'This is a charming neighbourhood,' Quinn said.
'Perhaps we should call the government's Noxious Weeds Department and report the weird vegetation in these parts,' Kit said.
'No, no. The Royal Botanic Gardens should know about this. We've probably discovered a new sub-species or genus or something. We might get to name it.'
'Sure, Australis rustycarus,' Kit suggested.
'Or Holdenbotanicus,' Quinn laughed, as she slowed the jeep to a crawl. When Geoffrey's Bentley and the truck had taken a turn down a side street towards the river Kit had told Quinn to keep going so they could circle the next block and approach Dalkeith's riverfront property from the other direction to avoid being spotted. They were cruising a narrow street with houses on the right-hand side and landscaped parkland running down to the river on their left.
'This is spooky,' Kit said. 'It's almost like the residents around here have to conform to some kind of warped zoning regulations for front gardens. Every second house is growing car wrecks and mutant dandelions, and the ones in between have manicured lawns and a line of rose bushes up against their front fences.'
'Do-de-do-do, do-de-do-do,' Quinn sang. 'We are now entering the Twilight Zone.'
'Good heavens. I'd have thought that was well before your time Ms Too-young-to-be-a-tycoon.'
'The best TV shows always come back,' Quinn said. 'Or get made into blockbuster movies.'
'Please tell me you're a Trekker too,' Kit said.
'Next Generation, absolutely! I'd have given my Toorak mansion to spend time on a holodeck with Captain Picard or Tasha Yar.'
'I'd rather jump to warp speed with Ensign Ro or Dr Crusher myself,' Kit said. 'Whoa, pull over,' she added, as the park on their right stopped abruptly at the shiny fence that marked the boundary of the land that Ian Dalkeith had such big plans for. It looked even more like a prime location for a movie set in a nuclear-devastated future than it had the first time Kit had seen it.
The wind, which had a clear passage through the desolate paddock, was lifting scraps of rubbish in a frenzied dance amongst the derelict machinery while a length of metal cable, whipping furiously like a cut snake, was clanging against a rusty crane carcass.
'It looks like a rubbish tip,' Quinn said.
'I think it's actually where obsolete machines come to die,' Kit said. 'Oh, but I do love it when another mystery bites the dust,' she added.
'What?'
'That nice sign wasn't up the last time I was here,' Kit replied pointing at the gate.
'Freyling Imports Storage Company,' Quinn read. 'So?'
'The other rendezvous in your mother's note, remember? It was 11 pm on Wednesday at 'FISC'. Now we know the when and the where, all I have to do is be here to find out the what and the why.'
'What about the what and why of this afternoon though?' Quinn asked.
'Well, we can't get any closer than this,' Kit said, clicking off a few shots despite the fact that there wasn't a lot of activity to shoot. Geoffrey and his car had disappeared from view around the other side of the group of warehouses and the driver of the truck, which was parked in plain view in front of a loading platform, had entered through a half-raised cargo bay door.
'Tomorrow night, however,' Kit continued 'I'll get here early and try to get inside for a closer look.'
'There's a Mercedes going in now,' Quinn stated.
'Ian Dalkeith,' Kit said as she raised her camera again to catch the white sports car passing through the open gates. The first photo was blurred by another vehicle which came up the street from behind them and flashed through her line of sight as the shutter opened.
'Kit,' Quinn said as Kit lined the Mercedes up again as it crossed the fifty or so metres of gravel and couch grass between the gate and the warehouse.
'Kit, look!' Quinn said more urgently, pointing up the street.
The car which had overtaken them and ruined her shot had slowed to make a left turn into the street opposite the gates of Freyling Imports. It was a battered brown station wagon.
'Got you this time Mr Finnigan!' Kit exclaimed. 'And there's only one way to find out who you really are. Here Quinn, take the camera and keep an eye on the bad guys. Photograph anything that moves. I'll be back in a second.'
Kit was out of the car before she'd finished speaking. She tried to sprint up the street but between the gale force winds and the invisible daggers that were attacking her left knee it was more like an out-of-control lope. She felt like Quasimodo on the last leg of a marathon.
When she got level with the driveway of the house on the corner she stopped and leant on the front gate. It was one of the 'you must cut your lawn and grow roses' residences with a high paling fence down the side which bordered the other street. As she edged her way towards the corner Kit could hear the familiar whirr of a motor driven camera even over the wind that was screaming through all the metal debris on Dalkeith's lot.
