Sleight Malice (25 page)

Tim laughed.
“Don’t mind me. I just came in to tell you I’m off. I’ll leave you to it.” With
another laugh, he turned and walked out.

Fergus didn’t
have a chance to tell him it wasn’t what he thought. But what was it? Where had
the video clip of Desley undressing come from? Was she aware she was being
filmed? He hadn’t got that impression. She wasn’t playing up to the camera. He
waited until he was sure Tim had left the office and switched the monitor back
on.

The email the
video file had been attached to yielded no pointers. No doubt the sender’s
email address of [email protected] was bogus. If it was anything like the one
Desley had received, trying to trace it would be a wasted effort. The sender
hadn’t bothered to include a message, letting the video speak for itself.

He swallowed
and pressed Play, telling himself all he was doing was searching for clues.
Although he could have fast-forwarded it to the spot where he was interrupted,
he didn’t. As difficult as it was, he made himself concentrate on the
background, the long blue-and-black abstract – to him at least – painting above
the dark-timbered bedhead making it instantly recognizable as Desley’s bedroom.
His eyes, drawn back to her naked body, widened as her white, rounded buttocks
filled the screen. She bent over and for a moment, Fergus couldn’t breathe. The
media player window went black. He breathed out, pushing back in his chair.

He closed his
eyes, trying to visualize her bedroom. The only time he had seen it, he had
been more intent on making sure she didn’t collapse in a drunken heap on the
floor than what her room looked like. She had been with it enough, though, to
insist she didn’t need any help getting ready for bed, pushing him out the
door.

Bed, bedside
table, chair, dresser…

He clicked his
fingers, wheeling around in his chair to pull a well-thumbed catalogue from the
shelf behind him. He had never used them himself, but knew they were readily
available. He found what he was looking for on page 32: TV antenna color CCD
hidden camera kits. One mystery solved. Desley’s burglar had broken into her
home to plant a hidden camera, not to steal anything. But why?

Fergus stood
and paced the room, scarcely noticing that outside day was turning to night.
Desley had feared her phones and email were bugged, but this was ten times
worse. How did he tell her? Or did he tell her? How could he get into her
bedroom to check without alerting her that something was amiss? He had told her
he could have Tim recheck for phone bugs, and didn’t she have an extension in
the bedroom? Except Tim had already left for the weekend.

He slowed his
step, coming to a standstill at the window overlooking the dimly lit rear car
park. His lonely Falcon sat in the back corner, partially obscured in shadow.

The wind had
picked up, buffeting the trees and bushes edging the car park. Something white,
like paper, cartwheeled across the bitumen, followed by a soft drink or a beer
can. He saw a dark shape lurking near his car and skipped sideways, out of the
direct sight of anyone who might be watching from outside. He turned off the
office fluorescents and his computer monitor, plunging the room into darkness.
Then, careful not to reveal himself, he crept to the edge of the window frame
and peered out into the gloom.

For the next
few minutes, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes unblinking. The trees
continued to flex and bend in the wind. A collection of broken twigs tumbled
after the other flotsam, followed by a light-colored cardboard box of some
sort. Deciding what he had seen had been a trick of the light, compounded by
the wind, he moved away from the window.

He had more
pressing concerns. Like what to do about the video. He had no idea how Desley
would react to the news of a hidden camera in her bedroom, and that whoever was
behind it, had emailed him a clip of her undressing. What he did know was that
if she found out and he hadn’t told her, he would lose more than his head. He
had to come clean.

The sooner
the better
, he thought, groping in the darkness for
his keys. Midway across his office, he remembered he hadn’t shutdown his
computer and returned to his desk, switching the monitor back on. Before
logging off, he copied the video file to a memory stick, the TFT screen’s low
illumination enough to see what he was doing.

Once outside,
he made straight for his car, his eyes watering as the raw wind whipped at his
face. No one tried to stop him. Pressing the remote, he unlocked the car, the
headlights automatically coming on. If anybody had been skulking in the bushes
before, they certainly weren’t there now. The temperature inside the car wasn’t
much warmer, but at least it wasn’t blowing a gale.

He arrived at
Desley’s place still unsure of what he was going to say to her. The lights were
on, so he knew she was at home. He took the memory stick out of his jacket
pocket, juggling it and hoping for inspiration to strike. Could he tell her how
he found out about the hidden camera without showing her the video clip? Not
likely. Nor could he put it off much longer.

When Brandon
answered the door, it threw him even more off balance. She hadn’t mentioned her
brother would be visiting. How could he be expected to tell her what he needed
to without involving little brother?

Brandon
grinned. “Fergus, my man, I don’t bite. My sister on the other hand…” He
laughed, opening the door wide. “Come in. Desley’s in the kitchen trying not to
burn nachos.”

He stepped
inside and followed Brandon up the hall. The charred smell intensified the
closer they got to the kitchen, bringing to mind Desley’s version of Vegemite
toast.

She looked up
and smiled, her face flushed, her eyes glassy. “It’s not as bad as it looks,”
she said, using a fork to break off the burnt corn chips around the edge of the
platter. “See, much better.”

“I’m game if he
is,” Brandon said, opening the fridge and emerging with two cans of Victoria
Bitter, proffering one Fergus’s way.

Fergus took it,
still wondering how he was going to broach the subject of the hidden camera. As
long as she wasn’t in her bedroom, it could wait. At least until after she’d
had her fill of well-cooked nachos. She wouldn’t feel like eating after what he
had to tell her.

He smothered a
forkful of nachos in sour cream and sampled it, feeling Desley’s gaze on him.
It tasted surprisingly good: the beef mixture, hot and spicy; the melted
cheese, stringy and tasty; the corn chips, crisp; and not a hint of charcoal.
He chewed, making appreciative noises, and swallowed.

