Читать книгу Fatal Flaw - Sandy Curtis - Страница 8

Ruth Bellamy adjusted her sunglasses and tilted her plain black hat to cast more shadow on her face. From her position at the back of the crowd she could only catch glimpses of the ceremony unfolding at the front, but she didn't need to see it to know the procedure.

The minister was no longer extolling the virtues of the man whose coffin was slowly being lowered into the earth, and the soft whir of the motorised rollers was broken only by the sobbing of a young woman leaning heavily on the man by her side.

Ruth shifted her position slightly. An older woman, similar in slim stature and fair colouring, patted the arm of the young woman, but it was a mechanical, almost absent-minded gesture. She stood, straight-backed, seemingly oblivious to the hand of support curving around her other arm. Ruth recognised her as Gordon Talbert's widow, Claire, and thought the younger woman must be her daughter, Susan.

She tried to see more of the man who seemed so protective of Claire, but the crowd moved gently forward and closed ranks. Frustrated, she walked around to the right, then realised that members of the crowd were stepping forward to take a rose from a basket held by one of the funeral attendants and toss it onto the coffin.

A smile teased at Ruth's lips. It would be so fitting, so appropriate; but there might be some in the crowd who could recognise her. For a moment she hesitated, then decided to take the risk. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat her light brown hair fell in thick waves over her shoulders, and her conservative navy suit would not draw attention. She was just another mourner. The thought pleased her, and she slipped into the flow of bodies moving towards the graveside.

As the rose dropped from her fingers onto the polished timber of the coffin, a feeling of savage triumph washed over her, and she bowed her head. Let them think I am mourning, she reasoned, and moulded her features accordingly.

She walked away, head still lowered, but a quick upward glance was enough to confirm that the man giving his support to Gordon Talbert's widow was the dead man's son, Mark. The resemblance was unmistakable. Same brown hair, solid build, unremarkable features. The eyes, though, seemed different. Ruth wasn't sure exactly how they were different, she wasn't close enough to discern their colour, but perhaps it was the watchfulness in the man's face, the scrutiny he gave each mourner.

As the minister intoned a closing prayer and invited the mourners to attend a small repast at a nearby restaurant, Ruth eased her way out of the crowd. At the top of a small rise she turned and looked back as the people dispersed. A figure caught her eye, and she watched as Julie Evans made her way to where Mark Talbert and his stepmother, Claire, now stood, slightly apart from the few remaining mourners.

Ruth sighed. How fitting, she thought, that the children of the damned should be meeting at the funeral.

Tears misted Julie's eyes as Claire drew her into a warm embrace.

'Julie, I'm so glad to see you. It's been too long, too long. Your mother, how is she?'

'She's fine, Claire. And she said to tell you how sorry she is that she couldn't be here today. Derek's taken her on a holiday to New Zealand.' Julie felt a rush of affection for Claire as she remembered the other woman's support during her parents' divorce. She took Claire's cold hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then she turned towards Mark.

It had taken only a second for Mark to realise that the dark-haired woman clasping his stepmother's hand was Julie Evans. He hadn't seen her since she was pregnant thirteen years ago, and the soft, almost-plump curves had disappeared. Her face had lost its angelic roundness but the high, broad cheekbones still accentuated the pale green of her eyes. Eyes that now told him she understood the depth of his loss.

When he took her hand in his he held it for longer than courtesy decreed, but the flood of memories that rushed at him was too great to stop and he needed the delay and the words of sympathy she offered.

'It's good to see you, Mark. I'm so sorry about your father.' Her voice held genuine warmth, and after the numerous platitudes he'd just heard from his father's political colleagues and some old friends who'd attended through duty rather than affection, it touched him more than he would have thought.

'Thank you for coming, Julie. It, it means a lot.' He was surprised to realise how much he meant that. So many of the people attending the funeral had been strangers to him, and it had brought home to him, almost painfully, how much he'd grown away from his family. His life in Canberra was another world. A world to which he wasn't sure he wanted to return. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling, 'Mum, we should go now.'

Julie turned as a young woman walked towards them, and smiled in recognition. Susan might be Mark's half-sister, but the solid Talbert gene had passed her by. Slim and fair like her mother, Claire, she possessed the same delicate bone structure and soft vocal tone. Now she looked at Julie as though seeing her for the first time.

'Julie? Julie Evans?' She gave Julie a hug. 'It's so good of you to come. Dad…' her voice faltered and she brushed away tears. 'Dad was always very fond of you.'

'And I felt the same about him, Susan.'

