The Investigator (7 page)

Perhaps he was overreacting? Hannaford could have been merely looking out for an old mate. Maybe Riley was jumping to conclusions, thinking Watson had mentioned the phone call to Hannaford because the former commander had something to hide? After all, until Hannaford’s approach, Riley had barely even considered the anomalies in Watson’s story.

So, the former commander was an inattentive husband. There was no crime in that.

Riley scrubbed at his hair in indecision. If he could confirm Rosemary Watson was on the ship, everything would be sweet. His conscience would be clear and Hannaford need never know Riley had made the call.

With a sigh of relief that he’d nearly resolved the dilemma, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialed once again the number of the Thames Travel Agency.

* * *

The afternoon light waned and the temperature gauge on the dashboard of Kate’s rental car showed the air outside had cooled. Her breath came in short harsh pants, despite the pep talk she’d given herself before she left the motel.

She took another sip of the steaming black coffee she’d picked up at the McDonalds’ drive-through. The caffeine probably wouldn’t help slow the hammering of her heart, but drinking it gave her something to do and took her mind off the house that stood in benign solitude across the road.

She’d parked as far away from the property as she could while still keeping the house in sight. Her nondescript rental car was half hidden behind a thick stand of pine trees and her eyes were concealed behind a huge pair of designer sunglasses.

She was slumped low in the seat. With anxious fingers, she patted the pale pink scarf she’d tied Jackie O style around her hair. The fact that the single garage beside the house stood empty gave her a modicum of relief, but knowing her stepfather could arrive home at any minute kept her nerves on edge.

She’d already been there twenty minutes, trying to gather the courage to walk up the drive. It had been more than a decade since she’d been there, but from the look of the place, it could have been yesterday.

The front lawn, winter-yellow, was neatly mowed and the low Murraya hedge running along two sides of the fence had been shaped with military precision. The spiky, skeletal arms of the thick stand of rose bushes that bordered the concrete driveway were bare, but had been closely pruned and sported fresh mulch. Her stepfather had always had a green thumb.

The house was much as she remembered it. The impressive, two-story red brick mansion had weathered the years well. That was more than she could say for herself.

Oh, she looked all right from the outside. Some of the men she’d met in Europe had even called her beautiful. But she knew what was hidden beneath the designer clothes and cultured English accent—in those hidden places where it really mattered, in the darkest hours of the night when the nightmares couldn’t be banished with a pep talk, the soft glow from a lamp or a glass of chardonnay.

With a deep breath, she uncurled her fingers. Catching sight of her ragged nails, she silently farewelled her French manicure. She’d chewed them almost down to the quick. Just another thing the bastard had managed to destroy and she’d only just arrived back in town.

A car came over the rise behind her and bore down like an avenging angel—or was it the devil? The shiny, black pickup truck slowed momentarily and then roared on past her. With her heart in her mouth, she slid lower in her seat and pretended to be absorbed in the map she’d left on the seat on the passenger’s side.

She peered above the folded paper and gulped when brake lights came on. The vehicle slowed and turned into her stepfather’s driveway.

She sat immobilized. The fear she was well-accustomed to took over and liquefied her limbs. Darryl alighted from the car and sauntered toward the house.

Watching him, her blood turned to ice. She began to shake. Her fingers stuttered over the ignition key and she cursed with increasing desperation when it refused to turn. Nausea writhed in her stomach. She was going to be sick. Right there. In the rental car.

She looked around in increasing desperation for a plastic bag—something—anything.

She shouldn’t have come. All the years she’d stayed away, all the years of healing had been swept away like sandcastles at high tide. She was fourteen again and running from a monster.

She bit back a sob, but another rose up behind it. With her fist in her mouth, she tried to hold them in, gasping and willing the memories away.

She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t let him defeat her again. She wasn’t a helpless teenager anymore. She’d learned how to fight back.

But no matter what she told herself, the agony gripping her heart intensified until she could do nothing but give it release. With gulping breaths, the sobs she’d tried so hard to contain overwhelmed her.

