Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (17 page)

Through the spotless plate-glass window, instead of traditional display cases, I could see eight waist-high pillars spread
around the space, each holding a red velvet pillow draped with a single item of jewellery and protected by a glass cover.
I spotted security cameras in every corner of the room too, then a figure came in sight and I smiled and waved, apparently
looking non-threatening and affluent enough for the lock to click and the door to jerk open a few inches. I stepped inside.

A pale man with light green eyes and long dark hair that kissed his collar gave me a professional smile and began to bustle.
His navy wool trousers had dangerously sharp creases and his white shirt looked as if it had just come out of the wrapping.
His handshake was gentle, the palm damp and soft-skinned. A heavy bracelet hung about his slim wrist: haematite and dragon-vein
agate set in what looked like silver, but I bet was platinum.

‘Christos?’ I asked. I was willing to bet he’d been born a Christopher.

‘And what can I help you with today, my lovely?’ His manner was full-blown
dahling
, but he was trying too hard. He was nervous, and
I swear I could smell fear beneath his pricey cologne. He started fidgeting, first checking a cufflink, then a button; stroking
his belt buckle, feeling the weight of the bracelet, pulling an earlobe, generally trying to distract himself with a series
of busy-nothings. The broad business smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were shifting to and fro as if constant vigilance
was the only thing that could save him. He might have been right.

And I sensed something else which was really interesting. He was
ordinary
. I could feel it through his skin when we touched: a very solid ordinariness that permeated his flesh and lined his bones:
Christos was Normal, and whatever trouble had found Serena, he wasn’t able to cope with it. So how was he involved?

Every lie I’d thought of and every cunning half-truth I’d planned to use to inveigle him dried up on my lips. I pitied him,
and it made me honest. ‘I’m here about Serena and Calliope.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.’ Dread flickered in his face and a muscle started twitching involuntarily
in his cheek. He retreated towards a long black velvet curtain at the back of the shop. I didn’t follow immediately, just
raised my hands, as if that might convince him he had nothing to fear from me.

‘Christos, my name is Verity Fassbinder and I’m a private investigator. Serena called me before she died. We were supposed
to meet, but I . . . I didn’t make it.’ My voice shook. ‘Do you know what she wanted to discuss with me?’

‘She’s really dead?’ he whispered, slumping against one of the pillars that wobbled dangerously. ‘I couldn’t contact her while
I was away—’

‘I’m sorry, Christos, yes. Serena’s dead and Calliope is missing.’

He hesitated, as if weighing up my trustworthiness, then, slow as a cat consenting to be stroked, motioned for me to join
him. Behind
the curtain was a small office; a nappy bag and a baby carrier were piled in one corner. He fell into a chair at the desk
and took a couple of deep breaths before saying, ‘I was in Sydney on a buying trip. I didn’t know anything had happened until
I got home yesterday – that awful woman from Dinky Darlings called.’

Mrs Tinkler certainly did have a way about her.

‘She demanded to know where Callie was – she started shouting about limited places and fees and waiting lists.’ His bottom
lip trembled. ‘But I don’t
know
! Callie mostly stayed with Serena.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude or offensive, Christos, but are you
really
Calliope’s father?’

There was a moment when he looked like he was considering lying – when I could tell he yearned to do so – but I think he knew
he wasn’t good at untruths. After a pause he shook his head. ‘Serena wanted a name to give people, to put on the birth certificate.
But I did everything a father could and should. Serena and I are . . . we were best friends; I’d have done anything to help
her. And that little girl –
my
little girl – she is just so beautiful. I loved her the moment I set eyes on her.’ His smile was tremulous, but I had no
doubt it was genuine.

‘And you knew what Serena was?’

Again a pause, then he admitted, ‘So strange, so lovely. Like a piece of art or something from history, so exquisitely old.’
He sniffled. ‘I just loved to be around them. I was privileged to be part of their lives.’

‘Did she ever tell you who the sperm donor was?’ I made a point of not saying ‘real father’.

He said sadly, ‘She wouldn’t talk about it, and I didn’t push. I suppose I thought that if I didn’t know then I could pretend
Callie really was mine.’

Serena would have known that Christos wasn’t a keeper of secrets; anyone who wanted to get information out of him wouldn’t
have to push too hard, so what he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell.

‘And you don’t know what Serena was upset about?’

He looked at the toes of his gleaming shoes. ‘Either she kept it from me or it didn’t start until after I went away.’

‘You don’t—’

‘I don’t know where Callie is! I can’t even begin to imagine – if the other sirens don’t have her . . .’ He let the statement
hang, the weight of what was left unsaid . . . Serena Kallos had been dead for almost a week. Even though the little girl
was half-siren, there was no guarantee she was any hardier than the average infant. Without food, without water, without care
she wouldn’t last long.

‘Please find her,’ he begged.

‘I’m trying,’ I said.

We swapped business cards, and then I opened my mouth to give the usual exhortation to call if he thought of anything, but
what actually came out was, ‘Christos, maybe you should go away for a break.’

Tradition dictated that people be told
not
to leave town, but I didn’t think he’d do well against whatever had killed Serena, and I really didn’t want a call from McIntyre
telling me this gentle man – or parts of him – had been found in a tree or scattered across a park somewhere. If I could do
something positive for at least one life I’d feel better about myself.

It was almost five by the time I left Christos and the day was pretty much gone. What little progress I’d made was nowhere
near enough and that was lying heavily on me, as was the suspicion there would be some tail-chasing in my future, and while
I was wandering around in the dark, that little girl’s time might have already run out. I wasn’t
sure I was even asking the right questions, or looking in the right places.

