Читать книгу Until Death - Sandy Curtis - Страница 7

Conor knew it wasn't the early streaks of dawn light filtering through the curtains that had woken him.

The thunk from the old brass knocker on his front door echoed down the hallway. He punched numbers into a small keypad on the bedside table, swung out of bed, pulled on his thin towelling robe, and tied the sash as he padded softly along the polished timber floor. The security camera revealed a young woman leaning against the arched column of the portico. Her head was lowered and tilted to one side, her body drooped, and he wondered if she was on drugs. And if she was alone. He flicked the switch to another camera that focussed on the front door and walls. Clear. Reluctantly, he unlocked the door and opened it.

Slowly, the woman looked up. Blood had run from under her short hair and congealed on the left side of her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale. She took a faltering step towards him, her initially puzzled expression changing to entreaty.

'Do you ...' her voice shook, 'Do you know ... who I am?'

Her query surprised him. 'No.'

Disappointment furrowed her forehead, and small flakes of dried blood dusted onto her eyebrow.

'You don't ... know me?'

What game was she playing? Conor's first instinct when he saw she had been injured was to offer help, but her questions were making him wary. 'Should I?'

The question seemed to confuse her. She swayed a little as she straightened and looked around. 'I don't know,' she muttered. 'I'm sorry to disturb you.' She turned to leave.

Conor swore under his breath, damning the need for suspicion when his urge to help this waif-like woman was overwhelming. 'Wait.' The word was out before he could stop it. 'You need a doctor. Come inside.'

She looked at him as though having trouble understanding his words, and he wondered if her injury was more serious than he first thought. 'Can I call someone for you?' he asked.

'I ... I don't think so. I don't know.'

'You need medical attention,' Conor spoke slowly. 'Come inside and I'll call a doctor.'

She started to nod, then winced. But she shuffled past him into the foyer. She looked on the point of collapse, and he realised she would probably be better off lying down. 'There's a spare bedroom this way,' he said, gently touching her arm. 'You can lie down.'

He watched the way she climbed onto the old wooden bed like an obedient child. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she sighed and closed her eyes. Conor hesitated in the doorway. Was she what she appeared to be, the victim of some accident? Or something else? He walked back to his bedroom, picked up the extension phone, and dialled.

The feeling of relief pervading Libby didn't last long. Her head still throbbed, and now that she was lying down, the queasiness in her stomach grew. She didn't want to move, but knew she had to find a bathroom. It was a struggle to reach the door, and she held onto the wall as she stepped into the hall.

A voice was coming from a room opposite. At first she was puzzled, the language wasn't English, but she understood it. Then she realised. It was the voice of the man who had helped her ... and he was speaking Spanish. Not a patois, or the Mexican version that she was used to, but pure, liquid, fiery Spanish. For a second she was caught in the rhythm of it, then her nerves tensed as she translated.

'No, no,' he said. 'She asked me if I knew her. She's very dazed. Do you think she could have amnesia from the head injury?'

There was a brief silence, then he spoke again. 'I don't want you coming here. It's too much of a risk.' A pause. 'An ambulance will attract even more attention.' Another pause. 'All right. I'll wait for you. Oh, it might be wise if you take some blood tests. She could be on drugs.'

Libby heard the receiver drop into the cradle just as the little that remained in her stomach rumbled up into her throat. She clasped one hand across her mouth and lurched up the hall to the bathroom. Hand shaking, she opened the door, and reached the bowl just in time to vomit up a small amount of bile. Her vision swam as she collapsed onto the floor, then strong arms caught her and carried her back to the bed. A moment later someone gently wiped her face with a damp face cloth. She tried to open her eyes, but a terrible weariness settled on her, and she drifted into sleep.

It was like emerging from thick mushroom soup, Libby thought as she gradually woke. A great lethargy had engulfed her, and the sound of voices teased at the perimeter of her mind, until the fact they were speaking Spanish reminded her where she was. She forced herself to be more alert. She didn't open her eyes, just lay still until the voices came closer, then stopped. Someone entered the room.

'I can see why you were worried.' One of the voices, speaking English now, sounded close to her face. Libby opened her eyes. The face matched the voice - kind, as well as dignified. Silver hair, olive complexion, high cheekbones. 'I'm a doctor,' he reassured her. 'I just want to assess your injuries. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

His hands were firm but gentle as he carried out his examination. She flinched when he touched the abrasion on the side of her head, and glanced towards the other man standing beside the bed. Much younger than the doctor, skin not as swarthy, hair the colour of fresh tar glistening in the sun. And the most intense dark eyes she had ever seen. The man who had let her into his house.

'I want you to look at my finger,' the doctor said, and Libby forced her gaze back to him as he continued his tests. Her mind had cleared now, and she tried desperately to piece together the fragments of her memory. The previous night seemed like a nightmare, but she feared it was all too real. Horribly real. Her mother would have to be dead, the sight of her crushed skull was seared on Libby's mind. But she couldn't have killed her. Surely she would remember something so terrible? And how could it be her mother, she was visiting her friend for a week. Panic rushed through Libby's veins, and she felt the doctor pause as her breathing caught and her pulse quickened. She fought back the urge to jump off the bed and run blindly away. She had nowhere to run. No-one to trust.