She didn’t know how long she sat there falling apart, but the sound of another vehicle approaching caused her to lift her head and peer through the late afternoon light.

She made out a late model iridescent-green sedan just in front of her. A Holden or a Ford—she’d never been good with cars—and it was dirty, like it had been driven through the mud. It slowed and turned, coming to a stop in the driveway behind her stepfather’s black beast.

Scrabbling around in her handbag for some tissues, Kate wiped her eyes and blew her nose and looked up in time to see Detective Munro step from the sedan.

Her pulse leaped. He was tall. She hadn’t really noticed that about him when she’d spoken with him. Probably because she’d been too caught up in her reasons for being at the police station—that, and the fact his liquid-chocolate eyes and gleaming smile had drawn most of her attention.

Her gaze took in the worn denims and pale blue chambray shirt he wore with casual grace. He pulled off a pair of aviator sunglasses and glanced around, as if sensing her watching him. Ducking reflexively, her knee connected with the bottom of the dashboard. She yelped and rubbed at the reddening mark. When she looked up again, he was gone.

CHAPTER 6

Riley’s gaze skimmed over the small white sedan parked on the side of the road a short distance away and then came to rest on the impressive house in front of him. The double-story brick home was one of the largest he’d seen in Watervale. He looked around, canvasing the immaculately kept front yard for clues.

This didn’t look like a house where evil lurked. Everything was tidy and in its place, from the pile of garden tools stacked neatly against the garage to the hose that lay looped in precise coils beneath the garden faucet. Even the trash bins stood discreetly to one side, unobtrusive and out of the way. He slipped off his Ray Bans and made his way up the concrete path to the extra-wide front door.

His knock was answered almost immediately, as if the owner had been watching his approach. A towering hulk of a man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties stood on the other side.

“Darryl Watson? I’m Detective Munro. We spoke on the phone.”

“Where are your manners, sonny? It’s Commander Watson to you.”

Refusing to be intimidated, Riley eyeballed him. As far as he was concerned, Darryl Watson had lost his right to Riley’s respect the minute the man had telephoned Hannaford.

“I’m sorry, Darryl. I was under the impression you retired a few months ago.”

Riley’s barb drew blood. Angry color crawled up Watson’s neck until it suffused his cheeks. Riley cursed himself silently for his wayward tongue. The way he was going, Hannaford would have him out on his ear before he made it back to the station.

“What’s this all about, Munro? I thought we straightened this out when you called yesterday?”

Riley made a show of taking out his notebook and pen and flipping to a page with writing scrawled all over it.

“Yeah, well… See, here’s the thing, Darryl. Your travel agent helped me get in contact with the
Sun Princess
. I talked to the cruise ship’s purser. He says your wife never boarded.”

Surprise lit up Watson’s face. Doubt nibbled at the edge of Riley’s consciousness. Either Watson was an excellent actor, or he truly believed his wife was on the ship.

“What are you talking about? Of course she boarded.”

“No, Darryl. She didn’t.”

“Listen, you young whippersnapper. I know you’re just trying to do your job. Look at you—you’re as eager as a new puppy—even with a decade of experience under your belt. I remember what it was like. When I was your age, I champed at the bit with every telephone call that came in. And you know what? I admire your enthusiasm. I really do. We need fellas like you protecting our town.”

Watson gave Riley a hearty slap on the back. “The only thing you need to do is hone your radar. You’ve got it all wrong. I’ll bet Rosemary’s sunning herself on a deckchair even as we speak. Why don’t you step inside and we’ll have a beer? I’m sure we can sort this out in time for dinner.”

Curious about what the man had to say, Riley followed him through the entryway and into a large, open-plan kitchen and living room. Expensive pieces of custom-made furniture were tastefully arranged around the room. Hundreds of Swarovski crystal figurines were displayed in a tall glass cabinet. Down lights had been installed to show them to their best advantage. Original Sir Arthur Streeton paintings hung on the walls of the living room.

