Читать книгу Until Death - Sandy Curtis - Страница 10

Despair rocked Libby. Her grandfather had been her one hope, her lifeline in a sea of turmoil. She slumped onto a kitchen chair. Conor waited patiently as she tried to come to terms with the news.

'What happened?' she finally asked.

'Apparently he had a heart attack and was left with permanent damage. He arranged to sell this house so he could go and live with his son - your father, I presume. Two days after he signed the contract he had another heart attack, a fatal one this time.'

'Like my father.' Libby felt an acute sense of loss. Until now she thought she still had family, someone she could trust, someone to help her make sense of her nightmares. Now she was truly alone.

'What do you want to do now, Libby?'

She looked up at Conor, and suddenly realised she had nowhere and no-one else she could turn to. Unless ...

'Would you mind if I make a phone call?'

'Phone's in the lounge room. Help yourself. I'll finish making breakfast.'

Thomas uncurled from the brown leather lounge as Libby approached. He stretched, slowly and gracefully, large yellow eyes watching her with feigned disinterest. She looked around for the telephone, only partly registering the functional furniture, two almost over-filled bookcases, and lack of personal items that usually revealed something about their owner. The phone sat on a small table in the corner, notepad and pen beside it. She dialled directory information, and asked for the number of her mother's friend, Glenna McCabe, a fellow American who lived on the coast, several hours' drive north of Sydney.

Libby's finger shook as she dialled the number. Was it only on Friday that Vanessa had left Sydney to visit Glenna? It already felt like a lifetime ago. And in that time her mother's life had probably been lost. The voice that answered had lost little of its Boston accent, and Libby suddenly realised she didn't have a clue how to ask about her mother without arousing suspicion.

'Glenna, it's Libby here -'

'Darling, how lovely to hear from you. How's Vanessa? I feel so bad about cutting her visit short, but with Mandy going into hospital so suddenly there was no choice, I had to look after the other children.'

Her mother must have returned home early, Libby thought, which meant it was her body lying at the bottom of the stairs. Her stomach heaved and she gulped down the threatening nausea.

'The baby is beautiful,' Glenna continued, 'but grandmothers are allowed to say that, aren't they, dear?'

'Oh. Yes, Glenna, I'm sure they are. Please give Mandy my congratulations.'

'I'll do that, dear. Is Vanessa there?'

'No,' Libby heard the squeak of panic in her voice, 'she's shopping in the city. I just phoned to ... ask about the baby.'

Libby barely heard Glenna's next remark. She quickly said goodbye and severed the connection. It was true. Vanessa was dead. Until now Libby had vacillated between hoping that what she had seen was only a terrible dream, and sheer terror that it had been reality, but now she had to face the fact that she may have killed her own mother.

Sleek fur rubbed against her hand as Thomas curled up beside her. She stroked his head, grateful for the contact. She had never felt so alone. Or so desperate.

She had to get help. But who from? She'd been too busy in her short time back in Australia to make friends. Except for Wesley, her father's right-hand man who was keeping the company going while she learned the extent of her inheritance. She knew Wesley wanted more than friendship, but he had respected her wishes to keep their relationship on a 'friends only' basis. He was good-looking, charming, well liked by all the employees, and patient with her lack of business acumen. He was such a likeable guy that some days she wished she could feel more for him, but it just wasn't there.

Although afraid of putting herself in reach of the men who wanted to kill her, Libby knew now that there was no choice, she would have to go to the police. Perhaps Wesley could arrange a good lawyer for her.

Once more she rang directory information and once more her hand shook as she put the handset to her ear and dialled the number. An answering machine clicked in after the fourth ring. As she listened to Wesley's voice requesting her to leave a message, horror engulfed her. The tone was different, but the inflection was the same, and she trembled as the confusion in her mind began to clear.

It was his voice.

The voice of the man who had said she'd killed her mother.

Rashod punched numbers into his mobile phone as he moved to a quieter part of a dim, smoky bar several blocks from Sydney's Central Station. He was paying well for information that could lead him to his prey, and he wasn't pleased with the delay in receiving the telephone transcripts.

When he'd found out about the existence of Pascual Recio, he was sure this was the clue he needed. Moving his operation to Australia wasn't a problem. Since the anti-gun laws were enacted, the demand for black market arms had escalated, and Rashod had a reliable reputation, even though he now operated under another name.

He wasn't surprised at hearing that the doctor had received a call to which he had responded in Spanish, he knew Recio had several Spanish patients, but he was angry at having to wait because the translator was away until tomorrow.

