Darkest Place (6 page)

Carly sat at an outdoor table with her coffee, a scarf and gloves doing little to protect her from the chill.

‘You sure you're okay out here?' Reuben asked, rubbing his hands together in the doorway of the cafe. ‘It's not like you'll be fighting for space in here. Only the brave are out this morning.'

‘I'm fine, thanks.' She needed the touch of ice to numb her and the solitude of the empty tables around her. An edgy, fearful fuel was still running through her veins, exhaustion was weighing down her limbs and she wanted to keep it to herself. This wasn't the person she came here to be.

‘Another coffee then?' Reuben asked. ‘Can't have our regulars dying of pneumonia.'

‘I'm a regular?'

‘I put your name on the barista's board.
Carly, skim cap, one sugar, on the hot side
.'

She smiled. Probably wasn't good to drink too much coffee but the process – stirring, drinking, behaving like a normal person – was dulling the need to wring her hands. ‘Then I will have another.'

Detective Anne Long rang as Carly took her first sip.

‘Where are you?' the detective asked.

Carly glanced around, suddenly wary of the table in the open air – and who might watch her. ‘I'm by the harbour. I needed a walk.' Should she have stayed out of sight?

‘Right. About last night, I'd like to go over it with you. Can you come to the station?'

‘When?' The sooner the better. She needed to offload the fear.

‘I'm here until ten, then back again at three.'

Carly checked her watch – it was just after eight. Her first class started at eleven, the last finished at five. ‘I'll be there in an hour.'

 

‘I've read the report from the officer in charge last night.' Anne Long spread a hand over the manila folder on the table between them. ‘How are you doing now?'

They were in a small room with a large window that looked into an open-plan office. Anne and Elliot were on one side of a table, Carly was on the other, her head thumping and her bones aching. ‘Not bad.'

‘Do you think you can manage to go over it again?' The reservation in Detective Long's voice made it sound like she expected Carly to be a blubbering mess any second.

Carly preferred to keep that to herself. ‘Of course.'

Anne nodded an
Off you go
. Beside her, Elliot wrote as Carly went through it, clearing her throat when her voice found a tremble, blinking back tears. ‘And that's it,' she finished, fingers interlocked to hide the jittering in them.

‘And you're confident it was a man?'

‘Yes.' Firm, sure. ‘Is this what happened to the other people at the warehouse?'

‘Still some discrepancies there,' Anne said. ‘How do you feel about your description now?'

Carly wanted to know what the discrepancies were, but the thumping in her head left only enough space for one thought at a time. ‘I saw the shape of a hood. His face … it's like he hasn't got one.'

Elliot lifted his eyes.

‘It makes sense, though,' Carly said. ‘If the guy is climbing over balconies to get into my loft, he's not going to let me see his face. It has to be a balaclava, right?'

Anne ignored her question. ‘Why do you think he's climbing over balconies?'

‘That's what the officers at my apartment thought last night.' She flicked her eyes to Elliot and back. ‘At least, that's what I thought they thought. Isn't that why they wanted the fingerprinting done again?'

Anne dipped her head, noncommittal. ‘There are probably easier ways to get into your apartment. Who has keys?'

‘Just me.'

‘Did you change the locks when you moved in?'

‘No.'

‘Who was your real estate agent?'

Something squirmed in Carly's stomach. She found the business card that was still in her wallet and passed it to Elliot, remembering the man, Vincent, who'd shown her through the apartment two months ago. Early twenties, bad skin, fake smile, surprised when she made an offer on the spot. Had he climbed onto her bed last night?

‘You've got a building supervisor, haven't you?' Anne asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Has he got a set?'

‘Not from me.'

‘Did he ever let prospective buyers into the apartment?'

‘I've no idea.' Howard Helyer? Who still had her garage pass, who she hadn't laid eyes on yet.

‘I'll make some phone calls. See where that gets us,' Anne said.

‘Should I change my locks?' How much would that cost?

Anne dipped her head again, slower this time, doubtful. ‘At this stage, it's not clear that's how the offender is getting in.'

Carly looked back and forth between the two detectives again, wanting more. Advice, assurance, instruction.

Elliot spoke for the first time. ‘You could install a safety chain. Not as expensive as new locks, and if he's trying to be quiet that should put a stop to it.'

Carly looked back at Anne, expecting another head dip, confirmation or otherwise, but the detective simply stood. ‘Okay. Thanks for coming in, Carly.'

‘So you don't think it's the same guy who broke into the warehouse twelve months ago?'

Anne picked up her folder, tucked it under her arm. ‘Personally, no. Like I said, there are discrepancies.'

‘One of my neighbours turned up while the police were there last night,' Carly said. ‘He was asked to leave. Is there a problem with him?'

‘What's his name?' Anne asked.

‘Nate. I don't know his surname.'

‘Nathan? Nathaniel?'