K. F. O'Malley continues her mission to boldly go, Kit thought as she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and walked as casually as possible around the corner - straight into the personal space of the alleged writer from Sydney.
'What the hell?' he shouted, stooping to pick up his camera bag which had fallen from his shoulder as he stumbled backwards.
'Well, well, well - if it isn't Mike Finnigan. We must stop meeting like this,' Kit said cheerily, as if they were long lost mates.
'Oh, it's you,' he said, as if he'd wished they'd stayed lost. 'What do you think you're doing you stupid bitch, you nearly scared the bejesus out of me.'
'Charming. With an attitude like that I think your bejesus could do with a little scaring. Who the hell are you anyway?'
'Piss off woman, you're going to ruin everything!'
'I'm going to ruin everything? Half of Melbourne knows that when you're not living in a park in Balwyn you're following Ian Dalkeith all over town in a rent-a-wreck.'
He rolled his eyes at her and scratched the back of his head, the combined actions making him look even more like a basset hound. The huge red moustache, which just about covered the whole lower half of his face, was fairly bristling with annoyance.
'Look Girl Scout, we've got separate business here. I ain't stoping you from doing your job tailing that pissant Robinson, so just get out of my face will you.'
'Oh sure, fine, Mr Finnigan-Begin-Again,' Kit said. 'But what makes you so sure our business is so separate. As I said we've got to stop meeting like this.'
'Great, have it your own way. Just stay out of mine, OK?' Finnigan said as he thrust his camera in its bag. 'I am going now if that's all right with you.'
Kit shrugged and waved her arm in the direction of his station wagon. She waited till he had opened the door before she turned to head back to Quinn.
'Hey, O'Malley,' he called out. He was resting his big hairy arms on the car roof. 'Take my advice and stay away from Dalkeith. He's a nasty piece of work.'
'As you said Finnigan, separate business,' Kit said throwing her palms up. 'But I've got some advice for you. Get a new wreck. That one may as well be wearing a big 'yoohoo, I'm following you' sign.'
Half-way back to the Vitara someone unzipped the sky over Kit's head and by the time she threw herself into the passenger seat she was drenched to the skin.
'So who is he?' Quinn asked.
'Beats me,' Kit shrugged. 'Which is extremely annoying because he knows who I am. What's happened in there?'
'Nothing much. They unloaded the container in about 10 seconds flat. A forklift took about fifty huge boxes inside. I got pics. There's been no movement since then.'
'Well we can't see a thing through this driving rain. Let's get the hell out of here. It's already after seven and I need a drink. Not to mention some dry clothes.'
Kit ran her hands through her hair and knocked her forehead on the bar several times.
'You see,' Brigit said, 'she's totally flipped over this one.'
'Brigie, if I'd had even half the sexual encounters you give me credit for I'd be a physical wreck.'
'I'm not talking about encounters Kit darling. I'm merely pointing out the state you get in when you're consumed by lust.'
'The state I'm in happens to be one of exhaustion,' Kit said.
'Stop teasing her Brigit. You sound like one of those breathless romance writers from the American Deep South,' Del said. 'Now hush up. The beautiful blonde heiress with the heaving bosom, whose blue eyes light up only for the dashing private detective on my right, is on her way back.'
Kit groaned. Quinn didn't have a whole lot of bosom to heave but it didn't help Kit's case one little bit that the beautiful blonde heiress clasped her hand, flashed her blue eyes and demanded that Kit dance the next dance with her. And she didn't need to see the look that passed between her two friends to know the type of expression that accompanied Brigit's strangled giggle.
It dawned on her, however, that it was possibly to her advantage that Brigie and Del were convinced she was in a state over Quinn, as they might not notice her become completely unglued when Alex turned up. If Alex turned up.
Kit slipped off her stool, shrugged at Del's knowing look and led Quinn back into the Red Room where several women were already singing and dancing along to the deafening strains of Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. As Quinn flung herself around the floor Kit wondered if her too-young-to-be-a-tycoon dance partner realised that this song was something else that had been around since she was just a baby.