He spoke rapidly, offering more money, saying that if the security guard could not find out more about the circumspect Doctor Recio, he would have to hire someone more competent. The listener quickly acquiesced, but Rashod resolved to give him only one more day. After so many years, he was sure his prey was almost within his reach, and his need for revenge could no longer be suppressed.

The thunder of an afternoon storm rumbled in through the doors. He rubbed at his chin, annoyed at the need to be clean-shaven in order to suit his new identity, but perversely pleased at how different it made him look.

Mal glanced up and down the corridor before slipping a key into the lock and letting himself into Wesley's apartment. As usual, he had made sure no-one had seen him enter the building. He shrugged his jacket from his beefy shoulders, relishing the coolness of air-conditioning on his sweat-damp shirt.

Wesley walked out from the kitchen, started in surprise at seeing Mal and slopped coffee over the side of his mug. 'I wish you'd let me know when you come in,' he grumbled, and walked back into the kitchen. He came out with a cloth, and mopped the coffee from the floor. 'That better not leave a stain,' he muttered, frowning at Mal.

Mal followed him back to the kitchen. 'You're twitchy,' he said. He took a stubby from the fridge, opened it, and flicked the top onto the bench. He watched as Wesley picked up the top, wiped beer spots off the brilliant white of the bench, and put the top into the bin.

'Of course I'm twitchy. All our plans have gone wrong and we can't find Libby.' Wesley began to pace the slate floor. 'Where the hell could she have gone? She doesn't know anyone in Australia. She can't leave the country. So where is she?'

'Brisbane.'

'What?'

'My contact just let me know she caught the last plane to Brisbane on Sunday night.' Mal tilted the stubby at Wesley. 'So who does she know in Brisbane? Friend? Relative?'

'I have no idea.'

'Then you'd better think about it.' He wandered out into the living room and looked at the harbour twinkling in the sunlight. 'We have to find her before she goes to the police. Did her old man have any relatives in Brisbane?'

'No-one that he spoke of. His father used to live there, but he died years ago. I remember because it was my first year with the firm, and ...' Wesley had followed Mal, and now he stopped in front of the alcove where the telephone sat on a small table. 'There's a call on the answering machine. It must have come when I was in the shower.' He pressed the Play button, and several seconds of silence ensued before the line was disconnected. He pressed the Caller ID button.

'Mal,' he beckoned, 'this call came from a Queensland phone number. One I don't recognise.'

With three swift strides Mal was beside him, plonking his stubby on the table and dragging a notepad and pen from his pocket. He wrote down the number and snapped the book closed. 'I can trace the grandfather through Libby's father's death records. There may be other relatives you don't know about, and she could have run to them. If this phone number matches any of theirs, it's got to be her.'

Whatever Libby had found out from her phone call this morning, Conor thought, it certainly wasn't happy news. She had been miserable and distracted all day, and nothing he said could persuade her to confide in him. Only Thomas seemed able to make her smile, and then only once.

Conor knew he should suggest that she leave, he was growing too fond of her, and that wasn't safe. She had an odd way of looking at him, eyes wide but full of doubt, as though she'd like to trust him, but wasn't sure. She'd insisted on doing housework all morning, sweeping the floors with gusto, then drifting off halfway through and staring out the window. When Thomas was in the way, she stopped, sat down beside him and stroked him, a disturbing array of emotions shadowing her face.

At lunchtime she picked at the salad Conor had made, and it frustrated him that he couldn't find out the reason for her misery. Finally, he told her they were going out, insisted she slather sunscreen on her face and arms, then set the security system and locked the house behind them.

It wasn't a long walk to New Farm Park, but no breeze broke the heat. He bought ice-creams at the kiosk, and they wandered down to the river and sat under a large Moreton Bay fig tree. Fat crows ambled out of their way and pecked at insects in the lush grass.

Except to tell him what ice-cream she liked, Libby still hadn't spoken, but now she said, 'My grandfather used to bring me down here so we could go for a ride on the ferry.' She caught a dollop of dripping ice-cream with her tongue and swallowed it with relish, and Conor froze in amazement at his body's reaction. He'd always had a high libido, but for many years now had kept that, like every other aspect of his life, very strictly controlled. It was disconcerting to find this delicate woman, with her delicate face and almost child-like demeanour, could get under his guard and arouse him so easily.

