Double Take (24 page)

Trent wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. It was eleven years since his mother had passed away. “You mean Mum… Hazel?” he said.

“No. His last girlfriend. What was her name… Gemma? She stuffed him up real good.” This comment came from Johno.

Trent looked at the men before him. Given the amount of hours Dad spent here, it wasn't surprising he shared his troubles with them. He certainly didn't talk much to him, or Max apparently. “Gemma? Really? Dad never talked about her at home.”

“Gemma? That dark-haired woman.” Max finally pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Yes, she was only around for a year or so and then one day she just stopped coming. Dad told me she went overseas to work.”

Max frowned. “Is that what happened to her?”

“Murray told me she stole his money and ran off with another man,” said Allen.

“Really.” Trent frowned. “He never said anything like that.”

“I can believe that. Murray pretty much kept to himself. Until he had a few drinks, that is. Then you'd be flat out shutting him up.”

“Really?” Trent repeated. That was a side of his father he'd never witnessed.

The comment prompted three of the men to hold up their empty beer glasses. Ned obviously knew the drill and acknowledged Allen with a nod.

“Sorry we didn't tell you about the funeral. We didn't really know his friends. Guess we should've come here with Dad a long time ago.”

Max nodded in agreement. “How about we buy a round and maybe you can tell us what you know about Dad?” His brother had made the offer, but Trent knew it would be him actually paying. For the second time that day he bit his tongue.

Max polished off the rest of his beer and passed his glass to Trent with a cheesy grin.

A
s Candice tied the laces on her walking shoes, her dog spun around in excited circles at her feet. She ran her hand along the labrador's back and scratched the fur at the base of her tail.

“Okay, Daisy, settle down, girl.” Daisy's hair had taken on a luscious copper shine as she matured; nothing like the cream colour she was when Candice chose her from the litter three years ago. Candice clipped on the leash and held it firmly as she opened the front door.

It was 6 a.m. and the sun was already cresting the trees in the park across the road. She breathed in the lemon myrtle scented air as she stepped down her recently painted front steps. She was proud of the work she'd done so far on the 1920s workers' cottage. It was situated on a main road, had the original tin roof and weatherboard exterior, and had required substantial renovations both inside and out, but she loved it. With just two bedrooms it was considered a very small home, but in comparison to the caravan she'd lived in for six years it was luxury.

Daisy kept the leash taut and as she set a steady pace towards the green acres in the distance, Candice reflected on the significance of the day. It was Melbourne Cup day, nine years after the biggest horse race in Australia changed her life forever.

An image that had been permanently etched into her memory banks flashed into her mind. It was from the last time she'd visited Jack in jail. It was his birthday and at the time he'd been behind bars for four years. He was a broken man. Maximum security, his punishment for armed robbery, was torturous.

Candice was forced to speak to him through a thick pane of glass. The physical and emotional stress on Jack was undeniable. He'd lost a lot of weight and his gaunt face matched his sorrowful eyes. Somehow it made him seem guiltier. Not that it mattered. There was no question of his guilt—he'd never denied robbing the bank. But the fact that he'd committed the robbery in a misguided attempt to save
her
life placed a huge slice of guilt on her shoulders, too.

He would never have done what he did if she hadn't been terminally ill. Was it acceptable—perhaps even gallant—to break the law in order to save someone's life? This was a debate that had been dominating her thoughts since the third of November 1992.

Her gift to Jack on his fortieth birthday had been her forgiveness. He'd placed his palms on the finger-smudged glass between them, his chin trembled, tears pooled in his eyes. It was a huge relief to finally say those words to him. She'd stood up, too, placed her palms in line with his on the glass, and as tears streamed down his cheeks she experienced his relief with him.

They were both sobbing loudly when the guard led her from the visiting room. It had taken her weeks to get herself back together after that visit. She hadn't returned since that day. She couldn't bear to see him like that ever again.

It was Steel who had been her only link to Jack since then. When he had first knocked on her door she'd wanted nothing to do with him. But the cop had a charming manner about him and after years of trying she gave in to his persistence. Soon she came to enjoy his annual visit. Not only did it give her a chance to chat about Jack—the real Jack, not the person he had arrested, but the man she'd loved—he also confirmed with each visit that Jack was okay.

When Candice reached the little bridge over a slow-flowing creek she realised she'd picked up her pace and dropped it back a notch. One thing she had learnt since the implantable cardioverter-defibrillator was inserted next to her heart was to listen to her body. Often she forgot about the device in her chest that kept her alive. Although she was eternally grateful to the anonymous donor who'd saved her, she'd become almost obsessed with finding out who he was. On many occasions she'd daydreamed about running into him again. Her only hope was that he had been rewarded a thousand times over for his generosity.

Ironically, using the money had been one of the most difficult decisions of her life and in the end it was her brother who'd convinced her. Maybe it was because he wanted to get on with his life, too. When Jack was incarcerated, Michael put his career and almost every other aspect of his life on hold to look after her. Michael helped her get a home loan by going guarantor for her. She bought a little cottage in East Brisbane and according to him she'd bought it for a song. Michael had remained with her until she was back on her feet again. Then, once she was fully recovered and had returned to her previous work in a childcare centre, she'd purchased herself Daisy for company. It was only then that Michael went off to lead his own life again. Candice would never forget the enormous sacrifices he had made for her.

She slowed down and walked the final paces to her favourite spot in the park. The bench seat overlooked a large lake, and at this time in the morning the water was as still as glass. Daisy panted at her feet, waiting patiently for the treat she knew was coming.

“Good girl.” Candice unzipped the bum bag from her waist and removed the bacon-smelling snack. Daisy eased it from her palm and then settled at Candice's feet to chew through it.

