Sleight Malice (13 page)

“Please,” Helen
said, gesturing at one of the two green high-backed armchairs. “Can I get you
anything? Tea or coffee perhaps?”

Desley opened
her mouth to decline, but then decided sticking with polite convention might be
less awkward. “Lovely, thank you,” she said, aghast as she heard herself
uttering her mother’s words.

With Helen out
of the room, Desley took the opportunity to study a framed photograph hanging
on the wall next to the Ikea-style modular corner unit containing the TV and
stereo. Although Helen had changed her hair color, lost weight and aged a bit
since, Desley recognized her straight away. Next to her, his right arm wrapped
around his wife’s shoulders, sat a beaming dark-haired man. The camera had
caught their two young sons, both under five-years-old Desley guessed,
mid-chuckle. A happy loving family, without a care in the world. Not then
anyway.

Helen returned
bearing a blue plastic tray complete with a steaming plunger of coffee, two
chunky red mugs, and matching sugar bowl and milk jug. “I’m not sure how I can
help you,” she said, setting her load on the coffee table. “As I said on the
phone, I haven’t heard from my husband in months. The last time was when he
turned up here drunk on Jasper’s – our youngest – birthday. Paul could barely
stand and he stunk.” She lowered her gaze, tears welling in her eyes. “I sent
him away. I couldn’t let the kids see him like that. I don’t know where he went
when he left.”

“But you know
him better than anyone else. Do you think he’s capable of physically harming
another person?”

“Not the Paul I
knew. I used to call him my teddy bear.” Helen’s gaze drifted to the photo on
the wall. “But he’s not the same man anymore.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Not
after what that bastard did to him.”

“I know how
hard this must be for you,” Desley said, sitting forward in her chair, “but can
you tell me how Paul got involved with Ryan Moore in the first place?”

Helen pushed
the plunger down on the coffee pot and poured two cups before answering. “Paul
was just trying to provide us, his family, with a future. He’d always wanted to
be his own boss. We had some savings but not enough to buy all the equipment he
needed to get started. He couldn’t afford to go it alone. That’s when he came
up with the idea of advertising for a partner.

“Unfortunately
for us, Ryan Moore was the only person to show any interest. Not only did he
promise the extra capital, he conned Paul into thinking he knew everything
there was to know about running a successful graphic design and print business.
I know Paul isn’t entirely blameless, but Ryan preyed on his naivety. Paul
trusted people; he was always looking for the good in them. He would’ve signed
anything Ryan put in front of him, especially if it meant him realizing his
dream.”

“Is there any
place, any friends, any relatives where Paul might be staying?”

Helen shook her
head. “I’m not protecting him, if that’s what you think,” she said, twiddling
the gold band on her wedding finger. “If you do manage to track him down,
please call me. If only to tell me he’s okay.”

“Of course,”
Desley said, confident Helen knew nothing about her ex-husband’s whereabouts.
“It would help to have a photo of him.”

Kneeling on the
carpet, Helen retrieved a bulky dark brown album from the bottom of the
three-shelf bookcase near the window. She flipped it open, removed a photo from
one of the back pages and handed it to Desley.

“Thank you,”
Desley said, “I’ll scan this and get it back to you as soon as possible.” She
didn’t even know what had possessed her to ask for the photo. For all she knew,
Paul Escott had nothing to do with the dead man or Laura and Ryan’s
disappearance. But the more pieces she could gather, the better.

Helen returned
the album to the bookcase. “If you can believe in karma, your friend is going
to be all right. Ryan deserves everything coming to him, but Laura’s a good
person, a real person. I like her.”

Had Desley’s
ears deceived her? “I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I didn’t realize you and Laura
knew each other.”

“Why, yes,”
Helen said, standing. “About five or six months ago she just turned up. She
wanted to make amends for Ryan, help undo some of the damage, she said. She
wanted to pay for a residential alcohol rehabilitation treatment for Paul, and
offered to put money in trust for the boys’ education. I don’t know why she
felt she had to – it all happened before her time.”