'Please join us at the restaurant. I'm sure you and Mark must want to catch up.'

Julie shook her head. 'I caught the bus here, so I'm sorry I won't be…'

'Mark can drive you,' Claire interjected, 'I'll go with Susan and Tom.' She placed her hand on Julie's arm. 'Please, Julie.'

'Thank you. It would be nice to catch up with you all.'

The air-conditioning soon alleviated the heat that had built up in Mark's Falcon. As he followed his brother-in-law's car to the restaurant, he was acutely aware of Julie as she sat in the passenger seat, the skirt of her green short-sleeved suit riding higher as she crossed one ankle over the other. With an effort he directed his gaze back to the traffic.

'I was sorry to hear about your divorce,' he commented.

'Don't be. It was inevitable. We were never really suited. If I hadn't been so young when I married Luke I might have realised that sooner and saved myself some heartache.'

Mark wasn't sure what to say to that. Julie had been his friend for so many years that he'd felt almost abandoned when she'd married Luke Evans. But he'd soon immersed himself in his career and relied on Claire to keep him posted about Julie and her family.

'I'd been my mother's emotional support for so long,' Julie continued, 'that when she finally left Dad and divorced him and married Derek I felt like I'd been cut adrift. You'd left for Canberra.' She slanted him a quick glance. 'Not that you ever needed me, but I guess I'd come to rely on our friendship. You were the one person in my life who seemed to care what I thought or how I felt. Then I met Luke.' Her fingers twisted through the strap of her handbag. 'He was charming, fun; and he needed me. And I needed to be needed.' She paused as Mark pulled into a parking space near the restaurant. 'It took me a long time to realise that and change it.'

Mark turned off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. 'You're wrong, you know,' he said softly, 'about me not needing you. For four years of my life you were the only person I could talk to, the only one who understood what I was going through. I don't think I've ever thanked you for that, Julie.'

Startled, Julie turned to look at him. There was a vulnerable look in his brown eyes that skittered her back thirty years to another funeral. She'd stood with her parents and watched as Mark's mother's coffin was carried from the church and placed in the hearse. As mourners gathered around Gordon Talbert, she had walked quietly up beside Mark and taken his hand and held it. He'd looked at her, eyes glistening with tears, and gripped her small fingers so hard she'd almost cried out.

Their parents had been friends, but Mark had typically played with the other boys whenever the families met socially, barely giving Julie a second glance. His mother's death had changed that. Their friendship had been forged in mutual need for understanding as Mark's father had drowned his grief in alcohol and Julie had resisted Ray's attempts to crush her spirit.

Ruth Bellamy had pleaded a doctor's appointment to explain her absence from work. Now she hurried from the secluded toilet block in a little-used park where she'd changed her clothing, threw her overnight bag in the boot of her car, and drove away.

Exhilaration flooded through her. Attending Gordon Talbert's funeral had been a risk, but it had been worth it. She'd seen how Gordon's death had affected the family, and she relished the thought of the repercussions that Ray Galloway's demise would have. She hadn't planned the circumstances yet. Ray had something else coming to him first. He must be made to suffer as she had suffered. There was only one thing in the world Ray Galloway loved more than money. When she ripped that away from him, when she destroyed what he loved most in life, then she would finally allow him to die.

She smiled as she zipped through Brisbane's Friday afternoon traffic. She'd taken an even bigger risk in trying to force Gordon to kill himself. She'd seen the look in his eyes, calculated that he was taking the chance to shoot, and dashed forward, twisting her body so the child became an even bigger shield. Gordon's surprise had given her the second she needed to plunge the knife deep into his stomach then slash it across his throat. It was a drill she had practised many times after planning the scenario she'd put into effect that evening, and it had paid off.

Her detachment as she'd watched him die had surprised her. Perhaps the child in her arms, sweet-smelling and soft, had distracted her from feeling the elation she'd expected. She'd stripped off her blood-splattered gloves and pushed them into her pocket; changed the child's equally bloody clothing, returned him to his cot and soothed him to sleep; then used her handkerchief to clean and unload the gun and return it to the safe. To hint that Gordon had been going to get his gun when he had been attacked, she'd left the keyring where it had fallen. Quickly rifling through the bedroom drawers, she'd taken money and his wife's jewellery in an attempt to make it appear that he'd disturbed a thief. Careful not to stand in the pool of blood, she'd let herself out the laundry door, leaving it ajar to further substantiate her set-up of rapid escape.

The knife, jewellery and bloodied clothes had made a satisfying plop as she'd thrown the weighted bag containing them into the Brisbane River.

