Sleight Malice Page 4

  The press conference hadn’t disclosed anything she didn’t already know, but at least anyone watching the news would now be on the lookout for the missing couple and Ryan’s four-wheel-drive. Australia was a big country, but someone, somewhere had to have seen them or at least the vehicle…

  CHAPTER 6

  Two pink and grey galahs flew across the Peugeot’s bonnet, avoiding a collision with the windscreen by mere millimeters. Desley’s hands gripped the steering wheel, her heart hammering as her foot tapped the brake pedal. A few extra minutes weren’t worth risking her life over.

  Dropping back to the 100-kilometre an hour open road speed limit, she watched the country landscape unfurl in front of her. Giant gnarled eucalypts dotted open undulating farmland, a smattering of early lambs hinting at the spring to come. Low cloud shrouded the distant ranges, the occasional shafts of sunlight brightening what was otherwise a bleak winter’s day. She still had a long way to go, but she had already made good time, leaving behind the traffic lights, city shops and high-density housing more than an hour ago.

  Her first decent night’s sleep in a week had not only strengthened her flagging body, but also restored her clarity of mind. Why she hadn’t thought of the Howqua cottage sooner, she didn’t know. The public appeal for information had brought sightings of Laura and Ryan from Darwin to Tasmania and everywhere in between – all no doubt, from well-intentioned citizens. So far every lead had proved worthless. But then again, why risk fleeing interstate when a bolthole existed closer to home? And darkness would have been the perfect cover.

  She reached Mansfield mid-morning. The town Laura had once described to her as the gateway to the high country and the Mount Buller snowfields, swarmed with four-wheel-drives, skis and snowboards strapped to their roofs. Ski and snow-chain hire places were doing a brisk trade. Likewise the many cafés, the inclement weather evidently no deterrent to the scores of rugged-up visitors supping hot drinks outside. A large ruddy-faced man, his foot and ankle in a cast, struggled with a pair of crutches as he tried to cross the street.

  Stopping only long enough to stretch her legs, buy a takeaway coffee and check her roadmap, she continued on her way, turning right off the Mount Buller Road just out of town. Her face still tingled from her short time outside, the concentrated warmth from the car heater thawing the exposed skin. Although she felt sure the tip of her nose glowed like a beacon, she felt strangely invigorated. Perhaps there was some merit in the Finnish tradition of rolling naked in the snow after a sauna, after all. Or maybe it was more to do with the close proximity to her destination.

  But what or who did she expect to find when she got there? Best case, but highly unlikely, scenario: Laura and Ryan, alive and well and oblivious to the turmoil they had left behind, enjoying an unexpected lovers’ getaway. Worst case: Ryan holding Laura prisoner. Or an empty holiday cottage.

  The steeper the terrain became, the more stunted the eucalypts. A road sign warning of kangaroos and wombats for the next fifteen kilometers kept her focused on the narrow winding road ahead.

  She soon reached the tiny settlement of Howqua Inlet, slowing the Peugeot to a crawl as she endeavored to recognize the collective of mailboxes that marked the road to the cottage. Every corner had one, but as eclectic as they were, they all looked the same to her.

  She thumped the steering wheel. “Shit!” Thwarted before she had started. Had she seriously thought that after three years she would recall which of the motley collection of mailboxes was the correct one? But, she reassured herself, my memory isn’t so hazy that I don’t remember the cottage.

  Hoping the owner hadn’t painted it, she cruised down each road in turn, on the lookout for a rustic cedar cottage, partially obscured from the road by trees and dense shrubbery near the end of a no exit road. The construction was as diverse as she imagined the residents were who made their homes in the rusting caravans, corrugated iron sheds, fibro shacks, timber cottages, roughcast and brick houses. Individuality. She liked that.