“Well, did you
accept her offer?” Desley asked, perturbed not by Laura’s generosity, but by
the realization she hadn’t been privy to all of Laura’s dealings as much she
thought she had.

“No, not at
first. But she was really insistent and as she said, I couldn’t begrudge the
boys a decent education because of my stupid pride. I told her I couldn’t
answer for Paul though, and she would have to talk to him about the
rehabilitation treatment.”

Still reeling
from the news about Laura, Desley asked Helen a few more questions, probing but
not learning anything else of interest.

When a muddied
Jasper and his older brother, Dylan, arrived home, Desley took it as her cue to
leave. She said her goodbyes and headed back to her car. She had more than
enough to think about.

Her hand
touched the Peugeot’s door handle. She froze, her breath catching in her
throat. Was she being watched? Did the police have her under surveillance,
thinking or hoping she would lead them to Laura and Ryan? In slow motion, she
turned around, her scalp tightening as she scanned the street for life. A white
station wagon backing out of a driveway near the street corner was the only
movement she saw. Even the curtain-twitcher at number 56 had vacated his or her
post.

She exhaled,
took another deep breath and opened the car door. Her imagination was getting
away on her. Too many cop shows. Even so, she couldn’t resist checking the back
seat before getting in.

She jumped into
the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed behind her. She jabbed the
central-locking button and heard the satisfying clunk of the door locks
engaging. With a sigh, she leaned back in the seat. Would she be forever
looking over her shoulder, spooked by her own shadow? What had happened to life
as she knew it? The one where bad things only happened to people she didn’t
know.

Alert and on
the lookout for anything amiss, she headed for home. For the first couple of
blocks, she drove not much faster than idling speed, checking for occupants in
the parked cars on both sides of the street. Nothing.

She only gave
up glancing at her side and rear view mirrors every few seconds when she hit
the Tullamarine Freeway. Although the lanes of traffic would be perfect cover
for anyone tailing her, sticking to the back streets would’ve left her too
vulnerable. Besides, she wanted to get home.

Thirty minutes
later, she pulled into her driveway, her head still abuzz with why Laura would
feel responsible, or at least the need to atone, for Ryan’s past actions. Why
hadn’t Laura said anything? And where was the money coming from? Laura and Ryan
rented their home, never splurged on expensive overseas holidays and were
generally careful with their income. The four-wheel-drive had been their one
extravagance, and Ryan had taken out a loan for that.

Desley entered
the house via the garage, hearing Brandon’s voice as she neared the kitchen.

“I’m telling
you it’s not right. If you don’t tell her, I will…”

Parked in his car on the opposite
side of the street, he watched Trent as he laid a large red bouquet of what
Fergus guessed were roses on the roof of his silver Mazda RX8 coupe. He shook
his head; the gall of the guy. Trouble was he wasn’t sure Desley would see it
that way.

He caught up
with Trent on the doorstep. “For me?” he said, getting in first. “Oh, you
shouldn’t have.”

Trent scowled
at him. “Piss off. Who invited you anyway?”

“Now let me
see. Was it your ex-wife,” he said, the emphasis on ex, “or was it your
ex-brother-in-law?”

Before Trent
could respond, the front door opened, the ex-brother-in-law in question, naked
except for the pink towel wrapped around his hips. A matching towel hung from
one hand. “Isn’t Desley the popular one today?” Brandon said with a laugh. “For
God’s sake come in. It’s too bloody cold to stand around chatting on the
doorstep.” Toweling his wet hair, he ambled toward the stairs. “Hey, Sis,” he
yelled, “you’ve got visitors.”

“Coming,”
called Desley’s muffled voice from upstairs.

“Now if you
will excuse me.” With a gleeful smirk, Brandon disappeared into the bathroom,
leaving Fergus alone to contend with the bristling Trent.

“How’s Selena?
Still at her parents?” Fergus asked.

