Sleight Malice (9 page)

“Your Mr James
is in the living room,” he said, going to Desley’s rescue. “And good luck –
you’ll need it.”

He put an arm
out to stop Desley following the detectives, ushering her to the other end of
the kitchen instead. “Not yet. They’ll want to talk to him first without you…”
He corrected himself. “…us present. Besides, I’ve found you learn more
eavesdropping. If we hinder Grant and Kim at this stage, they’ll just take
Trent to the station and then we’ll really be in the dark. Do you want that?”

Shaking her
head, she crept with him to a position where they couldn’t be seen by, or see,
those in the living room. His pulse quickened at the light spicy overtones of
her perfume as she stood, her body almost touching him. Her warm fingertips
brushed the back of his hand and for a moment, all he heard was the thudding of
his own heart.

Oblivious to
the effect of her close proximity on him, she leaned forward, her left ear
cocked. He swallowed, straightening his body and stretching the distance
between them. He forced himself to focus on the voices coming from the other
room.

“I had to say
something. If I hadn’t, I would still be sitting in that bloody room answering
your incessant questions over and over. There’s only so much a man can take. An
innocent one at that…”

“Mr James –
Trent – telling us what you think we want to hear doesn’t help anyone. Least of
all you.” Kim’s voice stayed low but in control.

Fergus heard a
sigh and assumed it was from Trent. “What the hell do you want me to tell you
then?”

“How about
starting with your whereabouts and movements on the night of 30
^th
June
this year, the night of the Lydia Street fire? The truth this time, please.”

“What’s the
point? You’re not going to believe me anyway.”

“Try us.”

“I was at home
alone, in bed and fast asleep. Satisfied? No, I thought not.”

“Can anyone
verify that?”

Silence.

“I’m trying to
help you here, Trent. Work with me. Where was your fiancée? You do live
together, right?”

“Do we? You
tell me.” Another sigh. “She could’ve been in Timbuktu for all I know. The
story she fed me was she was going on a girls’ night out and she would crash at
one of her friend’s places for the night. Ask her.”

“Did you take
any phone calls at home that night?”

“Not that I
remember. See, I told you it was pointless. Why don’t you just stick the
handcuffs on now and get it over with?”

Fergus grabbed
Desley as she lunged forward, about to burst into the living room. She looked
at his hand wrapped tight around her arm, then up at his face, her eyes wide.
He shook his head. “Wait,” he mouthed.

“And wait for
him to confess to something he didn’t do?” she whispered.

Before he knew
it, she had slipped from his grasp.

“Coffee
anyone?” she announced loudly from the doorway.

Grant gave her
a dirty look, but continued speaking. “…let’s move onto this morning then.
Besides Desley, do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts since 8
p.m. last night?”

“What the fuck
are you on about?” A vein pulsed above Trent’s left eye, his face beyond red.
He stood up. “What unsolved crime are you trying to pin on me now? Don’t you
think if I had known I would need an alibi, I would’ve made damned sure I had
one?”

“Please sit
down, Mr James. Or perhaps you would prefer to continue this at the station.”

Like a sullen
schoolboy, Trent hesitated for a few seconds before he saw the error of his
ways. Desley’s couch had to be a better proposition to the austere and
impersonal environs of a police interview room. Slouched on the couch, his open
legs at odds with his crossed arms, he looked across the room at Desley.

Returning his
gaze, her eyes sent out a message in a code Fergus didn’t understand. A lover’s
language that only they understood? Was it possible that despite her
protestations, Desley still loved her cheating ex-husband? Or was it something
deeper? A secret they both shared?

She scraped the tarry, black
spread across the thick slice of wholemeal bread and dropped it into the
toaster. The strong smell of roasted Vegemite soon filled the kitchen.
Breakfast Desley style.

Starting with
an appetizer of two women’s multivitamins, she waited for the toast to pop and
the coffee machine to heat. She needed the boost. Her mother wouldn’t have
approved, but the last thing on Desley’s mind had been eating properly. Sleep
hadn’t figured high on her priority list either.

Not that she
hadn’t tried. Most nights she lay awake in her bed, staring into the darkness.
Her body craved sleep, but her overburdened mind refused to co-operate. Her
frustration with the police over their apparent lack of progress in the
investigation didn’t help.

And why had she
nearly gouged Fergus’s eyes out when he intimated that when it came to her
ex-husband her judgment might be clouded?
Perhaps
, she told herself,
because
it’s closer to the truth than you’re willing to admit
.

The toaster
popped. She juggled the hot toast onto a plate, leaving it to cool before she
buttered it.

Yawning, she
rested against the granite bench, her elbows propped on the chill surface. Her
head drifted down until it rested in her hands. Horses could sleep standing up;
perhaps she should give it a go. She closed her eyes.

A jarring peal
immediately dismissed all concept of sleep from her mind. Groaning, she trudged
off to see who the inconsiderate person ringing her doorbell was.
God help
you, Trent, if it’s you
, she thought irritably. It had taken her long enough
the evening before, after the police had released him, to get rid of him.

“You do believe
me, don’t you, Des?” he had asked as she pushed him out the door.

“Yes, yes, yes.
Now go home. You need your beauty sleep. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

“God, you can’t
think I’m the only person with a grudge against Ryan—”

“Bye, Trent.
Don’t keep your taxi driver waiting.” Before he could object, she had shut the
door, closing him and the night out.

For all she
knew, he had spent the intervening hours passed out on her doorstep, only now
waking cold and hungry, but she doubted it. More than likely, he’d snored his
way through the night in the comfort of his own home, if not his bed. And
knowing him, he was back at her door nursing a massive hangover, looking for
painkillers and more sympathy. Neither of which she had any left to give.

