Brittle Shadows (6 page)

“Good to
finally meet you,” he said, strong hands gripping hers. “I just wish it were
under better circumstances.”

She invited him
in. “Can I offer you a coffee or a cold drink, Mr Bartlett?”

“Marcus,
please. Thank you, but I can’t stay long.” He surveyed the room. “Another time
perhaps. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know the apartment’s
yours for as long as you need it. I also believe you requested that the locks
be changed. Can I ask why?”

Her hand
gravitated to her mouth. He was entitled to an answer, of course. She just
wasn’t sure how much she should or could tell him.

“There’s no
problem,” he said, stepping toward her. “I’m only concerned something has
happened I should be aware of.”

“Put it this
way, I would sleep better knowing who had keys to this place. Do you know?”

“You’d have to
check with the manager’s office. I assume they keep a record of who has what.
No doubt there’s a master key, as well. But that still doesn’t answer my
question: what happened last night?”

Her back went
rigid. “Last night? Do you know something?”

“You’ve been
here less than 24 hours,” he said, his eyebrows knitting as he peered down his
nose at her. “It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

She shook her
head. “Sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I didn’t get much sleep last night
or…” Her shoulders sagged, the effort to remain upright almost too much.

“That much is
obvious. Here,” he said, pulling out the closest dining chair, “sit down before
you fall down.”

She mumbled a
thanks and dropped onto the soft leather seat.

Resting her
eyelids for a tiny moment, she felt the air move as Marcus brushed past her,
smelt the mossy scent of his cologne. She opened her eyes. “Didn’t you say you
had to be some place? Please don’t let me keep you.” She closed her eyes again,
hoping that like magic, he would be gone when she opened them. Not that she
didn’t want to talk to him; she just wasn’t in the best state to carry on an
intelligent conversation.

“It can wait,”
he said. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

She opened one
eye. Marcus had seated himself at the head of the table, his body skewed so one
forearm rested on the smoked-glass tabletop and the other along the arm of the
chair. He watched her with something akin to concern.

“The long and
short of it,” she said, “is someone with a key let himself – I think it was a
man – into the apartment in the middle of the night. But he left as soon as he realized
I was there. No harm done and I doubt he’ll risk coming back, but you’ll
understand now why I want the locks changed.”

He made no comment,
simply pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and punched a combination of
buttons. She listened to the one-sided conversation, thankful she wasn’t the
one on the receiving end.

“Right then,”
he said, closing his phone. “A locksmith will be here within the next hour.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me more
about this man. What do you think he was looking for?”

She shrugged
her shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he thought Tanya had
something worth stealing. Who knows?”

“Do you think
you would recognize him again?”

“Not a chance.
As I told Chris, the light from the corridor was behind him. I can’t even be
sure it was a man.”

Marcus flexed
his fingers, the small diamond in his ring glinting. “This Chris a friend of
yours?”

“Not exactly.
More a friend of Tanya’s. His family used to live down the street from us. He
and Tanya dated for a while.”

“In Perth?”

She nodded.
“Before Tanya moved to Melbourne. Chris called in yesterday to check on me and
offer assistance.”

“You mean he’s
here in Melbourne?” Marcus asked, pointing at the floor.

“Sorry, yes.
He’s a detective sergeant with the Victoria Police now.”

He ran a hand
across his mouth. “So you did report last night’s incident to the police,
then?”

“Not
officially. As it was, I’m sure Chris thought I was imagining things.”

Marcus pinched
the bridge of his nose, his eyes squinting as if in pain. “Not DS Christopher
Sykes by any chance?”

She brightened.
“Do you know him?”

“Yes. Yes, I
do,” he said with a solemn nod. “He was involved in the investigation into
Sean’s death.”

Jemma thought
it strange that Chris hadn’t mentioned it, but then again, attending the scene
of a non-suspicious death was all in a day’s work for him. After all, the
hanging death of her sister’s fiancé had been ruled an accident. If a strange
sex act that went too far could be called an accident. Though shocked, it
hadn’t surprised her that Sean had indulged in auto-erotic asphyxia.

The intercom
interrupted any further conversation.

Marcus stood
and offered her a hand. Not wanting to appear totally pathetic, she eschewed
his help and struggled to her feet unaided.

“Speak of the
devil,” she said, checking the intercom monitor.

Glancing at the
door, Marcus withdrew a slim, silver case from his shirt pocket and opened it.
“I’ll give you a call in a day or two,” he said, handing her his business card.
“If you need to speak to me in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call. All
my numbers are on the card.”

He was out the
door before she could draw breath. She was beginning to think she smelled or
something.

Leaving the
door ajar for Chris, she took the chance to grab a glass of water from the
kitchen. She downed it in three gulps, the ice-cold water helping to revive her
flagging body. She refilled her glass and, resisting the temptation to pour the
contents over her head, went to greet her third visitor for the day. Any
thought of her visit to Melbourne not attracting any attention had long gone.

She heard male
voices, low but terse, out in the corridor. Before she could check it out, the
door burst open and Chris strode in, muttering under his breath. Two steps in,
he came to an abrupt stop, as if suddenly realizing where he was. A thin smile
replaced his scowl.

“What was all
that about?” she asked, gesturing toward the door with her glass.

“Don’t worry
about it. It’s nothing.” His tone suggested otherwise.

“Hold on a sec, Gail,” Jemma
shouted over the noise of the locksmith’s drill. She closed the study door.
“Sorry about that.”