Now she had more planning to do. There were two others who must die before Ray. And their deaths should make Ray Galloway realise that the sins of the fathers were always visited upon the children.

Mark succeeded in guiding Julie to a quiet corner of the restaurant, avoiding the throng of mourners whose main aim appeared to be consuming as much wine as possible while they discussed everything but who would be the next candidate for his father's seat. Mark was sure this and Gordon's murder had been their hottest topic of conversation in the past few days. His father's political cronies had enough clout to ensure the Coroner's Inquest would happen sooner rather than later. Better to have it all neatly tied up before the inescapable by-election.

He glanced over to where Claire and his sister and brother-in-law sat. At least the people seated with them were good friends. His stepmother looked as though she had almost reached the end of her strength.

'Would you like a drink?' he asked as he seated Julie at a small table.

'A coffee would be fine, but you have something stronger if you like.' She smiled. 'Or are you still a teetotaller?'

'Not quite. I learned there are some occasions when a stiff drink is better than even the strongest coffee.'

He walked over to the catering table and poured two coffees. As he added one sugar to Julie's cup, Mark realised that he was relying on memory and her preferences may have changed. They had known each other so well for so long that it shocked him now to realise that he had never become that close to anyone else.

'You left here with such high aspirations, Mark,' she said when he returned. 'Did things turn out the way you expected?'

He pondered the question for a while before answering. 'In some ways. But not in others.' He saw the corners of her mouth twitch, and knew she was laughing at him. He remembered her teasing grin as she'd tried to distract him from his boyhood troubles, and regretted how easily he'd let their friendship slide.

'Claire told my mother that you were working for the government in a secret capacity. It would have suited your enigmatic personality.' Suddenly her expression changed, and her hand covered his where it lay on the table. 'Have you been happy, Mark? I've often wondered.'

Her gesture may have been one of concern, but the feel of her skin on his created an entirely different response. Almost as though he had no control over it, his thumb stroked her fingers. Slowly their hands curled until they gripped. 'My career has been satisfying.' Even as he spoke the words, he heard the way he used the past tense, and knew satisfying was no longer enough. Now he needed more. Much more.

He felt Julie stiffen. She stared at the restaurant entrance. From habit, Mark had chosen a seat where he could view most of the room without turning his head, and he saw why Julie had reacted.

The years had silvered Ray Galloway's thick black hair, but his confident, almost arrogant stance hadn't changed. He surveyed the room with a direct, unhurried gaze, tilted his chin a fraction when he saw Julie and Mark, then focused his attention on Claire Talbert. Mark watched the way Ray changed his expression to that of sympathetic concern before he walked unhurriedly to her table.

Mark knew his stepmother's opinion of Ray Galloway, but it didn't surprise him to see Claire accept Ray's handshake and kiss to her cheek. As a politician's wife she had had to contend with worse than that.

'Well, that's a surprise,' Julie muttered.

'Why?'

She shrugged. 'I didn't think he was coming. Perhaps he intended to all along.'

'Do you think so?' Mark wondered at the vibes he was picking up from Julie. From the moment Claire had become part of Gordon Talbert's life, she and Anne Galloway had become good friends, and for the sake of that friendship she had tolerated Ray Galloway. Although the two men had kept in sporadic contact after Anne and Ray's divorce, the women had remained close, even when Anne remarried and moved to Sydney.

Now Julie displayed the same disillusionment with Ray Galloway that her mother had. 'No,' she replied. 'If my father is here it's because he has a reason other than common decency and respect.'

Their conversation continued, though along less personal lines, and carefully avoiding the circumstances of Gordon's death, but Mark was aware that Julie's earlier banter had dissipated. She kept glancing over to where her father now sat next to Claire, and her forehead would crease in worried lines before she turned her attention back to Mark.

Fifteen minutes later Mark watched as Ray stood and touched Claire solicitously on the shoulder and then strolled towards their table. Mark rose and offered Ray his hand, catching a whiff of the cigar aroma clinging to Ray's suit. 'Thanks for coming, Ray.'

The smile on Ray's lips wasn't reflected in his eyes as he gripped Mark's hand. 'Your father was a good friend for many years, Mark. I had to pay my respects. Will you be returning to Canberra soon, or staying for a while?'

'I think Claire will need me for some time yet.'

'Of course.' Ray turned to Julie. 'I can give you a lift back to the office.'

