Bitter Nothings (18 page)

“And I don’t know who sent me those photos.”

Dervla sighed.

Bailey’s tone hardened. “I’m not playing games. I mean what I say. The photos arrived in the mail with no note, no return address, no nothing except a Melbourne postmark.”

She sank lower in her chair. “Can you email me copies? The police have the photos you gave me.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Hopefully a story, if we can identify the woman.”

“We?”

“Slip of the tongue.”

He laughed, the sound rich and throaty.

She couldn’t help herself: she smiled.

“Okay,” he said, “what’s your email address?”

“How long before you can send them through?” she asked, after she gave it to him. More than ever she wanted to find out who the woman in the photo with her father was.

“About twenty seconds.” He paused. “On its way. You owe me.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, already en route to her office. “And John, thanks.”

With a grumbled goodbye, he disconnected the call.

A ping sounded from her computer. New mail.

She wheeled her office chair close into the desk and opened the first attachment. Two entwined naked bodies flashed up on the screen. She found herself closing one eye, as if somehow that would lessen the impact.

Zooming in on the part of the woman’s face that was visible, Dervla studied every pore of the flushed skin, searching for clues to her identity. A small mark above her sculpted right eyebrow might or might not be a mole. That or a spot on the cameraman’s lens. She rotated the photo and tried imagining her upright with clothes on.

Nothing. And the next photo showed even less.

She stared unseeing at the screen, her fingers drumming against the mouse pad. Someone somewhere knew this woman.

CHAPTER 25

Dervla pulled out of the heavy traffic into the Johns Printing customer car park and exhaled. Made it. Unless they had a rush job on, her father’s employees would soon be knocking off for the day. And though she’d have preferred they weren’t there, she had neither a key nor the security code to access the premises.

No one was on reception when she entered the single-storey roughcast building. She didn’t loiter, strolling down the corridor as if she belonged there. The door to her father’s office was closed but not locked. With a backward glance over her shoulder, she slipped through.

If there was anything to find, it would be in there. Her father wasn’t stupid enough to stash anything incriminating at home where Lucinda might uncover it. He’d learned from his mistakes. Some of them, anyway.

A large mahogany-veneered desk and return dominated the room. On it sat an unplugged computer tower and LCD monitor, the keyboard and mouse coiled in cables. She made a beeline for the three-drawer metal filing cabinet in the far corner, rattling each drawer in turn to no avail.

She turned her attention to the desk, starting with the top drawer of pens, paper clips and right at the back, keys. As her hand closed over them, she heard a coughing sound and looked up. Her father’s long-time personal assistant – or The Rottweiler as Lucinda used to refer to her as – glared at Dervla from the doorway.

“Oh, hello, Genevieve, I didn’t see you there. How’s things?”

“Do you have permission to be in here?”

Dervla palmed the keys and withdrew her hand. “From whom?”

“The police. Gabe.”

“Why would I need permission from my brother?” She continued her search, moving onto the next drawer. “Warren was my father, too. Don’t fret, I’ll make sure I put everything back the way I found it.”

She pulled out a dog-eared manila folder with no external labeling and laid it on the desk. But before she could open it, Genevieve slapped her hand on top. Dervla responded by yanking it out. “I have every right to be here. Call the police if it makes you feel any better.”

Genevieve looked daggers at her. “Suit yourself. I don’t know what you expect to find anyway. The police have been through everything.”

“Did they find anything?”

The personal assistant pressed her lips together in a thin line.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

With a huff, Genevieve turned and flounced out.

Dervla opened the folder. All it contained were seven lined sheets of scribbled costings. What’d all the fuss been about? No doubt her father’s PA just asserting her authority. She replaced the folder and returned to the filing cabinet with the keys.

To her dismay, it was crammed with what looked to be the contents of the National Archives. The first suspension file she pulled consisted of printing quotes, some as far back as 1987. She’d have never guessed her father was such a hoarder. It’d take her hours to go through it all. Time she didn’t have. Anyway, the police had already done that, been there.