“Goodness, it
sounds like you’re on a construction site.” Her aunt paused before adding,
“I’ve always fancied a man with a jackhammer.”

Jemma laughed.
“Has anyone told you you’re incorrigible?”

“Who, me? You
must be thinking of some other sex-starved fossil.”

“Fossil?”
spluttered Jemma. “You’re not that old.”

“Who said
anything about old?”

“Yep,
incorrigible.”

“And you’re a
hard person to get hold of.”

“Sorry about
the phone tag.” Jemma swapped hands. “I did send you an email,” she said,
checking her Inbox to see if her aunt had replied.

“Yes, I saw
that and I’ll make sure I get the coroner’s letter in the mail today,” Gail
said, her tone sobering. “But Jemma, love, the real reason I’m ringing is that
I think I may have done something I shouldn’t have...” Her voice trailed off.

Jemma held her
breath, waiting for her aunt to continue.

“I think I
might have let the cat out of the bag…”

What cat?
What bag?

“Ross called
around here earlier today looking for you. I just assumed he knew about Tanya.”

Jemma exhaled.

Gail continued.
“Why didn’t you tell me you and he were having problems?”

“I meant to. I
really did. Just with everything else that’s been going on—”

“Never mind
that now. I completely understand. Just so long as you’re okay.”

Although Gail
couldn’t see her, Jemma nodded. “Did you tell Ross where I was?”

“I didn’t need
to. When he learned of your sister’s death, he pretty much guessed straight
away where you had gone.”

Jemma closed
her eyes. Knowing Ross, he wouldn’t fork out his hard-earned cash on a plane
ticket. Their relationship didn’t mean that much to him.

“What do you
want me to tell him if he turns up again?”

“He won’t, but
if he does, tell him I’m still in New York.”

She was met
with a stunned silence, then, “You’re not in Melbourne?”

“Ignore me,
Gail. Private joke. I’ll explain it another day.”

They chatted
for a few more minutes, Jemma asking after her aunt’s precious pug dogs and
finishing with a promise to look after herself.

Her chest
constricting, she disconnected the call. She stood and paced tight circles
around her chair, her fist jammed into her mouth. Gail was all the family she
had left and here she was, almost 3000 kilometers away on the opposite side of
the country. But as hard as that was, she owed it to Tanya’s memory to uncover
the truth behind her death. Jemma still couldn’t bring herself to believe her
sister had intentionally taken her own life. Regardless of her frame of mind.
There was more to it; there had to be.

By the time the
locksmith had finished, not only did the apartment have a new door lock, but it
also had a solid brass security latch, not unlike those she had seen in hotel
rooms. She clipped it into place, murmuring a thank you to Marcus. Unless her
intruder was an accomplished cat burglar, she saw no way he could get back into
the apartment. Not while she was inside it, anyway.

She headed to
the kitchen, divesting herself of her irksome bra as she crossed the tile
floor. Pulling it out from under her top, she balled the offending item and
tossed it in the direction of the laundry. It fell short. With a sigh, she retrieved
it and lobbed it at the plastic basket atop the washing machine. She missed
again, the bra disappearing down between the wall and the machine.

Cursing, she
stretched her hand down into the gap, feeling nothing but thin air. Her arm
wasn’t long enough. She looked around for something she could use to hook the
AWOL bra.

Behind the
door, she found a plastic coat hanger. Holding it at one end, she poked around
in the narrow space, like a blind woman groping for something she couldn’t see.
It might have worked if the hook had been on the other end and not in the
middle.

Kneeling on the
hard tiles, she tipped her head sideways, trying to get a fix on the elusive
black bra. Her eye caught something else instead, something white. She tried
the hanger again, giving up after a couple of attempts.

She sat back on
her haunches, weighing up her options: forget about it or find some other way
of recovering the bra and whatever else was there. Damned though, if she was
going to sacrifice an expensive bra to the laundry gods. Besides the white
thing might be important. Or not.

She stood up,
taking a step back to appraise the situation. With the washing machine wedged
between the laundry tub and the wall as it was, she wouldn’t be able to move it
sideways. Unless she could think of something better, the washer would have to
come out. That meant disconnecting the hoses and somehow manhandling the
unwieldy machine forward enough for her to get behind it. She only hoped it was
lighter than it looked.

After much
grunting, straining, groaning and swearing, she managed to jockey the washing
machine out. She picked up the bra, shaking off the dust and lint it had
collected, before chucking it in the laundry basket. Apart from a thick layer
of grey dust and a lone twenty-cent coin, all that remained were two scraps of
paper about the size of Post-it notes.

Smoothing the
bits of paper along the steel edge of the laundry tub, she tried to work out
what it all meant, if anything. Both appeared to have been torn from the same
sheet of paper, each having two straight edges and two ragged ones. The black
all caps typeface, a sans serif font, had to be at least 36-point. Someone
trying to get a message across? But what was the message? By themselves, the
two sections she had made no sense:

HOW WELL DO

YOU KNOW YO

AT?

E WHO CARES.

Not a shopping
list. Not an appliance instruction sheet. Not a love note: what sort of person
typed a love note? Not a…

She shook her
head. What did it matter?

She gathered up
the two paper pieces and, leaving the washing machine stranded in the middle of
the laundry, stepped through into the kitchen.
Right
, she thought,
dropping the note fragments on the raised countertop.
Glass of water, cool
shower and a decent meal. And in that order.
Her aunt was right: if she
didn’t look after herself, she would be no good to anyone, let alone herself.