The Recipient (20 page)

Lesia smiled and her cheeks flushed pink. Then, suddenly, as if a switch had been tripped, Lesia's eyes lit up and she drew her cup away swiftly.

“Would you like to see her room?”

Casey blinked in surprise and worked her jaw impotently. “I ahh…”

“I kept her room just the way it was the day she left it,” Lesia continued, becoming more animated. “I could not bring myself to touch it. It was her…
haven
. Come, let me show you.”

Raelene sucked in a breath as Lesia lurched forward, grasping the handles of her walking frame with her gnarled fingers.

“Come, come,” she grimaced, pushing up and rising to her crooked standing position. “It will be good for it to have some air and to be visited again.”

Lesia shuffled her way past Raelene who was clearly uncomfortable, though she held her tongue as Casey followed close behind. The two exchanged glances; Raelene's full of suspicion.

She knows,
Casey thought ruefully.

Lesia paused at an open doorway at the end of the hall that led into a large, open sunroom at the rear of the house. Tastefully decorated, it looked out onto a back garden that, like the front, had been lovingly maintained. Lesia raised a hand from the walker and pointed to the right, at a white timber door in the far corner of the sunroom.

Approaching it, Lesia hesitated, resting her hand on an ancient brass knob. She glanced sideways at Casey, then turned the handle, struggling momentarily with the mechanism.

Casey gulped as she stepped inside. She felt dizzy and had to place a hand on a small desk to steady herself.

The room held a sense of familiarity even though she had never been here before. It was tidy and, like the sunroom, it had been furnished with a modern, feminine touch. Though it had not been occupied in over three years, it felt light and airy, with sunlight from outside filtering through a large window that faced onto the garden.

“She loved this little room,” Lesia beamed, noticing Casey's languid gaze out through the window. “And the garden. She tended to it nearly every day. Saskia used to say that she felt safe there.”

Casey turned her head towards Lesia. “Safe?”

Lesia leaned against her walking frame and shrugged. “Saskia did not like large, open spaces, or unfamiliar places. You could say that she
struggled
with them. Saskia used to suffer from awful panic attacks. She much preferred to stick to her own home.”

Casey stifled a gulp, feeling painfully self-conscious.

A tall bookcase stood against one wall. It boasted a large selection of titles ranging from fiction to text books: art and art history, linguistics and dictionaries of several languages. Next to that was a wrought iron bed with a floral quilt underneath another, smaller window that took in the morning sun. A white wardrobe with a decorative border stood adjacent to it, facing the bookcase. A rucksack hung from one handle. Positioned between the bed and the wardrobe was a matching dresser and, above that, was a framed picture that took Casey's breath away.

She gasped, as though she had been punched in the stomach.

It was Jeanne Hebuterne, the same Modigliani portrait that hung in her own apartment.

Lesia tilted her head. “My dear, are you all right?”

Casey did not answer. She stepped forward, her eyes fixed upon the portrait she knew so well, her thoughts and emotions spiralling.

It couldn't be.

Lifting a hand to the portrait, Casey touched the cheek of Jeanne Hebuterne.

“You know Modigliani, child?” Lesia ventured with a hopeful lilt.

“Yes,” Casey responded without turning around. “I do. His work is very beautiful.”

“Saskia brought that print with her from Kharkiv. It is—was—her favourite. She was particularly drawn to the story of Modigliani's lover, tragic though it was.”

“Jeanne Hebuterne,” Casey whispered. “She was his muse, his principal subject. She devoted her life to him. When he died, she could not bear the loss.”

Quiet lingered between them. As Lesia looked from the print to Casey, she could see a sadness betrayed in the young woman's features.

“You know her
very well,
” Lesia remarked.

Catching herself, Casey looked away and her eyes wandered over to the dresser. Here, too, were postcard-sized prints ranging from Van Gogh and Rembrandt to DaVinci and Picasso. Among these were items of jewellery, earrings, handcrafted necklaces with fancy charms and coloured beads. An ornate hairbrush sat, as if in wait, and Casey noticed strands of hair still caught between the bristles.