Three songs later, just as Kit was lamenting her own dear departed youth and wondering if she was going to be exhausted for the rest of her life, the DJ changed the pace from something that vaguely resembled music, only inasmuch as it had a definite beat, to k. d. lang's Constant Craving.
'If we don't slow down I'm going to die,' Kit said as she slipped her arm around Quinn's waist. 'My knee is certainly going to give out for good.'
'You poor old thing,' Quinn said in her ear and then pulled back a bit and looked at Kit with an expression that was seriously confused. 'There must be something dreadfully wrong with me. I'm sure I should feel guilty about having a good time. But I don't. Is that awful?'
'Oh, Quinn. There's nothing wrong with what you're doing, or with you. Believe me, I know what it's like. Everybody deals with loss in their own time. And in their own way,' Kit said softly.
'I suppose so,' Quinn acknowledged. 'Mum's hair turned completely white overnight when my father was killed. A week later it had all fallen out and it never grew back.'
'Is that what the problem was. I'd been meaning to ask you,' Kit admitted.
Quinn shrugged. 'I guess not everyone reacts that dramatically to a personal tragedy, but I should be feeling something, apart from disgust with myself for being so unfeeling. I'm sure other people are thinking I don't give a damn.'
'What's this other people shit? Look,' she began, and then took a deep breath; she couldn't believe it was still so hard to even bring this subject up. There was nothing she could do about the tremor in her voice. 'There was a time when those ubiquitous 'other people' would have thought I was totally insensitive. I lost a very dear friend, Hannah Beaumont, in a stupid accident a couple of years ago. She was killed by a drunk driver when she was walking home from work.'
'That's awful. I'm so sorry.' Quinn's eyes were tearful. It was obviously easier for her to empathise with Kit's pain than it was to acknowledge her own.
'I just went totally blank,' Kit continued. 'I refused to accept that she wasn't going to be around any more. I didn't...I couldn't even go to her funeral.'
'And for that people thought you were insensitive? Seems just the opposite to me,' Quinn stated.
'Maybe. But then I went quite troppo afterwards because I hadn't gone. In an attempt to take my mind off what I was trying to pretend hadn't happened anyway, Del took me to Flemington Racecourse. Actually I think she was hoping to snap me out of my state of nothingness by making me do something normal. It was certainly something that other people would have seen as an, I don't know, maybe inappropriate thing to do on the day of a friend's funeral.
'Anyway, I got so pissed I could barely stand and spent every cent I had backing horses that couldn't possibly win. Then, in the last event, this bush pony that had run last every start she'd ever had decided to win the one and only race of her career. The horse's name was Flying Hanna. Can you believe it? The trifecta I'd taken paid $1100. I spent the next three nights dancing, in this very room, while I drank that money too.' Kit laced her fingers through Quinn's and rested her chin on their clasped hands. 'Then I cried for a whole week.'
Quinn pressed her lips together in a futile attempt to stop her chin from quivering. 'I just feel like I'm still letting her down,' she said.
'Oh Quinn, she may not have understood you very well but she did not think you'd let her down. Your mother was proud of you.'
Quinn gave a short laugh as she wiped away the one tear that had managed to escape down her cheek. 'That's what your mother said.'
'Well there you go, and take my word for it, it's not a good idea to doubt anything that Lillian says,' Kit grinned. She gathered Quinn closer into her arms. 'Dance while you can,' she whispered.
'Thanks Kit,' Quinn said as she buried her face in Kit's shoulder. 'For everything.'
Kit had no idea whether the shiver that went down her spine a few seconds later was caused by a rush of cool air from the door as it opened and closed or by the unsettling feeling, for the second time that day, that she was under surveillance. Whatever it was that actually made her look up, there was no denying it this time; someone was watching her, or them.
Kit kept hold of Quinn, thinking it might be a little too obvious to hastily push her back. But when k.d. lang was mercifully overtaken by Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox, she figured it was reasonable to let go, of both Quinn and the breath she'd been holding. Quinn gave her a bemused look as Kit suddenly danced away from her and back again before releasing her hand.
'Hey, Alex is here,' Quinn shouted.
'I know,' Kit said, in what she hoped was a careless tone.
Quinn bounced forward and peered at Kit quite intently, her mouth open in what could only be described as a lopsided and thoroughly idiotic smile. Kit wanted to die.
