was gone.

An image of
Laura and Ryan arm in arm, smiling radiantly at the camera suddenly appeared.
They looked so happy. And why not? A promising future had lain ahead of them
then. Nothing could have survived that fire intact. The photo had to have come
from a work album or staff newsletter. Whereas the picture of the black Nissan
Patrol they showed could have come from anywhere.

She switched
off the television and headed upstairs to her bedroom, hoping to escape Trent’s
snoring. For one insane moment, she considered phoning Selena to let her know
he was all right. Then again, Selena hadn’t given Desley a thought when she had
seduced her husband and ripped apart their marriage.

In the doorway
to her bedroom, she paused and looked longingly at her soft bed and its
mountain of pillows. Eventually she would have to sleep, but not until she had
spoken with her family. Instead she opted for the curved-arm, art deco style
club chair in the far corner, her body protesting with a series of yawns as she
sat down and tucked her feet under her.

The press
conference hadn’t disclosed anything she didn’t already know, but at least
anyone watching the news would now be on the lookout for the missing couple and
Ryan’s four-wheel-drive. Australia was a big country, but someone, somewhere
had to have seen them or at least the vehicle…

Two pink and grey galahs flew
across the Peugeot’s bonnet, avoiding a collision with the windscreen by mere
millimeters. Desley’s hands gripped the steering wheel, her heart hammering as
her foot tapped the brake pedal. A few extra minutes weren’t worth risking her
life over.

Dropping back
to the 100-kilometre an hour open road speed limit, she watched the country
landscape unfurl in front of her. Giant gnarled eucalypts dotted open
undulating farmland, a smattering of early lambs hinting at the spring to come.
Low cloud shrouded the distant ranges, the occasional shafts of sunlight
brightening what was otherwise a bleak winter’s day. She still had a long way
to go, but she had already made good time, leaving behind the traffic lights,
city shops and high-density housing more than an hour ago.

Her first
decent night’s sleep in a week had not only strengthened her flagging body, but
also restored her clarity of mind. Why she hadn’t thought of the Howqua cottage
sooner, she didn’t know. The public appeal for information had brought
sightings of Laura and Ryan from Darwin to Tasmania and everywhere in between –
all no doubt, from well-intentioned citizens. So far every lead had proved
worthless. But then again, why risk fleeing interstate when a bolthole existed
closer to home? And darkness would have been the perfect cover.

She reached
Mansfield mid-morning. The town Laura had once described to her as the gateway
to the high country and the Mount Buller snowfields, swarmed with
four-wheel-drives, skis and snowboards strapped to their roofs. Ski and
snow-chain hire places were doing a brisk trade. Likewise the many cafés, the
inclement weather evidently no deterrent to the scores of rugged-up visitors
supping hot drinks outside. A large ruddy-faced man, his foot and ankle in a
cast, struggled with a pair of crutches as he tried to cross the street.

Stopping only
long enough to stretch her legs, buy a takeaway coffee and check her roadmap,
she continued on her way, turning right off the Mount Buller Road just out of
town. Her face still tingled from her short time outside, the concentrated
warmth from the car heater thawing the exposed skin. Although she felt sure the
tip of her nose glowed like a beacon, she felt strangely invigorated. Perhaps
there was some merit in the Finnish tradition of rolling naked in the snow
after a sauna, after all. Or maybe it was more to do with the close proximity
to her destination.

But what or who
did she expect to find when she got there? Best case, but highly unlikely,
scenario: Laura and Ryan, alive and well and oblivious to the turmoil they had
left behind, enjoying an unexpected lovers’ getaway. Worst case: Ryan holding
Laura prisoner. Or an empty holiday cottage.

The steeper the
terrain became, the more stunted the eucalypts. A road sign warning of
kangaroos and wombats for the next fifteen kilometers kept her focused on the
narrow winding road ahead.

She soon
reached the tiny settlement of Howqua Inlet, slowing the Peugeot to a crawl as
she endeavored to recognize the collective of mailboxes that marked the road to
the cottage. Every corner had one, but as eclectic as they were, they all
looked the same to her.

She thumped the
steering wheel. “Shit!” Thwarted before she had started. Had she seriously
thought that after three years she would recall which of the motley collection
of mailboxes was the correct one?
But
, she reassured herself,
my
memory isn’t so hazy that I don’t remember the cottage
.

Hoping the
owner hadn’t painted it, she cruised down each road in turn, on the lookout for
a rustic cedar cottage, partially obscured from the road by trees and dense
shrubbery near the end of a no exit road. The construction was as diverse as
she imagined the residents were who made their homes in the rusting caravans,
corrugated iron sheds, fibro shacks, timber cottages, roughcast and brick
houses. Individuality. She liked that.