‘I don't know.'

Anne turned to Elliot. ‘Have we got a Nate in the notes?' Elliot shook his head. ‘Can't help you with that,' Anne said. ‘Perhaps the officer knew him.'

Carly remembered the tone of the conversation. If that had been recognition, it wasn't a good recommendation.

It was almost eleven when Carly left the police station, her first lesson about to start. She watched the traffic heading in the direction of the campus, then turned her head and looked towards the warehouse – and her anxiety flipped to indecision. Eyes right then left, foot hovering between accelerator and brake: she needed to get to class, she needed a security chain. She had to make this life work; the man on her bed might have a key to her apartment.

Come on, Charlotte, pull yourself together.

She took a breath. Okay: leave the security chain until later and she might not get it installed by tonight. Skip the first class, be back at the campus after lunch. She dropped her foot on the accelerator and steered towards the warehouse, told herself she had a right to feel safe, promised herself she'd make it to class later. Then she found something else to focus on – Anne Long and her questions.

Who had keys?

The real estate agency had sent them to Carly in Burden. Had someone kept a copy? Possibly it was standard procedure. Which meant any number of people had access to it: staff, clients, cleaners. She pictured it, her key in an envelope,
a drawer, on a board with other keys for other properties. Why take hers? Because he knew the warehouse? She flicked the indicator, waited for a right-hand turn. Maybe some guy was breaking into apartments and houses all around the city and … wouldn't the police have a list of similar break-ins? Not just old reports with ‘discrepancies'.

Leaving the main road, she thought of Talia, the former owner. Had she given a key to someone? A house-sitter or boyfriend? Girlfriend? The only thing Carly knew about her was that she played music. She might've left a key with another resident, like Dean suggested. Nate, perhaps, or the neighbour on the other side who Carly hadn't seen yet. Or with Howard Helyer? Maybe storing keys was part of his job. And so far he'd been bad at his job.

What about Talia's friend, Brooke? Carly hadn't seen her, either, but she was a woman on crutches, it wasn't her in the loft last night. Maybe Brooke had a key and gave it to someone. To break into her friend's apartment and scare the new owner? Carly shook her head; that made no sense. Maybe someone
stole
it from Brooke.

Carly stopped at the kerb opposite the warehouse and eyed the east wall. There was nothing fancy about the facade; it had been a storage facility, built for function, not charm. The brickwork was a flat face, no ledges, no cornices, no architectural features that could be used for a foothold. Not even the balconies protruded, their metal railings strung across openings that had once held windows and delivery doors. There were pipes running down from the roof but they were positioned at the corners, well clear of the nearest balconies. The apartments inside ranged from one- to four-bedrooms and were configured like Lego bricks, mix-and-match sizes that fitted together to make the most of the shape and space. It took a moment
for Carly to find her own: second storey down from the top, three railings in from the corner.

A long time ago Carly had climbed up and abseiled down sheer faces with Debs, Jenna and Adam, and in training with the Rural Fire Service. For thirteen years she'd barely let herself think about it or the person she was then – her stomach was churning now as she looked the wall over again with a climber's eye. She wouldn't trust her own body to do it, but it was doable. With ropes. Possibly without, if you were good. And confident.

She steered the car back into the road and kept going to the hardware store on Baxter Street. A shop assistant took twenty minutes to talk her through the options and sizes. The one she chose, he told her, wouldn't stop a determined intruder but they'd need boltcutters or brute strength. In other words, a large tool or a lot of noise, which was very different to creeping around with a key.

 

The first shriek from the drill Carly had found in the storeroom ricocheted around the atrium like a primal scream. She released the trigger, opened the door and glanced warily around the corridor, worried about complaints – then decided that letting her neighbours know she was installing some security wasn't a bad thing.

She drilled until her ears rang and her head felt like it was about to explode, then inspected the doorjamb. Barely a dent in the timber. She tried again, same result. Ten minutes later she still didn't have a hole deep enough for a screw. ‘Shit!' She stalked the hallway and back, hands shaking from the force of the vibration. She'd used a drill before, what the hell was she doing wrong? She gave the door a thwack with her hand.

It knocked back … and Carly jerked away, the shadow of a man flickering through her mind, the lurch of the mattress rocking through her body. Lifting the drill, she held it like the hair dryer, wishing the security chain was already in place.

‘It's Nate,' came the voice through the door.

He'd been awake and dressed at four in the morning. The police had asked him to leave and … Carly glanced at the drill. The screeching must have filled his apartment too.

She opened the door enough to flick eyes over him. Jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, possibly the same outfit he was wearing at her door during the night. ‘Sorry about the noise,' she said. ‘It shouldn't take much longer.'

He gave her and the tool a once-over. ‘Want a hand?'

Yes. No.
‘I'm installing a security chain.' It wasn't an answer, it was making sure he knew.

