Sleight Malice (18 page)

“Let me think
about it.” What was there to think about? Someone had threatened her life and
here she was worried about betraying confidences, not to mention being taken to
task for interfering in a police investigation. “There’s more. I went to see
Helen Escott on Saturday.”

“Are you
serious? You went to see Paul Escott’s estranged wife?”

“I had to do
something. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for the police to do their job.
Anyway, she opened up to me more than she would’ve the police.”

“What makes you
say that?”

Fergus listened
without interruption as she related what Helen had told her about Laura’s visit
and her offer to help out the Escotts financially.

“Stranger and
stranger,” Fergus said. “And you’re sure Laura never mentioned the Escotts?”

“It’s not
something I would’ve thought I would’ve forgotten. I’m as perplexed as you are.
What are you doing?” She could hear what sounded like drawers or cupboards
being opened and closed.

“Looking for
Grant’s business card. He might be an arrogant bastard, but he’s good at his
job.”

“You can’t ring
him now; it’s the middle of the night.”

“So?”

“So, it can
wait until the morning. That man is surly enough without having his sleep
disturbed. He needs all the beauty sleep he can get.”

“All right,”
Fergus said with a chuckle, “I won’t wake the dragon, but only if I can sleep
on your couch. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“What about
your wife? Won’t she mind?”

She heard his
sharp intake of breath, then, “Hold on. I’ll just ask her: Darling, do you mind
if I sleep on another woman’s couch tonight?” He cleared his throat, obviously
holding the phone away from him as he attempted to imitate a woman. “Of course
not, dear.”

Desley laughed.
“That sounded like your granny.”

“Are you
insulting my wife now?”

She laughed
again, for one short moment forgetting…

“Recognize this then?” The woman
flung a photo at him. Another followed. “Or this?”

Fergus stood,
pushing his chair back, and picked up the two large color photographs from
where they had landed on his desk. With one in each hand, he looked from them
to the pinched face of the blonde woman standing hands on hips in front of him.
He checked the photos again: amid all the naked skin, tangled limbs and blonde
hair, he could just make out a woman’s face. Hers? He looked again.

“You bastard,
you ruined my marriage!”

He turned the
photo in his right hand over, the small blue watermark of his company logo
barely visible in one corner. “I think you managed that on your own. I take it
that’s not your husband.”

“Bastard,” she
screamed, her face turning ugly. “You’ll get yours.” She ripped the photos from
his grip and stormed out.

He heard the
front door slam and exhaled. The deranged woman belonged in a psychiatric
institution, but at least now he understood why she had targeted him that night
at the pub. How long had she been stalking him, waiting for her opportunity to
wreak revenge?

Tim Davis, one
of his more experienced operatives, filled the doorway. “Everything all right,
boss?”

Fergus glanced
at his watch: 17:48. “Nothing a beer couldn’t fix. Did you recognize that woman
by any chance?” he asked, shuffling through the case files on his desk.

“Not sure. She
looked sort of familiar.”

Fergus opened
the top drawer of his filing cabinet. “Try taking her clothes off,” he said,
slotting the files in behind the Pending tab at the front.

“Aha, that
changes things.” Tim clicked his fingers. “Try looking under Lynas. If I
remember rightly, we closed that file about six weeks ago.”

“Nathan Lynas?”

“That’s the
one. Usual story: he suspected his wife of being less than faithful, but wanted
to know for sure. Surveillance proved him right. Photos should be in the file.
Don’t tell me her husband gave her the boot and she’s looking for someone to
blame.”

“Something like
that.” Fergus removed the three sheets of thumbnails from their plastic sleeves
and scanned them. He had the right person. “Anything unusual about this case
that you remember?” he asked, replacing the thumbnails and flipping through the
rest of the file.

“No, open and
shut as I recall.” Tim paused. “Except it ended up being a double whammy for
the poor bugger. His lovely wife was cheating on him with his younger brother.
Maybe that relationship went sour, too.”

“I wouldn’t be
surprised,” Fergus said under his breath. He closed the folder, dropped it back
into the tabbed suspension file, locked the filing cabinet and turned to Tim.
“Let’s hope that’s the last we see of Christine Lynas. Now about that beer.”

“Sorry, boss,
no can do. I promised the girls I would take them to a movie tonight. Have a
good one. See you Monday.”

Fergus moved to
the window. With something akin to envy, he watched his operative stroll across
the car park to his van and get in. Unlike Fergus, Tim had someone to go home
to: a wife and young daughter – his girls – who adored him as much as he adored
them.

Checking
windows and turning off light switches as he went, Fergus crossed through the
main office area to the pokey kitchen. He was alone, every one of his small
staff having already left for the weekend.

He hadn’t
planned to spend Friday evening on his own. At least a dozen times that
afternoon he had picked up the phone to call Desley, but that was as far as it
went. Since the debacle of the other night where Christine Lynas – the blonde
vamp now had a name – had sabotaged his date, Desley had been more reserved,
distant. He knew the anonymous menacing email had troubled her, probably more
than she had let on. Nevertheless, he still wondered if her coolness had more
to do with something he had or hadn’t said or done, than the threat.

He heard the
buzz of the front door sensor alarm and went out to see who it was.

“So this is
where you hide.”

“Kim! I didn’t
expect to see you.”

“And it’s good
to see you, too,” she said, eyebrows arched. “Who were you expecting?”

He shook his
head. “No one. It’s just been one of those weeks.”

“In that case,
it’s a good thing I turned up when I did. Fancy buying me that drink? Unless of
course, you’ve made other arrangements.”

