Brittle Shadows (13 page)

One-handed, she
rifled through the few dresses and separates she had thought to bring. She
could only hope he wasn’t taking her anywhere too fancy. The long gypsy skirt
and matching tangerine bustier was the only outfit she had with her versatile
enough to crossover from beach party to five-star restaurant. Maybe not
five-star, but then Ash didn’t strike her as a fine dining sort of guy.
Privileged upbringing or not.

Decision made,
she quaffed the last of her wine and headed for the bathroom. She stayed under
the shower longer than intended, her mind drifting from Tanya to Tanya’s
friends to home and her own friends and back to Tanya. At six weeks pregnant,
what changes had her sister noticed in her body? Tracing the contours of her
own, Jemma ran her soapy hands across her flat belly and up over her full
breasts.

Jemma slapped the air as a
mosquito whined past her ear. “Have you heard Marcus talk about or do you know
a Detective Sergeant Chris Sykes?”

Ash stopped
chewing and swallowed. “The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell
from where. I’ve spoken with a quite a few cops, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t
one of them. Why do you ask?”

“He’s an old
friend of Tanya’s.”

Ash frowned.

“From a long
time ago,” Jemma said, with a flick of her hand. “A very long time ago. In
fact, you could say he was Tanya’s first love.”

The frown lines
deepened. He put down his knife and fork.

“She obviously
didn’t talk about him.”

“No, but your
sister rarely spoke of her past unless it involved you.” He stifled a laugh.
“For all I know, she left behind a husband and tribe of kids in Perth.”

Jemma gave him
a wry smile. “Not likely. She was only seventeen when she left home. Talking
about kids,” she said, watching his face, “did you know Tanya was pregnant?”

His mouth fell
open, his blue eyes widening. “No way.”

Another strike.
“Yes way. Six weeks according to the pathologist’s report.”

“But…” He wiped
his mouth, his gaze locking with hers. “But that’s not possible.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because…
because… shit, I don’t know.” He thumped the heel of his palm against his
forehead. “I can’t get my head around it. Did Fen know?”

“Apparently
not.”

He shook his
head, sucking air in through his teeth. “Who would’ve thought? Fen didn’t even
tell me Tanya was seeing anyone.”

Jemma’s turn to
frown.

“Just because
she didn’t want me around her doesn’t mean I stopped caring,” he said. “Fen
kept me in the loop.”

Something Fen
had failed to mention when Jemma asked her about Ash. “She didn’t know.”

“Are you sure?
Those two were as thick as thieves.”

She was
beginning to think they weren’t the only ones. Who else wasn’t being upfront
with her? “I’m only repeating what she told me. And she did sound genuinely
shocked when I gave her the news.”

Ash swirled his
wine, his gaze lost in the blood-red eddy, oblivious to everything and everyone
around him.

Jemma stayed
silent, leaving him to his thoughts. Her elbow resting on the balcony railing,
she skewed her body around to take full advantage of the view. Southbank’s
lights reflected off the Yarra’s tranquil waters, the city skyline its
backdrop. Couples strolled hand in hand on the promenade, making her wistful
for another era. She looked back at Ash, knowing he, too, was revisiting
another time, another place.

The door onto
the balcony opened. Greek music followed the black-aproned waiter as he stepped
out to clear their plates. When the door clicked behind him, Ash looked up.
“Sorry, what did you say?” The flickering candle cast his face in strange
shadows, the flames mirrored in his eyes.

“Nothing. Where
were you?”

“Just
thinking.”

“That much was
obvious.”

He skolled his
wine and reached for the bottle. “We think we know people, but how much do we
really know?”

“You’re talking
about Tanya, right?”

He sighed and
leaned in, his expression earnest. “Why, Jemma? Why did she do it? An unwanted
pregnancy isn’t the end of the world, surely.”

She shook her
head, her gaze not leaving his face. “Nooo…” she said drawing the word out, not
sure why he would think that. “You’re not suggesting Tanya took her own life
because she found out she was pregnant and couldn’t face having to make the
decision whether to keep it or not?”

Ash slumped
back in his chair. “No, you’re right, it’s totally illogical, but I just don’t
want to accept she killed herself because she couldn’t live without that damned
man.”

“I know what
you mean.”

He sat up
straight. “You do?”

“Some would
call it denial.”

“Tell me about
it. So what’s your take on Tanya’s death?”

“I don’t know
if it’s a take as such, but I’m convinced there’s more to it than meets the
eye.” Looking to Ash for confirmation, she drew her feet under her chair and
moved in closer to the table. “There has to be. You knew Tanya. Would you have
ever thought of her as the sort of person to take the easy way out?”

His jaw moved
from side to side as if chewing on her words. “Are you saying what I think
you’re saying, that Tanya’s death wasn’t suicide?”

She sucked in a
lungful of the cooling night air and held it. Somehow hearing him speak the
words aloud added more weight to them. She released her breath. “Maybe.” She
shook her head. “I don’t know. But whatever, I just know we’re missing
something.”

“What?”

“Well, if I
knew that, I wouldn’t be missing it.”

“Sorry, stupid
question.”

The waiter
reappeared to tempt them with desserts, leaving a moment later with orders for
Greek coffees and Metaxa.

Jemma waited
for the door to close behind him. “And what if Tanya’s assertion that Sean
didn’t die by his own hand, either accidentally or intentionally, wasn’t just
the crazed ramblings of a grief-stricken woman like everyone seems to think?”

“Shit, Jemma,
are you saying now that you think Sean was murdered? How much have you had to
drink?”

Enough to lower
her guard and loosen her tongue. “Forget I said anything.”

He clicked his
fingers. “Just like that? All right, I know my comment was uncalled for, but
you blindsided me. Just answer me one question: were you serious?”

