Читать книгу Blood Guilt - Lindy Cameron - Страница 4

The headquarters of O'Malley Investigations measured approximately 14 feet by 12. What that was in metric Kit had no idea and no desire to find out - it would only reduce the spaciousness she didn't have. The Imperial dimensions provided enough room to hold an impressive oak desk, three filing cabinets, two bookshelves, a kitchen sink, a pathetic potted plant of some tall variety in perpetual death throes, and two chairs - one for the only detective employed by the agency and one for clients. On the rare occasion that clients arrived in numbers greater than one, Kit simply borrowed a chair from her friend Del who produced, among other things, a feminist magazine in the front four-fifths of the Richmond premises.

A glass door opened from the main street into a small tiled hallway which featured two interior doors and a stairway going up. Kit didn't mind stairs when they went in that direction but, as her apartment was on the next floor, it meant she had to descend the damn things at least once a day. One of the strange things about suffering from vertigo was that coming down was always a lot harder than going up.

A large sign on the first door off the hallway announced Aurora Press loudly in purple lettering. However, the fact that Kit's office had, until recently, been Aurora's lunch room explained, not only the sink that skulked in one corner, but why only the smallest of wooden plaques on the second door at the rear of the hallway indicated the centre of operations for O'Malley Investigations.

When she'd first set up shop, Kit had contemplated advertising her services with just a phone number but realised that not all her clients would be happy meeting in the local pub or the Botanic Gardens. Whenever possible though, Kit offered to meet clients on their own turf, or at least neutral ground. She was certain, for instance, that Celia Robinson would never have paid such a large advance had she met with Kit beside a dying philodendron instead of a naked Greek hero.

Kit dumped a couple of books on the piles of paper scattered on her desk to anchor them before turning on the ceiling fan. It never cooled the room down but at least it moved the hot, sticky air around, albeit in hot, sticky lumps. She kicked off her sandals, hung up the collection of wrinkles that had once been the jacket of her light-weight suit and opened the connecting door to the front office. Aurora Press was deserted. They were probably still at lunch. After all, it was only 3 p.m.

Kit flicked the switch on the decrepit air-conditioning unit, grabbed a Coke from the fridge and dragged a chair into the doorway to try and get some relief from the heat. Putting her feet up on what was usually the clients' side of her desk she opened the file on Geoffrey Robinson.

The photograph of the man in question was a black and white glossy taken, according to the details on the back, three months before in the Orlando House board room in St Kilda Road. Geoffrey Robinson stood casually, one hand in a pocket of his immaculately-tailored dark suit, by a floor-to-ceiling window with commanding views of the city. A broad-shouldered man, large but obviously fit, he wore his hair in a sort of dry Wall Street look, combed back with precision to make a feature out of his receding hairline. His eyes revealed absolutely nothing though his lipless mouth was spread in what for him possibly constituted a smile. His nose was neither big nor small but his ears should have been pinned back from birth as they gave his face the overall appearance of a fruit bat, though he was nowhere near as cute.

Kit picked up the first page of computer print-out prepared by the bloodless Byron. It was headed 'Week One', which began the next day with an afternoon of social tennis with friends in Brighton. This was marked with an asterisk which meant Geoffrey would be in the company of his wife, though try as she might Kit could not imagine Celia Robinson playing anything more energetic than bridge. Geoffrey's next appointment, at 7.30 p.m. and underlined in red, was dinner at his club in Collins Street.

What he did afterwards would perhaps reveal what Celia had called 'the mystery' as this was obviously where Kit was expected to start. Despite Celia's misgivings about hiring a PI to hang around in dark doorways that was probably what Kit would have to do. Even her best sequined gown would not get her into The Patrician, one of the few remaining bastions of male exclusivity in Melbourne - if you didn't count leather bars like The Rod and Sergeant York's.

Sunday, the whole day thank god, was marked with an asterisk so regular surveillance would be on hold till Monday evening when Geoffrey was due to dine out with Miles Denning, William Zaber, Marjorie Finlay, Greg Fulton and others at The Stone Garden from 8 p.m. Tuesday he had set aside three hours for lunch with one Ian Dalkeith and the evening from 7 p.m. onwards, though containing no appointments, had been circled in red and highlighted with a question mark beside the word Patrician. Wednesday was a busy day: there was lunch with Marjorie Finlay and Miles Denning; an unexplained appointment out of the office scheduled for 6 p.m.; and another night subtly circled in red and queried by Celia's meticulous personal secretary. Thursday involved yet another luncheon appointment, this time with a person or persons unknown, and some sort of publishing industry do at the Hilton from 8 p.m. An asterisked notation beside the last appointment indicated that Celia would also be attending the function but only from 8 until 10.30. That was it for the first week. That was enough, even with an advance on payment for services rendered.