“Fergus,”
Desley said, “you didn’t say what brought you over tonight.”

He set his fork
down and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin next to his plate. “Do I need a
reason?”

“No, but you
usually phone first.”

“It’s not
urgent. Finish your dinner and then we can talk,” he said, realizing as soon as
he said it, her curiosity would be piqued.

“What is it?
Why not tell me now?”

He coughed,
covering his mouth with his hand, and glanced in Brandon’s direction. “It’s…”
he paused, searching for the right word, “…rather sensitive.”

“I’m a
sensitive guy,” Brandon said through a mouthful of food, already shoveling in
another load.

Fergus held
Desley’s gaze, but his powers of telepathy weren’t functioning well. She
frowned. He lowered his eyebrows. Her frown deepened. He gave an almost
imperceptible shake of the head. She returned with a slow nod, her frown not
lifting.

“Not bad, Sis,”
Brandon said, sending a beer chaser after his last mouthful. “Not bad at all.”
He looked at Fergus. “Now, when you say sensitive, do you mean sensitive as in
confidential or sensitive as in girly stuff?”

“Girly stuff,”
Desley said. She didn’t know how close she was.

Brandon eyed
Fergus and laughed. “Who would have thought it? Fergus the girl.”

“Brandon!”

His eyes
widened in feigned innocence. “What?” He winked at Fergus and continued eating.

Fergus exhaled.
If nothing else, the banter had helped draw the attention away from the reason
for his visit. Or not. Desley was studying his face intently, as if his
thoughts were visible through the skin. He smiled, but her expression didn’t
change. Maybe they were.

Brandon rattled
his beer can and nodded at Fergus. “Ready for another?” he asked, getting to
his feet.

Fergus shook
his head.

Brandon helped
himself to another can from the fridge, set it on the bench and wandered off in
the direction of the toilet.

Waiting until
he heard the door close, Fergus hunched forward. “We need to talk, but I don’t
think it’s something you’ll want your brother to hear.”

One eyebrow
rose.

“Of course,
it’s entirely up to you, what you do and don’t tell him. But at least hear what
it is before making that decision.”

“Jesus, Fergus,
you’re scaring me.”

That was the
last thing he wanted to do. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at
Desley. “Have you told Brandon about the break-in?”

She screwed up
her nose. “Not all of it. Does this have something to do with that?”

The toilet
flushed.

“Sort of. It’s
complicated,” he said, dropping his voice even further. “Look, is Brandon going
out later?”

She shook her head.
“Not that I know of.”

“What don’t you
know of?” Brandon asked, rejoining them. “And forget the bullshit. I know
something’s going on. I’m not stupid.”

“Okay then,
straight up: I was asking Desley if you were going out later.”

“Cramping your
style, am I, mate?”

“Something like
that.”

“And that’s all
it is?”

“You wouldn’t
begrudge me some alone time with your sister, would you?”

Brandon tilted
his head, looking at him sideways. “Is this the part where I ask what your
intentions are?” Desley threw her brother a look of daggers. He held his hands
up. “I know, none of my business. You’ll be happy to know that I’d planned on
sneaking out for a couple of hours later, anyway. Now, is anyone else besides
me eating?” he asked, refueling his plate.

Desley poked and
prodded at a clump of cheese-covered corn chips. She had yet to taste her own
cooking. Spotting her empty wine glass, Fergus grabbed the bottle of Shiraz
from the kitchen bench and replenished her glass. She managed a weak smile and
continued toying with her food.

Fergus ate,
watching Desley out of the corner of his eye and biding his time until they
could speak unhindered. Brandon did most of the talking, interspersing small
talk about the weather and the state of the nation from a mechanic’s perspective
with random probing questions that made Fergus think he was being interviewed
for a job.

“Enough!”
Desley had found her voice. “No more. Leave the poor man alone.”

“Hear what
she’s calling you now, Fergus? First a girl and now a poor man.”

Desley scowled
at her brother, looking less than amused.

“Okay, okay, I
can take a hint,” Brandon said with a chuckle. “I’m outta here.”

While Brandon
waited for his taxi to arrive, Desley busied herself clearing away dishes and
tidying the kitchen, refusing all offers of help. Fergus loitered near the
doorway, keeping out of her way. He couldn’t even be sure she was aware of his
presence.

After Brandon
left, a weary silence converged on the house, as if all the energy had been
sucked out with him.

Desley stood
directly in front of Fergus. Dark shadows under her eyes accentuated her
paleness. Without meaning to, his gaze drifted down her neck to her chest. He
caught a glimpse of her tattoo and gulped. Why did he feel so guilty? He wasn’t
the one in the wrong. He had only watched what someone else, for whatever
reason, had filmed.

“I have a
feeling I’m not going to like what you have to tell me,” she said.

Desley felt the blood drain from
her face. “What do you mean there’s a hidden camera in my bedroom? How? Why?
And how do you know…” She stopped, the horrible realization coming to her in a
heartbeat. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you’ve seen
footage.”

Fergus wouldn’t
meet her gaze head-on. She had her answer. Mortified and outraged, she took the
stairs two at a time, her face flaming. She came to an abrupt halt outside her
bedroom door. How could she even step foot in there knowing she was being
filmed?
Not for much bloody longer
, she thought, storming into the room
and casting her gaze from ceiling to floor, from light fittings to skirting
boards, from wall hangings to her alarm clock, and everything in between.

“Over here,”
Fergus said, entering the room behind her and heading straight for the portable
television atop the dark cherry dresser opposite the end of her bed. Swiveling
the set around, he disconnected the antenna from the back and yanked out the
TV’s rabbit ears. He fiddled with them for a moment and then handed them to
her. “Your camera.”