Bitter Nothings (14 page)

Harry pulled to the curb to let her out. “If you change your mind about dinner,” he said, “you have my number.”

She stepped from the car, leaning back inside to thank him again.

“Be careful what you say to that reporter,” he said. “The media have a way of twisting the truth, and I have no doubt that guy would sell his own mother for a story.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” She closed the car door and waved him off.

Sophie stood a few meters away, clasping her arms like she was cold. The strap of her bag slipped off her shoulder. She made no attempt to hitch it back up. It wasn’t until Dervla drew closer that she noticed her friend’s split lip and bruised cheekbone. Make-up did little to camouflage the swelling and discoloration.

“Oh, dear God, Sophie, he’s gone too far this time. Please tell me the police know about this.” When Dervla reached out to her, she shrank away. Dervla dropped her hand. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I think you ought to let a doctor take a look at you.”

Sophie hung her head. “I’m fine, really. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Yeah, right.” She’d heard it all before. “Anyway, you can tell me all about it inside.” She motioned her friend in the direction of the front door. Careful not to crowd her, Dervla waited until Sophie moved off, then followed her down the path.

“Who was the man?” Sophie asked, while she waited for Dervla to unlock the door.

“You first.”

Sophie went quiet and stared at her feet.

Once inside the house, Dervla turned on the air conditioner and kicked off her shoes.

Compared to outside, the hall was dark, yet Sophie kept her sunglasses on. Dervla gritted her teeth. How many times did Martin have to beat Sophie before she got the message?

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Sophie said, her voice small.

“I’m worried about you. I’m scared that one day it won’t be you ringing me, it’ll be the police to tell me you’re dead.” She stretched out a hand, remembered, and pulled it back.

“Not if I can help it.” Sophie touched her lip and winced. “Give me a minute,” she said, making a beeline for the bathroom.

Dervla took the opportunity to duck into her bedroom, retrieve John Bailey’s business card from her bedside drawer, and make a quick phone call. Voicemail. Damn.

“John, please don’t do anything rash. We need to talk. Publishing those photos is in no one’s best interests.” She hung up. She could do no more except hope the reporter would see reason. And that she wasn’t too late.

Across the hall, the toilet flushed, reminding her she’d more immediate concerns. Somehow she had to convince Sophie to stop making excuses for her ex-husband. Why couldn’t she see him for the thug he was?

Dervla moved to the door just as her friend emerged from the bathroom, minus her sunglasses and with her hairline damp. She gave Dervla a weak smile. Not that it helped. Sophie’s left eyebrow sported a graze, her blackened eye so swollen that she’d scare little children.

The doorbell rang. Dervla glanced at the door, then back at Sophie. “Why don’t you put the kettle on? I’ll be there in a minute.”

The instant she opened the door, a microphone was shoved in her face. “Can you confirm the dead man found in the Baw Baw National Park was your father? How did he die? Was it suicide?”

She slammed the door, gasping as she pressed her back against it. Sophie stood two meters away, her face deathly pale, her one good eye wide.

“Body? What’s he talking about?”

Dervla ran a hand through her hair. The doorbell rang again.

“Nothing’s been confirmed yet,” Dervla whispered, ushering Sophie away from the front door, “but they found a body they think could be Dad’s.”

Sophie half-turned, faltering in her step. “When?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“And you didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to once I knew for sure.” When that last glimmer of hope vanished.

“That man…” Sophie’s voice took on a hurt tone. “Who was he? Did you tell him?”

Dervla bit her lip.

“Well?”

“Harry Kilbourne, and no. He saw the news and put two and two together.”

“It’s been on the news?” She didn’t pause for breath. “Who’s this Harry Kil-whatever? How do you know him? Is he a client? What were you doing in his car?”

“Whoa. If you’d give me a chance, I might tell you.”

As they reached the living room, Dervla glanced out the glass doors to the courtyard. Privacy was a dirty word as far as reporters were concerned, she’d found. All clear. She dropped into the armchair with the view to the outside.