Kit ignored Week Two and turned to the page which listed Geoffrey Robinson's friends and associates. Miles Denning, as Kit already knew, was OHP's publisher; William Zaber was managing director of Zaber Ink, one of the largest advertising agencies in Victoria; Greg Fulton was marketing director of OHP's overseas division based in London; Marjorie Finlay was Fulton's Australian counterpart; and Ian Dalkeith, whose name rang a bell, was a local property developer.

Kit reached for the phone. It was time to ring Lillian and find out how her mother had gotten her into all of this. The number was engaged, as usual. She waited a couple of minutes then hit the redial button. There was no ringing tone but she heard her mother muttering on the other end of the line.

'Mum? You must have been sitting on the phone.'

'What? Who's that?'

'It's me. How many women do you know who call you Mum?'

'Oh Katherine. The phone didn't ring. I was picking it up to call someone. You could have been anybody.'

'I suppose so Mum. Well, seeing you're obviously home can I come over for a coffee?'

'No darling. I'm leaving in half an hour.'

'Where are you going?'

'Adelaide. Connie and I decided we needed a couple of weeks of R & R.'

'What on earth do you and Constance need a rest from?' Kit laughed.

'Very amusing Katherine. We just feel it's time we gave some more of our money away to the casino. Is that all right?'

'We've got our own casino in Melbourne now Mum. Why do you need to go all the way to South Australia?'

'It's a holiday darling. The casino is just a bonus. I promise I won't lose all your inheritance, if that's what you're worried about.'

'It's not the casino that's running down the value of my inheritance, Mum, it's the speeding fines you get every time you drive over there. They'll take your licence away if you lose any more points you know.'

'That's why we're flying this time, we - oh...' There was silence for a few seconds and Kit could picture her mother pushing a few strands of her slowly greying honey-blonde hair behind one ear while being totally distracted by a pot plant growing or a sparrow farting on her windowsill.

'Mum? Hello?'

'Did you want anything in particular Katherine or have you just run out of coffee at your place?'

'Well, actually I wanted to ask you about Celia Robinson.'

'Who?'

'Celia Robinson. She says she went to school with you Mum. Short, round, outrageous hair, lots of money. You know, Celia Robinson.'

'Oh you mean Chel Everton. Haven't seen her for ages. I didn't know you knew her darling.'

'I didn't until today. She's given me some work. She said she got my name from you. So what gives?'

'Oh isn't that nice dear. Well now that I think about it, I did bump into her about six months ago. We were both having a massage at Juno's and had lunch together afterwards. I'd totally forgotten about that. That's not like me.'

Kit choked back a laugh. 'So what did you talk about? I mean how did I come up in conversation?'

'What a silly question Katherine. Do you think I'm completely oblivious to your existence when you're not standing right in front of me to remind me of where you came from?'

'No, of course not Mum. I didn't mean that,' Kit said. Sometimes I wonder though, she thought.

'Besides it was ages ago. I expect we talked about the usual things old school chums talk about when they haven't seen each other for years. Not that we were actually chums at school. But you know how it is - common ground and all that. Chel was the sporty type, and you know I was never interested in all those balls and bats and things. She, however, was into everything. She was sports captain in our final year and the star hockey player. The whole bit. Every girl at school had a crush on her; she was our champion.'

'Are you sure we're talking about the same person?' Kit just couldn't picture the Celia Robinson she had met that morning with a jolly hockey stick in one hand setting young school girl hearts a-flutter as she inspired the school team to victory.

'Honestly Katherine I thought your father and I had taught you better than to judge people by their appearance.' Lillian sounded quite miffed, as if she'd failed dreadfully in teaching one of the great lessons in life.

'I'm not judging her Mum. I just don't think my imagination is up to the task.'

'Well she might have got a little curly around the edges but she was quite a beauty in those days. And a little dynamo on the field. What work has she given you anyway?'

'You know I can't tell you that, Mum. But thanks for the PR job you did on me. It obviously caused quite an impression.'

'I don't remember saying all that much.' Kit recognised the ever-so-humble tone in Lillian's voice. It was a dead giveaway that said she been caught out at something. Like the way she always said 'um' before asking a favour or before admitting that she'd already done something that someone else was bound to consider questionable or premature.

'So tell me about Celia.' Kit dragged the phone off the desk so she could reach the fridge to get another Coke.

'I don't have a lot of time darling, so it will have to be the bare bones. I'm sure you could find out more, if you need to, by going through my old magazines.'

Kit actually shuddered at the thought. Lillian had worked for years as a freelance theatre critic and that, combined with the short stories she used to write for women's magazines, meant her study was effectively insulated against nuclear fallout by 20 years' worth of arty magazines and copies of Cleo and New Idea. She'd had to buy every issue just in case her latest story was in it and no one had bothered to inform her. At least that had always been her excuse.