And these men, with their talk of risks and attracting attention. Trusting them might not be wise. They could be involved with the man who said she had to die.

Amnesia. The word floated back to her. She would pretend to have amnesia until she could find out exactly what had happened to her mother. If she could find out.

A few minutes later the doctor asked, 'What's your name?'

'I don't know,' she whispered.

'Do you remember what happened to you?'

'No.' The lie came easily from the patchwork of her memory.

The doctor questioned her further, and she kept telling him she couldn't remember. Finally he smiled kindly. 'Sleep is the best thing for you now.' He put his stethoscope back in his bag.

'The blood tests?' The other man had spoken again, and Libby wondered at the frown creasing his forehead.

'Would you agree to some blood tests, my dear?' the doctor asked her.

Libby nodded. 'If it will help find out what's happened to me.' She would agree to anything that would help explain this nightmare.

'Perhaps you should go to the police. Someone may have reported you missing by now.'

Police? Badge ... on the man who said she had to die. If they called the police he would find her. 'No!'

The doctor seemed startled by the vehemence of her refusal. She glanced at his companion, saw the calculating look in his eyes, and wondered what he was thinking.

'Conor said you had no purse with you,' the doctor continued as he took a hypodermic syringe from his bag. 'Perhaps there is something in your pockets that could help identify you?'

'I've looked,' Conor said, causing Libby and the doctor to stare at him. He shrugged. 'I was trying to find out if there was someone I could call.' He glanced at her right hand. 'Perhaps there is an inscription on her ring?'

Libby looked down at the silver band, its etched bird in flight barely discernible. Her father had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday, just a month before ... She waited until the doctor had finished drawing blood, then twisted the ring off and handed it to Conor.

'To Libby, love Dad,' Conor read out. He looked down at her, dark eyes assessing. 'Does that jog your memory?'

'Libby.' She said the word as though trying it on for size. 'I guess it must be me.' She looked at the band of white skin on her finger. 'I've obviously been wearing it a long time.'

'Yes,' Conor said as he handed the ring back, 'obviously.'

There was nothing in his tone to suggest suspicion, but Libby somehow knew that he didn't trust her. The feeling was mutual.

'Your accent is American, but not quite American.' He frowned. 'Perhaps you've been living in Australia for some years?'

'I don't know,' Libby replied, feeling the strain of lying. She closed her eyes. 'My head hurts. Could we talk more after I've had a sleep?'

'I'll give you something for the pain.' The doctor's voice was kind, but Libby could sense the tension emanating from Conor.

'Well, Pascual?' Conor stopped at the front door and turned to the doctor.

'The bruising on her face suggests she has been punched, and quite hard. But I don't think the injury to her head is severe enough to cause total amnesia. However, she could be suffering from amnesia brought on by emotional shock. She could be in an abusive relationship, or she could have been mugged. She could also be mentally unstable or on drugs. There are injection marks on her arm, but no tracks such as an addict would have.' Pascual looked at Conor with concern. 'She needs professional help, Conor. You can't keep her here like an abandoned kitten,' he added as a large grey and white striped cat uncurled itself from the lounge in the adjoining living room and stalked into the hall.

A smile almost touched Conor's eyes. 'I hardly think there's a comparison.'

'No? You make no friends in case you have to move on in an instant. That way there's no-one to miss you if you disappear. But it also means there's no-one for you to miss. You let a starving kitten into your heart because it's safe, you don't have to divulge your secrets, and if you leave, it will find another home. You look at that urchin in there with the same expression, my friend. You are lonely, and too long without a woman's touch.' Pascual shook his head. 'But she is no kitten. And someone could be anxious for her welfare. I should take her to a hospital or the police now.'

'They would ask questions you will not be able to answer, Pascual. She can stay here for a day or two. If she remembers nothing, then she can go to the police by herself.' He placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. 'Thank you for coming. Remember when you drive home to check if you're being followed.'

'You have lived here in peace for seven years, surely you can relax now.'

Sadness etched deeply on Conor's face. 'I thought that once before,' he said, 'and look what happened.'

Pascual sighed. 'For you, the son of my most favourite cousin, I will check not once, but two times.'

Conor couldn't stop his smile this time, but it quickly faded as he opened the door and watched the doctor walk out to his Holden Statesman and drive away. He locked the door, checked it, then looked down at the cat. 'Come, Thomas, let's check out this kitten that's turned up on our doorstep.'

Wesley Scanlan drove into his apartment car park as the haze that passed for Sydney's dawn began to clear. His hands trembled as he unlocked his apartment door and rushed inside. His phone was ringing and he knew he had to answer it, but the urge to wash his hands was greater.

The face that stared back at him in the bathroom mirror was haggard, its usual handsomeness marked by sweat-streaked dirt, bloodshot eyes, and cobwebs sticky on his fair hair. He scrubbed the feel of death from his fingernails, then flung the brush down and hurried to the phone when it began to ring again.