Sophie seated herself in the middle of the couch. Shoulders rounded, hands in her lap, she looked more fragile than Dervla ever recalled seeing her.

Taking a deep breath, Dervla proceeded to fill her in about the discovery of the badly decomposed male body in the Nissan Patrol registered to her father, and how the police suspected suicide. All the while, Sophie gazed at some invisible spot on the coffee table.

When Dervla finished, Sophie stood and, without a word, hugged her friend. The gesture unleashed a torrent of pent-up grief. Uncontrollable, choking sobs racked Dervla’s body, the pain intense. She fought it and Sophie, but her friend held tight. Eventually the tears subsided.

“Some friend, I am.” Dervla gave a strained laugh. “You turn to me for support and I’m the one that ends up leaning on you.”

“Bah!” Sophie’s steel had returned. “My problems are nothing. God, hon, you’ve just lost your father.” No matter what he’s done, her expression added.

“It still might not be him.” Cold comfort, she knew.

Sophie looked away. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the half-f bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and two wineglasses.

The last thing she felt like was a drink, but maybe her friend knew her better than she knew herself. Maybe it was exactly what she needed.

Sophie poured the wine, handed one to Dervla and skolled the other. Dervla followed suit, the alcohol hitting her stomach like a shot put. She gasped.

“Hey, you still haven’t told me about this Harry-guy. Spill.”

“He’s Lucinda’s ex-husband.”

Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Are you for real? Lucinda was married before?”

Dervla nodded. “I was as shocked as you are.”

“But what’s he doing back on the scene? More importantly, what were you doing in his car?”

“He offered to help me look for Alana.”

“And you took him up on his offer?” Sophie clicked her fingers. “Just like that? And you think I have rocks in my head when it comes to men? He’s a complete stranger. For all you know, he could be a psychopath. What the hell were you thinking, girlfriend?”

CHAPTER 20

Dervla added the finishing touches to a letterhead design she was working on and clicked Save. Her heart wasn’t in it, but staying busy kept her mind from wandering to places she didn’t want it to go.

The rest of the weekend had passed in a haze, day turning to night and back again. She recalled her brothers dropping by – not together. Emmet had left promising to look in on Sophie on his way home. Somehow, her friend always managed to bounce back. Dervla envied her that.

With a sigh, she pulled up the next job, a request for a quote to design menus and invites for the reopening of a local hotel restaurant. Where to start? The client had left the scope wide open, a challenge she usually enjoyed; however, creativity required thinking. She doodled a few ideas on a sketchpad. Not inspired, she tore the page from the pad, screwed it up and hurled it at the wall.

The doorbell rang. She glanced at the time and cursed. Where had the last three hours gone?

She pushed her chair back and with no time to check her appearance, made do with straightening her skirt en route.

An apology at the ready, she opened the door. “Oh, it’s you.”

DSS Todd Gleeson frowned. “Nice to see you, too, Dervla.”

“I was expecting someone else.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Can I come in?”

She opened the door wide and stood back. He’d stepped one foot inside when it struck her. “Is this about Dad?” she asked, her pulse quickening.

Before he could answer, footsteps sounded on the path. Dressed in a white open-necked shirt loose over jeans, his brown hair swept back off his face, Harry looked fresh and cool. As she met his gaze, his mouth lifted. At the sight of Todd, though, the smile vanished.

“Would you prefer we made it for another time?” he asked.

She hesitated, then shook her head. She’d dicked him around enough already. “No. I just need a few minutes to talk with Detective Gleeson. Come in, anyway.”

Todd appeared at her shoulder, his face tense. “Do you think that’s such a wise idea?”

“Don’t worry, we can still talk in private,” she said.

After a moment, he gave a one-shouldered shrug, turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?” Harry said in a low voice, as he brushed past her. He smelled of soap and woody cologne.

“Not in the way you mean.”

