Brittle Shadows (7 page)

But before she
could do any of those things, the intercom buzzed. She jumped, still not used
to the shrill sound.

A mustached man
wearing a peaked cap appeared on the monitor. “Delivery for apartment 367.”

“Are you sure
you have the right apartment?”

Lowering his
gaze, he checked something out of camera range. “Ms Jemma Dalton, apartment
367, right?”

“Yes, but I’m
not expecting anything.”

He snorted.
“When you don’t give ‘em flowers they complain, and when you do, they want
advance warning. Men can’t win. Look, I haven’t got all day. Do you want ‘em or
not?”

She pressed the
door release button and went to meet him, realizing halfway across the carpet
she wasn’t wearing a bra. With no time to do anything about it, she could only
hope it wasn’t too obvious. Standing with crossed arms, she waited for the
deliveryman at the door.

The flowers, a
massive bouquet of long-stemmed red roses and greenery, arrived before he did.
He thrust them in her direction, before pulling a clipboard out from under his
arm for her to sign.

She scrawled
her signature in the space provided, took two steps back and kicked the door
shut. Unable to remember if she had thanked the deliveryman, she searched the
arrangement for a note. Nothing. Not even a florist’s card.

Who would be
sending her flowers? She could count the number of people who knew she was
staying in Tanya’s apartment on one hand, and none of them were likely
candidates. Not unless it was Ross, but then again, why break a habit of a
lifetime? She looked again for a card. If Ross had gone to the expense and
effort of sending her roses, he would have wanted her to know they were from
him.

She held the
bouquet up to her nose and sniffed. The fern fronds had more scent than the
roses. No matter, they were still beautiful and just what the room – and she,
if she were to be honest – needed. Carting them to the kitchen, she went in
search of a tall vase.

Only when the
flowers were in water, did her thoughts turn to herself. “Now where was I?
Drink…” she reminded herself, removing a bottle of spring water from the fridge
door and unscrewing the cap, “then shower, then food.”

Ten minutes
later, she stepped out of the shower feeling like a new woman, ready to face
the world again. Wrapping one towel around her torso and another around her
head, she collected her dirty clothes from the floor and dumped them in the
laundry.

Brrring…

Who now? She
was about ready to disconnect the bloody thing. With a resigned sigh, she went
to see who it was. With any luck, another apartment’s visitor had simply
pressed the wrong buttons.

“DS Sykes.”

“Hi, Jemma. I
was just going past, so thought I would check to see if the locksmith actually
turned up. Don’t want you having another sleepless night.”

“Thanks, Chris.
Yes, he did.” She paused. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything later, would you
like to join me for a cheap and cheerful somewhere?” She had spent too much
time cooped up in the apartment, but nor did she relish the idea of wandering
around alone at night in an unfamiliar city.

“Sure. What
time?”

“Um…” She
hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Whatever suits you. Come up, if you like. I
just have to finish getting dressed, but I’ll leave the door unsnibbed. Make
yourself at home.”

She pressed the
door release button, dashed across the carpet to the door to unlock it, and
then hightailed it back to the study where her clothes were. Old family friend
or not, she ought to be at least half-decent.

Midway through
buttoning her shirt, she heard music coming from somewhere in the apartment.
She paused, listening to Norah Jones’ distinctive, smoky voice:
“I don't
know why I didn't come…”

She glanced at
the stack of moving boxes to her right. According to the label, carton number
four housed Tanya’s CD collection, so what was playing?

Jemma hurriedly
finished dressing. Then, grabbing a wide-toothed comb from her toiletries’ bag,
she headed out to the living area.

Chris stood in
front of the entertainment unit, a faraway look in his hazel eyes. He wore an
expensive-looking ecru linen shirt, dark vintage-blue jeans and black boots.
Casual but smart.

“Hypnotic,
isn’t it?” she said, uncoiling the towel from her head.

“What?” He
started, his eyes widening as if she had caught him doing something he
shouldn’t. “Sorry, I’ll turn it off.”

“No, it’s
nice.” She draped the wet towel over her arm. “I just didn’t think the packers
had left any music out.”

“It was in the
CD player. I didn’t see a case for it.”

Jemma’s throat
tightened, a tug from beyond the grave turning her feet to lead. She was
listening to the last music her sister had heard, perhaps as she lay dying.

“…so my
heart is paying now for things I didn't do…”

“Are you all
right?” Chris’s hand touched her shoulder.

She swallowed
hard, nodding as she twisted out of his reach. As much as she yearned for the
reassurance of another human’s touch, she didn’t trust herself to keep it
together.

He averted his
gaze. “Would you prefer I came back later?”

She sucked in a
couple of sharp breaths, trying to compose herself. “No. I could really do with
the company.” She managed a weak smile. “Besides, I’m hungry now.” She also
needed the escape.

“Right then,”
he said with a clap of his hands, evidently happier now that he didn’t have to
contend with an emotional woman. “Why don’t you go and finish getting ready,
and I’ll think of somewhere we can go.”

Remembering the
comb in her hand, she realized she must look like a wet, long-haired rat, sans
the beady eyes. Or maybe those, too. “I’ll be quick as I can.”

She left him to
it, re-emerging minutes later to find him studying the two note fragments she
had found in the laundry.

“Interesting,
isn’t it?” she said when he looked up. “You’re the detective. What do you think
they mean?”

Chris scratched
under his collar. “No idea, sorry. Where did you find them?”

“Under the
washing machine, of all places.”

An eyebrow
arched.

“I was looking
for something else.”

