Bitter Nothings (13 page)

“Lucinda was his family.”

“Answer my question: what are you doing with Kilbourne?”

She couldn’t stop herself. “Going to Alana’s.”

“Dervla.”

“We met a couple of days ago—”

“How?”

“That’s not important. Harry’s waiting. I have to go. If it makes you happier, I’ll check in with you when we’re leaving Dandenong.”

Gabe grunted. “Make sure you do.” Click.

“Love you, too.” She closed her phone and rejoined Harry.

Fifteen minutes later, ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of his rental sedan, they were on the Monash Freeway headed toward Dandenong. The traffic flowed freely, the weekday tailgaters absent.

“Is Alana younger or older than you?” he asked.

“Younger. She’s only twenty-two.”

“You get on?”

“So long as I keep my mouth shut.”

He laughed. “Normal siblings then.”

Smalltalk drifted into silence, the subject of her father’s death seemingly taboo. She switched on the radio, settling back in her seat as Jessica Mauboy’s powerhouse voice filled the car.

Harry glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Hang on.”

The car accelerated, thrusting her back in her seat. She opened her mouth to protest, only to almost end up in his lap when he swerved into the next lane.

She righted herself. “What the…”

Her fingers tightened on the door grip as he weaved from lane to lane. A truck trailer suddenly appeared in her vision. She shut her eyes and braced for impact.

Nothing. She opened one eye, then the other, breathing out when she saw clear road ahead of them. They were no longer on the freeway.

“Lost him, I think,” he said.

The car slowed. Her heart rate didn’t. “Who?”

He checked his side mirror. “No idea. A guy in a white Ford.”

“What makes you think he was following us? You know what? I don’t care. The next time you want to play rally driver and put people’s lives at risk, don’t.”

“Sorry. Automatic reaction.”

She gasped. “Automatic reaction? You’re obviously in the wrong profession.”

“You reckon stock car racing might be more my thing?” He smiled, his gaze not leaving the road.

“If that entails driving like a hoon.”

“You have my word I won’t try that stunt again. Back onto the freeway?”

One part of her said yes, the other screamed no. She nodded.

“What happens if you can’t find your half-sister?” he asked, flicking on the indicator.

“She has to be somewhere.”

“What about her mother?”

“Dead. Drug overdose. Alana was only thirteen.”

“Poor kid,” he said.

“Yeah, the foster system wasn’t exactly kind to her either.”

“Your father took no responsibility?”

“None. Why would he when he denied she was even his daughter?”

“DNA test?”

“Flat out refused. Said he didn’t need any damn test to prove he wasn’t her father.”

“But you think otherwise?”

“Wait until you meet her.” Dervla slumped back in her seat, her cheek resting against the cool glass of the side window, and watched as scrubby trees and concrete sound barriers flashed past.

They arrived in Dandenong soon after.

The car slowed. “What number was it again?”

“One-fifty-five. It’s just up here on the left,” she said, pointing.

Following her direction, he drove down a long right-of-way, past an overgrown Photinia hedge to a faded-blue weatherboard house. A white Toyota Corona with a dented back bumper and all its windows wound down was parked outside.

She unclipped her seatbelt but made no move to get out.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head and opened the car door. After the car’s chilled interior, the air outside felt like a warm hug. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she made her way across the gravel yard to the front porch. Harry’s footsteps crunched at her heels.

Behind the screen door, the front door was wide open. “Hello,” she called. “Anyone home?”

A bearded man in cargo shorts padded to the door. He eyed them with suspicion through the fly screen. “Yeah?”

“Hi. Is Alana home?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m Dervla, her sister. It’s vitally important that I speak with her.”

The screen door opened with a squeak. “I already told your brother she ain’t living here no more. Don’t know where she is. Don’t care.”

Dervla took half a step back, away from his beery breath. “She must’ve left a forwarding address.”

“Not with me.”

“Who else lives here? Perhaps I could talk to them.”

“No one here but me.”

