Folly's Child (46 page)

‘Don't lie to me!' he yelled.

‘I'm not lying, Hugo.'

‘Greg wouldn't … I know he's a womaniser, but he wouldn't Not here, not in my home.'

Her mouth hardened. It was as if his denial was a denial of Greg's love for her.

‘If you won't believe me, I'll show you proof!'

She flung out of the room and he heard her running upstairs. He stood motionless, running his fingers through his thinning hair. Sweat was streaming down his face. His stomach was churning.

After a few minutes when Paula had not returned he began to panic. In her state who knew what she would do? He took the stairs two at a time. A light was showing from her suite. He pushed open the door.

Paula had taken off the dress she had been wearing and was struggling into a green silk evening gown. She looked up at him defiantly, shrugging into one shoulder and reaching behind her to fasten the zip.

‘See – d'you see?' she demanded. And he saw.

The dress was creased from lying all the while where she had thrown it that night but it was the ripped seam that demanded attention. Paula giggled again triumphantly.

‘I was going to wear this to the party. Didn't it cross your mind to wonder why I changed? You knew it was my favourite. But you never asked me why I didn't wear it. Well – now you know. It was because Greg did this in his eagerness. He couldn't wait for me to take it off. And neither could I!'

A bombshell seemed to explode behind Hugo's eyes, sending a searing pain through his temples. He rarely lost his temper, but he lost it now, all control erased by that blinding flash.

‘You bitch!' he spat and saw a moment's fear come into her eyes. ‘You bloody little bitch! I worshipped you, Paula, I put you on a pedestal. I'd have died for you. But you … God, I ought to kill you!'

She took a step backwards, the fear crystallising. The torn dress slipped from her shoulder. She jerked it up, holding it around her.

‘I ought to kill you,' he said again. ‘ I was so darned patient with you, Miss Ice Maiden. I stayed out of your bed because I thought you were afraid of having another baby and all the time …'

Paula stood frozen with terror, believing for a moment that he really might be going to kill her. As he reached for her she screamed, twisting away, but his grip on her arm was unrelenting.

‘Bitch! Whore! Fucking with him while I … well, I am going to fuck you now. I am your husband for Christ's sake and I am going to fuck you so darned hard you won't be able to walk for a week.'

His eyes had gone small and hard but his lips were engorged. He ripped the dress from her, exposing her small breasts, her slender body, her long tanned legs. She shrank away but he picked her up bodily, fury lending him a strength he had not known he possessed and threw her onto the bed so hard that she bounced. She sobbed, trying to crawl away, but he grabbed her arm again, twisting it above her head so that her shoulder wrenched in its socket.

‘Hugo – please, please! You're hurting me …'

He ignored her. She was no longer his cherished wife but a chattel and his driving need now was not to express his love but to dominate, to humiliate, to punish. He drove into her roughly while she writhed, sobbing, against the searing pain in her shoulder and the fire between her legs.

In moments it was over though it seemed to Paula it had gone on for ever. She curled herself into a small protective ball, trying to cover herself with her hands.

‘I hate you … I hate you … how could you?'

He looked down at her and briefly the shadow of his overwhelming love for her was there, tinged with the foretaste of terrible remorse. But the hurt was too great, the betrayal too complete. Not even the loveless act of domination could expunge it.

‘Go with him,' he said, his voice low and terrible. ‘Go, if that's what you want, Paula, and I wish him joy of you. For you are the most selfish woman I have ever met.'

She did not reply, simply lay sobbing.

‘I would have given you the world if I could,' he said. ‘Anything you wanted. But it wasn't enough. Well, I'm through trying. Go to him – now, tonight. I don't want to spend another night under the same roof with you. Go to him, and I hope to God you find some peace at last.'

Neither of them had noticed the small figure peeping around the door. Harriet, woken by the shouting, had crept along the corridor from her room, not understanding, yet aware that something terrible was taking place, she had stood there, frozen with fear. Now as Hugo turned to the door warning bells rang inside her childish head. Would he hurt her as he had hurt Mummy? Shaking with fear Harriet turned and scampered for the safety of the nursery. By the time Hugo reached the door she was nowhere to be seen.

