Thanks to Trevor Purse’s little map, Holly found Wattle Crescent, Bullaburra, with no trouble at all. It was a determinedly suburban street of modest project homes. The only reminders of the bush from which it had been carved just a generation or two ago were the crabbed banksias making aggressive statements on a few front lawns. The houses faced each other across the firmly kerbed and guttered bitumen as if trying to pretend that the dangerous blue-grey wilderness that stretched for kilometres around them didn’t exist.
As she drove slowly by Number 15, Holly thought she could have picked it as Trevor Purse’s house even without the white numbers on the letterbox. In a street of well-kept houses, it was the neatest. A prim little construction of light-coloured brick with a modestly low-pitched green-tiled roof, its most prominent feature was the fawn aluminium roller shutter that closed off the garage built in to one side. Its frontage featured a low brick fence, a weeping standard cherry tree in brilliant autumn colour and a row of rigidly controlled roses. Not a single fallen leaf marred the perfection of its impeccably trimmed square of grass, its ruler-straight driveway, or the paved area in front of the house.
The driveway gates were standing open, but Holly had no fears that her quarry had already left. A white Mazda, the twin of her own vehicle except that it was very clean, stood in the shelter of a carport that snuggled beside the garage like a poor relation.
A few doors down, Holly did a sedate U-turn and parked on the other side of the street where she had a clear view of Number 15. It was only ten-thirty-five, but having successfully found the house she felt it would be tempting fate to leave it, even in the interests of discretion.
After a couple of minutes, however, she began to feel conspicuous. No one appeared to be watching her, but there was something about Wattle Crescent that gave the impression of eyes peering from behind curtains and between the slats of Venetian blinds. When a black four-wheel drive cruised past, she felt certain that the driver had glanced at her with more than casual interest. Hastily she took out O’Brien’s mobile phone and held it to her ear, nodding and moving her mouth occasionally to reinforce the charade.
As time crawled by, Holly’s eyes remained fixed on the front door of Number 15 Wattle Crescent while her mind wandered back to the mansion in Medlow Bath.
Cliff Allnut’s BMW had still been parked outside when she had hurried through the opening gates, but of Allnut himself there had been no sign. Presumably he had gone around to the back of the house. Maybe, Holly thought uncomfortably, he was pumping Eric and Sheena about her. By now Eric had probably given him the Mealey Marshes address. Eric obviously didn’t like Allnut, but at the moment he wasn’t keen on Holly, the promise-breaker, either.
Maybe Allnut was even now making calls, trying to get information on a private investigator called Cage who was based in Mealey Marshes. Or maybe he had finally made contact with the real estate agents who had handled the rentals of Andrew’s house and office. Holly wondered what Len Land and Oriana Spillnek would tell him. Everything, probably. Neither of them had any reason to prevaricate. She wondered if their descriptions of Holly Love, Andrew’s abandoned fiancée, would finally lead Allnut to suspect who Una’s protector, Cage PI, really was. What if he asked Land, Spillnek or even Mrs Wigg the taxi driver to come to Horsetrough Lane, to lie in wait for Holly’s return and unmask her? What if he called the police?
The envelope containing Una Maggott’s money was still in Holly’s shoulder bag. Certainly, the resignation letter was folded with it—which was why Holly had balked at giving the envelope to Una before she left—but that proved nothing, really. Holly could be carrying it merely as a safety measure, with no intention of handing it over unless she was challenged.
She caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and her stomach lurched as she saw the fawn roller shutter of Number 15 rising like a curtain opening at the beginning of a play. No one had come out the front door. Apparently the garage could be accessed from the house.
Holly threw the mobile aside, started her car and glanced at the clock. It was exactly ten-forty-five.
A small green van emblazoned in bright yellow with Trevor Purse’s name, profession and phone number, and decorated with pictures of rats, mice and assorted magnified creepy-crawlies, backed cautiously from the garage. Purse was at the wheel. He got out to close the garage door, then returned to the van and reversed through the gateway. He saw Holly, showed the whites of his eyes, and sped off.
