Sleight Malice (29 page)

Desley opened the door. “…sake, make up your mind, Paul!” she heard
the woman yell, catching only fragments of the rest: “…you…insisted…first…”

She crept forward and peered over the edge of the balcony.
Streetlights cast an insipid wash over the theatre playing below. Sitting in
the car, the man’s face was obscured in shadow, but from the fold of his arms,
he wasn’t budging. The woman stood to the side of the open door, hands on hips.
Stand-off.

Shivering, Desley retreated inside. They were welcome to their
domestic. Singledom had its advantages.

Halfway through locking the balcony door, it struck her. The woman
had called her passenger Paul. It had been too dark to make out any detail.
Could
the quarrelling couple be the Escotts?
she wondered. She yanked the door
open again and stepped out. “Helen, is that you?” she called.

The woman turned and looked up, her hand covering her mouth, then
glanced back at the man.

“Stay there!” Desley darted back inside, somehow remembering to turn
off the bath taps before charging downstairs. She disarmed the security system,
grappled with the security chains, battled with the locks and deadbolts, and
finally got the front door open. She could only hope Helen – if that was who it
was – hadn’t driven off in the time it had taken her to break out of her house.

Tightening the belt of her bathrobe, she ran toward the street, the
cold concrete hard on her bare feet. “Wait!” She crossed in front of the car’s
headlights and around to the driver’s door, dancing on the spot until the
window started to go down.

Helen turned her head, her mahogany mane loose around her face,
softening her lean features. “It was a bad idea. Please forget we were ever
here.”

Desley hooked her fingers over the glass as Helen pushed the button
to raise it. “Why is it a bad idea? It can’t hurt to talk. Come inside where
it’s warm and I can make you both a drink.”

Helen shook her head and tried to close the window again.

“Please, Helen. For Laura’s sake.”
And my feet
, she thought,
no longer able to feel them.

The car’s engine revved for a few seconds and then died. Desley
stepped back as the driver’s door opened and Helen emerged. A few seconds
later, the passenger’s door opened and a gaunt-faced man, his close-cropped
hair more grey than black and bearing little resemblance to the beaming
dark-haired man of the photo, got out.

Helen waved a hand in his direction. “Desley, meet Paul.” She
flicked her hand the other way. “And Paul, meet Laura’s friend, Desley.”

Desley lifted a hand in greeting. Proper introductions would have to
wait. “Let’s get inside before we freeze,” she said, blowing on her palms and
rubbing them together.

She didn’t wait for an answer, leading the way and hoping they would
follow.

To her horror, she found the front door no longer ajar. She turned
the handle and pushed against the door, all to no avail. She had locked herself
out. She wanted to swear, curse the gods, kick the door. She did none; instead
turning to face the Escotts, an apologetic smile at the ready. “Sorry, guys. My
keys are inside. You wouldn’t have a phone I could borrow, would you?”

Standing about two meters behind Helen, Paul Escott rolled his eyes.
He then turned and traipsed back toward the car. Helen dipped into the soft
leather bag slung over her shoulder and came out with a mobile phone. She
thrust it at Desley and took off after her ex-husband, catching him at the
curb.

Desley’s fingers shook so much, she had difficulty pressing the tiny
backlit numbers. Hitting the send button, she looked up. Helen was on her way
back. “Come and wait in the car,” she called from halfway up the path. “You
can’t stay out here.”

Hugging herself and the phone, Desley hobbled down the path, her
feet like clunky iceblocks. Helen went ahead of her, holding the back door
open. Paul was rummaging in the boot. Desley slid across the vinyl back seat,
Fergus’s voicemail capturing the chatter of her teeth before she realized and
hung up.

Helen handed Desley the tartan rug Paul had given her from the boot.
“We can’t have you getting hypothermia on our account.”

“Tha…anks.” She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, drawing
her knees up to her chest. Locking herself out, half-naked, on what had to be
the coldest Melbourne night on record: how stupid could she be?

Cocooned in the car with the Escotts, the heater blowing hot air
from a vent on the back end of the centre console, Desley started to thaw.

“So did you get hold of someone with a key?” Paul asked, surprising
Desley with the chocolatey resonance of his voice. It was the first time she
had heard him speak.

“I’ll try again.” She fumbled for the phone, disentangling it from
the blanket folds. She leaned toward the window, the light from the
streetlights enough to see what she was doing, and hit the redial button. This
time when it diverted to voicemail, she left a message. “I’ll give him five minutes,”
she said, after hanging up, “and if he hasn’t called back, I’ll think of
something else.”

“No problem,” Helen said. “Anyway, while we’re all together we can
talk.” She let out a loud sigh. “I still don’t know if I can trust you, but
because you tell me you’re Laura’s best friend I’m prepared to give you the
benefit of the doubt.”

Desley ran a finger under her nose, the dry heated air tickling her
defrosted nostrils. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with the police
turning up on your doorstep.” She caught a whiff of warm peach, sweet and
sunny, as Helen twisted in her seat.

“Forget that for now. We’re more concerned about what’s happening
with Laura. Has there been any news?”

Desley shook her head and then realized Helen and Paul couldn’t see
her. She cleared her throat. “No, absolutely nothing. It’s as if they have
vanished into thin air. The police still haven’t tracked down a next of kin for
either of them, but I’m waiting to hear from a guy Laura worked with in Perth.
I’m hoping he might know where to start looking for her family. Paul, have you
contacted the police yet?”

“What for? I
haven’t done anything wrong—”

Helen cut in. “Which is exactly why you should front up. Tell him,
Desley.”