  Then she spotted it, a flutter of achievement lifting her spirits. Except for the even denser tunnel of trees, it looked exactly as she remembered it: weathered cedar, unpainted iron roof, small frosted window facing the road, dilapidated stand-alone garage, no fence but set well back from the road. Memories of the two weeks she had spent there licking her wounds, so to speak, came hurtling back.

  When her whole life seemed to be disintegrating around her, Laura had been the one person who had reached out to her, offering her much needed moral and emotional support. She had been the one there in the aftermath of Trent’s betrayal and desertion, helping her to pick up the pieces. Even in the wee small hours when the hurt and loneliness seemed magnified a hundred-fold, her friend would think nothing of abandoning her warm bed to support her through the worst of it. Friends like Laura were rare.

  Then, like an answer to a prayer, Laura had suggested Desley escape for a while. “Give that poor damaged self-esteem of yours some quiet time to heal.” She even knew of the perfect place: a holiday cottage located only a short stroll to the shores of Lake Eildon and the Howqua River, owned by a friend of a friend. All Desley had to take were the food supplies, and in return, all Laura asked for was a phone call at least every third day — even though she had to drive back into Mansfield to do it.

  At the time, Desley had been too immersed in self-pity to ask questions. Now, gazing through the car window at the property, she wondered about the identity of the friend. Why hadn’t Laura mentioned a name? Maybe she had.

  What does it really matter now? Desley thought, as she did a U-turn and parked on the road edge opposite a tumbledown but rather quaint weatherboard house, the drawn blinds and curtains advertising its emptiness. Except of course, if the friend of the friend no longer owned the cottage.

  Out of the car, she stretched skyward, uncramping her tight muscles. Her buttocks and legs continued to vibrate in what felt like a road version of that strange sensation of still being aboard a boat even after disembarking. She took a deep breath, replacing the stuffy air in her lungs with the crisp country air. The rich, organic sweetness of decaying leaf litter intermingled with the fresh eucalyptus scent, and for one delicious moment she forgot her purpose for being there.

  She looked around her, suddenly self-conscious, as if unseen eyes were following her every move. “I’ll just add paranoia to the list,” she muttered to herself, rolling her shoulders backwards to ease the tension. She clapped her hands together. “Right!” she said, her voice echoey and louder than she intended in the open.

  Gravel crunched under her boots as sticking to the verge, she made her way toward the end of the road. Glancing back over her shoulder, she wondered whether it had been prudence or paranoia that had caused her to park her car for a quick exit. Except for a charge of trespassing, what did she have to fear?

  From across the road, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, she surveyed the cottage. No smoke rose from the chimney nor was there any sign of movement, but the potbellied stove wasn’t the only source of heat and with only one small window visible from the road, the retreat had obviously been designed with privacy in mind. The closed garage doors, too, could easily conceal a vehicle.

  Before she could have second thoughts, she strode across the road, past the garage and around the corner of the cottage to the back porch. She opened the rickety flyscreen-door, its hinges groaning as it swung outward. Rapping her knuckles hard against the solid-timber back door, she wondered again what had possessed her to take off without telling anyone where she was going. Her idea of not wanting to involve the police in something that might turn out to be nothing more than a wild goose chase seemed less rational by the second.

  Sure, she had detailed her hunch and intended movements in an email to Fergus, timing delivery of it for 24 hours later in the theory she would be home well in time to stop it. Some safeguard, though, if between now and then she were to come face-to-face with the arsonist, a person who had already shown no compunction wh
en it came to taking a human life. At least they’ll know where to start looking for my body, she thought drily, as she raised her fist to knock again.

  Pressing her ear against the door, she listened for approaching footsteps, for a running shower, for a toilet flushing, or for any indication someone was inside. All she heard was the sound of her own blood resounding in her ears. Her teeth chattered as hugging herself and stomping her feet, she turned her back to the door.

  Staring out across the long, dry grass and scrubby trees to the hills, she didn’t know whether she should feel relieved. Foolhardiness or not, she was still no nearer to finding Laura and Ryan. She shivered and pulled her jacket in tighter.