Waving a fly away from her face, she dug one of her business cards from her handbag. “If anyone knows where she is or if you hear from her, please get her to call me. Urgently.”

With a grunt, the man took the card and withdrew inside. The screen door clanged shut.

She and Harry looked at each other.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Good question. I wish I knew the answer. We…”

Even without the bald head, she’d have recognized the man in sunglasses lolling against the rental car.

She marched straight over to him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

John Bailey folded his arms. “We had a deal, remember?”

“Yes, so?”

“So, I want my story.”

“You know this guy?” Harry asked, appearing at her side.

“Sort of. He’s a reporter.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “A reporter who drives a white Ford?

“John Bailey.” He stuck his hand out. “And you are?”

“I don’t care who you are. Harassment is against the law.”

The reporter’s top lip curled.

Before he could mention the photos of her father with the unknown woman, she said, “I promised John an interview after Dad was found.” She turned to the reporter. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He cocked his head. “Now what makes you say that?”

“Your presence here for one.”

“Simply protecting my interests. Don’t want you giving away my exclusive to any old hack.”

“If you think stalking me is going to help your cause, think again.”

Uncertainty flashed across the reporter’s face. “You gave me your word.”

“And if you recall, I also reserved the right not to answer questions I consider too personal. At this rate, I foresee all your questions being too personal.”

“No problem. I’ll go with what I have then.” He turned on his heel. “The public love a good scandal.” Checkmate.

“What scandal?” Harry asked. “What’s he talking about?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later.”

She took off after the reporter, catching up with him halfway up the drive. “John, wait.”

“What for? You made your position perfectly clear.”

“What the hell do you expect when you act like some crazed stalker?”

“Just doing my job.” Where’d she heard that before? He took another step.

She grabbed his arm. “Do you want my story or not?”

He shook her off. “You had your chance.”

CHAPTER 19

Dervla stared blankly through the windscreen. Her stomach churned, acidic from too much coffee and too little food. Stressing about what John Bailey might do next didn’t help. He wouldn’t dare publish the photos of her father with the unknown woman. Or would he? She couldn’t begin to imagine the furor that would cause – with or without the news of her father’s death. Speculation would be rife. ‘
Cheating Husband Murders Wife and Children
’ the headlines would scream.

She had to stop him. Except, she realized as she delved in her handbag for her mobile, she didn’t have his phone number with her. The reporter’s business card was still in her bedside table drawer along with the incriminating photos. Exhaling, she sagged back in her seat and closed her eyes. The hum of tires on the bitumen lulled her into a semi-trance.

Harry waited until they were back on what felt like the freeway before asking the inevitable. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about with the reporter guy?”

She opened her eyes. How much or how little did she tell him? How would he react if he found out the married man his wife had left him for had been screwing around.

Dervla’s mobile rang. As soon as she saw it was Gabe, she answered it. “I was just about to call you.” Lie. With everything that’d happened, her promise to her brother had completely slipped her mind. “Just leaving Dandenong now.”

“I take it you didn’t find her.”

“No, but I’ll keep looking.” Not that she had the first idea where to start.

“Why bother? She’s not your responsibility.”

Like father, like son. She didn’t have the strength to argue. “Is that all?”

“Kilbourne hasn’t tried anything on, I hope.”

“I can look after myself.”

“You’re grieving. You’re vulnerable. Easily taken advantage of.”

She glanced at Harry. “Not all men are the same.”

“Just be careful,” he said, his tone gruff. Click.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, as she closed her phone.

“Nothing a brother-ectomy wouldn’t fix,” she said, then thought better of it. “Gabe’s not that bad really. A bit too bossy sometimes, I guess.”

Harry changed lanes. “Does he know about your deal with the reporter?”

“No.”

“Deals usually have two sides.” He fell silent, the question left unsaid.

“Yes,” she pressed her lips together, “they do.” The phrase ‘sold her soul to the devil’ sprang to mind. She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Here goes nothing
, she thought, as she proceeded to fill him in on Bailey’s visit.

