After Ariel: It started as a game (34 page)

It moved. He grasped it and turned.

She’d forgotten to lock it!

He opened the door and listened. There was no radio or TV on. She’d left a light on in the lower part of the unit, just enough for him to see that the room was tidy, with no clothes strewn on the bed. He moved cautiously into the room, breathing in smell of
woman,
then moving to the en suite, from which emanated the tantalising scent of talc, soap and bath salts.

He stepped over to the door and gasped! Someone was at the far end –
no it was his own reflection in the mirror!
He leaned against the door jamb, breathing heavily, imagining Pamela and her bloke finding him dead of a heart attack on her bedroom floor, and wouldn’t she be surprised? Chuckling, he went back into the room and looked around.
Hm
...maybe she’d kept the place tidy to invite the boyfriend up here. The front of his jeans tightened as his imagination took over...he looked at the bed, licking his lips, in danger of forgetting what he was there for.
Time was passing.
The camera! Where was it?

Drawers, cupboards – he started at the bedside tables – reading glasses, novel, notebook, pens, postcards from friends, loose earring, some M & Ms in a small jar, lip gloss, a box of condoms –
oh you slut, Pam
– and then worked his way through the rest of the room, paying particular attention to the top shelf of the wardrobe. An avalanche of handbags landed on his head. Angrily he tossed them aside and stretched up to feel around the back of the shelf; nothing. Her chest of drawers only held clothes. He liked her taste in knickers, but no sign of the camera. He scooped up the handbags and hurled the whole lot up onto the shelf, jamming the door shut before they could come down again.

Suddenly exhausted, he flopped onto the bed and considered his options. Where would she keep it...he lurched up. He’d nodded off – what time was it?
8.30!

He rushed out of the bedroom and opened the door of the practice room next to it. A music stand, an old upright, ornate piano, shelves filled with sheet music. He glanced around, noting the “egg-carton” insulation.
Good girl.
He opened the cupboard against the far wall, but saw only piles of music books. The small CD player on top of the unit was of no interest.

The camera had to be down on the bottom level of the split-level unit.

Fortunately she’d left a small nightlight on. Frantic now, and thanking his lucky stars the few steps into the lounge and kitchen area were carpeted, he ventured down, sliding his gloved hand along the wall so he wouldn’t slip. Landing with a splat and a broken ankle was something which didn’t have any appeal.
Tennineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone...

 Think. It’s an expensive camera. Where would she put it?

He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly as he let his eyes wander around the room. Family photos, the piano and paintings...dozens of books...he looked along the shelves where expensive ornaments gazed down on him. Keeping calm, his gaze slid across the comfortable flowered lounge, to the coffee table where a magazine lay open at the page with the crossword. She’d almost finished it – clever girl – and then to the dining room table. He moved closer to where her flute case lay open, the beautiful instrument gleaming in the dim light
. You’d lose that, along with everything of value if it wasn’t me here, babe!

The camera had to be somewhere here. The thought of it in the car made his balls cringe. A noise came from outside the front door. Voices, footsteps! Before he could even think about hiding, they passed. He heard a door opening somewhere. Sweat broke out all over his body.
He had to get out of here!
He looked at his watch – 8.55.

Dingo went to the kitchen intending to open every drawer, even the refrigerator if necessary, but suddenly there it was, on a small side-table near the door. He scooped it up.
Thank you, God.
His hands trembled as he picked up the case lying next to it and stuffed the camera inside, cursing as the strap caught in the zipper.
Hurry!
Frantic now, he struggled to close the case as he ran for the steps up into the bedroom, unaware that a tiny piece of one of his gloves had torn in the metal zip and dropped to the floor.

He raced across the bedroom to the balcony doors and slipped through, trying to keep below the level of the balustrade. He peered over the railing. Nothing stirred.
Thank you, God.

He slung the strap of the case around his neck. It was the work of a moment to swing across into the branches. Just as he was about to climb down, the Audi came around the corner; as it swept past, he caught a glimpse of Pamela Miller’s wild hair under the streetlight.

