Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (16 page)

‘You done?’ McIntyre interrupted. ‘I know you won’t want to hang around for the next act.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, and she started herding me towards the door.

‘Ideas?’ she asked as we stepped into the corridor.

‘Do you trust her?’

‘Ellen? As much as I trust anyone.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘But I think she’s harmless. Maybe not too bright some days. And
I don’t think she’s strong enough or mean enough to rip the wings off a fly, let alone—’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . Honestly, at this point I don’t
know what I mean.’ I sighed. ‘You’ll probably find this one’s heart in the same shape as the first victim’s.’

‘Tell me something my questionably competent friend in there can’t.’

‘Peru once had the world’s highest golf course.’

She made a noise that might have been a laugh as we stopped at the elevator and she hit the call button more violently than
was necessary. ‘Plan?’

‘Anything on the birth certificate?’ I asked hopefully.

She shook her head. ‘I’m not Wonder Woman. Some time tomorrow, maybe.’

‘Bugger. Then tomorrow I’ll shake a few day care centres and see what falls out. Surely someone would’ve reported it if a
baby’d been left somewhere for days? Maybe someone knows the father and I can have a chat with him, see if he’s got Calliope.’

‘Ask him if he killed the mother while you’re at it. Interested parties need to know.’ She was going to say something else,
but the coughing began again: an ugly noise, worse than it had sounded over the phone. Her face reddened and her eyes watered
and she leaned against the wall, one hand at her throat, clutching at her crucifix as if it might help. I held her for support,
ignoring her expression as it flashed between gratitude and impatience, but she wasn’t really in a position to refuse assistance.

When she finally recovered and the shuddering had lessened, I let her go. I’d known Rhonda a while and she was a
very
private person: enquiries as to her wellness or otherwise wouldn’t be met with cuddles. But still. As she straightened, I
said, ‘Rhonda, are you going to hit me if I ask if you’re okay?’

‘Probably.’ Her voice was worn, and the exhalation behind it stank wetly. Her breath smelled like the morgue. ‘Just a touch
of pleurisy. Far less exciting than consumption.’

‘Okay, then, I’ll respect your privacy if you promise not to drop dead.’

‘Deal.’ She started back to the autopsy suite.

‘McIntyre?’ I called, and she looked over her shoulder. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

She laughed. ‘Yeah, fuck off.’

What a kidder. She disappeared, but I felt as if I hadn’t said or offered enough and I turned and followed. The door to the
exam room wasn’t properly closed and before I barged in I peered through the gap. I could see McIntyre and Ellen standing
close as close can be. The tech, looking sad, had her hands cupped around McIntyre’s face and I could see traces of tears
on the older woman’s cheeks. Rhonda clearly wasn’t well, but she wasn’t on her own.

I felt a little better, but also a lot lonelier. I wanted nothing more than to be back at David’s, sitting next to him on
his green sofa and breathing in his scent and his warmth, knowing he’d smell like stolen butter chicken and naan. I wanted
to touch his face, feel the skin, the stubble, run my hands through his thick blond hair, and see the goofy grin on his face
when I said it was time we slept together. Death makes us all want to do something lifeward; sometimes Death got it right.

I turned on my heel and retreated, braced in case the sensation of wings assaulted me again, but this time there was just
the cool hum of the dull metal elevator taking me back up – that and the surprise I couldn’t quite deny on discovering that
I was once more escaping alive.

‘I don’t care who you are, Ms Fassbinder,’ the woman said, smiling through gritted teeth and glaring at me over the top of
her Dame Edna glasses. ‘You’re not a police officer and I can’t give you any personal information about our clients or their
children.’

At the first two crèches I had learned what I probably should have already known: you don’t get to ask questions about kids,
certainly not strangers’ kids, unless you have a badge or a degree in social work. Mrs Tinkler, proprietress of Dinky Darlings
Day Care, was hammering that message home, and enjoying it way too much. I had the distinct impression she lived only to make
other people’s lives less enjoyable. The others had at least been courteous in their refusals, but politeness didn’t appear
to be one of the settings on Mrs Tinkler’s dial.

Mrs T. sat at the front counter like an oversized toad, swathed in a pink and white winter-weight caftan. Her hair colour
came out of a bottle that hadn’t delivered on the promises it had made. Her muddy eyes glittered meanly. The notice boards
behind her were covered with artwork from the Retro Glitter and Macaroni School, and sunflowers with faces and speech balloons
spouted improving slogans about smiles, kindness and hygiene; at least two of those messages were ones Mrs T. had not taken
to heart. To the left was a safety-glass door leading through to an activities room, and beyond
that I spotted a playground where hordes of small children were running about like brightly coloured bumper cars. To the right
was an office, and a little further along was another open door, perhaps leading to the
sanctum sanctorum
, also known as the staff break room. I thought I saw a shadowy movement there, but Mrs T. dragged my attention back by clearing
her throat.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms Fassbinder?’
As if she’d helped me with anything in the first place.

‘Perhaps you could simply nod your head
if
Serena Kallos had her daughter Calliope enrolled here? That would make my job much easier and I could stop wasting your time,’
I said, hoping I sounded considerably more polite than I felt. I liked to think of three as a magic number, but as this was
the third time I’d asked for help and the third time I’d failed to get it, I was beginning to think the magic was running
low. I indulged in a warm, fuzzy fantasy about getting McIntyre down here to tear Mrs T. a new one, but dismissed the idea
pretty quickly; Rhonda was clearly not well. I’d try to keep the strain on her to a minimum. At some later date, I could stick
a sharp knife in Mrs Tinkler’s tyres, but for the moment it was white flag time.