As she slotted the file back into the drawer, her gaze roamed down the filing cabinet. Possible? She darted to the door to check no one was about, then back to the cabinet. Dropping onto her knees, she slid the bottom drawer out as far as it would go. She groped blind in the space behind it, sliding her hand along the metal base until it hit a dead end.

Shifting position, she tried again. Her breathing quickened when her fingers nudged a hard, movable object. She grappled with it, trying to get a grip. In the same instant she snared it, she heard a noise out in the corridor. She scrambled to her feet, shoving her find – a mobile phone – deep into her skirt pocket, as she kicked the file drawer shut.

Footsteps paused outside the door. The doorknob turned. Further down the corridor, someone called out. Dervla held her breath. The footsteps moved away.

With one eye on the door, she took the phone from her pocket and studied it. Her father liked to keep up with the latest in mobile technology, unlike the basic Nokia model in her hands. Conscious of the time, she stowed it in her handbag for later and relocked the filing cabinet.

Onto the computer. It only took a few minutes to disentangle the cables, plug it all back together and boot it up. That was the easy part.

The blue login screen confronted her, the password cursor taunting her with its slow blink. She typed in her father’s date of birth, the first thing that came to mind. Incorrect. She then keyed the same numbers in reverse. Still incorrect. Knowing her father, it had to be something simple, easily remembered.

Of course, she could always ask Genevieve. Although she didn’t like her chances. Lucinda hadn’t called her The Rottweiler for nothing. What inspired that sort of fierce devotion to your employer? Was he that good in bed? She shuddered, dismissing the thought at once. Not only was it abhorrent to think of her father in that way, but Genevieve was the polar opposite to his usual type of young, slim and married.

Dervla’s fingers flew over the keyboard, trying every combination of letters and numbers she could think of including, as a last resort, her mother’s name, birth date and even the date of her death. The cursor continued to blink at her.

She gazed around the office, seeking inspiration. A framed Moomba Festival vintage poster caught her eye. She typed “moomba” and, holding her breath, hit the Enter key. Incorrect. Damn. She tried again, this time adding 1957 – the year of the advertised festival. Eureka! She bounced in her seat. It was all she could do not to shout out.

First, she opened her father’s email, skimming the Inbox and Sent Items before checking what other folders he had. Clients. Insurance. Other. Pending. Quotes. Suppliers. She clicked on the folder titled “Other”, expecting to find personal correspondence. Instead, all it contained was a handful of emails to do with a tradeshow and another couple regarding subsidies for employing apprentices.

A phone rang somewhere in the outer offices. She glanced toward the door, then back at the screen. The ringing stopped. She didn’t have long. Switching from email to Windows Explorer, she raced through the file names, hoping something would jump out. Nothing. Not even any family photos. It was as if her father had led two separate lives and never the twain should meet.

That or someone had done a good job of the housekeeping. Genevieve probably. And why no doubt, she wasn’t too concerned about leaving Dervla alone in the office. She set the computer to shutdown and gathered her bag, checking inside it for the mobile phone before heading out. What Genevieve didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her.

As Dervla closed the office door behind her, Genevieve emerged from a doorway down the corridor, arms folded.

“Satisfied?” she asked, as Dervla drew level.

Dervla smiled. “Always.”

The Rottweiler harrumphed, retreating back into her kennel to silence a ringing phone.

Chalking that one up for Lucinda, Dervla made a mental mark in the air.

When she reached the reception area, she did an about turn. Her father wouldn’t have been reckless enough to flaunt his mistress in front of his staff, but what if she worked for him? Dervla stole back down the corridor, past the open door behind which Genevieve lurked, past her father’s office.

She pushed through the soundproof door at the far end to the print floor. The printing presses were quiet, with one guy sweeping the floor and another at the packing table. Her nostrils twitched at the sharp smell of ink and solvent. She spotted the senior printer, her father’s right hand man, at his desk and made her way over to him.