Finally, she turned towards Lesia who was holding a tissue in her outstretched hand. Casey blinked, realising her eyes were moist with tears and she quickly took the tissue.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed.

Lesia smiled. “I understand, my dear. To walk into such a place—one that still has so much life—it can have a powerful effect.”

Casey lifted her folder and opened it, reminding herself of the pretence she had to maintain.

“May I ask how was it that Saskia decided to become a donor?”

Lesia shrugged her shoulders. A visible lump rose in her throat.

“She made the decision when she first arrived in Australia. Saskia had a deep sense of responsibility, felt that it was an important thing to do. Of course, I never believed that her wish would ever be carried out.”

A pall of sadness descended over Lesia. Her eyes drifted away and into her memories.

“It was a terrible decision to have to make.”

Casey gulped softly, building up the courage to probe deeper.

Though she did not need to confirm it, she felt she had to hear it.

“Could I ask you what happened?” she ventured, trying to hide her nervousness.

Lesia turned to the desk and pulled out the chair.

“It was an accident, a terrible accident. It happened just after a particularly difficult period for us both when we were just beginning to see some sunshine in our lives once again. Saskia had been studying so hard and she had been under a lot of stress because of my illness. I was very sick from the chemotherapy I was having. Even worse, Saskia had had some
trouble
with her student papers.”

“Her papers?”

Lesia nodded absently as she struggled to recall the events.

“She kept a lot of it to herself. She did not want to worry me while I was in the hospital, but there had been a misunderstanding over her student papers. She'd had to make an appeal to the authorities. She had to sort most of it out on her own.”

Lesia caught herself and stopped speaking. She averted her eyes, fidgeting nervously for several moments.

“Anyhow, it was a very trying few months,” she resumed, more hesitantly. “When it all settled, her friends treated her to a weekend at the beach. A music festival, it was one of those big parties you young people love so much. It was called Pleasant Music, or something like that. Such an interesting name, isn't it?”

Casey moved to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, careful not to disturb the quilt. Lesia did not seem to mind.

“Saskia had such lovely friends. They cared about her a great deal. Especially Shelley.”

“Shelley?” Casey echoed softly.

“Her best friend,” Lesia answered, a wan smile returning to her features. “Shelley was the first school friend Saskia met and they quickly became inseparable. They did most everything together. It was Shelley who took her to the festival. They were going to camp down there on the beach for the weekend with a group from the university, enjoy the music, then return ready for classes refreshed and recharged.”

Turning to the desk, Lesia lifted a photo frame and passed it to Casey. Inside the patterned frame was a photograph of Saskia and another young woman posing together. They were both dressed formally in flowing dresses. They were surrounded by revellers of a similar age on a dance floor, suggesting that it was taken at a university function.

“This is Shelley?” Casey pointed to the pretty young face in the picture.

Lesia nodded then, all at once, she faltered. Her shoulders slumped as though a great weight had descended on them. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, but she sat straighter in her seat and composed herself, refusing to let them prevail.

“I remember they left on a Friday morning. They were excited, yet even to the very last moment, I had to push her to go. Saskia worried about leaving me, worried about being somewhere unfamiliar but I wanted her to have some fun, especially because it was by the seaside.”

Lesia retrieved a tissue from inside the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed her dripping nose.

“That was the last time I saw her,” she said, her voice shaking. Her hands shook in her lap and a single tear welled in her eye before it ran down over the deep lines in her face.

“They told me she had been hit by a car in the night. On some lonely road, far from the beach. I could never understand how it happened that way.”

Lesia's voice cracked and faded to a whisper, but she was determined to finish.