The other
eyebrow arched.

“Don’t ask.
It’s a long story,” she said, rolling her eyes. He didn’t need to hear about
her bra woes.

“That would
explain why the washing machine is in the middle of the floor. Do you want a
hand putting it back?”

“Later. C’mon,
let’s get out of here.”

He raised his
hand in an exaggerated salute.

“God, I didn’t
mean how that sounded.” She took a breath and started again, her face deadpan.
“Thank you, DS Sykes, for your kind offer. If it’s all right by you, I will
take you up on it later. Right now, though, I would prefer to go out.”

He laughed.
“Your wish is my command.”

“Now, you’re sure
you didn’t have any other plans?” It occurred to her that she knew next to
nothing about him, except what he had told her and that wasn’t much. For all
she knew, he had a wife and family waiting at home for him.

“Only if you
can call a date with a TV dinner, plans.”

That answered
that question. Keys in hand, she hooked her bag over her shoulder and gestured
at the door. “After you.”

“Nice flowers,
by the way,” Chris said, opening the door. “From the boyfriend?”

Outside, the temperature had
dropped to a comfortable level, a light breeze carrying away the last of the
day’s heat. Since Jemma had no idea where they were headed, Chris led the way.
At times, she had to break into a half-jog to keep up with him, but then he
would realize and slow.

On Spring
Street, he caught her hand, pulling her through the tidal wave of workers and
shoppers on their way home for the day. She stumbled, her forward momentum only
just keeping her upright. She hoped they didn’t have far to go. Her sandals’
narrow straps were already cutting into her feet.

He slowed,
drawing her to the side of the footpath. Not sure where she was, she tried to
orientate herself, her head snapping from left to right.

“In here,” he
said, leading her across a black-and-white checkered entrance into a wide
corridor, reminiscent of a timber-paneled rail carriage from another era and
another continent. A mismatch of old, varnished tables lined one side, the mix
of chairs just as eclectic. On the other: a long, narrow bar.

The maître d',
resplendent in white shirt and crimson bowtie, rushed to greet them. He ushered
them to a table deep in the restaurant, far from the heat and noise of the
street. With an audible sigh, Jemma slid into the seat on the farthest side of
the table. Her breathing slowed in time with the music’s calming tempo, the
surrounding conversation hum almost trance-inducing.

A waiter materialized,
bearing a carafe of chilled water and a basket of sourdough bread. Not waiting,
she delved in, tearing off a hunk of the warm bread and popping it in her
mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the tanginess. Bread and water had never
tasted so good.

She opened her
eyes to find Chris watching her, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Sorry,” she
said, unable to resist helping herself to another piece. “In case you haven’t
guessed, I’m starving.”

He said
something she didn’t catch. She raised her eyebrows.

“Wine?” he
asked, tapping the wine list.

She swallowed.
“Sounds good. You choose,” she said, craning her neck to read the blackboard
specials.

The menu
sounded as mouth-watering as the garlicky aromas emanating from the kitchen.
She opted for the rack of lamb with field mushrooms and apple balsamic
dressing.

Chris ordered
the pan-fried kingfish. “And a bottle of the 2004 Valminor Albarino.”

“Not due to be
on duty, then?” Jemma asked.

“I actually
have a few days off, rare as that is.” He topped up the two water glasses. “So
if you need me to run you around or give you a tour of our fine city, just say
the word.”

She nodded, her
mouth too full to respond straightaway. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be sticking
close to home for the next few days.”

“The offer’s
there, anyway.”

The waiter
returned, presenting the bottle of wine to Chris for his approval before
pouring it.

Jemma raised
her glass in a toast. “To my beautiful sister.”

“To Tanya. May
she rest in peace.”

She set her
glass down again. “Chris, I want you to know I really appreciate everything
you’ve done – everything you’re
doing
. It means a lot to me, and I’m sure
it would’ve meant a lot to Tanya.”

He looked
almost embarrassed. “Don’t mention it,” he said, twirling the stem of his
wineglass.

“No, I mean it.
There are not many people I could have called on in the middle of the night for
help.” She waved a hand over the table. “Or who knew just the right restaurant
to bring a hungry woman to.”

He grinned, the
flush rising in his cheeks.

“Oh, I almost
forgot.” She dug around in her shoulder bag, pulled out the security firm’s
audit report, and handed it to him.

His smile
faded. “Where did you get this?” he asked, scratching his jaw as he studied the
printout.

When she didn’t
answer, he glanced up. “Okay then, what am I looking for?”

She pointed to
the audit numbers running down the left side of the page. “See how it jumps
from 587 to 592? Four transactions are missing.”

“And?”

“It means I’m
not going off my rocker. Look at the times of the entries either side of those.
Someone entered the building in the hour before you did. That someone wanted to
make sure he covered his tracks. I don’t know how, but the audit logs have been
tampered with.”

“Couldn’t it
just be a computer bug?”

“Highly
unlikely. Besides, what do you reckon the odds of a software malfunction at
exactly the time in question?”

“I had to ask.”

“I know this
isn’t exactly legit, but is there any way you could do a discreet background
check on Gerry, the security guard?”

Chris let out a
low whistle. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“You’re right.”
She sat back in her chair and picked up her wine. “I don’t know what I was
thinking. Please forget I even mentioned it.”

“Look, I can’t
promise anything, but leave it with me. Although, I’m not exactly sure what you
expect me to find. You do realize that to hold a security license the bloke
must have police clearance?” He extracted a well-thumbed notebook from his
shirt pocket. “So, what’s this Gerry’s surname?”