Limbo (8 page)

She wasn’t someone who was naturally drawn to churches. In fact for someone who’d spent a lot of her time around the dead and had witnessed numerous funerals, Joy wasn’t sure about the whole God thing at all.

No, it was the architecture that drew her.

Well that and the very good impersonation of Angus Young that was going on inside.

From the red brick of its facade to the black of the slate roof tiles, from the multi-pitched roofline to the unusual turrets that bracketed the enormous entranceway and the massive wooden doors that graced it, it looked more medieval castle than a place of worship.

There was just something dark and gothic about it that tugged at her.

Joy stepped inside tentatively, the grungy guitar notes surrounding her now as they filled the grand space soaring up to the vaulted ceiling, somehow gaining a level of purity before pushing back down around her.

A guy with floppy blonde hair stood near the altar in blue jeans and a t-shirt, his guitar strapped to his chest, his feet bare.

The fingers of his left hand madly moved over the frets, while the fingers of his right struck the strings with a pick. A massive pipe organ formed the backdrop behind him and his face was raised, his eyes shut as if he was communing with a higher power.

Or a lower one.

Either way he was completely absorbed, utterly lost in the sound. And Joy knew
exactly
how he felt as it pulsed in her chest and thrummed through her blood.

A sudden beam of sunlight slanted through the high windows behind spewing light onto him and the altar like some heavenly spotlight, making his hair glow, halo-like. He looked like an angel.

Playing the devil’s music.

She moved silently along the black-and white-mosaic tiles that made up the floor and sat in the very back pew and just listened. The acoustics in the old church were amazing, transforming the anarchic rock of AC/DC into something almost divine. She’d never heard such an unholy anthem sound so sweet.

A movement in her peripheral vision startled her and she glanced over to see a middle-aged man with a greying ponytail, a black Def Leppard shirt and a big kick-ass jewel-encrusted cross hanging around his neck. He smiled at her.

He was either the minister or a serial killer.

‘My son,’ he said, cocking his head towards guitar-boy, his voice raised to be heard over the heavy metal, ‘he has a sense of humour, no?’

Joy smiled. ‘It’s not what you typically expect to hear in a church.’

The man slid into the pew in front of her and half turned so he was facing her. ‘He’s good though, yeah?’

‘
Hell
yeah,’ Joy agreed.

He laughed at her rather unholy reply. ‘You play?’ he asked.

‘I do.’

‘You local?’

‘I am.’

‘You ever need a place to practice you’re welcome here. Lance tells me the acoustics are
rad
.’

‘Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.’

He put out his hand. ‘I’m Stan Wellington.’

Joy slid her hand into his. ‘Joy,’ she said and they shook. ‘You the preacher?’

‘Yep,’ he said, withdrawing his hand.

‘You don’t look much like a preacher.’

‘Yeh,’ he grinned, completely unperturbed. ‘I get that a lot.’

‘I take it Lance is responsible for
Who’s Your Daddy?’

‘Ah,’ he grinned. ‘You like that?’

‘I do.’

‘Well thank you. It was me.’

Joy laughed. ‘That’s not very reverent…Reverend? Father? I don’t know what to call you.’

He waved a hand at her. ‘Stan’s fine. You don’t think God’s got a sense of humour, Joy? You think I’m going to be smote?’

Joy laughed again at his apparent unconcern for any good old-fashioned smiting his boss might be ready to dish out. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it but he doesn’t strike me as a laugh-a-minute kind of guy.’

‘I would say looking at the state of the world today, a sense of humour is a major job requirement for the position of God, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah…I guess…’

Her gaze was drawn to Lance again as she pondered the strange conversation. Joy had been involved in her fair share of bizarre conversations in her life —
really bizarre
— but this one topped them all. Talking theology with a minster of the cloth who looked more like a bikie as sinful electric guitar music wrapped around them was one for the record books.

‘Do you believe in spirits, Stan?’ Joy asked after a while. Lance didn’t show any signs of letting up and it seemed like a safe question to ask with the music needling the air around them, drowning out convention.