“She fought for four days to live. But they told me her injuries were too grave. Another doctor came to see me. He talked to me about giving her organs to people who were very sick, who were close to death. I had to make a decision quickly, or else those others might not survive.”

Casey sat in stunned silence at the elderly woman's brave recollection. In that moment, Casey felt sick with shame at having so blatantly intruded into Lesia's little home, into the tragedy of her granddaughter.

“The pressure on me to decide was so great.” Lesia held her hands out and shrugged her shoulders. “But I said yes. I have struggled with that decision ever since. Even though I know that she lives on in others—that they have been given a second chance, my Saskia has been taken away from me.”

Lesia lowered her head and wept softly. Casey was too moved to speak, to notice anything other than the frail woman sitting before her, recounting her grief. She failed to notice Raelene, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, shaking Casey out of her reverential quiet.

Raelene held her arms out and placed them around Lesia's shoulders while fixing Casey with a malevolent glower.

“Come on, Lesia, you need to rest, my love. There'll be no more talk of this for you today.”

“It's all right. It's all right,” Lesia protested, as she struggled to her feet and submitted to Raelene's gentle corralling out of the room.

Casey stood, took a moment before she placed the photo frame back on the desk, then followed after them.

No sooner had she closed the door and made sure it was secure behind her, she turned to find herself confronted by Raelene, who stood, her arms folded mere inches from her face.

“What do you think you're doing?” she hissed, keeping her voice low.

Casey blinked and opened her mouth to respond, but Raelene whipped her hand up to silence her.

“I don't know who you are, but I've never heard of any student doing a kind of research that involves pumping a poor, defenceless woman for information about her granddaughter's death. Where are you from, really? The media? The police?”

Casey steeled herself against the woman's interrogation.

“Neither,” she said, clutching her folder to her chest.

“Well, have you got any identification then?”

“Not with me, but you can check with the university. They'll confirm my credentials.”

Raelene stared at Casey, considering her bluff.

“I think you had better leave,” she said in a low and threatening voice. “I might just make that call.”

Standing aside to allow Casey to pass, Raelene then followed closely as she walked through the house toward the front door. As she approached it, Casey hesitated and looked through an open door into Lesia's bedroom. She saw the old lady sitting on the edge of her bed, staring back at her. Their eyes met one last time as Raelene brusquely ushered her out of the house. What Casey saw in Lesia's grief-stricken face chilled her.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the garden path, not looking back as the door was shut loudly behind her. Instead, she kept her eyes forward, realising that Scott's van was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit!” she cursed, her breath quickening. She scanned the street, unable to find the van anywhere nearby.

Suddenly, she heard two quick bursts from a vehicle's horn and Casey whipped her head to her right to see the van turn into the street from the intersection. Kicking off her shoes and grabbing them up with a free hand, she ran toward it as Scott leaned across from inside and opened the passenger door for her.

“Jesus, Sasquatch, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” she snapped breathlessly as she climbed in and fastened her seatbelt.

“I thought it would be a good idea if I didn't draw attention by waiting out front,” he replied defensively. “I had a feeling. You know?”

Casey flashed him a sideways glower, which was quickly replaced by relief and she rubbed her brow. Scott pulled away from the kerb and motored away from the cottage.

“You were right. There was a nurse and I don't think she bought my act for a second.”

Scott winced. “Are we screwed?”

“She threatened to make a call, but I don't think she was serious. In any case, it doesn't matter too much for now. I think I've got something to go on.”

Reaching into her bag, Casey lifted out her smartphone and thumbed to the gallery. Tapping a thumbnail, she brought up the full image. It was a snap of the photograph in Saskia's bedroom. Thankfully, it was a clear shot. Holding the phone up, Scott glanced across at the photo and frowned.

Casey's eye was drawn, not to the face of Saskia, but to the face of the girl beside her.

“Shelley,” she said softly.

CHAPTER 20.

