Читать книгу Until Death - Sandy Curtis - Страница 8

Suspicion flaring through him, Conor walked across to his bedroom, searched swiftly, fruitlessly, then strode down the hallway. He pushed open the bathroom door, and flinched with embarrassment as Libby recoiled in fear. She had taken off her blouse, and her small, firm breasts quivered against their flimsy covering of lace as a pulse beat rapidly in the slender hollow of her throat. A bruise high on her shoulder contrasted starkly with her fair skin.

She snatched her blouse off the towel rail and held it against her breasts. Bruising from her head and face injury now coloured down to her cheekbone, and Conor thought she looked like a child caught using her mother's make-up. Amusement touched him as her chin tilted defiantly.

'I just wanted to wash up,' she explained. 'It's so hot and sticky.'

Conor nodded, feeling awkward. 'There are towels in the cupboard,' he pointed towards the far wall, 'you'll probably appreciate a shower. I'll put one of my T-shirts on the outside door handle. You can wear that while I wash your clothes.'

As he walked back to his own bedroom, he finally allowed himself to smile. No, he didn't have anything to fear from that little kitten. He'd searched her thoroughly while she'd been asleep, and all he'd found were tissues and some spare change in her pants pocket. He was sure she was hiding something, and her amnesia was probably faked, but whatever it was had nothing to do with him. Perhaps a parent or a lover with a vicious streak. Besides, now that he was thinking rationally about it, sending someone in to check him out wasn't the way Rashod operated. No, he thought, anger gripping his chest, if Rashod knew he was here, he would come himself. Alone. And armed.

For several minutes Libby stood in the shower, letting the tepid wash over her face while she tried to slow her churning thoughts. Gradually her mind felt clearer, but the happenings of the previous night were beginning to seem like a bad dream. A dream with too many gaps and a surreal edge.

Was her mother really dead? Had she killed her? They'd argued many times, always in lopsided fashion, Vanessa so cool and in control, telling Libby that if she didn't keep her emotions in check she'd end up just like her father, and Libby seething with fury that her mother couldn't acknowledge that she was now an adult and entitled to her own point of view. Their last big argument had resulted in Libby throwing a cushion at Vanessa, packing her belongings, and storming out. They hadn't spoken again for ten months, and it was Libby who had finally made the effort to patch things up between them. But that had been years ago. They'd been polite and friendly since. Not affectionate, Vanessa could never unbend that far, forgiveness was alien to her nature, but Libby had made every effort to keep their relationship cordial.

Had they argued again? Had she thrown something at Vanessa, something so heavy it had killed her? Oh, God, if only she could remember. And the men bending over the body. She hadn't seen their faces, and her memory of them was still fuzzy, but one seemed very familiar. Had they really wanted to kill her? Or had she misunderstood what they'd said and run in panic? And how could it have been Vanessa anyway? She'd gone to visit an old friend and wasn't supposed to return for at least a week.

And her grandfather, where was he? Was this his house? It could be, a lot of things looked familiar, but so much had changed, and a childhood memory wasn't always accurate.

Suddenly all the questions in her mind became too much. Her shoulders heaving, she collapsed against the wall of the shower and sobbed until she was exhausted. Her knees buckled, and she slid down until she sat on the floor.

A knock sounded on the door, and she realised she must have been in the shower a long time.

'Are you all right?' Conor's voice carried faintly through the solidness of the timber door.

'Yes,' she called back, and when he said no more she thought he must have gone away. She pulled herself up, grabbed a shampoo bottle from the shower caddy, and washed her hair. Then she soaped herself all over, trying to wash away the dark feelings hovering at the back of her mind. She had to think calmly, rationally, she told herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation, she just needed to find it. But the terror loomed black and foreboding in the spaces in her memory that she couldn't access.

Conor had been in his bedroom, the room adjoining the bathroom, when he'd heard Libby crying. It wrenched at his gut, bringing back memories he'd tried a lifetime to forget. Whatever else she might be faking, her distress was real, and his urge to help her rose another notch.

He showered quickly in the ensuite he'd had built in the master bedroom, all too aware of his reaction to the sight of her skimpily clad breasts. Perhaps Pascual was more perceptive than he had given him credit for, he thought wryly.

Now he juiced oranges while croissants warmed in the oven, and percolating coffee filled the kitchen with its rich aroma. He glanced up as Libby walked into the room. His T-shirt became a dress on her slight figure, and her short, damp hair had been combed like a cap around her head.

'I hope you don't mind,' she said, 'but I used the hairbrush.'

'You're welcome to use what you like. Now sit down while I get you some breakfast.'

He noticed that although she did as he said, it was with the wariness of a distrustful animal. Pascual's kitten analogy seemed very fitting at that moment, and he laughed.

She looked up at him in surprise. 'What's funny?'