He waited a beat. ‘Not that I don't think you can do it.'

She smiled a little. He'd probably heard her swearing and thumping, too. She wanted the job finished, she just wasn't sure she wanted him in her apartment. She opened the door a bit wider. ‘Did you know Talia?'

‘The woman who used to live here?'

Carly nodded.

‘Met her a few times. Wasn't around much when she was here.'

‘Did she give you a key to the apartment? You know, in case she got locked out?'

‘No point. If she locked herself out, I wasn't going to be much help from an oil rig.'

‘True.'

‘Is this about the cops last night?'

She wasn't ready to explain. ‘I hope they didn't wake you.'

‘I was already up.'

Dressed and tussling with an officer in her hallway. ‘I saw you at the door.'

He slid his hands into his pockets.

‘I was on the balcony,' she said.

‘Right.'

‘And you were arguing with the officer.'

‘Yeah. That.'

Caution tightened Carly's shoulders.

Nate glanced along the corridor before explaining. ‘I wanted to check you were okay.'

Carly remembered how that had turned out. ‘What was the problem with the cop?'

He glanced the other way along the corridor. ‘We've crossed paths before. It wasn't a happy occasion.'

‘You were arrested?'

‘Threatened with it.'

‘What for?'

Eyes flicking away again, something shamefaced in it. ‘It wasn't about me. It was my sister. A problem with her ex. I made some noise about it.'

Carly watched him a moment, thinking about his stocky build, the solid shoulders, the tense gruffness she'd seen in him on other days, and guessed he hadn't raised his voice to say
please
. Maybe it had stretched to swearing, some pushing and shoving like there'd been in her hallway. Forget what he was doing up at 4 am – did she want that kind of neighbour helping her? Asking questions, turning up in the night, hassling the police? She took a step back, wanting an excuse to shut the door. ‘What was the problem?' she asked.

‘I didn't think they were doing enough.'

‘Is your sister okay?'

‘She is now.'

Had he sorted out the cops or the ex? Maybe it didn't matter. He'd done something to help, it was more than Carly could claim to have done for the people she loved. ‘So …' She tapped a finger out of sight, deciding. ‘The door.' She opened it all the way, pointed at the jamb. ‘I don't know if it's me or the drill but I've made a lot of noise without much result.'

His eyes stayed on her for another second before shifting to the timber. ‘How's the bit?'

‘No idea. How should it be?'

A tweak of an eyebrow. ‘You want to give me a look at the drill?'

She passed it over.

‘You won't get through anything with that. It's blunt.'

‘Nice to know it wasn't my technique.'

‘Can't comment on that. Haven't seen your technique.' Amusement flickered fleetingly through his gaze.

Ooh, a joke.

‘Have you got a spare?' he asked.

‘Just what's in there.' She pointed at the drill case.

He checked the contents. ‘Wait here.' He handed the tool back and left, returning a minute later. ‘This'll do it.' He held the power cord of another drill out to her. Had the holes done, screws in and the security chain installed in a quarter of an hour. ‘Give it a try.'

Carly slipped the chain into its slot and opened the door. A loud thunk as the links straightened and caught. ‘Perfect. Thanks.'

‘These for the balcony?' He picked up the slide-bolt locks she'd bought.

‘Yes.'

He didn't ask, just unplugged the tool, took the necessary pieces through the apartment and started on the other door.

He wouldn't do that if he was breaking in at night, right? ‘Can I get you a coffee?' she asked.

‘No thanks.'

‘Glass of water? Juice?'

‘No, I'm good.'

She hovered, trying to pre-empt his needs, passing parts and screws, matching his concise instructions with concise replies:
That one. This one?
Finally done, door tested and winding the electrical cord, he said, ‘So what happened last night?'

Had he been burning to ask or leaving it to last? ‘There was someone in my apartment,' Carly told him.

His hands stopped, his eyes lifting. ‘Again.'

‘Yes.'

Winding again, gaze dropping. ‘How did they get in?'

‘I don't know. Hence the extra security.'

‘I take it you didn't leave the door open this time.'

‘I'm wondering if that's really what happened last time.'

‘What are the cops doing about it?'

‘I spoke to some detectives this morning and they're sending someone from fingerprinting around again.'

He nodded, busied himself with packing up. He was at the front door when he stopped and looked back at her. ‘I'm right next door, Carly. You could've called out.'

‘I didn't know who it was.'

He hesitated, eyes not quite connecting with hers. ‘You thought it could've been me?'

‘I was scared. I didn't know who it was.'

‘Hence the questions about the key?'

‘Yes.' An apologetic smile.

She thought he might storm off or throw words back at her. He didn't, he just nodded, something sharp and raw in his eyes now. She wasn't sure what it was – but it made her feel bad for putting it there.

‘Let me know if I can help,' he said.

‘You've already helped a lot.'

‘I'm right next door, Carly.'