“I said what
if, I didn’t say that’s what happened. It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Just like
suicide and accident are possibilities. Tanya didn’t believe Sean killed
himself, so don’t we at least owe it to her to do everything we can to find out
what really happened? And that way we might finally begin to understand Tanya’s
state of mind at the time of her death. The police investigation centered on
the obvious, but I think the truth lies hidden in the shadows.”

Ash studied her
for a moment, his steepled fingers touching his chin. “Who else have you
mentioned this to?”

“No one.”

“Don’t, because
if there’s anything to what you say, you could very well be putting your own
life at risk. Did you think about that?”

“What, you
think I should just let sleeping dogs lie, accept the police and coroner’s
findings, and get on with my life? I thought you of all people would
understand.”

“I do, probably
more than you realize.” His fingers still at his chin, he leaned in close,
something akin to pity in his eyes. “But seriously, what do you hope to
achieve?”

She averted her
gaze, her eyes pricking with tears. “Truth, justice and… and…”

He filled in
the blank. “A salved conscience?”

The arrival of
the waiter saved her from having to answer. While he unloaded his tray, she
pondered the night sky. Was Ash right? Was appeasing her guilt part of the
equation? On a logical level, she knew she wasn’t to blame for what had
happened, but emotion fought a hard battle. Guilty conscience or not, though,
she wasn’t about to wave the white flag. Not yet.

Hearing the
door closing, she turned to see Ash with his nose deep in the large brandy
balloon cupped in his hand. She followed suit, her palm warming the Metaxa and
releasing its intoxicating aroma.

“So why did you
ask if I knew this Detective Sykes?” Ash asked, taking the conversation back to
before they had veered off into no man’s land.

Jemma peered
over the rim of her glass at him, trying to read his face. “Only that I noticed
some ill will between him and your father and I was wondering if you had any
idea to its origin?” She sipped her drink, swilling the fiery liquid around her
mouth before swallowing it.

He laughed,
catching Jemma off guard. “Oh, I doubt it’s anything personal. Dear old Dad
doesn’t think much of our police force, never has. Don’t worry, it’s mutual. My
father thinks the thin blue line is elastic. So far it hasn’t snapped. It’s
come close, mind you.” He chuckled into his glass, as if remembering some
private joke to which she wasn’t privy.

Jemma entered Carlton Gardens, the
grand avenue of plane trees that led to the Royal Exhibition Building landmark
dome stretching ahead of her. Dappled shade provided respite from the late
morning sun as she walked, the noise of the city receding further into the
background with each step. She breathed deeply, the baked eucalypt scented air
tickling her throat.

Settling into
an easy stride, her mind drifted back to the previous evening. Ash’s comment
that the antagonism between his father and Chris wasn’t personal still bothered
her. It didn’t gel with the way Chris arced up at the mere mention of Marcus
Bartlett. An experienced officer of Chris’s rank had to have faced more than
his fair share of hostility from the public; it was part of the job description.
So what set Marcus apart from all the other police detractors?

Up ahead, she
spotted the garden’s huge fountain, framed against the Exhibition Building’s
giant arched entrance and quickened her pace. The last time she had visited
Melbourne it hadn’t been flowing.

She was almost
on top of him before she realized who the dark-haired man seated on the park
bench to her right was. His cultured voice gave him away. He had his back to
her, his arms wrapped around the platinum blonde whose face was buried in his
chest. Not gay then.

Jemma hadn’t
seen or heard from Ethan since Wednesday, when she had left him at the café
engrossed in a phone call. She wasn’t about to front up to him now, especially
not when he was otherwise engaged. She scooted across the grass to the other
side and, putting as much distance between herself and the amorous couple as
she could, cut through the trees toward Rathdowne Street. The fountain would
have to wait.

She couldn’t
work Ethan out. He ran hot and cold. One minute he was openly flirting with
her, the next she didn’t exist. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with him. Perhaps
she had misread the signals. Perhaps her man antenna was faulty. Why it
bothered her, she didn’t know. Or rather didn’t care to admit.

The sun pinking
her fair skin, she looped around past the giant Rubik’s cube angled in the
ground, continuing on behind the vast, postmodern Melbourne Museum. It was the
long way round, but she had plenty of time before she was due to meet Fen for
lunch, hopefully a less rushed one than the day before. Fen’s phone call so
soon after their last less than productive meeting had surprised Jemma, but
didn’t stop her jumping at the chance to try again. Third time lucky?

It took Jemma a
lot longer to locate the address than she expected. Mopping her face with a
tissue from her bag, she gazed up at the faceless grey building. Thirty-centimeter
high burnished steel numerals – a one and an eight – on the vault-like front
door were its only identifying feature. She checked her note again and stepped
up the three concrete steps to the entrance.

In the foyer,
she looked twice at a bowler-hatted male mannequin wearing a turquoise bowtie.
She took a second to compose herself and then followed the sound of voices and
the occasional clink of glass into an elegant lounge bar. The interior belied
the establishment’s bleak façade. Abstract and contemporary artworks adorned
the aubergine walls, complementing the room’s vivid red leather couches and
Blackwood furniture. Only about half the couches were occupied. A couple of
heads turned at her approach, but not for long. She wasn’t that interesting.

According to
Fen, if she followed the long curved bar to the end and turned left, she would
see the door leading outside to the beer garden. She stood there for a moment,
looking at the rows of sparkling wineglasses hanging above the bar, and
wondered if she should order a drink before she ventured outside. Before she
could decide, a svelte middle-aged woman, her auburn hair framing her fine
features, materialized at her side.

“Welcome to
Eighteen. How may I help you?” asked the woman, her voice as glossy as her
appearance.