Folly's Child (26 page)

She replaced the receiver with hands slightly clumsy from the cold in spite of the woollen fingerless gloves she was wearing and shook her head despairingly at the young woman who was perched on a stool opposite her, warming herself at the portable gas heater.

‘I should know better than to place my orders by telephone. All it takes is for some stupid office girl to press the wrong key on her computer, or whatever it is they use, and I get a whole consignment of useless fabric'

‘Such is life.' Linda George, her business partner, said prosaically. ‘I'm afraid it's not your day, Terri. I've got more bad news for you. That's why I'm here.'

Theresa groaned, coming around to join Linda by the fire.

‘I don't think I want to know.'

‘I'm sure you don't, but you'll have to, all the same.
Sister Susie's
have gone bust.'

Sister Susie
was a chain of boutiques who had supported Theresa with sizeable orders.

‘Gone bust? You mean …?'

‘They've got the receivers in. I heard this morning.'

Theresa felt sick.

‘But I thought they were doing well!' she wailed.

‘A charade, obviously. You know it's been a hell of a couple of years for fashion retail. Even the big High Street stores have been feeling the pinch so it must nave been terrible for the smaller ones with tight profit margins. Anyway, I thought I ought to let you know straight away about
Sister Susie
. They don't owe us much, thank God, I chased them up over their account only a couple of weeks ago, so it could be worse.'

‘But it will hit my new season's sales,' Theresa said anxiously. ‘I need not have chased that silk manufacturer if I'd known – a good half of it was for blouses for
Sister Susie
. Where am I going to get rid of them now?'

‘Leave it to me.' Linda squeezed her friend's arm. ‘ Stop worrying, Terri. You need to keep your head clear so you can do what you're good at – creating. I'll sort something out.'

‘I hope so.' Theresa tried to keep her voice cheerful and failed. ‘That's two good accounts we've lost in as many days. And my rent's due for review soon. If that goes up with a leap and a bound – and I have a horrible feeling it might, judging by some of them round here – that will be the last straw. I just don't know how much longer I can keep going.'

‘Oh come on!' Linda was wearing a very full calf-length corduroy skirt and jodhpur boots; she aimed a kick at Theresa with one of them. ‘Don't be such a defeatist.'

Theresa smiled ruefully. ‘You're not the one who has to sit here all day freezing to death. Being cold all the time is so depressing!'

‘But you're going to stick it out, aren't you?'

Theresa nodded. ‘ I've got to, haven't I? If I don't make a success of it Mum will lose her house. But – oh, sometimes I feel as though I'm running against the tide.'

‘Chin up. You're a brilliant designer and one day the world will realise it. What you need is a princess to discover you and ask you to make her wedding dress. You'd be well away then. There's still Prince Edward to go – wonder who he'll marry and when? And Lady Sarah Armstrong-Jones – she'd look gorgeous in one of your designs.'

Theresa laughed. ‘Pipe dreams. What I need is a backer. Someone to take all the financial worries off my shoulders.'

‘Pity Mark Bristow isn't still around,' Linda said speculatively. ‘He seemed to have an answer for everything.' Theresa said nothing. ‘Oh Terri!' Linda scolded, seeing her expression. ‘ You're not still carrying a torch for him, are you? For heaven's sake forget him! He's not worth it.'

‘You're right. He's not.' Theresa moved away from the fire. Her denim jeans smelled as if they might be burning but she was still cold. ‘I've got to get on, Linda. Next thing Weasel will be up here trying to drag me out for a coffee and he won't take no for an answer.'

‘Another of your admirers.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Theresa said. Her sense of humour always deserted her when she was so cold.

‘All right, I'll leave you in peace. And I'll spread the word that the brightest young talent in London is looking for a backer. Someone like Peder Bertelson or the mystery man who backed Rifar Ozbek. Not even Rifar himself can remember his name, if he's to be believed. All he'll admit to is that he is a Pakistani living in Geneva. But then he's probably shit-scared if he let on everyone else would try to jump on the bandwagon.'