He tumbled the rest of the way down the tree, dashed across the laneway and into the park. Panting and shaking with fear, he hunkered under a shrub, holding his precious booty tightly to his chest. He could see the couple through the leaves, brightly lit by the lights at the front of the building. The boyfriend got out of the car and came around to open the door for Pamela. They stood for a moment, faces close. Dingo could sense the charge of sexual energy crackling between them. The boyfriend closed the car door, pressed the button on his key to lock it, slipped his arm around Pamela and they disappeared into the building. 

A garbage bin caught his attention. Carefully he ripped off the surgical gloves, rolled them into a ball, gently lifted the lid with one finger under the handle and dropped them in, scarcely taking his eyes from the front of the building.

His mind flew into panic. Had he left everything as he’d found it? The handbags! He’d thrown them back into the top of the wardrobe, uncaring of how they’d landed.
Pam
wouldn’t be looking at them tonight! 
With any luck, she wouldn’t realise there’d been an intruder until morning. He had to get back to the hotel and crunch that SC card under the heel of his boot.

Stumbling through the park, tripping over tree roots and side-stepping low branches, he made his way to the road on the other side and walked back to the hotel. Now he had the camera there was no reason to hang around the area. He couldn’t wait to get home to the familiar nest he’d created for himself and his music.

He sauntered across the foyer, past the empty reception desk to the lifts, briefly acknowledging a greeting from a staff member coming from the bar, who looked at him strangely. It was only when he reached his room that he realised he was still wearing his hood pulled half down over his face and the camera was bulging under his jacket. It didn’t matter. He’d be gone first thing in the morning.

He laid the camera on the bed, wiped his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans and then opened the case. It was a beautiful piece of digital machinery. He took it out of the case, turned it around several times before opening it and taking out the card which he inserted into the reader and took a deep breath. Slowly he flicked through the photos.

His blood turned to ice as he reached the end of the card.

He couldn’t believe it. Only Pamela
Miller’s
photos were on the flash card. Roma Street Parklands for God’s sake, flowers, trees, waterfalls – tower blocks of units across from the transit centre. The kids fucking playground!

He stuffed his face into the pillows to stifle his screams.
Where are they? Where are the photos of Ariel and me?
His howls echoed in his brain; his body curled into the foetal position. They’d posed, danced on the grass, grinning. He’d risked his job, his freedom, his safety in breaking into Pamela Bloody Miller’s unit –
all for nothing!
His breath came in great gasps.

He felt as though he was having a heart attack. It took a long time for him to calm down and when he did, an idea crept into his mind. Had the Humphries woman only pretended to take their photos? But she’d written their names down – no,
his
name because Ariel had been giggling and doing handstands while he was talking to the journalist. Would the police find his name among her things? They hadn’t come to question him, so apparently not – at least not yet.

His bladder threatened to explode. He raced to the bathroom, used the loo then wiped his hands and face with a warm, wet face cloth. Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five... Even if they did find his name, what would it mean? Nothing at all – unless she’d written something about the photos beside it and his phone number. Did she date the pages of her notebook?

He slumped on the bed, so exhausted that he couldn’t think straight. His lower back ached along with his shoulder. His bitten finger seeped blood and serum from under the dressing. He groped miserably in the bedside drawer for the packet of bandaids he’d put there within easy reach. All he wanted to do was creep back to his unit on Kangaroo Point, a wounded animal but safe amongst his own possessions and not be trapped in some alien hotel with women, dead and alive, crowding him on all sides.

Suddenly, he made a decision and flew into action. He packed up his possessions, collected his toiletries from the bathroom and threw the cameras and their bags into his bag. Paid up until the next morning, he left his key-card on the bedside table, hoisted his backpack over his shoulders and picked up his bags.

He was going home.

CHAPTER 37

Violation

Pam

Tuesday, 8.45PM

It was the rush to the loo in stockinged feet that alerted me to the fact that my unit had been broken into. We’d come back from dinner, I’d kicked my shoes off by the front door and left Anthony to put the electric jug on for coffee while I scooted up to the bedroom level....and then...you know how something registers, but it sort of doesn’t? When you’re caught up in the moment and it isn’t until you’ve settled again that you realise something is different?