He cleared his throat as he picked up the receiver. 'Hello.'

'I've cleaned up. There's no evidence left, including Vanessa's car. Did you dispose of ... your parcel?'

'Yes,' he shuddered. 'But what are we going to do about Libby?'

'I've already checked the taxi companies. A woman answering her description was picked up not far from the house and taken to the airport. I have a contact there - he'll check the records and see if she caught a flight anywhere.'

'But ...'

'She left her passport in her bedroom, so wherever she's gone she's still in Australia. We'll find her.'

Wesley wiped at his face, and recoiled in disgust at the dirt that came off onto his hand. 'What if she goes to the police?'

'We don't know how much she saw, or even if she saw anything, but even so, she won't remember much. Bloody inconvenient of Vanessa to turn up before she was supposed to. Just when the stupid bitch was finally out of the way.'

'Are you sure Vanessa won't be missed?'

'It could create a problem, but we'll deal with that when the time comes. At least she didn't have any friends in Sydney.'

'What about the woman she went to see? Why didn't she stay with her as long as she'd planned?'

Wesley flinched at the exasperated hiss in his ear. 'I can't find out everything. I have to be discreet.'

'I'm sorry, Mal, I know that. It's just that Vanessa's death wasn't something we planned on.'

'You panicked, Wesley. You should have asked Vanessa to come into the office and meet me.'

'But you were altering Libby's computer records. What if she'd seen -'

'It wouldn't have mattered. We would have had to dispose of her anyway once she'd seen Libby. Now turn your bloody mobile on and switch this phone over to the answering machine. You're supposed to be on your honeymoon, remember? I'll call you as soon as I've found out where she's gone.'

As the Holden Statesman pulled into the ground floor car park of Brisbane's Anzac Square Building, the security guard looked up. For three months he had been watching Dr Pascual Recio, reporting the doctor's movements and anything he said that might be of importance.

Ten years ago the guard had joined the security firm, a legitimate and well-respected company. With his impeccable background and natural ability, he had quickly gained the confidence and respect of his employers. But his training had begun long before that, and his real work was carried out at a different level. And for a very different boss.

He strode over to the Statesman and opened the driver's door. 'Early morning call, Doctor Recio?'

'Ah, Dennis,' the doctor smiled, 'some patients have no respect for an old man's need for sleep.'

'I hope you didn't have to drive too far, Doctor.'

'No, no. Not too far. Thank you, Dennis.' Pascual took his medical bag with him as he climbed out of the car.

The guard waited until the doctor disappeared into the corridor leading to the lift. He had stolen the doctor's spare car key two months back, and within seconds he let himself into the Statesman. He reached under the dashboard and checked that the tracking device he had planted there was still secure, then searched the glove box and front seat thoroughly. Nothing. Nothing except a few medical magazines and a box of tissues. It was probably a fruitless exercise, but he knew that searching the doctor's car at every opportunity might one day provide a clue for his boss.

Perhaps the listening device he had placed in the doctor's apartment would prove to be of more benefit. Sometimes the routine of his security job left Dennis itching for more excitement, but then he would think of the people involved in checking the tapes and transcribing them for clients, and he'd know what he'd rather be doing.

Just as Dennis closed the driver's side door, he caught a flash of movement near the corridor. He quickly crouched and was pretending to inspect the tyre when the doctor spoke. 'Is there something wrong, Dennis?'

The guard rose. 'Luckily, no. I thought I saw a nail in your tyre, but it's okay.'

'Good, good. I forgot I'd bought milk on the way home,' the doctor said as he opened the back door and lifted out a plastic bag. He smiled. 'It wouldn't have lasted long in this heat.'

Dennis returned the smile, but as he watched the doctor walk away he wondered just how much the old man had seen.

Sweat ran down Conor's torso as he dug the spade deep into the earth and turned it over. In the seven years he had been in Brisbane he hadn't known such a hot December. The air hung heavy with humidity, and his tomato plants wilted under the force of a searing sun. Sweet corn grew tall in the adjoining plot. His vegetable garden was as much an outlet for stress as a reminder of a life that was now denied him. A life that each year nostalgia made sweeter.

He finished his spade work and put the tool away in the shed at the side of the small backyard. Corn silk was brown and dry on several of the cobs, and he twisted them off the plants and carried them into the kitchen. Libby had been deeply asleep when he'd gone back into the bedroom after seeing Pascual off, so any further questioning had been impossible. Working in the garden had seemed a better option than letting suspicion gnaw at him while waiting for her to wake up.

Pascual had been right about one thing - he was lonely. Instead of becoming more content as the years passed, he found himself more restless, as though the winds that swept through the valleys and mountains of his homeland were stirring in his veins. He felt as though he was searching for something. A woman's touch? Perhaps, but more than that. And the wide-eyed slip of a woman lying in his spare room could prove to be more trouble than even Pascual had conjectured.

Setting the corncobs on the wooden kitchen bench, he walked into the hallway. At the door to the spare bedroom, he paused, and stiffened as he looked around.

The room was empty.