Folly's Child (28 page)

‘I believe. Some people have all the luck.'

‘Well maybe now a little of it will rub off on you. I told him all about you and what you are trying to do and he was very, very interested. Not only will he make sure his wife takes some of your stuff for the boutique, but also he might be persuaded to come up with some backing. And we're meeting him next week to discuss it.'

‘Meeting him where?'

‘At a plush restaurant in the West End. So you'll get at least one square meal out of it if nothing else. Beats baked beans and jacket potato, doesn't it?'

‘Yes – as long as …' Theresa broke off, biting her lip.

‘As long as what?'

‘I'm not sure. It just sounds too good to be true.'

‘Believe in yourself, my dear! It's confidence you lack these days. This could be your big break.'

‘Yes, I suppose it could,' Theresa said, and wondered why when she should be excited and enthusiastic she could feel nothing but a kind of creeping apprehension.

Darwin in the Wet.

Harriet had heard the expression without attaching much importance to it. Now the reality was inescapable and she wondered how anyone – even a fugitive – could live here from choice.

The moment the doors of the 727 had been opened the heat had rushed in to envelop her – damp, cloying heat not unlike a sauna. Rain was falling in a thick curtain from lowering grey skies and evaporating in clouds of steam the moment it touched the tarmac; any views of the town or the sea, the lush tropical vegetation or the sharp modern architect-designed buildings, were lost in it. Already her skin felt clammy and breathing was an effort. Harriet remembered hearing that shoes left in a cupboard could turn white with mildew after a couple of weeks in the Wet and now she believed it.

Steamy tropical Darwin – the back of beyond. From freezing in Paris, London and New York to sweltering in Sydney to practically
poaching
in Darwin, and all in the course of a few days! I must be mad, thought Harriet, irritable from lack of sleep and the long flight, wedged into the 727 beside Tom, who had taken the aisle seat to accommodate his long legs.

They had talked a little and dozed a little, picking at the food that came regularly with each leg of the journey – croissants, fresh and delicious, with orange juice and coffee between Sydney and Brisbane, more coffee and biscuits between Brisbane and Townsville, and a light lunch between Cairns and Darwin.

As the Boeing put down and took off again on each of the short hops Harriet tried to see something of the countryside but she could make little sense of it. Wide expanses of desecrated brown land that she imagined were lumber forests and saw mills, patches of lush green that might have been sugar cane, and the sea, deepest blue shading to green and brown like the land where it washed over the Great Barrier Reef. But from the air the perspectives were all wrong and the narrow aircraft windows and the grey jut of the wing restricted vision annoyingly and Harriet gave up the effort. Then they were descending into the misty greyness of Darwin, jostling through the small airport buildings and emerging into the steam bath outside. Everything was dripping though for the moment the rain had stopped, the buildings cascading rivulets onto the tarmac, the trees, their leaves hanging low with the weight of water, spraying down intermittent showers. Tom and Harriet took a taxi, Tom sitting beside the driver, Australian style, Harriet squashed into the back with her bag containing her camera balanced on her knees.

At Telford Top End they registered in a tiny reception office where they were given yet more coffee while they waited to be shown to their rooms – ground floor and motel style, very basic but bright and clean. Harriet dumped her things and crossed to look out of the French windows. They opened onto a swimming pool and she wondered if a dip might relax her and take some of the ache out of her limbs. But the rain had begun again, sheeting down onto the green water of the pool, and Harriet remembered that in any case she had no swimsuit with her.

She turned back to the room. The bed looked extremely inviting. Perhaps she would lie down for five or ten minutes before unpacking. She drew the curtains to shut out the greyness, turned back the yellow coverlet and threw herself face down on the pillows. Bliss! Until that moment Harriet had not realised how tired she was. Perhaps I should have taken off my dress, she thought. I'll scrunch it to glory and heaven knows if there is an iron in this place. But she simply could not be bothered to move.

Damn you, Greg Martin, I wonder if you know how close I am on your tail now? she thought.