I’d washed my hands, tried to do something with my hair and was about to walk out of the bathroom, when I realised I had grit on my feet.

Now, anyone will tell you – especially Ally’s mum, Aunt Eloise – that I am not the neatest person in the world. In fact, when I’m not being “Holier than thou,” cleaning up in case a new boyfriend, in this case my personal assassin, takes fright and runs, I live in perpetual clutter. But I hadn’t had time to turn my unit into Hurricane Hollow, so I hadn’t picked up grit on the tiles – but there it was, stuck to the fibres of my tights.

I tiptoed slowly out of the bathroom and looked around my room. Nothing obvious, but when I turned on the light, I went cold. Small flecks of dirt led from under the curtains across the balcony doors and in a direct line to the bed where they vanished.
The bed!
Someone had been lying on it; I knew I’d straightened it before I left.

I screamed.

‘What is it?’ Anthony bounded up the steps.

All I could do was point at the particles and then the bed. Frowning, he moved carefully around them, peered down, then at the French door leading to the balcony. ‘Did you lock this tonight before we went out?’

I couldn’t remember. ‘I thought I did, but...’

He moved over to the curtains, took a pen out of his shirt pocket and moved one aside. The door was closed. Then he took one of his copious white handkerchiefs and placed it over the door handle.

It opened.

Throwing me a stern look, he pushed the door open and leaned out. ‘Is there a light for out here?’

‘Yes.’ I sidled along the wall and flicked the switch behind the other curtain.

‘There’s more dirt out here. Looks like someone stepped in one of your pot plants. No, don’t come out, just stay where you are.’

My skin crawled. What had the intruder touched? Had he been in my underwear drawer? Was it the bloke who hit me and tried to steal my camera –
the camera!
I raced down to the kitchen-dining area. My precious flute was still lying in its case. Where in God’s name had I put the damn camera? I couldn’t think straight. Anthony came back down the steps and watched as I circled in confusion. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘The camera! That’s what the creep was trying to steal when he hit me over the head and I
know
it was him watching my place the other day. Those cops reckoned I could have been mistaken, but I’m not that
stupid
.’

Anthony put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Now, calm down. Try and remember what you did when you came home today?’

How could I tell him I was so excited to be with him that all I could do when I got home after his text was dance around the kitchen squeaking “Yes, yes, yes!” and punching the air? I closed my eyes and leaned in against him, breathing in his gorgeous smell, his aftershave. He wrapped his arms around me, but true to the cop he is, refused to be side-tracked. ‘Think about it. You came through the door and what’s the first thing you did? Something you probably always do?’

‘Put my handbag down, take off my coat and –’ I pulled back and went to the small side table by the front door. ‘The camera’s missing! It was here. I dropped the bag of groceries on the table and my handbag, and then went to hang up my coat. I had the camera strap over my shoulder so I had to take that off first. I
know
I put it here!’

‘Is there anything else missing that you can tell?’ he asked, taking his mobile out of its pouch.

I walked slowly around the room checking the books, pictures, ornaments, a money box of small change – it rattled satisfactorily in spite of me robbing it on a regular basis – and the stereo and television were present and correct. My piano looked untouched. ‘I’ll look upstairs, see if everything’s there!’

Anthony, who was talking on the phone, paused. ‘Don’t touch anything!’

I smiled shakily and drew out a pair of surgical gloves from the box on the shelf under the sink. He grinned as I drew them on. With a wave I headed back upstairs.

Knowing enough from watching CSI not to walk on the evidence, I skirted along the wall to the bed and opened the bedside drawers, trying not to look at the indent in the pillow and the mussed bedspread. Nothing appeared to be missing. The new box of 24 assorted condoms lurking blatantly in one of the drawers made me blush. Bloody hell! Knowing a forensic team would be in here, I whipped them out of the drawer and opened the wardrobe door, intending to stow them at the back of the top shelf.