'Oh dear,' Quinn said. 'Not you too?'
'Don't you dare say a word Quinn Orlando.'
'My lips will be sealed,' she said still grinning. 'As soon as I can get my mouth shut.'
'Oh god!' Kit groaned.
'Trust me Kit,' Quinn said, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. 'Can you face going out there yet?'
'Of course I can, don't be ridiculous.'
'OK, OK. Just watch where you're walking. I'd hate to see you trip over yourself now.' Quinn screwed up her eyes, which were fairly sparkling with amusement, and slipped her arm through Kit's as they left the dance floor.
'Trust you, you say?' Kit queried as they approached Alex, who despite the scowl, looked totally ravishing with her hair pinned up at the back so there were only a few wispy strands on her neck.
No one should look this good in old jeans and a T-shirt, Kit thought, wondering if she'd have to spend all her time being held upright by other people whenever she was within cooee of this woman. Life could become quite awkward.
'Hi Alex,' Quinn crowed cheerfully, giving Alex a hug.
'Don't you think this is a little inappropriate O'Malley?'
Oh sure, like I'm responsible, Kit thought. 'Not particularly Alex,' she replied.
'Other people?' Quinn asked, looking at Kit.
'Yup,' Kit nodded.
'I need a drink,' Quinn said over her shoulder as she turned and pulled at the door. She winked knowingly at Kit on her way out.
'Tact is obviously not one of your strong points Ms Cazenove,' Kit said catching the door before it swung shut.
'I'm sorry. It's just...' Alex stopped herself when Kit kept walking. 'O'Malley wait,' she added clasping Kit's elbow.
That's done it, Kit thought. She stopped dead in her tracks and looked around for something to hang on to. 'What?' she asked impatiently.
'I had a visit from Detective-Sergeant Marek. It was Quinn he wanted to see but...'
'And?' Kit urged softly, fearing the worst.
'It's been confirmed that Celia's death was not an accident. Your friend Marek is now treating it officially as a homicide. Byron is the number one suspect.'
'Bloody hell!'
'That's more or less what I said. Can I buy you a drink?'
'Alex, I reckon Quinn is about this far from folding,' Kit said holding her thumb and index finger about a centimetre apart. 'I think we should get her out of here before we drop this little bundle in her lap.'
'Good idea. Your place?'
'If that suits you. You could follow us.'
'But you've been drinking.'
'Quinn hasn't. She might need you to drive her home later though. I think she'll be wanting something stronger than mineral water when she gets this news.'
'I knew it! I just knew it. Just wait till I get my hands on that fucking bastard. I'm going to rip his lousy, stinking heart out,' Quinn cried as she stomped back and forth through the kitchen. Right now they were tears of anger but it was obvious that Quinn was close to breaking point.
Kit stopped her from pacing and thrust a glass of bourbon into her hand. 'Drink it Quinn,' she ordered.
Quinn did as she was told. 'I don't even like bourbon,' she said with a sour expression, holding the empty glass out for a refill. 'Is that Thistle making that weird noise?'
'Well, it's either Thistle the Watchcat or the begonia has learnt how to growl,' Kit said. 'Alex must be on her way up.'
'Grangkle,' Thistle said as Kit scratched her behind the ears on her way past The Cat's sentry post at the top of the stairs.
'Grangkle? That's a new one Thistle. What happened to Manuel?'
'I'm glad I didn't have that drink before we left Angie's,' Alex said when Kit opened the door. 'I got picked up by a booze bus.'
Lucky booze bus, Kit thought as she followed Alex up the stairs. 'Well, you can have one now, but I'll put some coffee on as well.'
Quinn accepted then broke away from Alex's sympathetic hug. 'I'm fine Alex, except that I'm really pissed off now. I'm going to put some music on.'
Kit shrugged in response to the questioning glance that Alex cast in her direction as she sat down at the breakfast bar.
'You wouldn't have any brandy would you?'
'Anything your heart desires,' Kit said before she could stop herself. She turned away quickly to get the bottle from the cupboard. Shutup O'Malley!
Quinn had chosen King of Hearts and as the Big O launched into You're The One Kit poured brandy all over the bench because she was watching Alex instead of what she was doing. Alex dragged her concerned gaze from Quinn as Kit swore loudly and grabbed for the dishcloth.