She buttoned her jacket, bright red wool lined in black with a swinging hip length skirt that fell from a trenchcoat-style yoke – one of Theresa's samples from last season. Even with the cord skirt and boots it looked good – with a short black skirt and high heels it would have been stunning.

‘See you, Terri. Tomorrow night? Perhaps we could grab a Chinese takeaway.'

Theresa shook her head. ‘Cash flow problem, Linda. It'll have to be something made up of soya mince, I'm afraid. And that'll be a luxury after a week of baked beans and jacket potatoes.'

As Linda clattered down the stairs Theresa stood for a moment deep in thought. Surely some time things must take a turn for the better? If they didn't it would be the end of the road. The thought fired Theresa's determination and before the creeping disease of despair could attack again she went back to her bench and started work once more.

Tom O'Neill had been busy. His first visit to Maria Vincenti had been an almost total waste of time, for she had refused point blank to answer any of his questions, taking refuge in a pretence of not understanding. It was a stupid ploy, since it would have been obvious to anyone but an imbecile that no-one could live in an English-speaking country for twenty years without gaining at least a working knowledge of the language, but one he had found impossible to get around, though it had confirmed his suspicions that Maria knew a great deal more than she was telling. He had decided to leave her alone for a while and then make another attempt when perhaps he would catch her in a different mood. And in the meantime he had a number of other leads to follow up.

First Tom had tried to follow the tracks of ‘Michael Trafford's' business interests. These were diverse and were connected only by a string of registered offices across the southern half of Australia. Tom called numbers in Canberra, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth, but in each case he drew blanks. No, they could not help with the whereabouts of Mr Trafford. No, they had not seen him and had no forwarding address. And even if they had confidentiality would forbid … Tom understood. He had come up against this kind of blank wall before; he was, after all, an insurance investigator not a policeman. But he rather suspected the registered offices were telling the truth. Michael Trafford – or Greg Martin – was elusive and tricky. Tom suspected those young ladies who tried to sound so knowing and businesslike had probably never set eyes on him at all.

The next line of enquiry had proved more fruitful. Martin's new love was a former beauty queen named Vanessa McGuigan and during the early stages of their relationship she had talked a little too freely to friends about the man she was becoming involved with. Mention had been made of a firm of contractors and land developers in Darwin, Northern Territory, in which Vanessa had boasted her boyfriend had a controlling interest. This piece of information had appealed to Tom's investigator's instincts. Darwin was a transient place, where many of the population were drifters and misfits, men passing through – or lying low. Isolated at the Top End of the Territory it managed to retain something of the feel of the old frontier town in spite of having been almost completely rebuilt on modem lines after being virtually flattened by Cyclone Tracy in 1970. It was exactly the sort of place a man could happily disappear if the necessity arose. Perhaps Greg had known that he might one day have to beat a hasty retreat from Sydney and had prepared a bolt-hole for himself accordingly.

Tom did some checking on the construction company. There was no mention of a Greg Martin or a Michael Trafford among its directors – but there was a Rolf Michael. Again Tom's spine had tingled the way it did when his instincts were telling him he was on the right track.
Michael
Trafford – Rolf
Michael
. With almost no evidence to support his hunch, he felt quite certain they were one and the same.

It was at this point that Tom had decided to go back and see Maria Vincenti again. He had found her more morose than ever and almost too drunk to be coherent. But she had said one thing that surprised him.

‘I've told her daughter all I know. If you want to know what happened, ask her. I can't go through it all again.'

Her daughter. Harriet. Here in Sydney. Tom's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. He had been uncertain as to just how far he trusted the Varnas and Harriet in particular had been very defensive. Now, if Maria was to be believed, it seemed she was in possession of some additional information – and perhaps very potent information at that. Tom badly wanted to know what it was.