'They have a new ferry now, a large catamaran called the City Cat. Would you like to go for a ride?' he asked, hoping to distract her. And himself.

'Could we?' Her eyes lit. 'I'd like that.'

They only had to wait a few minutes on the wharf before the ferry arrived. As they stepped onto the deck, the ferryman looked at the ugly bruise on Libby's face, then scowled at Conor.

Libby smiled. 'He thinks you've hit me,' she whispered to Conor, and, hoping to disprove the assumption, stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Conor leaned towards her at the same moment, and her lips brushed his.

A tingling burst of awareness shot through her body. She stumbled, and Conor's arm curved around her, drawing her close as he quickly manoeuvred them inside the spacious cabin. He seemed to be short of breath, and she realised the brief contact had affected him as well. He bought their tickets, and gestured for Libby to take a window seat.

As the ferry wound its way upstream, the captain gave a running commentary on the various landmarks. Conor occasionally added a few remarks, but Libby's attention was focussed inwards, trying to make a logical assessment about Conor, and her feelings for him. Although she was sexually inexperienced, she wasn't naive, and recognised the attraction that had been growing between them. It struck her as ironic that none of the men she'd dated had sparked an iota of arousal in her, and now here she was positively electrified with desire for a man who she wasn't sure if she could trust, in a situation where she could be arrested for murdering her mother, and with two men who wanted to kill her and she had no idea why.

Libby quickly thrust the last thoughts from her mind as grief and panic threatened to swamp her. Compartmentalising her feelings had enabled her to cope with what she had thought to be her father's lack of love, and what she had come to realise was her mother's inability to love unconditionally. Yes, she thought bitterly, if she did what Vanessa expected of her she was rewarded with restrained approval, but transgress ... oh, the ice could chill your bones.

But in spite of never feeling loved, she had loved her mother in the way that children do no matter how their parents treat them, and with the forlorn hope that her love would one day be returned. After her father's death, Libby had even felt pity for Vanessa.

She forced her attention back to the scenery on the southern side, admiring the townhouses with their terraced gardens that sat only metres above the brown-green water. Every block of units and private residence seemed to have its own jetty, in contrast to the other side of the river where river-bank parkland soon gave way to older-style houses and flats, and jetties were sparse.

Conor touched her arm lightly, and pointed upstream. Three men on jet skies were skimming down the river. She turned and watched as they passed, expertly jumping the ferry's wake. She could feel Conor's gaze on her, and she looked up at him. His pale blue polo shirt seemed to accentuate the darkness of his eyes, but nothing could disguise the desire so evident there. For a moment she let it consume her, feeling the answering passion in her own body, then she broke the contact and looked away.

Her resolve to go to the police was becoming harder to sustain. More than anything she wanted to stay in this cocoon with Conor and pretend that the events of the past few days were just a dream. But she now knew, since her phone calls, that the nightmare was real, and if she could remember the two days she had lost, it might confirm that she was a murderer. Fear tightened her chest, and she gripped Conor's thigh before she realised what she was doing. The sudden contraction of his muscles made her look down, and she stared, fascinated, at the bulge growing in his grey chinos. She felt a sense of wonderment that she had the power to cause that response in him, but as her breasts began to tingle and swell against the confines of her bra, she realised the power was mutual.

Tempted though she was to let her hand remain, she quickly removed it and gazed out the window. The ferry passed under a bridge and at the river's edge she saw the Water Police station, and a shiver of fear shot through her. All morning she had tried to work out why Wesley would want her dead. If he resented her father leaving his companies to her, he had concealed it well. He had been so understanding, showing her how the business operated, even taking over a lot of the paperwork her father used to look after and which she should have been doing. He was so competent, and so nice, that she had signed documents wherever and whenever he told her, though he always explained what they were first.

Because she had never before been involved in her father's business, she had been reluctant to make any changes, but Wesley had seemed to have no problems with the few she had suggested. So why? If she died, everything would go to her mother. Although Vanessa had had little to do with Wesley, she had approved of his good manners and unblemished social status, so he would have had an ally there.

And why was a policeman in cohoots with Wesley? So many questions, and she couldn't even hazard a guess at an answer.

Libby couldn't understand why Vanessa's death hadn't been in the paper, or on the television news when she'd watched it with Conor last night. Then she realised it might not be reported in Queensland or in the national paper. She would have to ask Conor to buy a Sydney paper. Not having money of her own was frustrating. She hoped the man who'd stolen her handbag hadn't used her credit card, but at the moment that was too minor a concern to worry about.