I said as much to Ziggi as he negotiated the traffic to get me home.

‘Can’t think like that or you might as well just give up breathing,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re annoyingly tenacious. You’ve
got a brain. Use it,’ he ordered.

Watching the vehicles around us, cars moving back and forth like a high-speed game of Tetris, I realised there was one place
I
might
learn more: someone who knew a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot of things. But the privilege of talking to her was going
to cost me. I’d be rearranging my priorities. I pulled out my mobile and resentfully thumbed a contact.

Every so often Mel had clients on a Saturday for acupuncture, cupping, Thai massage and other natural ways of leaving bruises,
so I occasionally acted
in loco parentis
– after unsuccessfully trying to convince my charge that it did not mean
crazy parent
. That often meant schlepping Lizzie to relevant sporting events, for which Ziggi appointed himself fairy god-chauffeur –
he claimed that if he was driving me it counted as work, for which Bela would pay, but I think he just liked the kid. Given
the whole Winemaker business, I was lucky Mel still trusted me with her daughter.

That was how I came to be watching a game of under-tens soccer, a sport I’d previously understood to be non-contact. The noise
generated by the crowd was phenomenal, but not enough to drown the voice in my head shouting that I wasn’t doing enough to
find Calliope. But I reminded myself sternly that I didn’t have too many options: my dearly bought appointment wasn’t until
the next day. I was praying it would yield some leads, but in the meantime there was nothing to do except worry about a missing
child whose mother I’d failed, while trying to immerse myself for a while in the flow of the ordinary world of a child I
had
managed to save . . . nothing to do but wonder, foolishly, if one day I’d be sitting here watching my own mini-me run after
a stupid ball, to wonder if David would be beside me.

Mind you, observing those grownups at close quarters as they yelled violent advice at their children was not the best advertisement
for parenthood. I pondered how and when life had changed for them – when they’d stopped thinking this was all meant to be
fun
. And when they’d stopped hoping for themselves and started dousing their offspring with their own dead ambitions, as if enough
might soak in and resuscitate lost dreams. They might as well have been shouting, ‘Let Daddy re-live his youth through you!’
or, ‘Become a star and keep Mummy in the manner to which she should already have become accustomed!’ because that was clearly
what they were seeking. And however much they loved their progeny, they had no true idea of their value – and they wouldn’t,
not until one was gone forever.

Watching all those cared-for kids made me think about the ones who had no one to worry about them: the ones who’d been lured
to the gingerbread house and never got away, and the others, like Sally, who’d do anything to survive, no matter how awful.
I was definitely conflicted about that little guttersnipe. Part of me felt desperately sorry for her, but the rest of me couldn’t
forgive her for the appalling harm she’d done. And that started me wondering: why’d she come by my place, only to disappear
when she saw Anders Baker? Or was it me she was afraid of? Had she changed her mind at the sight of me? Perhaps she hadn’t
known I’d got to Lizzie in time and was terrified I’d failed and that I’d blame her? I tried to put the questions aside, before
my mind started to feel like an out-of-control hamster wheel, and focused on the game.

Lizzie and I had had a long talk about good sportsmanship and she was following the rules to the letter – and doing an impressive
job of keeping her temper in check, which was all the more remarkable since it appeared no one else had bothered to give their
darlings a
similar spiel. In the space of ten minutes she’d taken three falls, tripped by the same little grub each time, yet she’d neither
popped him one nor grabbed him by his mullet and twirled him around like a streamer. I, on the other hand, was verging on
enraged. I’d have given someone’s right arm for the power to hex, so it was probably a good thing I had no magical talent
whatsoever.

I glared at the people gathered around the field and in the stands, taking note of those who were especially vile; I might
not be able to do anything, but I could dream. A few seats over from me sat a man with soft white hair and a bushy moustache
and beard. A silver-tipped walking stick was propped next to him. He wore a navy and red chequered flannel shirt, grey tracksuit
bottoms and a pair of expensive brown Polo loafers that looked out of place; the sort of gift a determined daughter-in-law
would give, trying to smarten up the old man. At first I thought he looked familiar, until I realised it was the seen-one-seen-them-all
phenomenon: he was standard granddad fare. He was also a single point of calm in an ocean of crazy. I couldn’t tell which
kid he belonged to and he wasn’t yelling, just smiling gently, and I appreciated his dignity in the midst of the uproar. When
he caught me staring we exchanged nods, then directed our attention back to the game.

Lizzie got possession of the ball and danced it towards goal, with me making encouraging noises even though there was no way
she’d pick my voice from the cacophony. Someone bumped into me and sat too close, setting me off-balance until I realised
Ziggi had returned from his quest for food. He shuffled about on the bench and I considered warning him about splinters when
I noticed he’d bought
one
hotdog and
one
Coke. I was about to start on him when the shouting went up a level and my attention was drawn back to the pitch.

There was a fight, and when Lizzie was nowhere to be seen in the circle of small bodies I knew right where she’d be: in the
middle of it, on her way to three-match suspensionville.

Leaving Ziggi to his lunch – and hoping heartily that it would be disgusting – I headed towards the cluster. When I finally
managed to separate Lizzie from her opponent, she had scratches on one cheek and a blossoming bruise on the other. Her knees
had dirt and grass ingrained in them and her hair was sticking up at all angles, a real pin-up girl for
Bedraggled
magazine. She gave me a shamefaced look, while her foe – the brat who’d been tripping her all afternoon – wailed like a recently
neutered cat over his broken nose.