There were, of course, two entirely separate hurdles to overcome. The first was – where to find her. But on consideration that was hardly a problem at all. Someone with her money and background would almost certainly be staying in one of the best hotels in Sydney – the Regent, the Hilton or the Sheraton in all probability. An enquiry at their reception desks would quickly elicit which. No, it was the second problem that was the more ticklish – her aggressively unhelpful attitude towards him.

Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Time to see Harriet again – and quite clearly time for a different approach. He was not unaware of the effect he had on women when he set his mind to it (and quite often when he did not) and he was not averse to making use of this asset when it suited him. Perhaps charm would work on Harriet where assertiveness had failed. And since Harriet was a very attractive woman herself the idea of trying it was not unappealing.

Tom smiled faintly and reached for the telephone.

Harriet was sitting at one of the tables in the open air café in the Botanical Gardens, nursing a glass of ice-cold orange juice and feeling exhaustion, both mental and physical, creep through her.

She had enjoyed walking through the gardens, for here, amongst the exotic palms and peach trees the heat seemed less oppressive. In the branches of a huge spreading yellow tulipwood a currawong squawked, ibis buried their long black bills in the mud at the lake side, and sparrows and budgerigars rose in untidy flocks at her approach and she had thought how strange it was that at home both London and New York were shivering, and only a few days ago she had been muffled up in ski jacket and boots, trying to escape from the biting wind in Paris. But the observation had only taken her thoughts full circle and now, sitting in the café, she recalled once more the story Maria had told her.

Was it the truth? And was Maria right to suspect that Greg had murdered Paula? Or was she simply an embittered old soak whose brain was so fuddled by alcohol that she could no longer distinguish between fact and fantasy? Perhaps – but there had to be a reason for her disintegration. Once she had been an heiress with the world at her feet, strong enough to defy her father and give up everything for the man she loved. Something had happened to change her. Perhaps it was just as she had claimed – that she had lived for twenty years with the conviction that that man was a murderer.

Harriet sipped her juice and forced herself to face the implications of it head on. Maria claimed that she had been unable to bring herself to ask the pertinent questions; Harriet knew she would never rest until she knew for certain what exactly had happened to her mother. She had been alive when the boat sailed, no question of that, and she had never been seen again. Had Greg abandoned her to die in the explosion – or was she already dead when he put ashore? The likelihood must be that she was – either that, or unconscious or tied up and helpless in the cabin. Harriet shuddered, imagining her mother's terror. It didn't bear thinking about, yet somehow the uncertainty, the pictures conjured up by an imagination left to run riot, was far worse than the prospect of learning the truth and facing up to it.

The problem was that if Maria was to be believed only one person in the world knew the answers to the questions – Greg Martin himself. And he had disappeared into the vastness that was Australia.

She finished her drink and walked back through the gardens, across the massive frontage of the State Library and into Macquarie Street. The old colonial buildings here were stately and impressive but she scarcely glanced at them, crossing Martin Place and walking down George Street on her way back to the Hilton. In spite of her fears no inquisitive journalist had followed her there but she still glanced around a trifle defensively as she entered.

‘There was a telephone call for you, Miss Varna,' the receptionist informed her as she collected her key and her eyes narrowed warily.

‘A call . . for me?'

The receptionist noted her reaction with a mixture of curiosity and professionalism. ‘It was a gentleman. He didn't leave his name but he said he'd call again.'

Harriet felt herself relax slightly. Nick, she thought. It must be Nick. Who else would call me here? Unless of course it was Mark …

In her room she slipped out of her linen top and walking shorts and began running a bath. Over the gush of water from the taps she heard the telephone and hurried to pick it up.

‘Hello? Harriet Varna.'

‘Miss Varna, this is Tom O'Neill. I expect you will be surprised to hear from me again, but when I learned you were in Sydney I thought it might be a good idea if we compared notes.'

Tom O'Neill! Harriet experienced a quick rush of irritation. Did the damned man never give up?

‘I really don't think we have anything more to say to one another', she said coolly.