Less than a minute later, the front door opened and Leanne Purse peered out. She seemed to be checking that the coast was clear. Holly grabbed O’Brien’s phone and pretended to be listening again, but obviously Leanne was only interested in making sure her husband had gone, because her gaze swept without interest over the white car parked across the road. Apparently reassured, she left the house, a trifle chubby but neat and pretty in a blue floral skirt, lemon-coloured blouse, pale blue cardigan and dainty sling-back shoes. Her fair hair, bouncing in shining waves on her shoulders, looked freshly washed. She was carrying a small overnight bag.
There was definitely something furtive about the way she scuttled to the carport and slung the bag into the boot of the Mazda, shutting it in quickly as if it were something disgraceful she didn’t want the neighbours to see. It looked as if poor Trevor Purse was right. His wife was up to no good. His ordered little world was falling apart. Holly felt depressed. She thought of O’Brien, remembered his world-weary eyes, and felt she understood why he had taken to drink.
Leanne got into her car and backed rapidly up the drive. Just beyond the fenceline she halted with a little screech of tyres and jumped out to close the gates. Cheating on her husband, but still dutifully following his security rules, thought Holly. Feeling cynical and hard-bitten she clutched the wheel, her hands sweating.
Back in the driver’s seat, Leanne put on her seatbelt and reversed into the street. Barely glancing at Holly, she took off at a brisk pace towards the highway. Holly eased her car away from the kerb and followed.
It wasn’t difficult to keep Leanne in sight while she stayed on the back roads, but things became more complicated once she reached the highway and turned west. Traffic was heavy. Escapees from the city had now joined the throng of locals heading for the shops or driving their children to Saturday morning sport. Every second car seemed to be a white Mazda.
Holly soon found that keeping a discreet distance behind her quarry was dangerous. Leanne Purse was clearly impatient to reach her destination. She drove as fast as she legally could, changing lanes frequently, and in minutes was much too far ahead for comfort. Holly decided that discretion would have to be abandoned.
She gritted her teeth and began to weave through the traffic, intent on her goal. At last she caught up with the Mazda on which her eyes had been trained for five minutes, only to find that it had a ‘Baby on Board’ sticker on its back window and was being driven by a large man with dreadlocks.
Holly felt a sort of sickening lurch, exactly as if she was in a lift that had dropped too fast. She goggled, appalled, at the impostor in front of her. She saw him glance at her curiously in his rear-vision mirror, quickly looked away, and by pure chance caught sight of Leanne’s car just ahead, turning left at a sign reading ‘Misty Views International Motel’.
Holly slammed on her indicator and recklessly forced her way into the left lane. She managed it just in time to swing into the motel entrance herself, to a chorus of angry horn blasts that brought the blood rushing into her face.
She pulled up on the concrete apron, her hands slippery on the wheel, her cheeks on fire. Belatedly she realised that her life-threatening exit from the highway had been totally unnecessary. She could just as easily have driven past the motel and circled back at her own convenience. It might have taken a while, but Leanne Purse obviously wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
Sending a silent word of thanks to whichever saint it was who protected feckless motorists, Holly peered around, getting her bearings.
The Misty Views International Motel was not the sort of place she would have chosen for a romantic rendezvous. It was a no-frills establishment. A narrow, flat-faced rectangle two storeys high, with a pale blue aluminium awning jutting over the central entrance door, it looked more like a barracks than a lovers’ hideaway. A row of dusty succulents and a single, depressed-looking cypress did little to screen it from the highway traffic speeding past towards more desirable locations. The best that could be said for the place was that it was tidy and functional, and looked cheap. Leanne’s car was nowhere to be seen, but an arrow directing visitors down a steep driveway to the parking area at the back of the motel told Holly where to go.
She eased her car down the driveway and found herself in a wasteland of bumpy asphalt newly marked with glaring yellow lines. There were only a few cars dotted about. Leanne Purse’s Mazda was one of them, nestled inconspicuously in a corner not far from a steep flight of concrete steps that provided a shortcut back up to the motel for those guests able-bodied enough to negotiate it.
There was no sign of Leanne herself. She had obviously wasted no time in hurrying up the steps. By now she had probably slipped through a side door—a fire door, perhaps, opened by her lover. She wouldn’t risk walking boldly through the main door and braving the receptionist, Holly thought. Not carrying that overnight bag.