She left Harry in the kitchen playing with the espresso machine and joined Todd on the far side of the lounge area. He opened the glass doors leading out onto the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen, and pulled Dervla through with him.

The sheltered courtyard cooked under the noon sun, shade absent. Even the drought tolerant bay tree was flagging.

Todd caught her elbow drawing her away from the house. “How much do you know about that guy?”

She groaned to herself. Not him, too. “That’s not why you’re here, surely.”

Beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip. He cleared his throat. “The preliminary autopsy results are in.” He paused and gestured at the wooden garden bench. “Do you want to sit down?”

She shook her head.

He scratched his eyebrow. “The dead man,” he said, his voice deepening, “has been positively identified as your father. But it wasn’t suicide. He didn’t shoot himself.”

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. “I don’t understand. He was murdered?” Even aloud the words sounded no less unreal.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “How many suicides shoot themselves twice in the head?”

Her legs threatened to give way. She lurched toward the wooden bench and sat down. Heat from the timber penetrated the light cotton of her skirt, warming her buttocks and legs. The rest of her body felt like ice.

Todd joined her on the bench, leaving less than a hand’s width between them.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Until we have the final report, I can’t give you a definitive answer one way or the other.” He paused. “But the trajectory of the bullets means he would’ve had to have been a contortionist to have done it himself.”

“I still don’t understand. Who would want to kill him? And why?” She frowned, closing her eyes. “Hold on. Are you saying that my father shot Lucinda and the kids and then later, someone turned a gun on him?” She opened her eyes again.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

“But is that what you think happened?”

“I really can’t say. What I can tell you is that the only fingerprints on the gun were your father’s – not that that means a lot. However…” He sucked in a breath. “…ballistics have confirmed it was the same weapon used in the murder of his wife and children.”

“Oh God…”

He squeezed her shoulder, his fingers lingering longer than necessary.

She glanced up to see Harry watching them. He quickly turned away but not before Todd noticed.

“You know who he is, don’t you?”

“If you mean, do I know he was once married to Lucinda, then yes.”

“A word of warning, Dervla. Be careful. You don’t know this man. In situations like this a person’s judgment can often be impaired.”

“What? Oh, I get it. Gabe’s been in your ear.”

“Your brother’s only looking out for you.”

“If you say so.” She scuffed the ground with her foot. “When can we bury our father?”

“Soon. As Gabe is next of kin, someone will contact him.” He brought his head in close to hers, his voice softening. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dervla. Please call me if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all. Even if it’s just to talk.” He patted her knee and stood. “Don’t forget I’m here for you.”

She remained seated, her hands locked together in her lap. “I appreciate that.” And she did. She needed all the friends she could get.

“I’ll see myself out, but when you feel up to it, I will need to talk to you and your brothers again. In the meantime, if there’s anything that you can remember – no matter how small – call me.”

“When was he killed?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“It’s hard to say for certain, but the pathologist estimates time of death around the same time as the others.”

“But I received a text message from Dad a couple of days after that.”

“I did say
around
the same time. It’s not an exact science. After that long in a closed up vehicle, decomposition is well advanced.”

“Oh.”

Chilled air rushed out as he opened the glass doors. He stood aside and let her through, following straight after her. She walked him to the front door.

“Remember, anytime,” he said.

After he left, she stood in the hall, not knowing which way was up. It took her a moment to remember Harry was waiting for her at the other end of the house. She hurried down the hall, grateful in some ways to have something other than herself to think about.

She found him in the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, gazing out the window above the sink.

His eyebrows drew together. “Everything okay?”

“Not exactly.”

He handed her a coffee, putting it down again when she didn’t take it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Dad didn’t kill himself,” she blurted, before she could stop herself. “He was murdered.”

The mug in Harry’s other hand hit the kitchen bench with a bang. “Come again.”

“Shot twice in the head.”

He let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Tell me about it.” She swallowed. “I don’t think I can do lunch today, sorry.”