'Chel came from somewhere in the Western District, if I remember correctly,' Lillian was saying. 'Not from one of the moneyed families out that way. I think her father was the manager of someone else's sheep or cows or whatever. Anyway her parents worked like navvies I gather to give her the best they could. And she turned up trumps, in a big way. She met Carl Orlando at the Boat Races one year.'

'The Boat Races? That's where you met Dad. And didn't Constance and James spy each other across a crowded room on the same day?'

'Well, it was the social event of the year for all of us, girls and boys alike, who'd been imprisoned in separate schools while we were being trained to be proper young ladies and gentlemen. The Races separated the men from the boys and the women from the wall flowers. They flexed their muscles and we scratched each other's eyes out to be the first to dance with them. I imagine it's all still going on. I'm sure it was the same in your last year at school darling, though knowing you I don't suppose you noticed.'

'Obviously not,' Kit said.

'Where was I? Oh yes, Carl Orlando. He was the cousin, I think, of Suzie Goodall. A splendid looking boy, well young man really. He'd been sent out from England by one of the publishing houses to do whatever it was the Poms regularly did to their colonial outposts. They're still doing it, from what I hear from Charlie Hindstead. Anyway it was apparently love at first sight, though Chel still had a year of school to get through. They were married the day after final exams. He was already well-off but I heard he came into an inheritance from his Spanish grandfather or someone. That's when they started Orlando House and, as they say, the rest is history.'

'What about the rest of her story?' Kit asked, standing up to thump the side of the air-conditioner to remind it that its thermostat was lying again about having cooled the room down.

'Well, she had a daughter a few years later. When we had lunch that day I remember Chel being so proud of her, of what she was doing for herself, although she seemed sad that they'd drifted apart a little. I gather the girl's been quite a handful over the years. She's doing journalism or some such thing in London and here and there. I got the feeling Chel was a little jealous too, in a way. The daughter, now what's her name...?'

'Elizabeth,' Kit said.

'Yes, Elizabeth, she virtually ran away at the first opportunity. It obviously hurt Chel but I suspect the problem lay with the girl's relationship with the step-father not with Chel herself. At least I inferred that much.'

'So what happened to Carl?'

'He was killed in a car accident. Such a tragedy. Chel loved him so much I would have thought she'd have stayed in widow's weeds till her turn came. But I suppose some people just can't take being on their own. Though god knows why she married that Robinson fellow. Katherine, I have to go now. I can hear Connie hoo-hooing up the side path and I'm not nearly ready to go.'

'OK Mum. Thanks for all the goss. Give me a ring when you get home and try not to lose the farm on the roulette table. I love you.'

'Love you too, Katherine,' Lillian said before the line went dead.

Kit picked up the file on Geoffrey Robinson again and stared long and hard at the photo of the man who was giving Chel Everton such a hard time. Bastard! Kit was developing quite a soft spot for her new client.

'Been to see the bank manager have we?'

'Jesus Del! You frightened the life out of me,' Kit said bending to pick up the scattered contents of the file that had taken flight when she'd leapt to her feet. 'And what, pray tell, has the bank manager to do with anything?'

'Your gorgeous legs have come out of hiding, sweetheart. The only time a sensible woman wears a skirt these days is to get money that's not already hers from a stingy man in a bad suit who behaves as if the cash comes from his own private superannuation fund.'

'Very funny. I've been working, unlike some people I know.'

'Well, that's one way of making sure you can pay the rent next week,' said Del bending over the sink to splash cold water on her tanned face and long, long neck. She undid another couple of buttons on her lavender blouse and leant her statuesque body into the breeze from the air-conditioner.

Despite the fact that much of Del Fielding's daily banter consisted of smart one-liners, this handsome, grey-haired woman was one of Kit's best friends. She often wondered why, seeing the most insulting wisecracks were usually aimed in her direction. But Del was smiling now so Kit stopped wondering, as usual, and pulled a face instead.

They had been firm friends since the day, 12 years ago, when Kit and her partner Marek had been called to a disturbance outside Aurora Press. Del was standing in the doorway, all six foot of her with arms folded, hurling abuse at three drunken yobbos who'd decided that a window belonging to a bunch of feminists was a really appropriate place to take a piss. They had also been accosting every female passerby, whether they had business at Aurora or not. Kit was still a uniformed cop then but that hadn't deterred one of the offenders from taking a swing at her as she tried to book him for indecent behaviour. Del had caught hold of Kit before she hit the ground and later, after a second divisional van had taken the three drunks away, Del had treated Kit's cut lip while Marek took the necessary statements.

'Where's Brigit?' Kit asked.