For the first time, Holly let herself wonder what that neat little bag contained. A black silk nightie, perhaps? Red lace lingerie? Fishnet stockings and spiked heels? Smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of champagne? Whips and chains? She made herself stop thinking and moved her car into a space that gave her a good view of the back of the motel, the steps, and Leanne’s Mazda.
The back of the motel was marginally less brutal-looking than the front because of the railed walkways (no doubt described as ‘balconies’ on the motel’s website) that stretched across the building on both ground and first floors, providing access to the rooms. There were twelve pale blue doors on the top floor, and twelve on the bottom. Having counted them, as if somehow the number mattered, Holly waited in suspense for Leanne, alone or with a companion, to appear on one of the walkways.
Nothing happened, and after five minutes she began to wonder just how long she had dithered at the front of the motel, recovering from her brush with death on the highway.
After another five minutes she faced the fact that Leanne, with the speed and efficiency made possible by long practice, must have disappeared behind one of the twenty-four plain blue doors before Holly even reached the parking area.
Holly sighed. All she could do now was watch until Leanne emerged from one or other of the doors. No doubt it would be a long wait.
Feeling at one with the spirit of O’Brien, she sipped from the plastic bottle she had filled in the Mealey Marshes flat, and took perverse pleasure in the tepid water’s slightly rusty, slightly chemical taste. This was what being a detective was all about. It wasn’t about thrills and dark alleys and guns and fights and being hit on the head. It was about sitting in the parking area of a second-rate motel, putting up with discomfort. It’s a dirty job, she could almost hear O’Brien saying. But someone has to do it.
Another ten minutes passed before Holly, hot, cramped, uncomfortable and bored out of her mind, asked herself why someone had to do it, and more specifically, why she did. Why couldn’t Trevor Purse simply ask his wife what she was doing on Saturdays? They had been married for eight years, for heaven’s sake! If he’d forgive Leanne anything, why didn’t he just tell her so and get the whole thing out in the open?
Holly instructed herself to settle down. She tried playing word and memory games, but found she couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t dare listen to the radio, in case she ran down the Mazda’s battery. Her mind, like nature abhorring a vacuum, had begun buzzing with unwelcome thoughts.
Thoughts of Una Maggottt, alone and afraid, waiting for her return. Thoughts of Solicitor Allnut, insulted and vengeful, pursuing his enquiries about Andrew’s accomplice. Thoughts of Eric, disappointed in her. Thoughts of Una’s missing rings. Thoughts of Andrew sunning himself by the pool of a tropical hotel while the languorous, long-limbed redhead beside him ordered another round of margaritas. Thoughts of the forty dollars in the envelope on the fridge, the stripped house, the empty bank account, the pitying eyes of Oriana Spillnek. Thoughts of her mother and father, and how appalled they would be if they knew what she was doing at this moment. Thoughts of Abigail Honour reading the cards, telling her that she should trust her instincts.
And what were Holly’s instincts telling her now? They were telling her to flee—to shake the dust of this sordid car-park from her wheels, regain the highway and drive down to Sydney with all possible speed. They were telling her to forget Trevor Purse, forget Una Maggott, forget Andrew McNish, forget Abigail . . .
But she had promised Una that she’d return, and she still had Una’s money. Trevor Purse believed that she was going to report back to him on his wife, and she had already spent most of his money. Her clothes and other belongings were still in the flat at Mealey Marshes . . . And by late this afternoon, O’Brien’s parrot would have run out of seed and water, and if she left without a word, no one would know she had gone. Trapped in its cage, the parrot might call vainly for hours till at last, parched, its beak gaping, it toppled from its perch . . .
Holly threw open the car door and jumped out, shaking her head violently to rid herself of the nightmarish dead-parrot images that had taken possession of her mind. The moment her feet hit the asphalt she understood that images of drought-stricken parrots were the least of her worries. She had drunk three-quarters of her water just to break the monotony. This, combined with the large latte of the early morning, meant that her bladder was at bursting point.
She had read that detectives on a stakeout sometimes used bottles to pee in. Well, that wasn’t an option for her. She had her talents, but peeing into a bottle wasn’t one of them.
It appeared that her next move had been decided for her. She hobbled to the steps and, slightly crouched, began climbing painfully towards the motel.