Concealed in darkness in the backseat, Desley pulled a face. What
made Helen think Paul would listen to a stranger any more than he would his own
wife, estranged as they might be? “No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong.
The police just need to rule you out as a suspect, that’s all. Tell them what
they want to know and where you were at the time of the fire and they’ll get
off your case.”

Paul snorted. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Isn’t it?”

The smooth voice hardened. “I don’t remember, okay? That day, I had
been drinking at Benny’s since late afternoon. I have no recollection of
leaving there. I woke up in some stinking alley just before dawn the next day.
I don’t even know how I got there.”

Motive and no alibi
, Desley thought.
But
was he capable?
“Do you know a Jeremy Stillson?”

“Who?”

She repeated the name.

“Never heard of him. What’s he got to do with anything?”

“He’s been identified as the body in the fire.”

“No chance it was that bastard Moore then?”

Helen reached a hand across to Paul. “But that’s good. If you don’t
know the victim, the police have no reason for suspecting you could be
involved, right?”

“Who knows how they think, but I’m not going to give them a chance
to lock me up for something I didn’t do.”

“Oh, Paul,” Helen said, “it’s not the middle ages. It doesn’t matter
what they think; everyone knows they need evidence to convict—”

“Huh! Lindy Chamberlain probably thought the same thing and look
where it got her.”

Desley leaned forward. “What about your kids, Paul? Who’s going to
look after them when Helen is charged with harboring a fugitive?”

“Fugitive? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, until you voluntarily present yourself to the police, that’s
exactly what you are.” Desley sniffed the air. Paul, by his own admission, had
a drinking problem, yet she couldn’t pick up even a hint of alcohol, stale or
otherwise. “So, you took Laura up on her offer then?”

Paul’s head snapped back. “What do you know about that?”

Desley didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was glaring at Helen.
“I know Laura was an excellent judge of character. If she didn’t think you were
a good man, she wouldn’t have offered her help, regardless of who was to blame
for what.”

He made no comment.

“Undergoing alcohol rehabilitation treatment is nothing to be
ashamed of,” Desley continued. “In fact, it takes a strong man to admit he has
a problem and seek help for it.”

He said something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but Helen
obviously did.

“Oh, hon, I know you did. We’re so proud of you,” Helen said. “And
isn’t that all the more reason to stop running? For the boys. For me…”

Desley jumped as Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony rang out. She snatched
up the phone from the seat beside her, checking the caller ID to make sure it
was Fergus before answering.

“I just got your message. Whose number is this?” He sounded
concerned.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

He laughed before she even told him what it was, but more so when
she related how she came to be sitting in the backseat of a car parked outside
her townhouse, dressed in nothing more than a bathrobe and a travel rug. “I’m
glad someone finds it amusing,” she said, trying hard to keep the smile from
her voice.

“I bet you’re pleased you gave me a spare key now,” he said. “I’m on
my way.”

In the time Desley had been on the phone talking to Fergus, the
atmosphere in the car had changed. The tension was less palpable, and instead
of leaning away from each other as they had been initially, Helen’s and Paul’s
shoulders now almost met.

“Fergus should be here shortly,” she said. “You could talk to him
about what’s the best approach.”

“What do you mean?” Paul.

Desley gnawed her lip. Why hadn’t she quit while she was ahead? “Uh…
he’s a friend of mine, a private investigator who used to be a police—”

“We’re leaving!” He yanked at his seatbelt. “Get out!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul. We can’t—”

“I can’t believe it. You set a trap. You tricked me into coming
here. Even had me thinking it was my idea.”

“This is madness. How can you think that?”

As the pitch of their voices rose, Desley scrambled out of the car,
taking her chances on the footpath. Even after shutting the car door, she could
hear them arguing. The whole street could.

She stepped off the concrete onto the softer grass verge and looked
down the street. No one had ventured out of their nice warm homes yet to see
what was causing all the racket. Nor to witness their neighbor standing
half-dressed and barefoot in the grass on a winter’s night. She looked the
other way, a gasp escaping as she recognized the dark blue sedan pulling into a
park on the other side of the street.

She thumped the side of the Escotts’ car, desperate to get their
attention before the occupants of the sedan got out. No way was she going to be
accused of setting the police onto them again.

Seeing Desley
barefoot and wrapped in a blanket on the side of the street, looking like a
homeless waif, brought Fergus’s protective instincts to the fore. He hurried
toward her, his step faltering as up ahead a tall, thickset figure crossed the
street and joined her.
Grant?
He broke into a jog.

“DI Buchanan, what brings you here?”

“Just a courtesy call. I was in the area.”

Fergus raised his eyebrows.

“You have a problem with that?”

“Not at all, but since when…” He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked
down.

Desley’s arm shook as she held out her palm. “Key.”

“Sorry.” He took her hand and drew her toward the house, using his
free hand to fish in his pocket for his keys. “What happened with the Escotts?”
he asked, flicking through the bunch of keys for the one marked with a green
dot. “Weren’t they going to wait until I arrived?” He glanced at her. Her lips
were blue, her face deathly pale. “Never mind.”

The key turned, the warm inside air rushing out to greet them as the
door opened. He pushed Desley in, leaving Grant to close up behind them.

He sat her down on the couch in the living room. “Blankets?” he
asked pointing upstairs.

She nodded.

He ran upstairs, on the way passing Grant in the kitchen opening one
of the pot drawers. He didn’t stop to ask him what he was doing. Once upstairs,
he wasted no time in gathering up the quilt and a pillow from the guest
bedroom, before rushing back down to the living room.