Folly's Child (29 page)

When they had eaten Tom glanced at his watch.

‘I'd better be going if I'm not to keep my date waiting. I'll see you to your room.'

‘There's no need. I'll stay here and have another drink.' She caught his look and laughed. ‘If your English barmaid can survive here on her own, so can I. Besides … I've been thinking. I'd quite like to take some photographs.'

‘Of the bistro?'

‘Uh-huh. It's my business, remember.'

‘And you have your camera with you?'

She tapped her bag. ‘I never go anywhere without it.'

‘OK. Well I must go. This may be a late one, so I'll see you tomorrow.'

She watched him push his way out of the swing doors, then glanced around the bistro with a professional eye. Nick had said he wanted another set of pictures within the month and at the time she hadn't thought she'd be able to come up with a single idea, let alone the goods. But the atmosphere in the bistro had fired her, making her actually want to work for the first time since she had heard the news about Greg Martin. Thank heavens for that! she thought – what a relief to be able to think about something other than the same endless questions that had chased their tails inside her head for the last few days. What a relief not to have to simply return to her room alone and brood – sleep, she knew, would be hours away, especially after her extended nap this afternoon.

She pulled out her camera and slung it around her neck. Yes, there would be some excellent shots here – the British barmaid in the back of beyond, surrounded by roughnecks and hobos, the chefs, sweating over the griddles, the Western-saloon type decor. And perhaps, given the opportunity, she could set it all in context, for Darwin and Northern Territory appeared to be totally unlike most people's conception of Australia, which was usually portrayed as blue sky, bright sunshine, wide open spaces and golden beaches. This was a whole different Australia – dripping wet and muddy, hot as Hades, with a totally untamed feel to it.

She got up, feeling excitement stir as it always did when she was on the brink of something good. As she approached the bar twenty pairs of male eyes followed her.

‘Hello there, darling! All alone now?'

‘Buy you a drink, sweetheart?'

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

‘All right – so long as you'll let me take your pictures. Not posed – nothing silly – just doing what comes naturally!'

It was after midnight when Harriet finally left the Bistro. Persuading the customers to forget the camera was pointed at them and behave naturally had been a long job – it always was, but posed pictures were no use for the kind of feature Harriet was after. Eventually, to her relief, a colourful character named Bluey had rolled in, sozzled right out of his check lumber shirt and jeans, and much too drunk to know the camera was on him, much less care.

‘Bloody electric storms!' he had complained, covering his eyes with his hand when the flash bulb sparked, and the others, including Sandra, the barmaid, had been sufficiently amused by his performance to relax and forget themselves.

Harriet let herself into her room. It felt like a sauna. She threw the French windows open but there was no breath of air going.

Next door Tom O'Neill's room appeared to be in darkness. Either he was asleep or still out – still out unless he slept with the curtains fully open, she guessed, and realised she was disappointed – she must have been half-hoping to see him before going to bed and find out what he had discovered.

She closed the windows again, undressed and lay nude under one thin sheet, but still it was too hot to sleep. For a long while she tossed and turned, all the thoughts that her photo session had chased away returning to haunt her. It seemed she had been lying there for hours when she heard footsteps outside followed by the slam of Tom O'Neill's door, and realised it was what she had unconsciously been waiting for.

You're very late, Tom O'Neill. I hope you got what you wanted …

Her skin felt sticky and crawling somehow as if ants were creeping all over it. What the hell was wrong with the air conditioning? she wondered. It couldn't be working properly – in the morning she would complain at reception, though she didn't imagine that would get her very far. The happy-go-lucky Australian attitude would probably be: ‘We'll fix it – no worries' and nothing would change.

Unable to bear it a moment longer Harriet threw back the sheet, stomped over to the window and threw it open once more. A little breeze whispered in and she breathed a sigh of relief. That window was staying open this time. Nothing would induce her to close it, not even the fear of being raped or murdered in her bed.

Harriet lay down again on top of the sheet and this time fell into a heavy exhausted sleep.