'Um, Kit?' Quinn called out. 'Who's Sam?'
'What? Why?' Kit asked chucking the cloth into the sink.
'I think you've got a Dear Jane letter. I didn't mean to read it. Sorry.'
Kit tried to walk nonchalantly over to where Quinn was standing beside the dining table. She pushed her spare front door key off a large piece of paper and read the few words which were written in a quite unfamiliar scrawl. Kit realised she'd never seen Sam's handwriting before.
Kit honey, if you'd bothered to keep our appointment I wouldn't have to do it like this. It's pretty lousy, sorry. I've met someone in Sydney. This one feels right. You and I didn't seem to be going anywhere anyway. Maybe it is better done this way. I've taken my stuff. All the best. Sam.
'Well that's that then.' Kit screwed up the note.
'It was certainly short and to the point,' Quinn said taking hold of Kit's hand.
'It's no big deal Quinn, honestly,' Kit said leading Quinn back to the kitchen where she dropped the note in the bin, spun the lid off the Jack Daniels and refilled their glasses.
'So who is Sam?' Alex asked.
'History now,' Kit replied.
'You seem pretty cool about it.'
What do you care? Kit thought, feeling anything but cool under the steady gaze of those delicious grey eyes. 'We hadn't seen each other for nearly two months,' she explained, breaking the eye contact by looking down at her glass.
'And seeing we only met three months ago it's not like it was a long-term thing. I suppose Sam pipped me at the post really. If I'd actually remembered she was going to be in town tonight I would have been the one to end it. Now, can we change the subject please? What did Marek tell you?' She pushed the bottle into Quinn's outstretched hand.
Alex sighed deeply and, after taking a sip of brandy, turned towards Quinn. 'The autopsy revealed that although your mother did in fact drown she was unconscious before she fell, or was pushed, into the pond. Her blood alcohol level was comparatively low. There was a deep scratch, probably made by a fingernail, on her collarbone and a large contusion on the back of her head. Someone hit her very hard with a champagne bottle.'
Quinn gripped the bench with both hands and rocked back and forth. Her mouth was working in several directions at once as she tried desperately to swallow her rage. 'Geoffrey's a dead man,' she managed to say through gritted teeth.
'The police are looking for Byron. I mean seriously looking for him now. They think he's responsible.'
'What shit!' Quinn snapped. She downed her drink in one mouthful, filled her glass again and drank that too.
'It might be shit Quinn but that's the line the police are taking,' Alex said softly.
'We'll just have to find a better line,' Kit said.
'Yeah. A clothes line - to hang him from,' Quinn snarled. 'Oh god, I think I'm going to be sick.'
'Second door on the right,' Kit called after her as Quinn made a dash up the hall. 'She can probably throw up by herself,' she added, when it looked like Alex was going to follow her.
'I just thought...You're right of course.' Alex sat down again, absently twirled a loose curl of hair around her index finger and then rested her chin on the back of her hand. 'Maybe I should just take her home,' she added, in a tone that almost suggested she wasn't quite ready to leave. She gazed at Kit as if she was trying to read her mind.
Don't go yet, don't go yet. Think of something O'Malley! Kit prompted herself. She had no idea how she'd cope with Alex on her own, she just knew she didn't want her to leave so soon. Sometime between now and the year 2000 she might be able to think of a better reason than work but right now that was all she had.
'We, I mean you and I, still have a few things to discuss Alex,' she began. 'Quinn can sleep here, or lie down for a while, if she wants.'
Kit put Quinn to bed in her spare room, after which Alex spent half an hour in there with her while Kit paced the lounge room wondering what to do with herself. She finally made a cup of chamomile tea and carried it down the hall, stopping short in the doorway when she caught sight of Alex in the mirror. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking gently as she ran her hand affectionately through Quinn's hair.
There has to be more to this than tea and sympathy, Kit thought. This woman is in serious denial if she really intends to marry the divine Enzo. And as for you O'Malley if there's not a psychological term to describe the lunacy of being uncontrollably attracted to an allegedly straight, about-to-be-married woman who's obviously denying her attraction to the beautiful blonde heiress in your spare bed, then Brigit could probably invent one.
'Hey Kit,' Quinn said softly.
'Hey to you too. I thought you might like a cuppa.'