'You,' he said. 'you make me feel like an ogre in a fairytale. As though any minute you expect me to throw you in my cooking pot and serve you up for dinner.'

The tension left Libby's strained features. 'I'm sorry. You've been very kind to me.'

Conor placed a glass of juice in front of her, then reached into the refrigerator and brought out two bowls. He put one in front of her. She glanced down at the slices of golden fruit it contained.

'Bowen mango,' she smiled delightedly. 'I haven't had that since I was a kid.' She looked up at Conor and her face fell as she realised what she'd said.

Conor sat down across the table from her. 'Well, that's something you've remembered, Libby. Perhaps when you feel you can trust me, you can tell me what else you remember.'

He watched her consternation, knew the moment fear grabbed her, and saw the effort she made to contain it. 'I'll help you if I can,' he continued, 'but it's up to you.'

The words nearly burst out of Libby then, but she stopped them, picked up her fork, and began to eat. She couldn't trust him. She couldn't trust anyone.

As Conor cleared away their bowls and dished croissants onto a plate, Libby watched him. He wore a T-shirt and clean shorts now, but her mind kept flashing pictures of him, hard-muscled chest naked and dripping with sweat, as he'd stood in the bathroom doorway.

'How long have you lived in this house?' she asked casually.

His appraising look told her he didn't view her question as mere curiosity, but his voice was indifferent as he replied, 'Seven years.'

How could she ask him who he'd bought it from without making him suspicious? 'There's something familiar about it,' she said, looking around. The plumbing and sink had been modernised, but their white and gold blended well with the richness of the polished timber cupboards.

'Perhaps you've been here before?' Conor said, and she knew he was offering her an opening to tell him what she was hiding. 'I bought it fully furnished, and the previous owners said they had too.'

'I don't know.' The catch in her voice was genuine, and she wiped at a tear that formed and threatened to fall. A mug of steaming black coffee was placed in front of her, and she looked up into eyes that were both kind and questioning. But all he said was, 'Milk? Or cream?'

'Cream, please,' she managed to choke out.

Within a minute of sipping the hot drink, beads of sweat formed on her body. She rolled the T-shirt sleeves up to her shoulders and reached for a croissant. As the warm, buttery flavour filled her mouth, she realised how hungry she was. She licked the crumbs off her fingers, and Conor placed another croissant on her plate.

A newspaper on the end of the table caught her eye. 'May I?' she gestured. Conor nodded. She picked it up and scanned the headlines. Car accident, politicians involved in a scandal, ratepayers disagreeing with council decisions. She turned the pages, searching for anything about her mother's death.

Nothing.

A wild hope surged through her. Perhaps her mother wasn't dead? Then her spirits fell as she realised the discovery of Vanessa's body would have been too late to get in the papers. She didn't even know what time anything had happened last night. When she'd regained consciousness this morning she'd been so dazed she had barely registered that her bag and watch were missing. If her ring had been easy to remove she may have lost that too, she thought.

With a sigh, she closed the paper and folded it. As she moved it away, the date caught her attention. She looked at it in disbelief. Monday. It couldn't be Monday. That would mean she'd arrived in Brisbane on Sunday night. She could remember Friday, but where had Saturday and most of Sunday gone?

'Libby? Libby, what's wrong? Do you feel sick?'

The concern in Conor's voice helped her focus. 'Is that ... is that today's paper?' Please, God, this has to be a joke. What's happened to me?

'Yes. What's in it that's upset you?'

How could she explain when she didn't know herself? And how could she find out? She had no money, and if she went to the police what would the men leaning over her mother's body tell them? She looked across at Conor. She couldn't tell him everything. But perhaps he could help her.

'My grandfather used to read the newspaper at the breakfast table. He used to say that Grandma always told him it was a bad habit, but after she died it was too lonely to sit there by himself just eating.'

'Your grandfather?'

'I came to Brisbane to look for him. I was only twelve when my father brought me here, and I can't remember if this was his house.'

Conor heard the ring of truth in her voice, but knew she wasn't telling him everything. Fear and consternation showed in her eyes, and he decided to let her tell him more when she was ready. 'What's your grandfather's name?'

'Herbert Daniels.'

'Then you're Libby Daniels?'

She nodded. 'Some things about this house look familiar, like the front entrance, and the furniture in the bedroom, but the bathroom's different, and so is this kitchen. But it could have been modernised in the last sixteen years.'

'Sixteen years! But if you were twelve ... That makes you ...'

'Twenty-eight,' she said resignedly, as though only too accustomed to surprised reactions.

'I thought you were barely out of your teens,' he muttered.

'People always think that when you're short. My dad used to call me his petite little princess ...' The words had barely left her lips when her tears began to flow. She couldn't seem to stop them. It was as though all the years of grief and anger were pouring out in a flood of tears.