W
aving to Scott as the van pulled away, Casey dashed up the oil-stained path to the warehouse. She could feel anxiety creeping in the minute she stepped out into broad daylight, but she made it to the comforting shelter of the garage before it could overwhelm her.

Sidestepping around the Volkswagen, she paused to catch her breath beside the stairs. She reached out for the rail and was about to climb them when she heard a male voice grunting and cursing through an open doorway that led from the garage to the rear of the warehouse. Cocking her head with both curiosity and concern, Casey regarded the doorway and gulped.

She'd had enough of being outdoors for one day.

Nonetheless, she peered around the paint-chipped door frame and spied Lionel standing before a pile of timber that was leaning up against the warehouse wall in the far corner of the paved courtyard. Across from him, a dump bin had been positioned outside a large gate.

Casey blinked and noted that the bin was half-filled already. She turned back to appraise her grandfather. He was sporting grubby overalls, a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of canvas gardening gloves. A wheelbarrow sat beside him, partly filled with refuse.

Lionel stepped back from the discarded timber pallets and other refuse and wiped his dripping brow. His expression hinted at exhaustion but his demeanour remained determined.

“Dare I ask?” she ventured, studying him.

Lionel shook his head. “You can ask,” he responded. He promptly turned his attention back to the timbers.

Casey smirked, watching as he made a second attempt at hefting a pallet. This time, he succeeded in wheeling it around and dropped it noisily onto the barrow. He staggered back but quickly recovered and smiled with satisfaction.

He winked at Casey.

“You don't have to do this, Pa,” she said.

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Think of it as a belated housewarming gift. You know, you could do quite a lot with this area. A courtyard garden, an outdoor retreat, entertaining space—just like on those nauseating renovation shows.”

Casey pursed her lips and blew a raspberry at that.

“
Outdoor entertaining
? Christ, could you honestly imagine me as the perky hostess? I don't think so.”

Lionel chuckled and rested his hands on his hips. He inspected his handiwork.

Casey had attempted to make something of this area in the past. A rusted barbeque stood in the far corner. She had bought it not long after purchasing the warehouse but had never used it. A similarly rusted and paint-chipped outdoor dining set—three cast iron chairs and a circular table—sat forlornly nearby.

Aside from the accumulated refuse, the rest of the courtyard area was populated with large stone pots boasting the remnants of Casey's failed attempts at growing trees and shrubs, an effort to bring some greenery to the otherwise austere industrial building and its grounds. In the time that she had been away, Lionel had achieved much in removing the worst of the rubbish she had been promising herself she would deal with for as long as she had been here.

Picking up a nearby towel, Lionel took off his gloves and wiped his hands and brow.

“So,” he said. “How did you fare?”

Casey leaned against the door frame. She sighed, then tilted her head.

“Blah,” she began, exasperated. “The whole student ruse started out okay but…”

Her voice drifted away to nothing as she remembered the morning's encounter.

“But?” Lionel pressed.

“Well,” she continued. “Lesia Andrutsiv was more with it than I expected. She bought my act; was quite talkative actually. But, she had a personal nurse who saw right through me. She threatened to look into my credentials.”

Lionel raised his brow. The disapproval was unmistakable. Casey looked up at him forlornly.

“So we can probably expect some blow-back from Whittaker.”

Casey stood straighter and shifted nervously on the spot.

Lionel's features softened a little and he offered a smile. “Let's not worry just yet. Why don't we go upstairs,” he said, tapping the wheelbarrow. “I could use a drink.”

Slinging the towel over one shoulder, he headed for the doorway.

In the apartment, Lionel took the whistling kettle from the gas flame and turned to fill the cups he had set up on the counter. Immediately, the scent of tea wafted up on the tendrils of steam and into Casey's nostrils, relaxing her, if just for the moment.

“Do you think you can handle him?” she asked as Lionel slid a cup to her. “I mean, what exactly did you and Whittaker cook up?”

