Authors: Vicki Tyley
He laughed, the guttural sound filling the small office. “You want
my
help? Well, well.”
She averted her gaze. “Yes.”
“Sorry, didn’t quite hear that.”
How much more did she have to endure? “Yes,” she repeated through
gritted teeth. “Please.”
“What’s in it for me then, eh?” He licked his lips.
“You get to keep your job,” she retorted without thinking.
“Oh yeah?” He unsnibbed the counter gate.
Jemma’s mobile phone rang. She ignored it. “Look, I don’t want any
trouble. Just let me into my apartment and I’ll say nothing more about it.”
His fingers encircled her wrist. She tried to wrench it loose, but
he held tight. “Keep your sticky nose out of where it don’t belong,” he hissed,
his breath hot in her ear.
With her free hand, she pushed against his solid chest. “Are you
threatening me?”
“Believe me, darlin’, that’s no threat.”
Jemma rubbed her wrist. When would
she learn to keep her big mouth shut? It got her into more trouble than it got
her out of. She spotted Chris’s RAV4 and stepped to the curb.
He
double-parked the four-wheel-drive, leaving the engine idling, and lowered the
passenger side window. She sidled between the bumpers of the two adjacent cars
and reached in, plucking the key ring and PDA from Chris’s outstretched palm. “What
would I do without you?”
The corner of
his mouth lifted. “I'm sure you would manage. Sleep well.”
She watched him
drive off. He had phoned while Gerry Hobson had her bailed up, leaving a
message to say he had found her Palm Pilot – which until then she hadn’t realized
was missing – and keys sliding around in the footwell. When she returned his
call, she neglected to mention the incident with the security guard. She saw no
point. Chris would insist she make it official, or at the very least, he would
want to confront her assaulter himself. What good would either do? It would
only be her word against his. Any incriminating security footage would be long
gone.
Heaving a weary
sigh, she let herself into the apartment building and crossed to the lifts. She
kept her gaze trained on the floor, careful not to eyeball any of the cameras.
She knew he would be tracking her every move.
The first thing
she did when she entered the apartment was to lock the door and secure the
latch. The second was to kick off her shoes. She left them where they lay,
tempted to join them. She breathed in. Adrenaline had carried her this far; it
could take her the extra few steps to the couch.
The cushioned
leather cradled her body, but not her mind. She craved sleep, but every time
she closed her eyes, the blackness would remind her of how alone she really
was. She missed Perth, her aunt, her friends. She even missed Ross, or at least
the memory of what used to be. She missed home, but most of all she missed her
sister. Estranged as they were, she and Tanya were still siblings. Nothing or
no one could take that away. Nothing that is, except death.
Choking on a
sob, Jemma pushed herself upright. She concentrated on slowing her breathing.
Caving in to her emotions would be too easy. She had to stay strong.
She stared out
into the deepening dusk. Windows of light patterned the buildings, like some
giant LED panel. If only she knew the code. No matter how welcome everyone
tried to make her feel, she was still a stranger in a strange city. And as
well-wishing as they all were, she sensed she wasn’t getting the whole picture.
Her hand closed
over her mobile phone. She found the number and pressed call.
“Hello.” A
pause. “Hello – anyone there? Can you hear me?”
Her chest
welled at the familiar sound of her aunt’s voice. “Gail…”
“Jemma, is that
you?”
She swallowed.
“The one and only,” she said, her voice buoyant. “How are you? The pugs?”
“Jemma, love,
are you all right?”
No fooling
Gail. “Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.”
“Are you sure
that’s all it is?”
“Positive.”
Jemma clamped the phone to her ear, as if doing so would pull her aunt closer.
“Anyway, I rang up to see how you were, not talk about me.”
“Don’t worry
about me. I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. You’re the one
who doesn’t know how to take care of herself. When are you coming home?”
Good
question
, Jemma thought. Until she made some
decisions, her life would remain in limbo. “Not sure. I haven’t seen the lawyer
yet about finalizing the estate, but I hope to do that this week. And I still
haven’t finished sorting through Tanya’s things.” Not quite true.
“So what then,
another week?”
“Hmmn.”
“Not longer?
What about your job, Jemma, love? You must have nearly used up all your leave.”
Bereavement,
sick and annual leaves combined
. “Troy’s been
really good about it, though I don’t expect him to hold my job open forever. I
can always get another one.”
Silence… “You
are coming home, aren’t you?”
“Of course I
am. Just not sure exactly when, but hey, I’m only a phone call away,” she said,
reminding herself as well as Gail.
After she hung
up, she pulled her PDA from her bag, opened the calendar application and
selected the coming Monday. Except for the hour blocked out in red from 3:30 to
4:30PM, her diary for that day was clear. She tapped the entry and added a
reminder to phone her manager, Troy Orbost, first thing Monday morning to
postpone their review meeting. Next, she added a reminder to a make an
appointment with the lawyer handling Tanya’s estate. The will had been
straightforward: she had left everything to Sean, but if he predeceased her
then Jemma became the sole beneficiary. All that was left for Jemma to do was
to finalize the legal paperwork. But until she did that, it gave her a
legitimate excuse to stay on in Melbourne.
The brief
conversation with Gail had rallied her spirits, though not her flagging body. She
headed to the kitchen to make tea and toast. Not the nutritionally balanced
meal her aunt would have dictated, but sustenance nevertheless.