Conor handed her a box of tissues. A hiccupping smile touched Libby's face as she took it. Man-sized tissues. Tough and strong. Like Conor. The thought surprised her, made her look up at him, register the angular planes of his face, the sensuous lips, and the dark eyes frowning in concern.

Libby suddenly realised that she knew nothing about him. He spoke Spanish as if he'd been born to it, and although his lean, dark looks added to this supposition, he spoke English with the neutral accent of someone who had lived in many countries but was a citizen of no particular one.

She glanced away to a wall-mounted clock, saw it was almost ten-thirty, and asked, 'Don't you have to go to work?'

He shook his head. 'I'm on holidays.'

'What do you do?'

'I tutor at a university in the city.'

'What subjects?'

'Political history of South-East Asia. Now tell me about your father.'

She shifted uneasily, and the T-shirt pulled against her breasts. 'My father? It's my grandfather I'm looking for.'

'Talking about your father made you cry.' Conor eased back and pulled up another chair. She was getting to him, this little kitten with her elfin face and big hazel eyes, and he knew he had to be more wary. 'Tell me about him.'

'He died eight months ago. But I hadn't seen him since I was thirteen.' She stopped as a paw touched her leg. Glancing down, she looked into the yellow eyes of a large cat, its grey and white stripes perfectly symmetrical around its face and body. 'Oh,' she said, 'a porcelain cat. She's beautiful.'

'He is Thomas,' Conor said. 'We have a gentlemen's agreement. I feed him, and he allows me to pat him when it suits hi...' Conor broke off in amazement as Thomas jumped up onto Libby's lap. He watched the tension dissolve from Libby's features as her arms wrapped around Thomas. The cat rubbed against her face and emitted a loud purr.

'Had your parents divorced?' Conor nudged Libby back on the track he wanted. If he could keep her talking, she might reveal what she was so afraid of.

'It's awful being a child, isn't it,' she countered. She stroked Thomas, and as her hand moved, the words began to flow. 'Mom and Dad met when she was on holiday out here from the States. They married, then found they were totally incompatible. My father was outgoing and openly affectionate, my mother was reserved to the point of being rigid. When they'd argue, Dad would yell and Mom would speak in a quiet voice that was so cold it could make me shiver.'

'When my parents argued,' Conor reflected, 'my mother would throw crockery at my father, he'd duck, laugh, then make her laugh, and they'd disappear into the bedroom for ages.' Conor checked himself in surprise. Where had that come from? For years the only information he'd given out about his parents had been the carefully-rehearsed background he wanted to project.

'The bedroom wasn't somewhere my parents met very often,' Libby said bitterly. 'They divorced when I was thirteen and Mom took me back to the States. She wouldn't let my father have any contact with me, and it was only when he died that she got an attack of conscience and handed over all the letters and Christmas and birthday cards he'd sent me. She'd given his gifts to the local children's home.'

Conor felt his stomach knot. Sympathy for Libby's pain merged with another, deeper ache he hadn't felt for a long time.

Thomas suddenly jumped off Libby's lap and walked out of the room. Libby watched him go, then turned to Conor. 'Could I use your telephone book to see if my grandfather's name is in there? He could live further down this street.'

The phone book revealed no H. Daniels, and Libby wondered if her grandfather had moved away ... or died.

'When did you last have contact with him, Libby?'

'When I was fourteen. He rang the States to wish me Happy Birthday, and I answered the phone so I got to speak to him. Mom had the number changed, after that.'

'How long have you been back in Australia?'

'Almost six months. Dad left everything to me in his Will, so I came back to Australia to ...' she swallowed against the choking sensation in her throat, 'it sounds dumb, I know, but I felt I had to ... to touch his life in some way.' She spread her fingers across the phone book. 'I had once loved my father very much, then I spent years thinking that he had abandoned me.'

'And now?'

'Now?' She looked up at Conor. 'Now I wish I hadn't lost all those years trying to hate him.'

Something sharp seized Conor's gut at the regret in her voice, and he swiftly changed tack. 'The deeds for this house are in my safety deposit box at the bank. We'll get them and find out if your grandfather was one of the previous owners. If he was, we might be able to find out what's happened to him.'

Waiting wasn't something Wesley handled well. Especially not now, when he expected that any minute the police would knock on his door and want to question him. If Libby had seen her mother killed, it would be his word against hers, but without a body ...

The trill of his mobile phone startled him, and he leapt from the embracing silk cushions of his lounge and grabbed it off the coffee table.

'Mal, thank God. You've found her?'

'No. My contact at the airport can't find out anything for me yet. The woman he's friendly with is off sick.'

'But -'

'We'll just have to wait. I don't like it either, but we still have a chance to salvage this. Just don't lose your nerve.'

The connection severed. Lose his nerve? He wasn't likely to do that. He had too much at stake.