He glanced at her. ‘Of course. I believe in that head honcho, the Holy Spirit.’

‘No.’ Joy shook her head. ‘I mean…ghosts.’

He held her gaze. ‘Nope. But I’m sure there’s lots of things in life I will never understand.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Something troubling you, Joy?’

Joy thought about Hailey. About her husband Martin and her mother Val, visiting on Sunday. Their palpable grief and devastation at seeing Hailey, then overhearing Val say to her son-in-law, ‘Tell me you didn’t do this.’

Hearing his shocked gasp. His shocked, ‘I loved her. You
know
I loved her. I would never do this to
anyone
let alone the woman I loved.’

Seeing in her face that Val wanted to believe him but just didn’t know what to think any longer.

Joy had believed him on Sunday. She’d believed his grief yesterday at the funeral when his face was flashed onto every television set in the country. And surely if he’d been guilty of this elaborate scheme to murder his wife and abduct his daughter then Hailey would have named him when she made her appearance the other day?

She wouldn’t have mentioned a
they.
She wouldn’t have said she wanted Isabella back with her father.

‘Yes.’ Joy nodded her head. ‘But I think I need more…practical than theological help.’

She’d go see Dash this afternoon after work.

Stan shrugged. ‘Right you are. But any time I can be of assistance…you know where to find me.’

Joy smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m afraid I’m not much of a believer though.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to convert you. I’m not here to convert anyone. God didn’t send me to the Basin to preach, he sent me to the Basin to help people. Feed the hungry, house the homeless. That kind of thing.’

‘A true calling, huh?’

‘Something like that,’ he smiled.

‘Where did you come from?’

‘We’ve been in Sydney.’

‘What religion are you? I notice out the front it says multi-denominational.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I used to be Anglican but I was a little…’

His gaze drifted to Lance, lost in the music, and Joy thought again about the irreverent sign outside. ‘Unorthodox?’

He laughed then. ‘Yes. I was a little more interested in helping people than church protocols so I was…asked to leave.’

Joy raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘No,’ he grinned. ‘Not very. But I’m still a man of God, and when God tells you to pack up and move to the Basin, that’s what you do.’

‘So…you just…bought this church? Are you some kind of millionaire as well?’

Stan laughed. ‘No. The money came from a bunch of different religious and community organisations and some government grant money. There’s also been a couple of big philanthropic donations that helped seal the deal.’

‘It sounds like you have friends in high places,’ Joy murmured, despite the musical accompaniment hinting at friends in
low
places.

‘Not really. There are people out there with money that believe they should be doing good with it in whatever form that takes. Lucky for me they’ve been willing to back my vision of a church welcome to all and dedicated to social equity.’

‘Not a lot of that going on around these parts,’ she mused.

‘Then I’ll have plenty to do,’ he smiled.

She smiled back.
Oh yeah
. Stan was going to be run off his feet.

Joy stood. She was reluctant to leave with Lance still going hell for leather at the guitar strings but she was going to be late if she didn’t leave now. ‘Well good luck with that. It was nice meeting you. I might just bring my guitar by one day and have a jam session with Lance.’

‘I hope you do,’ he said, also standing. ‘Churches should be filled with music.’

‘Even AC/DC?’

He grinned. ‘Even AC/DC.’

‘Well, don’t get too carried away,’ she grimaced. ‘It’s been a long time since I set foot in a church. It’ll probably fall down around my ears.’

He looked around at the building, chuckling. ‘It’s still standing, isn’t it?’

Joy nodded. That was probably a miracle in itself.

***

Dash had his feet up on the desk later that day and was perusing the
Courier Mail
when Joy opened the door. She didn’t bother knocking.

Not many people did. It was that kind of joint. Easy come, easy go.

‘Did you see the news just now?’ she said, not bothering with a hello either, just marching inside in her black skinny jeans, a zombie t-shirt and a jumper tied at her waist, trailing down the back of her legs. She threw herself down in the chair opposite him and her pink fringe brushed against her cheek.

Dash glanced up from the newspaper. There wasn’t a lot of easy come about her today. ‘Yes.’