“He agreed to give us some breathing room…on the proviso that we don't do anything stupid,” Lionel answered, setting the kettle back down on the stove. “I suspect that he has his own doubts about what happened to Saskia Andrutsiv. He'll consider anything we turn up so long as it is fresh. He didn't specify
how much
rope he would allow us but I wouldn't want to push it. I'll speak to him if it becomes necessary.”

Casey sipped from her cup.

“I'm more interested in hearing what this Mrs. Andrutsiv had to say,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you learn anything of value?”

Casey shrugged. “Not much. A little about Saskia's background. She was here in Australia on a student visa, was studying art history and linguistics at Melbourne University. She had dreams of furthering her studies abroad.”

She paused and closed her eyes, revelling in the warmth and comfort of the tea.

“She filled me in on some of the detail about the weekend she went away to the Pleasant Festival. She had a friend at uni who drove them both down to Queenscliff.”

Lionel paused as he was about to close his lips around the edge of his cup.

“A friend?”

Casey reached into her bag, shuffling through it until she found her phone and the photo she'd taken from Lesia Andrutsiv's house. She handed it to Lionel.

“A good friend actually,” Casey pointed over the top of the smartphone screen as Lionel took it and slid his glasses into place. “Her name's Shelley.”

“Shelley?” Lionel echoed questioningly. “Shelley Agutter?”

Casey raised her head. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“She was mentioned in the case file,” Lionel answered. “The police questioned her following the accident.”

“What did she say?”

Lionel shrugged. “Not a great deal as it turns out. Understandably, she was in shock. According to the transcript of the interview, Shelley Agutter told the police that they'd travelled down to the festival and met up with a group of friends. They'd pitched tents at a camping ground, just a short walk to the festival itself. It seems they spent a lot of time drinking and partaking in a healthy amount of drugs.”

Lionel retrieved a leather-bound notebook from the sofa.

“Shelley vaguely remembers that the group were together at the festival on the Saturday night,” he continued, thumbing through the pages. “Saskia had decided to leave early and walk back to the campsite. Neither Shelley or the others had any idea how Saskia came to be on Lasterby Road. They were in the
party mood,
as it were.”

Casey tilted her head from side to side, recalling the conversation with Lesia Andrutsiv. “Shelley blamed herself for what happened. She promised Lesia that she would look out for Saskia. Lesia said they were like sisters. Inseparable.”

“Seems odd then, that if they were supposed to be inseparable, Saskia would choose to leave the group and walk back to their campsite alone?” Lionel mused, his eyes drifting.

“Especially since she was terrified of being outdoors, in open spaces,” Casey added. “She didn't feel comfortable on her own.”

Lionel regarded Casey with surprise. “Agoraphobia?”

Casey nodded.

“Did Mrs. Andrutsiv say anything else? Was there anything going on in Saskia's life at the time of the accident?”

Again Casey shrugged.

“Only that Lesia was battling cancer. She was undergoing chemotherapy. Saskia did pretty much everything for her grandmother and she still managed to keep up with her studies. She was a loner. She didn't go out much or mix with anyone outside of her small group of friends.”

Lionel looked up. An awkward smile creased his lips but Casey diverted her eyes away, feeling embarrassed. She lifted a finger, remembering something else.

“Lesia
did
mention something about Saskia's papers. Some sort of trouble with her papers.”

Lionel glanced up from the photograph. “Her papers?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Andrutsiv seemed vague about it but I guessed it might have had something to do with her student visa. She wouldn't, or perhaps couldn't, elaborate much on it but she did say that Saskia had to sort it out on her own.”

“Hmmm,” Lionel ventured, his mind working. “There was no mention of that in the case file.”

“If it were something to do with her student visa, there would have to be something on file somewhere, right?”

“Perhaps,” Lionel replied, making a note in his book on a blank page. “It would be good to talk to this Shelley Agutter. Get a feel for who she is and whether she might be willing to talk more about what happened that night.”