She knew it, too. ‘As I said, without a warrant—’

Well, at least I could milk this bit. ‘Can you get this through your skull, Mrs Tinkler? Serena Kallos is
dead
. She took a swan-dive off a very tall building, and her child – a
baby
– is missing. I don’t need anything from you except a yes or a no.’

Mrs T. was completely unfazed. She gave me a supercilious smile as I placed a business card on the counter and said sarcastically,
‘Thank you
so much
for all your help. I’ll be sure to mention it to Serena Kallos’ family – as well as any journalists I might
happen
to be in contact with in the course of my investigation
into a murdered mother and missing child
.’

It was bullshit, of course – imagine
that
six o’clock news story! – but she didn’t know that and her gaze went flat and dark. For a moment I wondered if she might
be something less than Normal – the idea of her looking after children didn’t inspire confidence in me. I pondered how she
came off to the parents who brought their kids here, but she’d probably put on a mask, maybe a cuddly, loving aunty, and suck
up to all those mums and dads desperately needing a place to store their offspring for the better part of every day.

What if . . .?

‘You don’t happen to live in Ascot, do you?’

The question was enough of a change of direction that before she could check herself she’d blurted, ‘No. Tarragindi,’ then
she bit her bottom lip as if to punish it for letting slip. I’d get Bela to check on her.

I let the door slam and was halfway back to the sunny spot where Ziggi was parked before I heard the smack of clacky mules
hitting the pavement behind me. Someone grabbed my arm and I swung around, fists clenched – maybe Mrs T. moved faster than
expected?

Except it wasn’t her but a red-headed girl in her early twenties, maybe even late teens. Her big eyes were caked in mascara
and too much black eyeliner, yet she looked kind of sweet. Her nose was reddened, as if she’d been crying, and she kept glancing
back towards Dinky Darlings.

‘Hi?’ I said.

‘You were asking about Callie – listen, you can’t tell anyone, ’cause I
really
need this job.’ She spoke in a rush, as if desperate to get the words out before someone caught her talking to me. ‘Serena
used to bring her here, just twice a week, so she could have some time to herself and do the stuff she needed to for the shop.’
Around her throat was a necklace like the ones I’d seen in the cabinet at the Kallos boutique: black stones with a green fire
glowing deep within.
Labradorite, I guessed. Her dress was vintage; maybe 1950s, not really the best choice for working with dirt magnets all day,
but I thought the kids would like how pretty she looked. She’d rushed out without a coat and was shivering.

‘When did you last see Serena?’

‘Is she really dead?’

‘Afraid so. Sorry, your name—?’

‘Vicki. Vicki Anderson. Serena was lovely, and she was a good mum. I used to babysit for her sometimes, but— Oh God, don’t
tell Mrs Tinkler!’ She wrung her hands so hard the skin started to turn pink.

‘No worries there.’ I grabbed her wrists to keep her from hurting herself, then let her go, and she left her arms hanging
loosely by her sides. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last Thursday afternoon when she picked up Calliope. She was fine then.’

‘I don’t suppose you know who the father is?’

She tilted her head, her mouth trembling. People always started to clam up after the initial babble, when the relief of telling
was overcome by the regret of having let the cat out of the bag. The trick was to distract them to keep them talking, work
on whatever guilt got them chatty in the first place.

‘Vicki, I just need to find Callie – if her father’s got her, then that’s fine.’ I neglected to say he might soon find himself
a person of interest in a murder investigation; she didn’t need to know that. ‘I just have to make sure that little girl’s
okay.’

She ran a hand through her messy red curls. ‘He used to pick Callie up sometimes – and he was always here for parents’ days.
He’s a nice guy, but honestly, I didn’t think he liked girls. Maybe it was an arrangement?’

‘Can you tell me what his name is?’ I kept my voice soft and restrained myself from punching the air.

‘Chris – Christos. I don’t know his last name, but he designs jewellery. He’s got a store somewhere in Paddington.’ She touched
her necklace. ‘Serena had a heap of his stuff on display in her shop.’

I remembered the price tags I’d seen and must have stayed quiet a moment too long because she said defensively, ‘Serena
gave
me this last Christmas.’

I raised my hands to say
I’m not arguing
, but she started to cry, and when I patted her shoulder ineffectually she attached herself to me like a limpet, bawling as
if her heart was breaking. It was more close contact than I was used to from strangers and it took all my self-control to
make myself relax and emit comforting noises.

When she at last pulled away she looked embarrassed, muttering, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You lost your friend. You don’t need to apologise,’ I said quietly. ‘Here’s my card. You’d better go back before the old
bat notices you’re gone, okay? And, thank you.’

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and spread the kohl even further afield. I pointed to my face, then hers. ‘You might want
to tidy up before she sees you. Give me a call if you think of anything else, okay?’

The sniffling girl smiled wanly and set off down the street, her mules beating out a sad little tarantella as she went.

*

Facet, nestled in the very chic, very boutiquey, very hilly suburb of Paddington, was one of those expensive stores filled
with very little. I’d had to push a button to signal my interest in being let in, so it was a good thing I’d had the foresight
to dress well for my second day of trying to extract information from people who weren’t necessarily
happy to reveal anything to a stranger. My standard attire of faded jeans and an old Cure T-shirt wouldn’t have got me across
the threshold of this particular shop – it might even have resulted in an uncomfortable phone call to the police – so I was
glad I’d opted for my charcoal skirt, granite button-up top, ebony boots (a fashionable way of saying ‘a lot of black’) and
my good winter coat. The fit of the right boot was a little tight with the dagger slid inside, but it was tolerable. I’d achieved
quite a respectable appearance, I’d thought proudly as I’d brushed my hair, all the while studiously ignoring the greys peeking
through the brown. I even managed to paint on some lipstick inside the lines. Never let it be said we’re a society without
miracles.