She was awakened by a knock at the door. Breakfast, probably. She had placed an order last night for it to be served to her room, ticking off the items she required on a bookmark-shaped list and hanging it out on her door-knob. She struggled fully awake and got up, pulling on the kimono. Another tap. ‘All right – all right – I'm coming!' she called, wondering why they didn't just leave it outside.

She opened the door. Tom O'Neill stood there, holding a tray set with croissants, an assortment of individual portions of jam in plastic pots and coffee.

‘Breakfast is served, Madam.'

He looked very fresh for someone who has had a very late night and probably a good deal to drink, wearing a white polo shirt and cream canvas slacks. Against them, dark blue toweling socks jarred.

‘Take this and I'll fetch mine,' he said, thrusting the tray towards her. ‘I thought we might as well have breakfast together and talk.'

She put the tray down and combed her hair with her fingers, conscious of her own unkempt appearance.

‘Well, how did it go? Did your young lady know anything?'

He set his own tray down on the low table and sprawled his long frame into one of the pair of easy chairs, pouring coffee.

‘I've got an address. It seems Vanessa has a property in Darwin – a very expensive exclusive property up on East Point. At least, it's in her name. Robyn – my informant – says general opinion is that it was bought for her by Rolf Michael – that's what Martin calls himself up here – and set up as a love nest. If that is so then it's as I suspected – he had a bolt hole prepared.'

‘Clever.'

‘He's certainly nobody's fool,' Tom agreed. ‘ Unfortunately this time vanity let him down. He should have kept quiet about his connections with Vanessa if he wanted to be safe there with her, but he couldn't resist parading her at Darwest Construction. A young beauty on his arm made up for what
anno domini
has taken away from him in terms of looks – the bimbo syndrome.
I can't be such a poor old man if I can pull a bird like this
. He isn't the first to fall into a trap like that and I don't suppose he'll be the last. Tongues at Darwest started wagging and the jungle telegraph did the rest.'

‘It sounds as though you had a very productive evening,' Harriet said.

‘Oh I did, I did.'

‘Well you were certainly very late back,' she said – and immediately regretted it.

‘Did you miss me then?' he asked wickedly, spreading jam on a croissant. ‘I did feel I should make an evening of it. I could hardly barge in, ask the pertinent questions and leave, could I?'

‘Of course not. I never suggested you could …' Harriet began, then broke off, slightly shocked as she recognised for the first time the emotion that was making her irritable every time she thought of Tom with his young lady informant. Jealousy. She was jealous. It was almost unbelievable – she hadn't even realised she liked him. She set down her coffee cup.

‘So – what is the next move? Visit the address, presumably?'

‘That's the general idea.'

‘Can I come with you?'

‘If Greg is there things might get nasty.'

‘If I come face to face with him that's very likely.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘ I'm not sure it's a good idea. I've got a job to do, Harriet. I don't want you throwing spanners in the works.'

‘I won't,' she promised.

‘All right then. As long as you stay in the background and keep quiet. No sudden passionate outbursts. No accusations. No revealing who you are.'

The sudden uncomfortable thought occurred to her that whether she said anything or not he might possibly realise who she was simply by looking at her. From the photographs of Paula she knew she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. But she pushed the thought aside. Greg wouldn't be expecting a ghost from the past on his doorstep and if he did recognise her it was simply too bad. In any case there was always the possibility that the shock might prompt him into letting down his defences. But she did not think she would chance suggesting this to Tom. He might not agree – and it was too important to her that he should allow her to go with him to risk him changing his mind now.

‘I'll leave everything to you,' she said.

‘O. K. In that case I suggest the sooner we get over there the better. I'll leave you to get dressed – pretty as you look in that kimono.'

The door closed after him and Harriet realised she was trembling. Impatient with herself she drained the last of her coffee and headed for the shower.

The morning was already humid but as yet the sky was clear unbroken blue above the scarlet-leaved crotons and banana palms, filtering sunlight through the branches of the huge spreading old banyan trees. Another few hours and the heat haze would begin to seep in from the sea bringing with it the clouds that would empty rain, rain and more rain on to the steaming earth, but at present there was a sweetness in the air that smelled of frangipani and henna with the occasional whiff of bitumen.