She longed to trust Conor, but her instincts told her that his motives for helping her might not be as innocent as he would like her to believe. And apart from his work, she knew nothing about him.

'Do you have family here, Conor?' she asked.

He shook his head. She looked at him expectantly, and after a moment he said, 'My father's dead. My mother lives overseas.'

'In Spain?'

He shot her a suspicious look.

'When I was running for the bathroom yesterday I heard you speaking Spanish.'

The suspicion deepened. 'You understood? You knew what I was saying?' Conor thought back over what he'd said to Pascual, anxious that he hadn't given anything away.

Libby half smiled. 'If you recall, trying not to throw up in your hallway was higher on my priority list than trying to translate what you were saying.'

'Where did you learn Spanish?'

'In the States. I worked with Mexican immigrants in isolated farming communities. It's not quite the same as your Spanish, but I get by,' she shrugged self-deprecatingly. She felt it wouldn't be wise to tell him that she had achieved honours in Spanish, French and German at university, and, for a while, had been tempted to pursue a career in the foreign service. 'Do you have brothers and sisters?' she asked, hoping to change the subject.

'No.'

'You're an only child then, like me.'

Conor looked at her intently, dark eyes assessing. 'Libby, why did you pretend to have amnesia?'

The question, so direct and demanding of an answer, shook her. Libby had always found it difficult to lie, realising in childhood that omission was as close to a lie as she could get. Perhaps telling Conor some of the truth would placate him. 'Because I was afraid.'

'Afraid? Of what? Of me?'

She nodded.

'Why?'

'When I was searching for my grandfather's house the night before I knocked on your door, a man knocked me unconscious and stole my handbag.'

'Dr Recio said your injuries indicated that you had been punched, but why wouldn't you tell us this?'

'On the phone, you told the doctor you didn't want him coming here, that it was too much of a risk, and that an ambulance would attract too much attention. I thought ...' she hesitated, reluctant to continue and perhaps offend him, 'I thought you might have been involved with whoever hit me.'

Conor's smile surprised her. 'My concern for Dr Recio had nothing to do with you, Libby. I tend to be a little over protective of my friends.' Then he grew serious. 'Could you recognise who hit you? Could you give the police a description?'

'No, it was too dark.'

'But surely you want to get your handbag back?'

'There was nothing in it of value to me, Conor.' She wasn't lying. In contrast with the loss of her mother, the handbag meant little.

'So why were you searching for your grandfather?'

Libby hesitated, the urge to share her nightmare so strong she had to bite her tongue to stop it from bursting out. Just then, the ferry nosed into a jetty, the ticket-seller announced the name of the stop, and passengers hurried to the front of the vessel to disembark. The ordinariness of the scene struck Libby forcefully, and she knew that, without proof, it would be impossible for anyone to take her haphazard snatches of memory seriously. And, for some reason she was just beginning to understand, she wanted Conor to believe her.

'It doesn't matter now, Conor, he can't help me.'

'Can I?' he asked, but she shook her head.

'What about other family? Or friends?'

Again she shook her head. 'Not here. Back in the States ...' the people I considered my friends were dirt-poor farmers with elementary English.

'A boyfriend?'

She almost laughed. 'No. There is no significant other in my life.' The emptiness she'd felt since coming back to Australia and discovering how badly she'd misjudged her father returned with savage force. She'd denied herself so much in life, and now she felt a sudden desperate need to know what she'd missed. And she had to admit that her attraction to Conor was definitely a factor in that longing.

'What about you? Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere?'

'At the moment,' Conor spoke solemnly but Libby could see a twinkle in his eyes, 'the only significant other in my life is Thomas.'

For the first time in four days, Libby laughed.

When his mobile phone rang late that afternoon, Wesley pounced on it like a starving cat on a mouse.

'We're driving to Brisbane this evening. Pack an overnight bag just in case.' Mal's voice crackled and dipped, and Wesley knew he must be on his mobile, probably in an obscure corner of the police building where the signal was low.

'You've found her?' Wesley couldn't hide his relief.

'The grandfather's address matches that of Conor Martin, the person whose phone number was left on your answering machine. So the house was either left to him or he bought it. Either way, we're going to check it out. Pick me up on the corner of my street at nine tonight.'

'Why can't we catch a plane and hire a car up there?'

'Because I don't want our movements traced, and I can take another gun if we drive. And we're using your car so mine is still in my carport when I phone in sick tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm going to find out everything I can about Conor Martin.'