'Hanging round the knicker department of Dimmey's. There's another sale on and our Brigie does so love a bargain,' Del said rubbing her hands together. 'I swear I don't know what the woman does with all that underwear.'

'Are you two going to Angie's tonight?' Kit asked.

'Probably. It is Friday after all. Will you be joining us or is sultry Sam still in town?'

'No and yes. We're going out for dinner.'

'That should be exciting,' Del said flatly. 'I don't know what you see in that air-head.'

'There seems to be a lot of things you don't know today Ms Fielding,' Kit snarled. 'I'll thank you to keep your uncharitable remarks to yourself.'

'Oh, excuse me! I'm sorry for living in hope that one day you'll take up with someone who's at least half as smart as you are.'

'I don't want to hear this Del,' Kit said picking up her shoes.

'Of course not, sweetheart.'

'And don't be patronising. Just because it's been centuries since you were in lust.'

Del shook her head slowly as she watched Kit stuff several manilla folders and the shoes into her briefcase. 'That remark couldn't be further from the truth,' she said with a smile. 'It does, however, show how little you know about long term, meaningful relationships, Katherine. With you it's only ever lust, which may be exciting, orgasmic, weight-reducing and the best way to spend a spare hour or two, but it is also superficial, empty and above all transitory.'

'Thank you for the analysis, Dr Freud,' Kit said, one hand on her hip in a gesture of standing her ground. That was impossible to do for too long under that know-it-all gaze, and she really hated it when Del was having one of her 'it's time to get serious and settle down Kit' days. Unable to think of a clever parting shot, she shrugged her shoulders, grabbed her briefcase and opening the office door said 'My love life, Delbridge, is none of your business.'

'Sure. Until next week when you don't have one and are in desperate need of company,' Del called after her.

'That's what friends are for,' Kit said closing the door behind her. She took the stairs two at a time and dumped her brief case on the small landing at the top while she unlocked the door to her apartment. As she stepped inside she heard a faint rustling sound above her and, expecting a surprise attack, quickly removed her pantihose before ascending the five steps from the inside landing. She was right. She only made it half way past the sitting room before a deranged black commando launched itself from behind the begonia and grabbed hold of her leg.

'Let go, you lunatic!' she shouted as she tried to walk Quasimodo-like into the kitchen with The Cat clinging tenaciously to her right ankle. When she bent to pick it up it darted manically off in several directions at once before leaping onto the kitchen bench to sit demurely as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth.

'I heard you this time, you feral feline. You're getting careless Thistle,' Kit said leaning in for the customary head-butt hello.

She turned the kettle on, threw some coffee into a mug and stared absently at the collage of photographs on the wall. There was a polaroid shot of herself sprawled on the couch with the Cat from Hell perched on her shoulder. It was only the two bright satanic eyes that distinguished the tiny black ball of fur from the shoulder-length curls of Kit's worst-ever haircut. The Cat was a lot bigger and Kit's hair a lot shorter now than when that shot was taken about the same time, two years ago, as the one of her brother Michael above it. He was poised in front of one of his cosmic landscapes waiting for a reaction from Lillian who looked like she was suffering severe indigestion. Amongst the collection there was also Detective Sergeant Jon Marek peering over the top of a Phantom comic; Nick and Phil grinning lasciviously at each other at last year's Christmas party; Genevieve looking totally ravishing outside a cafe in Firenze; and Del, at Angie's, mouth open as usual, haranguing someone else for a change, while Brigit overflowed a bar stool in the background.

Kit had never been able to figure out why Del was so disdainful of her personal relationships. That wasn't entirely true; of course she'd figured it out. She was just reluctant to acknowledge there was a certain amount of truth in what her friend was saying. It really riled Kit that it had reached the stage where the moment she met someone new she realised she was also anticipating Del's reaction. There would always be some unsolicited remark about her choice of partner, and when the affair didn't work out it would undoubtedly be because of Kit's cavalier attitude towards any sort of commitment. Though why Del would want Kit to commit herself to someone she'd called an air-head, or worse, was something Kit couldn't fathom, but that was Del.

Kit placed the coffee on her desk and was about to turn on her computer to tackle chapter five of her novel, when she noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. There was a message from her mother about going to Adelaide, a reminder from Marek about a barbecue on Sunday and then the dulcet tones of Sam Hellier.

'Um, this is me. I'm really sorry Kit but we'll have to postpone dinner. Dominic wants me in Sydney this afternoon for a re-shoot of that Callio thing. Got to go. Sorry. See you next week.'

'Shit! Shit, shit, shit.' There was no way Kit was going to break down and join Del and Brigit at Angie's after being stood up by sultry Sam.

She flicked the switch on her PC, typed three pages of murder and mayhem into chapter five of her novel, then went out and hired the latest Die Hard and two Steven Seagal movies and settled in for a night of vicarious body thumping, alone - again.