“What other
arrangements?” He knew she was referring to Desley.

“You tell me,”
she said as he ducked into his office to get his jacket from behind the door.

“Nothing to
tell. Now, about that drink you were going to buy me.”

She gave an
indignant huff. “Me buy you?”

He laughed.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here. We can haggle over the details later.” Ushering
her through the door, he armed the security system and followed her out onto
the footpath.

Few pedestrians
remained on the dully-lit street. Half a block away, the lights of Halley’s
Hotel beckoned. They didn’t loiter, their pace brisk against the cutting wind,
the lure of an open fire, a restorative drink or three and Friday night revelry
strong.

Within minutes
they were inside the busy bar, the noise threefold that of outside, the burble
of glass clinking, voices and laughter muffling the background music. While Kim
looked for a table, Fergus went to buy drinks.

His stomach
knotted at the sight of a blonde-haired woman waiting to be served at the bar.
She turned around and he breathed out. For one awful moment, he thought the
vengeful ex Mrs Lynas had been tailing him.

Carrying a
lager in one hand and a Riesling in the other, he squeezed his way around
people and tables until he reached Kim. It wasn’t until he was sitting next to
her that he noticed she was wearing pink lipstick and a hint of blush. She had
even made an effort to tame her hair, clips pinning it back at the sides. He
caught a whiff of a light florally perfume, the converse of the exotic and more
sensual ones Desley wore.

Something
flashed across his vision. Kim’s hand.

He blinked.

“Did you hear
one word of what I just said?”

“Sorry, my mind
was elsewhere.”

“Why don’t you
just ask her out?”

“I did.”

Tiny lines
puckered Kim’s forehead. “And she turned you down?”

“Worse.” He
took a deep breath and recounted the whole sorry saga, starting with the blonde
woman making eyes at him and ending with Desley thinking he had a wife and
children. “My own stupid fault really. I was too smart for my own good. I
shouldn’t have invented a wife and twins in the first place.” He looked at Kim,
expecting understanding if not sympathy for his plight.

Her mouth
twitched, her lips pressed hard together, until no longer able to hold it in,
she let out a deep belly laugh. The conversation at the next table ceased,
heads turning. Kim laughed harder. “Sorry, Fergus,” she said in between
giggles, “but you have to admit it is funny.” She batted tears away from under
her eyes and picked up her wine glass. “God, I needed that. Cheers.”

Looking back,
he had to concede the way it had played out had been comical, just not so at
the time. He suppressed a smile. “One good turn deserves another, right?”

“What did you
have in mind?”

“…A man has died after the
Nissan Patrol he was driving plunged into the Murray River near the New South
Wales-Victoria border. Police say the four-wheel-drive lost control on the
gravel road before careering over the bank into the river. Crime scene officers
from Wagga Wagga and detectives from Deniliquin local area command are
investigating…”

Desley watched
in dismay as a crane hoisted the black four-wheel-drive from the river, water
pouring from the suspended vehicle’s open windows. With her nose almost
touching the television screen, she tried to read the license plate. She
couldn’t. Nor could she see anything else that would distinguish it from the
hundreds of other black Nissan Patrols out there.

Telling herself
not to be so ridiculous, but needing to know for sure, she scrambled to her
feet and went to check the online news reports. What were the odds of it being
Ryan’s vehicle? And if it was, why wasn’t she hearing the news from Fergus? And
if it was, who was the man? Ryan? And if it was, where was Laura?

Her head full
of ‘ifs’, she clicked from news site to news site. None added to what she had
seen on the television.

She rang
Fergus, trying first his mobile, then his office and finally his home phone
number, before repeating the cycle, leaving messages only the second time
round. Where was he? Was he deliberately avoiding her? Things hadn’t been the
same between them since their first 'official' date, if it could be called
that. Desley was convinced she had jinxed it from the start by being late.
Unintentional
or subconscious self-sabotage
, she wondered. Then she had used the blonde
bimbo’s announcement that Fergus was married with children to bolt. She hadn’t
even bothered to stick around long enough to hear Fergus’s side of the story.

That came
later, but the creepy email she had received at the same time had eclipsed
everything else. How must Fergus feel? Chewed up and spat out were the words
that came to mind. So consumed by what was happening in her life, she had been
locked inside her own bubble. What man in his right mind would want to be with
her?

She didn’t have
time to dwell on the what-could-have-beens. If Fergus couldn’t help her, she
would go to the top. Unpinning Detective Inspector Grant Buchanan’s business
card from the corkboard behind her desk, she dialed his direct line. It rang
twice before an electronic female voice cut in to announce the call was being diverted
to an operator. She hung up.

She hesitated,
reluctant to call his mobile in case he was off duty. What was the worst he
could do? Yell at her? She punched the numbers into her phone.

“Buchanan.”

Not sure
whether she should address him as DI Buchanan or simply Grant, she dived
straight in. “It’s Desley James here. Sorry to call you like this, but I’ve
just seen on the news a black Nissan Patrol being pulled out of the Murray
River. I have to know, is it Ryan’s?”

“That
information hasn’t been made public yet…”

She bit her
lip.

“…but yes, the
vehicle is registered to one Ryan Andrew Moore. And before you ask, no, he
wasn’t the man in the vehicle.”

“Laura…?”

“Sorry,
Desley,” he said, his tone subdued as if he actually meant it, “but there was
no sign of Laura Noble or Ryan Moore. I won’t be able to tell you anything more
until forensics have done their bit. The vehicle’s on its way to Macleod now.”

“The driver,
the dead man, who was he? Why would he have been driving Ryan’s
four-wheel-drive?”