She glared at him. ‘They’ve arrested him?’

‘Yes.’

She frowned, that little v between her eyes telegraphing her displeasure. It reminded him of the time it had been all ironed out in throes of
pleasure
but that was probably an inappropriate thought to be having right now.

His dick disagreed. It had no sense of propriety.

It was kind of a dick like that.

‘Well?’ she demanded, folding her arms. The t-shirt pulled very nicely across her breasts. Not even the zombie printed there with human flesh hanging from its mouth could make them less appealing.

Man.
He really needed to get laid.

‘What are we going to do about it?’

He went back to perusing the paper. ‘
We’re
not going to do anything. You went to the cops with the information you had. And now they’ve made their arrest.’

‘He didn’t do it.’

‘Oh? Did Hailey slip you some more clues today?’

‘Hailey was
buried
yesterday so I really don’t think we’re going to be able to count on her input anymore.’

‘Do they stop…appearing when they’re buried?’ he asked, looking up from the paper.

She shot him an exasperated look. ‘I don’t know. This hasn’t happened to me before.
I don’t know the rules
.’ She glared at him some more and he waited patiently for her next salvo. The v was still there so he figured she had more to say.

‘Did you ring Baz yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

He shrugged again returning his attention to the paper. ‘They were looking into it.’

‘And then they arrested Martin.’

‘Yes.’

‘So…they’re not going to look into anything else now, are they? Not with someone on the hook.’

He looked up at her. ‘You watch too many TV cop shows.’

‘Am I wrong?’

Dash grimaced. ‘Probably not.’ He shifted his legs off the desk and stood. He needed coffee. So would she. Not for warmth. It wasn’t cold outside at the moment — a Brisbane winter was a glorious thing — with the mercury hovering at a very pleasant twenty-four. Hence, he supposed, her t-shirt and discarded jumper.

But he didn’t think he had the answers she was looking for. Coffee made bad news easier to swallow. As far as he was concerned, coffee made everything easier.

He poured two cups and passed her one. He resumed his seat. ‘You know…’ He shoved his hand into his hair. ‘Unless there’s evidence to the contrary, it
is
usually the partner in these situations.’

‘There
is
evidence to the contrary.’

‘I mean
real
evidence. Tangible evidence. Not anything woo-woo.’

‘God.’ She shook her head at him. ‘You’re such a cop.’

Dash blinked. She said it with such venom he was left in no doubt she’d had some experience with the boys in blue. And it hadn’t been good.

‘I’m sorry…I know how they think. And besides, I worked homicide for years and it was
absolutely
my experience that nine times out of ten the partner is the perpetrator.’

‘It’s
not
him. And
they
still have Isabella and I can’t sit around and do nothing. If you’re not going to help a dead woman
and
her missing but still very much alive little girl, something
you of all people
should be able to relate to
and
a man who is up on charges for a crime he didn’t commit, then I guess I’ll just have to investigate myself.’

Dash snorted. ‘And how are you going to go about that?’

‘I’ll go to the library and get a book,’ she snapped, two spots of colour riding high in her cheeks, her eyes flashing.

The exact way she’d looked three years ago when they’d gone for it against the wall right behind her head. Dash kept his gaze firmly trained on her.

Do not look at the wall, man!

‘P.I. for Dummies?’ he asked, quashing the persistent image as he tried hard to derail a libido that seemed to have a one-track mind whenever Joy was around.

‘If it helps.’

She was breathing hard now and that really wasn’t good for his peace of mind.

‘Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad,’ he grouched, annoyed at himself as he remembered those breathy little pants of hers as she’d come hard and fast. They echoed loudly through his head now —
very unhelpfully
— as if it had just happened.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you just said that. That’s disgusting.’

‘The panties, the wad or the pure and utter flippant sexism of the statement?’ Dash pretty much figured he’d transgressed on several fronts.

‘The panties.’

‘You don’t like the term?’

‘Sure…if you’re a paedophile.’

‘That’s a paedophile thing?’

Joy rolled her eyes. ‘Ahh yeah…show us your panties little girl and I’ll give you a lolly.’