It didn't take long for the ducks to make their way over. They landed with a splash and left triangular patterns in their wake as they cruised up to the edge of the lake near her. Candice removed four slices of bread from the bum bag and began tossing small chunks into the water. Soon a couple of turtles bobbed about and she tried to land the food morsels near them so they had a fighting chance against the ducks.

It suddenly occurred to her that feeding the wild animals was probably prohibited.
Maybe I'm breaking the law
. The thought tumbled from nowhere. She'd fed the ducks and turtles nearly every day since moving into her little cottage and not once had she thought about the consequences of her actions.

Is this how easy it was for Jack?
A tear slid down her cheek and with uncanny timing, Daisy rested her chin on Candice's knee.

There was no doubt about the reason Jack did what he did. But as she looked into her dog's inquisitive eyes, she wondered if he still believed it was worth it.

T
he line of prisoners shuffled along the grey corridor and the sound of their footfalls echoed off the concrete walls. Jack knew three guards would be following closely behind them. At the end of the hall, several inmates turned left into the small television room and another dozen or so walked towards the library.

Jack always looked forward to this part of his week. Being trapped in this living hellhole meant there was never much else to look forward to. There were only two sessions he considered a pleasure, one being a solid two hours of television. Not that there was much variety to watch as the TV was either stuck on Channel Ten or nobody could figure out how to change it.

The other session Jack enjoyed was the weekly hour of rehabilitation therapy. It wasn't actually the therapy that he welcomed, but the woman who conducted it. She was more masculine than he was, with very hairy arms, and could probably have broken his neck with a flick of her hand. But she used the same perfume Candice had, and that meant she smelt like the sweetest creature on earth.

The prisoners ambled towards the plastic lounges, each of them trying to appear cool as they jockeyed for a seat in the uncomfortable chairs. None of them showed any interest in the only single chair and Jack casually strolled towards it. He eased himself onto it and the chair groaned under his weight as he leant back to get comfortable. Being one of the longest-serving prisoners did have its benefits. Jack scratched his bald head. It was only after several years inside that he began to shave his hair off. At first it was hard to get used to feeling his bare scalp but bald was definitely easier. He thought it made him look mean, too. Over the years he'd seen his share of inmates come and go, and the ones who looked mean were pretty much left alone. Jack liked being left alone. He went out of his way to avoid trouble.

The television hung high on the wall, secured within a metal cage. At present it was showing reruns of
The Simpsons
. Although Jack could almost repeat the dialogue word for word, he continued to watch, allowing himself a brief escape. After ten or so minutes and several advertisements promising gadgets and enjoyment that were well beyond his grasp, the program switched to
E! News
.

The screen flicked to a full headshot of a blonde woman with extremely long eyelashes and brilliant red lipstick. She was talking into a fluffy microphone. Her voice was a delicious blend of sensuality and authority, and Jack imagined she was speaking to him. He focused on her pink tongue that danced about her mouth as she spoke.

“The sudden death of Jacques Delacroix was a shock to the world's fashion industry, and the funeral here today has brought out a veritable who's who of the financial and fashion-conscious elite. He left behind a young widow and her nine-year-old daughter. This scandalous marriage will no doubt continue its controversy even after his death. His passing has made Mrs Delacroix one of the richest women in France.”

The television screen changed to footage of a white coffin being carried along by six solemn pallbearers in white tuxedos. The red flowers on their jackets looked like bloodstains. The coffin was smothered in more of the same red flowers and, to Jack, it looked like a giant flesh wound.

The footage switched to a young girl with tears running down her pink cheeks, her small left hand loosely held by a woman totally clad in black. The camera panned up the woman's arm and paused for a close-up of her face. The reporter continued,
“Jacques Delacroix's death has not been listed as suspicious. The coroner has called it a sad case of misadventure. Tiffany Delacroix has been—”

The name Tiffany jolted Jack to reality. He stood up and glared at the close-up face on the screen. His heart leapt to his throat. Her hair was now blonde, her lips were more plump, but the mole high up on her left cheek was still there. He'd have recognised her face anywhere.

“There she is! It's her!” He pointed at the screen. “I don't believe it. That's the woman who stole the money.” Jack jumped up from his chair, grabbed at the television cage and forced his legs onto the wall for leverage.

A sudden rage swept over him. “Come here!” He had every intention of ripping the television from the wall and his veins bulged along his arms as he tugged on the cage.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the other prisoners jeering him on. His throat burned as he growled with anger. “Mother. Fucking. Bitch. You stole that money.” He was rattling the cage now and for a second or two it felt like it might break free.

Suddenly heavy hands were on his shoulders and waist, dragging him down. Jack clenched his teeth, determined to win. But it was no use. His fingers were yanked from the cage and he fell, hard.

“Cut it out, Jack.” It was Hank; his strong American accent was unmistakable. “We'll sedate you.” They had him on his stomach now and his shoulder muscles burned as they wrenched his hands behind his back. Hank was a big bloke, and though Jack knew he had no hope of struggling against him, he damn well tried.

His head was forced to the cold concrete floor and a big, sweaty palm on his cheek held him there.

“But she's the one who stole the money.” From the corner of his eye he saw a syringe. “NO!” He couldn't believe how quickly they'd fetched the needle. He'd seen it done before, they needed two guards with two sets of keys to get into that compartment.

“Settle down, Jack. I don't want to do this.”

He was pinned down. “Don't tell me to settle down. Ten years I've been dreaming about that woman.”

Again he tried to move but couldn't. Jack howled when the needle pierced his thigh. Every muscle screamed as he fought. But it was pointless. He was never going to be a match for Hank, let alone all three guards.

“Bastards, it's not my fooltt, thayt bayitch…farck.” Jack heard his own slurred words. As the room wobbled, Jack vowed that from that day forward, he would dedicate his life to finding Tiffany and making her confess.