Paula left without saying goodbye.
Hugo never saw her alive again.

When he had driven Harriet to the airport Tom O'Neill turned the car on to the East Point Road. Had things been progressing well between him and Harriet he would have left the visit to Vanessa McGuigan until the following day, stealing a few extra hours with the woman who fascinated him as no other had done for longer than he could remember. But things had not progressed well. He had managed to foul them up and before he had had a chance to make amends she had received word of her father's heart attack and gone rushing back to the States.

‘Take care,' he had said when he dropped her outside the Departures Lounge. ‘ I'll be in touch.'

But she had looked at him as if she was almost unaware of his existence, anxiety for her father making her oblivious to anything or anyone else and he had thought she might have been a stranger, cool, polite, faintly hostile, and certainly bearing no resemblance to the warm and exciting woman who had lain in his arms.

It was understandable, of course. Last night she had been hurt and angry, convinced he had used her to further his investigations, and he knew he had only himself to blame. Today fate had taken a hand. Perhaps if she had not had such devastating news he might have been able to convince her it wasn't true but the opportunity to try had been denied him and he was amazed at how much it mattered to him.

Damn it to hell, she's only a woman! he told himself, and the world is full of them. But the weight around his heart was a denial of the casual dismissal. There was only one Harriet – and he wanted her.

It's as well she's gone, he told himself, trying a new tack. You have a job to do and she might interfere with it. Romantic involvement always interfered with work – the fact that he had none had been one of the reasons why he was such a good investigator. No heavy dates that couldn't be broken, no little woman waiting at home and complaining about lonely evenings and spoiled meals. Most important of all no emotional distractions to interrupt the processes of deduction. He had been free to concentrate on the job in hand, give it his full attention and go wherever was demanded of him, able to fall asleep at night turning the problem – and the clues – over in his mind and wake refreshed, sometimes with the answer right there staring at him from his subconscious. When sleeping with a woman who was more than just a casual liaison that wasn't possible. Continuity was lost. And with Harriet it was even worse. She was heavily involved in the case – one which he was certain was not all plain sailing. There were hidden intrigues here, facts that had not yet come out, he knew it in his bones. It could be that they would incriminate people she loved and the learning of them would hurt her. If that were the case might he not be tempted to hold back for her sake? If he did he would be short-changing the people who were paying him, if he did not there would be bitterness and recriminations between him and Harriet – last night's episode had been just a feather in the wind compared to how she would blame him if he brought her face to face with skeletons in her family cupboard, or, worse, was the instrument of their disgrace or ruin. No, far better that she had gone back to the States leaving him to pursue the investigation without personal considerations to cloud the issue.

Rain was falling in a thick grey mist as he drove along the East Point Road, obscuring the waters of Fannie Bay, so that the bougainvillaeas on the cliff tops might have marked the edge of the world. The heat was cloying – he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. No wonder Vanessa McGuigan had put the house on the market – to a girl used to the balmy climate of the south this place at this time of year must seem like an outpost of hell.

He parked outside the bungalow and looked down the drive. No aborigine handyman working in the garden today – the priming would have to wait until the rain stopped. But there was a white Mercedes sports car drawn up on the hard standing. His spirits rose. He thrust all thought of Harriet to the back of his mind and ran for the shelter of the porch.

Almost immediately the door was thrown open. The girl who stood there was as tall as he, slender and elegant in a cool pink sarong dress. A cascade of blonde hair had been caught with a matching scarf at the nape of her neck, cornflower-blue eyes widened slightly behind artificially darkened lashes, then narrowed again, giving the beautiful face a faintly provocative look.

‘Miss McGuigan, I presume,' Tom said lazily.

‘Yes.' She tilted her head to one side and the long bunch of hair fell over her shoulder. ‘You must have come to view the house. Did Abbot and Skerry send you? They should have phoned to let me know you were on your way. Well, you'd better come in.'