At her approach, the wiry-haired man leapt to his feet. “Dervla,” he said, wiping his palms on his jeans, before extending a hand.

“Good to see you, Vince.” His grip felt firm and warm against her cool skin.

“My sincere condolences.”

“Thanks, but I’m not the only one who’s been affected by what’s happened. How are you holding up?”

His eyes creased, his mouth tightening. “Okay, I think. It’s good to keep busy.”

She nodded.

“Of course,” he continued, “I don’t know what your family’s plans are for the business.”

Neither did she. “Whatever happens, I’ll make sure you’re okay.” She only hoped that it was a promise she could keep. Exactly how dire the business’s finances were, she didn’t know.

He gave a solemn nod.

“Had Dad employed any new people in the last few months? I would’ve asked Genevieve, but I don’t think I’m one of her most favorite people at the moment.”

“No?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You and everyone else within a hundred kilometer radius. Only one that I can think of,” he said, getting back to her question. “We took on young Zach over there as an apprentice about six months ago.”

Dervla followed Vince’s gaze. The strapping Zach could never be mistaken for a woman, flame-haired or otherwise. “No one new in the office?”

“Not recently, no. Why do you ask?”

“Just dotting a few ‘i’s.” She handed Vince one of her business cards. “If you need to call me.”

Nodding a thanks, he took out his wallet and slipped in the card.

“Now,” she said, “how about letting me out through the tradesmen’s entrance?”

“She’s all bark, you know?”

“Are you sure about that?”

He chuckled. “Escape route’s this way,” he said, leading her around the printing presses toward a steel roller door.

Once in the safety of her car, she dug the mobile phone she’d found from her bag and switched it on. If any text messages had existed, they’d been erased from the phone’s memory, both received and sent. The call register, however, hadn’t. One number – another mobile – appeared in both dialed numbers and received calls.

Her fingernails strumming her seatbelt, she stared out the windscreen. What did she have to lose? More to the point, what message could she send that wouldn’t be outright ignored? She thought about it for a few moments, then tapped out:

“Hello. This is

Warren’s daughter,

Dervla. Please

contact me on this

number.”

If polite didn’t work, she could always try a John Bailey and threaten to expose the photos. She hoped it didn’t come to that.

When a figure that from a distance looked ominously like Genevieve emerged from the building’s front entrance, Dervla ducked down. No sense inviting trouble. She waited until after she heard the vehicle drive past to sit back up.

Out on the street, the peak hour traffic continued bumper-to-bumper for as far as she could see. A blue hatchback waited at the exit to the car park, its left indicator flashing.

She turned her focus back to the mobile phone. If she’d expected an instant response to her text message, she’d thought wrong. With the number selected again, she pressed Call.

“The mobile phone you are calling is either turned off or out of range.”

Damn. Not even a personalized message.

Leaving the phone switched on, she placed it face up on the passenger seat and started the car. Time to battle the traffic. Midway through reversing, the phone rang. Her foot hit the brake. She snatched up the mobile from the seat, only to discover it wasn’t the one ringing.

She shifted the gearstick into park, unclipped her seatbelt and hooked her handbag from the passenger side footwell. The volume increased. She checked the caller ID and pressed the answer button.

“You sure know how to pick your moments,” she said, checking to make sure her car wasn’t blocking anyone’s way.

“Only if it involves the opposite sex, hon,” Sophie drawled.

“Hah. Chance would be a fine thing. Can this wait until I get home?”

“When will that be?”

“In about half an hour.”

“Good. I’m at your place now, so I’ll wait.”

“Has something happened?” Dervla asked, recalling the bruises her friend had turned up with the last time she’d arrived unannounced at her place.

“I have Emmet’s phone here and thought you’d probably see him before I did, that’s all.”

CHAPTER 26

Forty minutes later, Dervla pulled into her driveway. Before she’d turned off the ignition, Sophie was at the car door.

“We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” Sophie said.

With a laugh, Dervla climbed out of the car. “You do insist on dropping by when I’m not at home. There is such a thing as a phone, you know.”