Then she
spotted it, a flutter of achievement lifting her spirits. Except for the even
denser tunnel of trees, it looked exactly as she remembered it: weathered
cedar, unpainted iron roof, small frosted window facing the road, dilapidated
stand-alone garage, no fence but set well back from the road. Memories of the
two weeks she had spent there licking her wounds, so to speak, came hurtling
back.

When her whole life
seemed to be disintegrating around her, Laura had been the one person who had
reached out to her, offering her much needed moral and emotional support. She
had been the one there in the aftermath of Trent’s betrayal and desertion,
helping her to pick up the pieces. Even in the wee small hours when the hurt
and loneliness seemed magnified a hundred-fold, her friend would think nothing
of abandoning her warm bed to support her through the worst of it. Friends like
Laura were rare.

Then, like an
answer to a prayer, Laura had suggested Desley escape for a while. “Give that
poor damaged self-esteem of yours some quiet time to heal.” She even knew of
the perfect place: a holiday cottage located only a short stroll to the shores
of Lake Eildon and the Howqua River, owned by a friend of a friend. All Desley
had to take were the food supplies, and in return, all Laura asked for was a
phone call at least every third day — even though she had to drive back into
Mansfield to do it.

At the time,
Desley had been too immersed in self-pity to ask questions. Now, gazing through
the car window at the property, she wondered about the identity of the friend.
Why hadn’t Laura mentioned a name? Maybe she had.

What does it
really matter now?
Desley thought, as she did a
U-turn and parked on the road edge opposite a tumbledown but rather quaint
weatherboard house, the drawn blinds and curtains advertising its emptiness.
Except
of course, if the friend of the friend no longer owned the cottage
.

Out of the car,
she stretched skyward, uncramping her tight muscles. Her buttocks and legs
continued to vibrate in what felt like a road version of that strange sensation
of still being aboard a boat even after disembarking. She took a deep breath,
replacing the stuffy air in her lungs with the crisp country air. The rich,
organic sweetness of decaying leaf litter intermingled with the fresh
eucalyptus scent, and for one delicious moment she forgot her purpose for being
there.

She looked
around her, suddenly self-conscious, as if unseen eyes were following her every
move. “I’ll just add paranoia to the list,” she muttered to herself, rolling
her shoulders backwards to ease the tension. She clapped her hands together.
“Right!” she said, her voice echoey and louder than she intended in the open.

Gravel crunched
under her boots as sticking to the verge, she made her way toward the end of
the road. Glancing back over her shoulder, she wondered whether it had been
prudence or paranoia that had caused her to park her car for a quick exit.
Except for a charge of trespassing, what did she have to fear?

From across the
road, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, she surveyed the cottage. No smoke
rose from the chimney nor was there any sign of movement, but the potbellied
stove wasn’t the only source of heat and with only one small window visible
from the road, the retreat had obviously been designed with privacy in mind.
The closed garage doors, too, could easily conceal a vehicle.

Before she
could have second thoughts, she strode across the road, past the garage and
around the corner of the cottage to the back porch. She opened the rickety
flyscreen-door, its hinges groaning as it swung outward. Rapping her knuckles
hard against the solid-timber back door, she wondered again what had possessed
her to take off without telling anyone where she was going. Her idea of not
wanting to involve the police in something that might turn out to be nothing
more than a wild goose chase seemed less rational by the second.

Sure, she had
detailed her hunch and intended movements in an email to Fergus, timing
delivery of it for 24 hours later in the theory she would be home well in time
to stop it. Some safeguard, though, if between now and then she were to come
face-to-face with the arsonist, a person who had already shown no compunction
when it came to taking a human life.
At least they’ll know where to start
looking for my body
, she thought drily, as she raised her fist to knock
again.

Pressing her
ear against the door, she listened for approaching footsteps, for a running
shower, for a toilet flushing, or for any indication someone was inside. All
she heard was the sound of her own blood resounding in her ears. Her teeth
chattered as hugging herself and stomping her feet, she turned her back to the
door.

Staring out
across the long, dry grass and scrubby trees to the hills, she didn’t know
whether she should feel relieved. Foolhardiness or not, she was still no nearer
to finding Laura and Ryan. She shivered and pulled her jacket in tighter.

She turned back
to the door. Convincing herself it wouldn’t be breaking and entering if she had
a key, she decided that if by some chance the key was still in the same place
it had been when she had stayed there, she would check inside. If not, she
would leave and re-evaluate her options.