  She turned back to the door. Convincing herself it wouldn’t be breaking and entering if she had a key, she decided that if by some chance the key was still in the same place it had been when she had stayed there, she would check inside. If not, she would leave and re-evaluate her options.

  Simple really, she thought as she descended from the porch and trudged around to the side. A sloping steel ledge jutted out from the wall, shielding the cottage’s two gas bottles from the worst of the elements. She hesitated, her apprehension about what else might be protected by the mantle of more immediate concern. Her aversion to anything with greater than four legs was bad enough, but knowing she was about to put her hand into the sort of haunt favored by the redback spider worried her more.

  After a couple of false starts, her fingertips felt the square edges of a tiny flat box. A small tug dislodged it, the black magnetic key case dropping into her palm. She slid the top back, not quite believing it was still there after all that time. She had also escaped without a poisonous spider bite.

  On her way back, she noticed the blinds in the master bedroom were open, but even on her tiptoes she had no hope of peering through the slats. Being short had its setbacks. And the only window at her height, the large picture one at the rear of the cottage, had its drapes closed. She fingered the key. Entering but not breaking…

  Back on the threadbare coir doormat, she knocked again and then did something she hadn’t thought to do before; she tried the door handle. Her heart lurched, a stifled squeak of surprise escaping her throat as she felt, as well as heard, the latching mechanism respond. What person in their right mind would go out and leave the house unlocked? The sensible side of her told her that it was none of her business, that the odds were against her finding Laura inside anyway, and to leave before she could be charged with home invasion.

  However, her ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ more dominant attitude spurred her on. Even if her hunch was way off base, damned if she was going to leave until she’d checked it out, proved to herself Laura wasn’t lying bound and gagged or comatose or worse inside. With more bravado than she actually felt, she gave the door a shove.

  “Hello! Anyone at home?” she called out, struggling to control the quaver in her voice. Peering into the gloom, she could make out shapes but no detail. A slight mustiness hung in the air. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. At least it was a few degrees warmer than outside.

  Moving forward, she almost tripped over a squat lamp table she didn’t recall being there previously. She paused, giving her eyes more of a chance to become accustomed to the lack of light. From what she could make out, little else had changed in the room. The ugly but ultra-comfortable relic of a couch was still there. If anything, the floor to ceiling bookshelves looked to be crammed with even more books, but that was all.

  She took a step and stopped. Had she imagined it or was it simply creaking timbers? She heard it again. She froze, her ears straining to pick up the slightest sound. Someone was there. She was sure of it.

  Adrenaline coursing through her body, her eyes scanned the room for a weapon, anything she could use to defend herself. On the hearth next to the wood-box, stood a wrought-iron fire set. She sidled over, and without looking down, grabbed the first tool that came to hand.

  Armed with the heavy poker, she crept toward the kitchen, certain it was the direction the noise had come from. Her rubbery legs felt like they belonged to somebody else. She pushed on, her breaths coming in short ragged gulps.

  CHAPTER 7

  “In here!”

  Fergus threw the cottage door open, its handle banging against the inside wall. “Where?” he shouted, charging through the darkened living room.

  “The kitchen. Quick!”

  “Are you all right, Desley?” he asked, dropping down on one knee opposite her and automatically checking the pulse of the inert person on the floor between them. Slow but steady. “What happened, do you know?” He continued examining the woman, glancing up when Desley didn’t answer.

  Her face pinched and pale, she looked on the verge of tears. She shook her head.

  The semi-conscious woman gave a small moan, but made no attempt to move. Her skin felt cold and clammy to his touch. Her breathing sounded shallow. He turned his attention to tracing the source of the blood on the floor under her jaw. On the right side of her head, under a matted section of hair, he found a three-centimeter long gash. Blood had run down her scalp, pooling in her ear canal before trickling onto the floor.

  “Have you called an ambulance yet?” He looked up, only to find he was talking to himself. Desley had disappeared.