And then without any warning, without any drifting or drowsing, she was asleep.

It was quite dark when she awoke. For a moment she lay frowning into the pillow wondering where she was and trying to fight her way through the clouds of cotton wool inside her head. As they cleared she sat up, jerking aside the curtains to let in some grey faded fight and looking at her watch. Seven thirty? No – it couldn't be! She couldn't have slept like that! But clearly she had, without moving an inch from the position she had fallen into. Her hair, damp with perspiration, was glued to the side of her face, which was furrowed by the creases of the pillow, and her dress, creased into a sunburst of irregular pleats, was also damp. What a mess! Angry with herself she set the jug kettle on the breakfast tray to boil and dunked a teabag in milk. Wake up – wake up! You're not here to waste time sleeping!

She dragged a comb through her damp hair and without bothering to change went out and knocked on the door of the neighbouring room. There was no reply. She knocked again, wondering if perhaps Tom O'Neill had fallen asleep too, but still there was no answering movement from inside the room. So – he must have gone out.

Harriet returned to her own room. The kettle was boiling. She poured water on to the teabag, started the shower running and peeled off her creased dress, checking the time again. She'd have a shower then ring Nick. He should be at the office by now and she ought to let someone know where she was in case there were any messages. The water felt good on her flushed skin and she washed her hair, taking longer about it than she intended. By the time she emerged wrapped in a lightweight cotton kimono her tea was cooling. She drank it whilst dialling direct international and Nick answered almost immediately.

‘Nick? It's me – Harriet.'

‘Harriet? Where are you?' There was a slight time lag between her speaking and his reply, otherwise he might have been in the next room instead of half a world away.

‘Darwin.'

‘Darwin? What the hell are you doing in Darwin?'

‘Trying to find Greg Martin. Tom O'Neill – he's investigating on behalf of the insurance company – seems to think he might be hiding away here.'

‘Tom O'Neill … isn't he the fellow who came to see you in London?'

‘Yes. We seem to be following the same leads but making progress in different directions so it seemed only sensible to pool resources and I persuaded him to let me tag along with him.'

‘Tag along? That doesn't sound like you, Harriet.'

‘Well there are places an official investigator can go that I'd have problems with.'

‘Yes, I suppose so.' Nick sounded faintly disgruntled. ‘But I thought you didn't like him. Arrogant and bullying, I thought you said.'

‘I'm beginning to see there's a place for behaving like that,' Harriet said. ‘And anyway because I'm making use of his pull doesn't mean I have to like him.' She was interrupted by a knock at the door. ‘Hang on a sec,' she said to Nick.

She crossed to the door and opened it. Tom O'Neill – talk of the devil. ‘Come in,' she said, suddenly overcome with an irrational fear that he might have overheard her. ‘ I'm on the telephone but I won't be a minute …' She returned to pick up the receiver, brushing aside her wet hair to nestle it against her ear. ‘I'd better not stay now, Nick, but I'm at the Telford Top End if anyone wants me. I'll ring again when I move on.'

‘Before you go, Harriet, those pictures of yours are sensational,' Nick said. ‘I'm running them in the May edition. I'd like to do a regular Harriet Varna feature, build you up with the readers, so don't waste too long scouting in the past. Or if you do, take your camera with you. I'll need the next set within the month if they are to go in the June issue.'

‘Oh Nick, I don't know if I can …'

‘You'd better if you don't want to waste a golden opportunity. This could be the break you've been waiting for.'

She bit her lip. He was right, of course, but just at the moment it was impossible to believe it had ever been that important to her.

‘I'll ring you, Nick.' She put the phone down and felt the familiar rush of guilt. She treated him badly, she knew. He had given her the chance she had wanted and she was throwing it back in his face just as she did with everything he offered her.

She turned to see Tom O'Neill looking at her and something in the depth of his gaze disconcerted her.

‘I'm afraid I've been asleep,' she said. ‘I suppose I've been through too many time zones in the past few days and I just crashed out.'

He smiled. It was rather a nice smile, she thought suddenly, and was surprised by her own admission.