Alex had dropped her hand, rather self-consciously Kit thought, and leant back so Kit could place the tea on the bedside table.
Fifteen minutes later, having left Quinn to try and get some sleep, Kit and Alex sat staring at each other over a pot of coffee. Kit's recap of her encounter with Mike Finnigan and his warning about Dalkeith had been followed by a pregnant pause of unbearable duration.
To avoid Alex's gaze, which was both lingering and questioning, Kit busied herself with the coffee pot. It seemed like Alex wanted, but couldn't bring herself to ask Kit something personal.
It's more likely she's trying to think of reason, that's not self-incriminating, to tell you to stay away from Quinn, Kit laughed to herself, as she poured the coffee.
'So you still think he's a private detective?' Alex queried.
'Or maybe an undercover cop.' Kit handed a cup to Alex, then forced herself to relax back into her armchair by slinging her legs over one armrest.
'I also found out this morning that Edwina Barnes has been a patient at the Endicott Centre for the last two years,' Kit said.
'Really? Shirley Smith's been there longer than that,' Alex stated.
'That figures, if she's a director.'
'She may be on the board, but as a patient I doubt she has much say in how the place is run,' Alex said, trying not to smile.
'What?'
'Shirley Smith is a manic depressive. She's been locked up out there for nine years.'
'A manic depressive? I thought that could be self-treated with drugs.'
Alex shrugged. 'It can in many cases. The problem is that some manic depressives stop taking their medication as soon as they feel OK. Apart from being inclined to flush her pills down the toilet whenever she felt good, Shirley is also prone to psychotic episodes during which she is, and I quote, 'a danger to herself and others'. She apparently tried to kill her ex-husband with a garden rake and then drove his sports car through the front wall of a neighbour's house. Her brother Malcolm had her committed after that little episode.'
'Who was the husband?' Kit asked.
'I don't know. It was a fluke that I found out as much as I did. While I was driving out there I was trying to come up a plausible reason for turning up uninvited to ask vague questions about the centre and one of the directors. As it turned out I went to uni with Endicott's assistant medical director. He told me about Shirley but said it wasn't worth his job to divulge anything else. Do you think the identity of the husband is relevant?'
'Probably not, especially if he was already an ex before she was committed, but we should cover all the bases. But I'm wondering why she's hospitalised down here instead of Sydney where her brother lives.'
'I would assume being a director of the institution in which you happen to be confined would have some advantages,' Alex stated.
'I guess so,' Kit agreed. 'I don't suppose you got to see Shirley in person?'
'A glimpse through a window across a crowded dining room. Peter pointed her out to me when he was walking me back to my car. I'll see if I can track down who the husband was if you think it might be important.'
'That'd be great, thanks. In the meantime I'll keep looking for Byron. I bumped into a blonde today who seemed to be at Ian Dalkeith's beck and call. He also happened to be the same guy I'd photographed with Geoffrey during my first night on this job. Quinn and I dropped the photo off with Damien this evening to see if he could get Tooly to identify him as the guy who picked up Byron at Route 69.'
'Nothing we've found so far establishes a very good case for Byron's innocence. What do you think he's up to?'
'I suspect he may not be up to much at all,' Kit said flatly. 'If he is responsible, which I doubt, then he's obviously in hiding.'
'And if he's not?'
Kit closed her eyes momentarily as she ran her hands through her hair. She was superstitious about voicing her fears, as if simply saying them out loud would make them true. 'Then it's my guess that he is as dead as Celia is.'
'But why?' Alex asked, although she didn't seem to be surprised by the suggestion.
'Why indeed. That's the sixty-four dollar question. Why was Celia murdered? If Byron's alive, why has he vanished into thin air?' Kit ran her hands through her hair.
'If this Christo character is the right blonde boy,' she continued, 'then he is the last person, that we know of, to have seen Byron - dead or alive. And I've got a really bad feeling that the former state is more likely, especially when I see how the few pieces that we do have in this jigsaw are starting to fit together. I mean, Byron gets picked up in a bar by someone who works for Dalkeith and is also not averse to performing sexual favours for Geoffrey. This cannot be a coincidence. Which suggests that, regardless of whether it was a pre-meditated murder or the result of an argument that went too far, Celia's death is only part of whatever is really going on.'