By the time they reached the city outskirts, Harry knew all there was to know. Almost. One detail she’d neglected to tell him was that the photos were time-stamped only a week before the murders. Why that mattered, she wasn’t sure. “If I could undo it,” she said, “I would.”

“It’s not a binding contract. He can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. What I don’t understand is how the photos came to be in his possession in the first place.”

“Someone must’ve sent them to him,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, but who? And more importantly, why? I can understand why Cindy might employ a private investigator, but I can’t see her wanting their dirty laundry aired in public.” His fingers drummed the steering wheel. “What does whoever’s behind it hope to achieve?”

“Don’t you think I’ve asked myself those exact same questions?”

Without warning, a vision of her father flashed through her head – naked with the flame-haired woman, then naked and alone on a morgue slab. A sob tore at her throat. She swallowed hard, battling to keep the tears at bay. Now wasn’t the time or place.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone one of genuine concern.

Avoiding his gaze, she gave a quick nod. People feeling sorry for her she didn’t need.

A few minutes later they exited the freeway onto Batman Avenue, headed for the CBD.

Harry’s stomach grumbled. “How about a bite to eat? A late lunch somewhere?”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I forgot you hadn’t eaten. You must be famished.” Coffee was no substitute for food.

“Is that a yes, then?”

She shook her head. “Another time perhaps. But don’t let that stop you. Just drop me off somewhere down here, thanks. I really must get home.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t starve,” he persisted. “Now, what’s the best way to your place?”

“Honestly, there’s no need.” If he drove her home, there’d be that tense should-I-invite-him-in-or-not moment.

One eyebrow arched.

Stuff the awkwardness. He’d gone out of his way to help her. The least she could do is prepare him some lunch. “Okay, if you insist, but only if you let me make you a sandwich or something.” She could already hear Gabe giving her what for.

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t talk too soon. It might end up being only Vegemite. Cheese if you’re lucky.”

Before Harry could retort, Dervla’s mobile phone rang. Sophie. She hesitated.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just point me in the general direction.”

The phone continued to ring. “Right onto Victoria Parade.” She pressed the answer button, greeting her friend with a forced cheeriness. “Hello, stranger.” It’d only been three days, but so much had happened. Too much. “I was going to call you later, but you beat me to it.”

“Good.” Sophie sounded flat, not her usual exuberant self.

Dervla suddenly felt guilty about not calling her.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing really.”

She angled her body toward the car door, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece. “C’mon, it’s me you’re talking to. Has Martin been hassling you again?” So caught up in her own dramas, she hadn’t given any thought to what her friend was going through. “Are you okay? He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

She had her answer in Sophie’s silence.

“Where are you?”

More silence.

“Where’s Martin?” she asked, her concern mounting.

“I…” Sophie sniffed. “Don’t know. Gone.”

“Where are you?” she repeated.

“Your place.” Another sniff, quieter this time. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Why didn’t you ring me? No, don’t answer that. Stay put. I’ll be there soon.” She hung up and turned to Harry. “Sorry, but can I make that sandwich for you some other time? Something’s come up.”

“Not a problem. It sounds like your friend needs you more than I do.”

“Thanks, but believe me you’re not missing much. My sandwich-making skills aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

He grinned. “Let me be the judge of that. How about having dinner with me tonight instead? No cooking required. That’s if you aren’t busy,” he hastened to add.

“I’d like that, but…” She pulled a face.

“But you don’t want to desert your friend in her hour of need,” he said, completing the sentence for her.

She nodded. Maybe it was better this way. No complications.

“Right at the next intersection,” she said.

Sophie’s VW Eos was parked outside Dervla’s place, but there was no sign of her friend. When Harry drew alongside the sports car, an auburn head popped up in the driver’s seat. Sophie’s eyes widened as she checked out the arriving vehicle’s occupants, her focus reserved for Harry. Dervla almost laughed.