A single plate and coffee mug sat in the kitchen sink. Watson looked at it, a half-embarrassed expression on his face. “The cleaning’s slipped a bit since Rosemary left. Why don’t you take a seat over there and I’ll get us a beer.”

Riley glanced over at the oversized white leather modular couch. Matching silk cushions in various hues of aqua and green graced the seats. A glass coffee table stood nearby, a small pile of home magazines artfully scattered across its top. The entire room looked like something he’d find inside one of their glossy covers.

He turned back to Darryl. “Thanks, but I’ll pass on the beer. I’m still on duty.”

“Ha, don’t you worry about that, sonny. I’m not going to tell anyone.” Watson winked and opened the fridge.

Riley gritted his teeth. “Thanks, Darryl, but a Coke will be fine.”

The other man shot him an inscrutable look and then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Riley caught the can of Coke one-handed and took a seat on the couch. It faced the biggest flat screen television he’d ever seen. A large window with late-afternoon sun seeping through the open blinds looked out onto the street. Darryl joined him a few moments later with a beer in his hand and sat down at the far end.

Mindful of its shaky journey, Riley opened the Coke with caution. Even still, the cold, dark liquid fizzed over his hand and dripped onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sonny. It must have gotten shaken up a bit.”

Darryl didn’t sound the least bit contrite. Anger flared in Riley’s gut and his jaw clenched. He reached for the tissues on the coffee table and wiped the sticky mess off his fingers.

“So, Darryl, what’s the story? And don’t tell me your wife’s cruising the high seas because we both know damned well she’s not. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much she hates the water.”

Darryl’s face didn’t change, didn’t move an inch. Riley felt another sliver of doubt.
Christ, it was happening again, just like in Sydney. But this time, maybe he’d called it wrong?

Had the ship’s purser been mistaken? Had Kate lied to him about her mother’s water phobia? Was it possible Rosemary Watson really
was
on the ship?

Darryl shook his head, a smile of condescension turning up his lips. “Of course she’s on that ship, sonny. I told you, I drove her there myself. Right down to the wharf at Circular Quay. I know Rosemary hates the water. She can’t swim. I nearly busted my insides laughing when she told me she wanted to go on a cruise, but she insisted that’s what she wanted to do.”

Riley struggled to keep his tone even. “I know what you told me, Darryl. Now I want the truth. The thing is, like I told you, I called the ship.” He leaned forward and set the Coke down on the coffee table. His gaze snagged on a glossy Princess Cruise Line tourist brochure that sat amongst the pile of magazines. Another round of doubts assailed him.

Darryl’s eyes narrowed a fraction. He tilted his head back and chugged down another mouthful of beer. “I’ve told you everything I know, Munro. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Impatience surged through Riley. Once upon a time, before Sydney, he would have torn Watson’s explanation and condescending attitude to shreds, but his confidence had been shaken. He was no longer sure of his footing when it came to knowing right from wrong—or more accurately, knowing when to take issue with the wrong.

His gut told him something was askew, but did he really want to put the final nail in his career coffin by accusing the former commander of something untoward?

He stood and prowled around the room, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. An antique oak desk was pushed up against the wall under the window. A Toshiba laptop sat on top of it. The power button glowed a lime-green color, but the lid was down.

He wandered closer. His gaze skittered over the neat pile of papers in one corner of the work surface. The document on the top caught his attention.

The Last Will and Testament of Rosemary Kathryn Watson.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he turned over the first page and skimmed the contents. It was dated July fourth. A little over a month ago.

Spinning on his heel, he lasered Darryl with his gaze. “What day did you take Rosemary to meet the ship?”

Darryl frowned. “I think it was the third or the fourth of last month. I can’t remember exactly. I didn’t know it was going to be important.”

Anger tightened Riley’s gut. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Darryl.” He picked up the will and waved it back and forth. “Your wife visited her lawyer to sign
this
on the fourth, so there’s no way she was on the ship. You’ve already told me it took you most of the day to get there. I can’t see you detouring to the lawyer’s office on the way.”

He moved closer and stood over Darryl where he sat on the couch, calmly drinking.