It wasn't an offer but a command, and Mark saw the flare of resentment in Julie's eyes. She pulled a biro and small notepad from her handbag, scribbled something, ripped out the page and handed it to Mark.

'It's my home phone number. I'd like to catch up.'

Mark watched the stiff set to her shoulders as she preceded Ray from the restaurant.

Mark pressed the roller door remote and drove into the garage of his parents' double-storey cream brick house. Set on a one-and-a-half-acre block, it was no longer the home his stepmother loved, but a reminder of the horror that had greeted her a week ago when she'd found Gordon's body, and she was now staying with Susan and Tom.

Dinner at his sister's tonight had been a listless affair, and Mark had left early, a headache of immense proportions already starting.

As he turned off the Falcon's engine and pressed the button to close the roller door, he resisted the urge to lay his head on the steering wheel and give in to the pain. He stumbled to the door leading into the kitchen and unlocked it.

The house was dark and cool, the quiet almost soothing. Enough moonlight filtered through the window to allow him to grab a glass and fill it with water. Even on the stairs he preferred to feel his way, and it was only in his bedroom that he switched on a lamp, its soft glow providing enough light to find the painkillers the doctor had prescribed.

As he lay in the dark and tried to distance himself from the agony in his head, he found himself aching for the gentle touch of a woman's hand.

At 3am the shopping centre was devoid of even the hoons who took pleasure in leaving patterned rubber in the car park. The figure who strolled through from the adjoining block of buildings appeared to be in no particular hurry. The office he wanted was on the outside of the complex, and he was grateful for that. Deactivating the alarm system for the entire complex would have been impossible without inside knowledge and access, but he knew he would have no trouble with the security system where he needed to go. And his angle of approach ensured he escaped the security camera's range.

In less than thirty seconds he had entered the office and closed the door behind him. The blinds across the big glass windows were closed, but he didn't risk turning on the lights. A high-topped counter created a barrier between the reception area and an office. He flicked on his torch as he walked through the doorway, past two cluttered desks and into an interior room. Only when he closed this door did he risk turning on the light.

He picked the lock on the filing cabinet and skimmed through the files, only occasionally pausing at some documents. Two locked drawers on the big wooden desk proved no greater obstacle, but their contents failed to yield what he sought.

A picture of Queen Elizabeth II stared down from the wall as the man pounded the desk in frustration. He strode from the room, paused in the outer office, then shook his head as though telling himself that whatever he searched for would not be found there. Checking first to ensure that he could see no-one outside, he slipped from the office and pulled the door locked behind him. He re-set the security system, and hurried away.

Gaynor Farrell laughed softly as she ran her hand down the groin of the man who shared her bed, and curled her fingers around his erection. She loved the way he woke with such a fantastic hard-on. Her mouth widened at her choice of words. Hard was definitely right. She felt herself moisten in anticipation. With practised ease she slid across his body, well aware that behind his closed eyes he was just as awake as she was.

But his body stayed still as she positioned herself so that she teased the tip of his penis, not quite allowing it entry. Suddenly she plunged down, taking him in with a swiftness that made them both gasp with the brutality of it.

He moved then, grabbing her hips and pulling her onto him again and again, his breath harsh grunts, lifting his hips to grind into her. She knew he liked it like this, swift, hard, with no preliminaries and no pretence of love. Lust, pure and simple. It suited her perfectly.

His mobile started to ring, but he ignored it, too caught in his final rhythm to be distracted. Gaynor was relieved. Her own climax was close and she would have been furious if she'd been denied completion. He groaned in triumph as he slammed deep inside her and shuddered, and she moved faster to catch the wave that shook her body and left her, breathless, sprawled across his chest.

A few minutes later the mobile rang again. She rolled off him and watched as he reached over to the bedside table. He flicked up the mobile's cover and barked 'Yes'.

Gaynor watched the expression on her lover's face and winced as he muttered a string of expletives. Coffee. Strong. It sounded as though he would need it. Maybe they both would. She swung her legs off the bed, stood up and walked to the en suite. She wanted to shower first.

At the doorway, she turned and glanced back. Oblivious to his nakedness, he paced beside the bed, his genitals flopping against his thick thighs with each impatient step. The heaviness of his torso was normally disguised by clothes, and she wondered, suddenly, why she was attracted to him.

With an abrupt thump he threw the mobile onto the bed and stared at her. In that instant she knew why she was with him. And why she wouldn't leave. She was attracted to powerful men, and Ray Galloway was that in spades.

As she met his gaze, a tiny shiver of fear ran down her spine. No, she wouldn't leave him. Not until he was ready to let her.