Trent’s eyes
narrowed. Jutting his chin out, he turned his back on Fergus and stationed
himself at the bottom of the stairs, the ribboned bouquet of roses clutched in
front of him.

“Something I
said?”

Trent rounded
on him. “What is your problem?”

“I’m not the
one with a problem. I asked after your fiancée’s welfare, that’s all.” Fergus
heard the bouquet’s cellophane wrapping crackle and stepped backwards out of
striking range. No point in ruining perfectly good roses.

“Is this a
private party, or can anyone join?”

Fergus jumped.
He hadn’t seen Desley come down the stairs and from the hangdog expression on
Trent’s face, nor had he.

“These,” Trent
said, thrusting the flowers at Desley, “are to say thank you for being so
understanding the other day.”

Yeah right
, Fergus thought.
You mean now that the love of your life is
pregnant with another man’s baby, you realize what a big mistake you made in
leaving your wife
.

Desley
contemplated the flowers for an age, making Fergus wish he could read her mind.

When she made
no move to take them, Trent said, “I’ll put them in water for you,” and headed
toward the kitchen.

The bathroom
door opened and Brandon emerged, barefoot and wearing jeans, his damp hair
combed back from his forehead. “Now that I’m respectable, what’s the goss?” he
asked, releasing a mouthful of minty breath.

Fergus glanced
at Desley. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve told him everything. If I can’t trust
my own kid brother, who can I trust?”

While Desley’s
ex-husband banged cupboard doors in the kitchen, evidently unable to find a
vase, Fergus filled Desley and her brother in on progress. Or rather lack
thereof.

“Not much to
report, I’m afraid,” he said, keeping his voice low. “So far, they’ve scoured
every piece of the airport’s security footage for the time around when the
rubbish bins in the men’s toilets were emptied, and 24 hours either side. And
unless they were in disguise or avoiding all the cameras, which is virtually
impossible, then neither Laura Noble nor Ryan Moore were at the airport. That
then brings us to Ryan’s mobile phone. Even though the only fingerprints on it
belonged to Ryan and the man who found it, it seems unlikely Ryan was
responsible for dumping it there.”

“So where to
from here?” Brandon asked.

Fergus sighed.
“To be honest, I don’t know. But one thing I am sure of is that Grant… DI
Buchanan,” he added for Brandon’s benefit, “is a tenacious bastard. He won’t
give up easily, regardless of how cold the trail is.”

“Maybe so,”
Desley said, “but whoever is behind this isn’t stupid. Hell, far from it.
Regardless of whether it’s a ruse, wild goose chase or some sort of sick game,
they’ve had the police running around like blue-arsed flies.”

“Yes, and that
could be their undoing,” Fergus said, catching sight of Trent leaning in the
doorway.

“I bloody well
hope so! Then the cops can get off my back,” Trent said, positioning himself
between Fergus and Desley.

“What do you
expect when you give false alibis?”

Trent grunted.
“I’ve already explained that, you dumb prick,” he said, turning away from
Fergus to whisper something in Desley’s ear.

“Doesn’t
matter.” Fergus glared at the back of Trent’s head. “Do you really expect the
police to take the word of someone who’s already proved he’s untrustworthy?”

Trent swung
around, the tremor evident in his clenched fists. “Look here—”

“Whoa!” Brandon
stepped in slicing the air like a referee at a boxing match. “Timeout.”

Desley tugged
at Trent’s shirtsleeve and gave him a shove. “Kitchen. I’ll deal with you
later.”

Trent sauntered
off without a murmur, flashing a supercilious grin at Fergus before
disappearing into the other room.

“Give me half
an hour,” Desley said, her hand on the back of Fergus's arm as she propelled
him in the direction of the door. “Brandon and I were just going to the pub.
Why don’t you join us?” She gave him an impish grin and whispered, “No Trent, I
promise.”

The door closed
behind him. Pulling his collar up around his neck, he strode down the path and
across the street to his car, only pausing to take stock once he was out of the
chill wind. Although the streetlights had come on, it wasn’t yet dark enough
for them to have any real effect.