She had just
taken her first bite when the intercom buzzed. She stopped chewing and scowled
at the video monitor. She could always ignore it. The caller, whoever it was,
had no way of knowing if she was there or not. Curiosity, however, got the
better of her.
A
black-and-white image of Ash’s face, his wide mouth set in a hard line, filled
the monitor. She picked up the handset. “Hi—”
“We need to
talk.”
She gave a
half-laugh. “That sounds ominous.”
“Please, Jemma,
it’s important.”
Her finger
hovered over the door release button. “What is?”
“Not over the
intercom.”
After she
buzzed him in, she waited at the door.
“I’m not long
back. You almost had a wasted trip,” she said, letting him into the apartment.
“Why didn’t you phone first?”
“I thought if I
turned up in person you would be less likely to fob me off.”
She frowned.
“And why would you think that?”
“I was talking
to Fen earlier.”
Her mind did a
quick backtrack to lunch, hunting for something – anything – she could have
said to Fen that would have provoked Ash’s reaction. She shook her head.
“Sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“She said that
you thought I was coming on too strong. That you thought I was treating you
like a Tanya substitute.”
“I said nothing
of the sort. I don’t think that at all. Why would I? Are you sure she’s not
just winding you up?” Jemma wouldn’t put it past her.
He shrugged,
his expression as despondent as his demeanor.
“Or maybe she’s
trying to get your attention.”
“What do you
mean?”
“Just think
about it, Ash.” She gave him an exaggerated wink.
His eyes
widened. “You can’t be serious. No bloody way. She eats men like me for
breakfast.”
Jemma threw her
head back and laughed. “I thought that was every man’s dream.”
“Yeah, well,
maybe so…”
She laughed
again. “Seriously, though,” she said, rounding the corner into the kitchen, “I
don’t know where Fen got the idea about you coming on too strong. You know her
better than I do. Does she usually make up stories?”
“No.” Ash
pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, sometimes. More truth-stretching than
story-creation, though.”
“Believe me, if
there was any truth to what Fen said, you would know about it. And not from Fen
either.” Jemma switched on the kettle to reboil.
“Sorry, did I
interrupt your supper?”
“Not much to
interrupt.” She waved her hand over the breadboard. “Want some?”
He shook his
head. “I should leave you in peace and get going.”
Wait until
she saw Fen
. “Sure you don’t want to stay and join
me.” She took a large bite of Vegemite toast and made loud, appreciative
noises, hoping at least to raise a smile from him.
He rewarded her
with a half one. “No, I better be going. Call me if you want to talk or
anything.” He leaned over and wiped the corner of her mouth with his finger.
She flinched,
unable to prevent the involuntary reaction as his skin touched hers.
His eyes said
it all.
Jemma flailed about for the snooze
button. Just five more minutes. Except her alarm clock didn’t vibrate. She prized
one eye open, blinking as daylight hit her retina.
Her hand closed
around her mobile phone. “Hel—” She swallowed and tried again. “Hello.”
“Did I wake
you?” asked a low, male voice.
“Chris? What
time is it?”
“Morning.”
She yawned and
stretched. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Like I pulled
the autopsy report on Sean Mullins?”
Her body went
rigid. “You did?” She rolled her legs off the couch and sat up, instantly
alert.
“Don’t get too
excited. I didn’t discover anything new. The results were inconclusive, but
there really isn’t anything in them to warrant further investigation. The
V-shaped bruising on his neck is what you would expect from a hanging. A straight
bruise, on the other hand, would have definitely raised a red flag. It’s more
difficult to strangle yourself.”
“You did say it
was inconclusive, though, which means homicide can’t be ruled out, right? Maybe
I’ve been watching too many CSI episodes, but can’t murder be staged to look
like suicide – or an accident?”
“No doubt,”
Chris said, “but you have to realize it’s not a matter of tossing a coin. The
coroner doesn’t make his findings based on the pathologist’s report alone. He
has to take into account all the available evidence. In this case, there really
wasn’t anything to suggest that his death was anything more than a suicide or a
tragic accident.”
“And Tanya?”
“Ditto.” He
sighed. “I really want to be able to help, Jemma, but I have to have a lot more
to go on than the niggling doubt of one the deceased’s relatives. That said, I
don’t expect you to go off and start your own investigation. In fact, I
strongly suggest you don’t. Because if there is anything at all to your
suspicions, you’ll be putting your own life at risk. If there is a killer – or
killers – out there responsible for the death of your sister and her fiancé, do
you honestly think they would hesitate to do it again? I’m serious.”
“I hear you.”
“Yes, but are
you listening?”
“Yes, you would
rather a killer went free than pursue him. Tell me,” she said, before he could
retort, “what exactly would it take for the police to reopen the cases?”
“First of all,
it’s not a matter of a killer going free – though I won’t deny that could
happen – it’s more to do with keeping you out of harm’s way. Second, there has
to be damned compelling evidence for anyone even to consider reinvestigating a
case.”
“So you’re
saying that unless this evidence jumps into your lap that’s the end of it?”
He laughed. “You
don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when it’s
something important.”
“Okay then,
where’s the motive? She’s your sister. Who benefits from her death or her
fiancé’s?”
Jemma slouched
forward, her elbows propped on her knees. “Financially, I do. Not that it’s much.”
“So then ask
yourself, what could either or both of them know that would be worth killing
for? Who hated them enough to want them dead? Look for commonalities, like the
fact they both worked for Bartlett. Might be coincidental, might not. He’s made
his fair share of enemies over the years.”