Tom had hired a car the previous afternoon, a Renault sporting the huge cow-catcher bars on the front bumper which seemed to be obligatory in Darwin. He manoeuvered it with confident ease through the town and headed out along the East Point Road. To their left the waters of Fannie Bay were as blue as the sky, fringed with the bougainvillaea that rioted along the clifftop.

Darwin in all its tropical glory, thought Harriet, pictures to give a totally different perspective to the bar room scene. But last night's flush of enthusiasm had faded now, eclipsed by the possibility that they were very close to Greg Martin.

The address Tom had been given turned out to be a modern bungalow, very English in design, Harriet thought, set in a neat garden. Pleasant, comfortable, but hardly luxurious and certainly a far cry from the Sydney mansion where Greg had lived with Maria. Because her money had paid for that palace – or because Greg had not wanted to attract attention to himself here in Darwin? An old aborigine was working in the garden, clipping back bushes that had shot out in all directions in the greenhouse atmosphere; he looked up, grinned toothlessly and continued with his lazy chopping without a word.

‘Anyone at home?' Tom called.

The aborigine shrugged his shoulders in reply, grinned, and lolloped out of sight around the spreading bush.

The windows of the bungalow were open, letting in what air there was going before the downpour started once more, and the door stood ajar. Tom rang the bell and after a few moments a thin woman in a sleeveless cotton shift appeared, brandishing a duster. The daily help, obviously.

‘Good morning,' Tom greeted her. ‘Is Mr Michael in?'

She looked merely puzzled. ‘Who?'

‘Rolf Michael. He lives here, doesn't he?'

She ran a hand through her hair which was tied up with what appeared to be an old stocking.

‘I think you've got the wrong place. No one of that name here.'

‘Vanessa McGuigan then?' Tom tried again.

The woman's heavily lined brow cleared. ‘ Oh yes. Miss McGuigan.'

‘Is she in?'

‘No.'

‘Do you know when she will be?'

The woman fiddled with the stocking band.

‘I couldn't say. She comes and goes. But this I can tell you. She won't be here much longer. The place is on the market. She was here the day before yesterday. “ Make the house look good, Madge,” she says to me. “I'm selling it.” Damned nuisance. I've only been here three months and it's a good little job. Easy, like, with her hardly ever here. Made my day, I can tell you, knowing I'll have to look around for something else.'

‘I see. Who's the house on the market with?'

‘Abbott and Skerry, Smith Street. You interested in buying, then?'

‘I might be,' Tom said. ‘Could we have a look around?'

The woman hesitated. ‘I don't know about that. You'd better see the agents.'

‘It would save us driving out here again,' Tom said. ‘And if we do buy, of course, we shall be looking for daily help.'

He smiled at her. Middle-aged and plain the woman might be, she was no more impervious to his easy charm than the nineteen-year-old receptionist at Darwest had been.

‘Well, I s'pose it'll be all right …' She stood aside, allowing them into the bungalow. ‘What do you want to see?'

She bustled ahead of them, opening doors and flicking at specks of dust with her cleaning cloth.

‘This is the kitchen – not a bad size, is it? The fridge and cooker are fitted – she'll have to leave those. And this is the sitting room – bathroom down the hall …'

The bungalow, never having been used as a home, had an impersonal feel, too neat, too tidy. It told them nothing. Only the bedroom had the touches that gave some clues about the occupant – a filmy négligé hanging on the door, perfume spray and neatly arranged cosmetic jars on the dressing table and a large framed photograph on the table beside the bed. Tom picked it up. Looking over his shoulder Harriet saw a beautiful girl in a strapless evening gown, blonde hair cascading over her bare shoulders, smiling toothily up at a man in a tuxedo and bow tie. Obviously Greg and Vanessa. Something sharp and painful twisted within her and she turned away just as the woman said reprovingly: ‘Don't touch things, if you don't mind.'