Hardening her
resolve not to let the man inveigle his way back into the house, she threw the
door open, a few terse words at the ready.

“Fergus!”

He handed her a
bulging brown paper bag. “I promised you breakfast from Bert’s, and breakfast
from Bert’s it is.” Shoving his hands into the deep side-pockets of his bulky
tan-and-black windcheater, he produced a jar of jam from his right and a tub of
butter from the other. “I came prepared.”

Desley didn’t
know what to say. Thinking back, she vaguely remembered a mention of Bert’s and
something about breakfast. However, she didn’t recall them being in the same
sentence.

“I’m not too
early, am I?”

“Sorry,
Fergus,” she said, giving her head a quick shake in the hope it would
kick-start her thought processes. “I’m not quite with it this morning.”

His dark
eyebrows drew together. “Still not sleeping?”

“I’ll survive,”
she said, brushing off his concern with a smile, and at the same time feeling
secretly pleased that unlike Trent, he thought of others besides himself. Her
stomach gave a loud grumble.

He chuckled.
“Sounds like I arrived just in the nick of time.” He wiped his feet on the
doormat and stepped inside.

With him in
tow, she headed to the kitchen. She suddenly felt hungry, the warm yeasty aroma
escaping from the bakery bag in her hands making her mouth water.

Once there,
Fergus sniffed the air, took one look at her blistered and blackened slice of
toast and laughed. “What is that?”

“That
was
breakfast. Why don’t you make the coffee, while I organize plates and things?”
The nuances of Vegemite toast à la Desley would have to wait for another day.

In double quick
time, she set out the freshly baked brioche, raspberry jam and butter Fergus had
brought, together with plates, cutlery and even napkins on the beech breakfast
bar separating the kitchen and living room.

At the espresso
machine, Fergus frothed milk like a pro for his coffee. A man of hidden depths.
She wondered what else he could do.

He had an air
of quiet assurance about him, an understated strength. Caring yet strong. He
wasn’t needy like Trent. He didn’t constantly strive to be the centre of
attention. But underlying that, she had a sense he wasn’t being totally open
with her. What wasn’t he telling her? With everything that had happened, she
couldn’t deny he had been a godsend, but what was in it for him?

She didn’t
realize she had been staring until he winked. She felt her face redden and
quickly looked away.

“I also come
bearing news,” he said, sliding two steaming cups of coffee across the
breakfast bar.

Her heart
skipped a beat. Why hadn’t he said so sooner?

He climbed onto
the barstool next to her. “Sorry,” he said, reading her face, “it’s not to do
with Laura, not directly anyway. It’s about our fire victim. We can now rule
out the scenario of him being the arsonist. The autopsy showed no evidence of
carbon particles in his lungs or carbon monoxide in his blood, which means he
died before the fire started. Cause of death: blunt head trauma with skull
fractures. Definitely murder, I would say.”

Her head spun.
Was it possible he had been killed while Laura and she had sat supping wine a
couple of blocks away? Why? Who? “How long before the fire?”

Fergus shook
his head. “It’s hard to say. The fire did a good job of destroying evidence.
Don’t let your breakfast get cold.”

“Do they know
who he is yet?” she asked, pushing aside the plate Fergus had set in front of
her. She had lost her appetite somewhere between arson and murder. “Is there
any possibility it could be Ryan?”

“Only if he had
a hip replacement at some stage,” he said, helping himself to a brioche. “Did
he?”

“Not that I
know of. Laura never mentioned it.”

“I doubt it is
Ryan, but we’ll know for sure soon enough. With any luck, they should be able
to use the prosthesis manufacturer’s serial number to track the recipient’s
details.”

She watched him
break apart the sweet bread bun on his plate, then layer each side with
generous quantities of butter and jam. Being an ex-cop, talk of death and body
parts would be second nature to him; clearly it had no impact on his appetite.

He swallowed.
“You should eat. Need to keep up your strength and all that.”

“Yes, Mum.” He
was right, though.

Taking another
bite, he nodded at the plate of brioche. Raspberry jam oozed onto his fingers.
“Have you heard how Selena’s doing?”

“She’s
recuperating at her parents’ place, under the watchful eye of her mother, which
is probably a good thing. I don’t think Trent would be up to looking after her,
even if he was that way inclined.” Desley found herself picking at a brioche.

He nudged the
butter her way. “What’s happening with them, do you know?”

“Not really. I
can’t imagine Trent will want to play happy families. Even if it isn’t, as he
suspects, Ryan’s baby she’s carrying.”

“Any idea what
the connection is between the attack on Selena and the disappearance of your
friend, Laura?” he asked, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

She felt his
scrutiny, but couldn’t bring herself to look up. Was he gauging her reaction?
Did he think she knew more than she was letting on? She only wished she did.
Although she agreed it was all too much of a coincidence, she knew no more than
he did. Probably less. She shook her head.

“Besides you I
mean.”

Her head shot
up.

“Sorry. Let me
rephrase that. What I’m trying to determine is who else, besides yourself and
Trent, were acquainted with both Laura and Selena?”

She frowned at
him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Believe it or
not, I am on your side.”

“That’s not what
I’m referring to. This isn’t about sides. Think about it. Selena is a
receptionist with the same advertising company employing Ryan, who happens to
be Laura’s spouse. It’s also where Trent used to work and how he met Selena.
And although I’m sure Laura would’ve mentioned it if she had met my
ex-husband’s new wife-to-be, both would’ve at least known of the other. At the
last count, Geary and Associates employed over forty staff. Not to mention
their long list of clients.”