‘Can't say I blame you. I feel much the same myself,' he said.

‘But you had more self-control.'

‘I wanted to get on with the job.'

‘So – where have you been?' she asked.

His eyes narrowed fractionally. How did you know I've been anywhere if you've been asleep? he was wondering. Aloud he said easily: ‘I've been to the offices of the firm of land developers I believe Greg Martin might be associated with.'

‘And what did you find out?'

‘From them, not a great deal. To describe them as close as a clam would be to compliment the clam. They are much much closer. But it makes me all the more certain we are on the right track. And I have one or two other avenues to explore.'

‘Such as?'

‘The young lady receptionist was not quite as hostile as the partner I saw. In fact I have high hopes of her. I'm taking her out for a drink this evening.'

‘Oh really.' She could not have explained the prickle of dismay but he heard it in her quick unguarded reply and smiled faintly.

‘Don't worry, we'll grab a bite to eat first. I wouldn't like to leave you to eat alone.'

‘There's no need for you to feel responsible for me,' Harriet said quickly. ‘ I'm quite used to looking after myself.'

‘I expect you are,' he agreed. ‘But Darwin is very much a man's town – not the most comfortable place for a woman alone. There's a bistro here, literally just around the corner – it's a part of the hotel. We might as well eat there. I'll pick you up in, say, fifteen minutes.'

He turned away, letting himself out, and Harriet could do nothing but shake her head in disbelief. How did Nick say she had described him? Arrogant and bullying? Perhaps that was a bit strong – after all he had a job to do. But
bossy
certainly. Very, very used to telling others what to do. And also undeniably attractive …

For a moment Harriet stared after him, deep in thought. Then she sighed, slipped out of her kimono and began to get dressed for dinner.

The bistro reminded Harriet of a saloon from an old black and white B movie western. A mirrored bar stretched the length of the room and the tables, great chunks of unvarnished wood, unadorned by cloths, sported white ring stains from the bases of innumerable beer glasses and the occasional cigarette burn. Service was equally basic – after choosing from the limited menu Tom and Harriet filtered through a narrow galley kitchen where chefs sweated over the glowing griddles to collect their steaks, and pile a selection of salads onto their platters. But the food was delicious, wholesome and plentiful, and for the first time in days Harriet attacked it ravenously.
Haute cuisine
was all very well but there was nothing quite like a char-grilled steak and a jacket potato oozing butter to resurrect a nagging appetite.

Carrying her plate back to the table Harriet realised for the first time what Tom had meant when he said Darwin was a man's town.

The bistro was almost exclusively a male preserve – apart from two women sitting with their men and matching them pint for pint and the barmaid – a pretty blonde in a low cut top and skimpy miniskirt – Harriet was the only woman in the place. All eyes swivelled to her in frank appreciation of her freshly washed hair bouncing against the nape of her neck, trim figure and long shapely legs displayed to advantage in her lemon-and-grey checked walking shorts. But Harriet was more aware of the look the barmaid aimed at Tom when he bought their drinks, flirting with him unashamedly, her mascara-smudged eyes teasing from behind her thick bleached blonde fringe. In a bar full of men it was no mean achievement to be so obviously favoured.

‘What do you think – the barmaid is English,' Tom said when he brought the drinks back to their table. ‘ Now isn't that just the last thing you'd expect in a way-out all-Australian place like this?'

‘So what is she doing here?' Harriet asked.

‘Working her way round the world. She's been out here six months, starting with relatives in Tasmania, then bumming all over Australia. She aims to go down to Queensland when the weather lets up a bit.'

‘Good for her.'

‘Even stranger is the fact she comes from Bristol. Wasn't that your mother's home?' His tone was still easy, conversational, but some sixth sense made her look up sharply and she caught him watching her, eyes narrowed speculatively.

‘Near there, yes,' she said, deliberately vague. ‘Tell me, did she say why on earth she chose to come to Darwin? Especially in the Wet? I'd have thought anyone with a grain of sense would have avoided it.'