  He heard cupboard doors opening and closing. Moments later she returned with a bulky patterned quilt clutched in her arms.

  “I couldn’t find the first-aid kit,” she said. “But I thought we could use this as a makeshift stretcher.”

  “I don’t think we should move her.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “What choice do we have, Fergus? In case you haven’t realized, not only are we out of mobile phone range, but the cottage doesn’t have a landline.” She dumped the quilt on the floor. “Someone down the road might have a phone, but can we really risk wasting time checking each property. Even if one of them has a phone, who’s to say they’re at home?”

  “There’s someone home at the red-brick house just up from where you parked.” Reaching over the prostrate woman, he dragged the quilt across the floor and over her torso and limbs. “I can’t be sure the guy has the phone connected,” he said to Desley, “but I got the impression he lives there fulltime.”

  He didn’t need to tell her twice. She took off at a run, slamming the back door behind her.

  The injured woman's eyelids flickered. A small whimper escaped her slightly parted lips.

  “You’re going to be okay. Try not to move,” he murmured, using two fingers to brush aside the long, black strands of hair from her eyes. “The ambulance is on its way.”

  Who was she? Although he couldn’t see her face or gauge her build properly, he didn’t think the dark-haired woman sprawled on the floor was Desley’s friend. The photos released by the police showed Laura Noble as a willowy blonde. Who had attacked this woman? And why?

  Fergus shifted position, his gaze catching what looked to be some sort of black rod up against a cupboard kickboard. Focusing on it, he realized it was an iron poker, one end twisted to form a hanging loop. Was it the weapon used to strike down the woman? What other reason could there be for it being on the kitchen floor?

  He checked her pulse again, panicking when he couldn’t locate it. “Hang in there, hang in there, hang in there,” he chanted, repositioning his fingers. He breathed a sigh of relief. Weak but at least it was there.

  Desley had been gone for twenty or so minutes. How long would it take an ambulance to get to them? Looking at his watch every few seconds wasn’t helping.

  He heard the thudding of her footsteps on the back porch. She burst into the kitchen, her face flushed.

  “They’re… sending…” she leaned forward, catching her breath, “…an air ambulance. How is she?”

  “Not good. The sooner they get here the better.”

  “Somebody has to wait outside to direct them, so unless you need me in here, I’d better get out there.” She took two steps
and turned. “You don’t by any chance carry a flare in your car?” she asked, walking backwards.

  She didn’t give him a chance to speak, his expression evidently answer enough.

  “No, I didn’t think so, but I had to ask…” She stood stock-still, her face angled toward the ceiling.

  Then he heard the distinctive whump-whump-whump sound of an approaching helicopter. He exhaled. Thank Christ, he thought. And not a moment too soon.

  The aircraft flew overhead, rattling the cottage windows, the deafening noise like song to his ears. He leapt to his feet, looking out the kitchen’s small end window in time to see Desley standing on the edge of the clearing, waving her arms in some strange semaphore. The rotor-wash from the red-and-white striped air ambulance knocked her off balance and she stumbled, one arm raised to shield her face from the sandblast. She righted herself, sheltering behind the nearest tree.

  He shivered, not realizing until then how cold it was inside the cottage. He knelt down beside the woman again, tucking the quilt in where he could. The handover to the paramedics couldn’t come soon enough. He had already stretched his rusty first aid skills beyond their limits.

  Hearing the rally of footsteps on the wooden deck, he stood up and moved out of the way. A paramedic brushed past him, setting his bulky medical case on the floor beside the woman. He quickly checked her vital signs, his deadpan face no indication to his findings. Using a neck brace, he immobilized her head and neck, and with practiced ease rolled her over on her back onto the stretcher.

  At the kitchen bench, Desley scrawled something on the back of a business card. “Here,” she said thrusting it at the pilot as he bent down to lift one end of the stretcher. “Someone needs to contact her fiancé.”