Tom followed her inside. Only when he was safely over the threshold did he disillusion her.

‘I'm not here about the house, Miss McGuigan. I'm looking for Rolf Michael.'

For a second she froze and he saw something like alarm flicker in the cornflower eyes.

‘My fiancé? I'm sorry, he's not here, Mr …?'

‘O'Neill. Tom O'Neill.' He produced one of his cards and handed it to her, watching her face closely. She studied it.

‘An insurance investigator! Why on earth should you want to talk to Mike?'

He made a mental note. She had called him Mike. Because it was a shortened form of his surname – or because she also knew him as Michael Trafford?

‘I think that's something I should discuss with him,' he said smoothly. ‘Could you tell me where I could find him?'

‘I'm sorry, no. He's out of town. Mike is a very busy man.'

‘I'm sure he is,' Tom said and thought wryly: He would be! Quite apart from his business dealings, juggling three identities must be pretty time-consuming. ‘However, you must have some idea where he can be reached.'

Her face seemed to go shut. ‘I'm sorry, I don't. And even if I did, why the hell should I tell you, Mr O'Neill?'

She moved towards the door as if to see him out. Tom stood his ground.

‘In view of all the circumstances I thought you might prefer to talk to me rather than to the police,' he said easily.

Her hand froze on the door-catch. He felt, rather than saw, her panic, and experienced a stab of satisfaction. He was on the right track, not a doubt of it. A moment later his suspicions were confirmed when she swung round, chin tilting defensively, eyes meeting his with something like defrance.

‘I don't know if I can help you, Mr O'Neill, but perhaps you had better come in and talk about this.'

She led the way to the living room, took a cigarette from a packet that was lying on an occasional table, and lit it. He saw that her fingers were trembling slightly.

‘I'll ask you again, Mr O'Neill, what this is all about,' she said after a moment.

‘You don't know?' he asked, watching her closely.

‘Would I be asking if I did?' Not by so much as a single flicker did her expression give the he to her apparent innocence. Either she was some actress or she really did not know, Tom thought.

‘As you saw from my card I am an insurance investigator,' he said. ‘I am checking out a claim involving a great deal of money. I believe your fiancé can help me with my enquiries. When do you expect him back?'

For the first time he caught a hesitation in her manner. Then she recovered herself.

‘He'll probably telephone me some time. I'll tell him you want to see him.'

‘There's no need of that,' Tom said swiftly. The last thing he wanted was his quarry frightened off. ‘Just tell me where I can find him and I need not bother you any further.'

‘I don't know, I tell you. Look – I really think you owe me some kind of explanation. What kind of insurance claim are you investigating?'

‘A death. Two deaths, as a matter of fact.'

The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘In Sydney?' she asked before she could stop herself.

Tom's antennae began flashing messages. Maria Vincenti, he thought. She believes something has happened to Maria Vincenti and Martin is responsible. So there was some truth in her allegations that Martin was trying to have her killed.

‘Not in Sydney, no,' he said. ‘In an explosion on a yacht off the coast of Italy. It happened more than twenty years ago.'

The unguarded expressions that flashed across her face as he said it spoke volumes. First relief, then surprise – and consternation. Then, as quickly, the shutters were up again. She laughed, a high, brittle sound.

‘Twenty years ago! Good heavens, that's history, isn't it?'

‘Not to me,' he said grimly. ‘Nor to the company that paid out on the life of Greg Martin.'

‘Greg Martin? I don't know anyone of that name.'

‘I think you do. Just as you know Michael Trafford.' She ground out her cigarette, rounding on him angrily. Her guard was down now and it was plain to him she was not the innocent bimbo she had at first appeared to be.

‘This is all because of that woman, isn't it?' she said harshly. ‘Her and her stupid lies and imaginings! She'd say anything to get her own back on him, the jealous cow. She couldn't stand to think he'd left her for a younger woman. But is it any wonder? God – you should see her! Gone to seed, drunk most of the time, what does she know about keeping a man like Mike?'