“That might be a little difficult,” Casey said, her expression faltering. “I pulled her details on the drive back from Mrs. Andrutsiv's home. She's not living in Melbourne anymore.”

Picking up her smartphone, Casey navigated to the information she'd gathered.

“She's living up in Ballarat. Apparently, she deferred her studies after Saskia's death and left the city. She's pouring coffee at a cafe there and studying part-time at a private college.”

Casey held up the smartphone. “I've got her class and shift schedule for the next two weeks.”

Lionel's eyes twinkled. “Well, we can work with that. Ballarat isn't more than an hour's drive from here.”

Casey shivered. “Pa…there's
at least
a hundred kilometres of open freeway between Melbourne and Ballarat. I haven't driven that sort of distance in years. You saw what I was like in Scott's van.”

Lionel's eyes narrowed. “You don't have to do it alone. I can still, quite capably, drive a car.”

Casey regarded her grandfather thoughtfully. She turned and lifted her smartphone and called up some notes she'd made on the drive back from Lesia Andrutsiv's house.

“It would be good to see if I can talk to her.”

Casey considered Lionel for a long moment. She nodded hesitantly. “You're happy to do this? You don't think this is c
razy
?”

“A drive in the countryside would do us both good, don't you think? I think it would be rather fun.”

A wry smile turned Casey's lips. “Yeah, I guess.”

Lionel pointed out through the industrial door.

“I'll be downstairs. You can come help if you'd like.”

Casey wrinkled her nose and brushed him away.

“No, no. I'm gonna put the machine on and have a run. Then I'm gonna have a shower. A long one.”

___

After a two hour session on the treadmill, Casey emerged from the shower, enclosed herself in a thick robe and twirled a towel around her head. As she slid the bathroom door aside, she listened for her grandfather, ensuring that he wouldn't suddenly appear while she was changing. Thankfully, the apartment was empty.

Changing into a pair of briefs and throwing on a light cotton T-shirt, Casey tossed the robe back through the bathroom door where it landed perfectly on its hook. She gave a cursory glance at the collage of car images.

Tiredness taunted, beckoning her towards slumber, but it clashed with her fear of sleep and the dream world that lay there. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she pushed her weariness away and tried to focus.

She turned and paused. A dark cloud coalesced in her mind: a nagging memory from within the nightmare that she could not clarify.

She had washed away the frustration from earlier in the day and she was in no mood to revisit it now. Looking again at the wall, she snarled at the magazine images.

Saskia's face flickered before her eyes and she felt herself lurch sideways. With a sharp intake of breath, she quickly felt for the bed and sat down. Emotional echoes raced from within as the nightmare flashed across her conscious field of view. She couldn't stop it.

Casey saw Saskia's face and she blinked, trying to understand its presence.

Terror…Desperation…Pleading…

What was it? Was she trying to say something?

The memory reached its zenith, then it tumbled away from her.

The moment had passed.

Casey gripped the towel turban in both hands. She closed her eyes and began rubbing her hair vigorously.

She felt a renewed pull, an urge to turn around.

Something had caught her attention in the images on the wall. It was taunting her, silently coaxing her to look. Casey gripped the towel harder.

Casey relented and turned around.

Her eyes went straight to the images at eye level on the door. A navy blue convertible coupe, its soft-top pulled up, drew her attention first. Casey studied it, going straight to the lines at the front and the arrangement of its headlights and grille. She closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to go into her memories of the car in her nightmare. The same lines. Same headlights.

But…

Something wasn't quite right. Opening her eyes, Casey stepped up to the door and pulled the magazine image of the coupe from it. She regarded it again for a long moment. Then, she screwed up the picture and let it fall to the floor at her feet. She then chose another. She took it from the door and studied it before screwing it up and dropping it.

Another.

And another.

The mosaic before her had begun to resemble a giant slice of Swiss cheese. A growing pile of paper balls grew around her feet.