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The phone lines affected by the strong winds?

  The apple was one of several pieces of evidence pointing to Jillian. Now MacLaine felt the same seed of doubt that he had detected in Robyn and Don. The fibres and the wood grain didn’t fit. The phone call had bugged him from the start. Why call Jillian? There was someone – or – something – else, just out of reach, skirting the edge of his suspicions.

  He called in Don Christie and Anne Wright.

  ‘What do you make of the static and echo that Jillian claims to have heard on the line?’ An idea had occurred to MacLaine and he was curious to see if their input matched his theory.

  ‘Bad line,’ said Don. ‘Not so unusual the past week or so, with the winds and now these electrical storms.’

  ‘What else? Either of you had bad cases of static on your cell phones lately?’

  ‘Actually, yes, more so than usual,’ said Anne. ‘My brother’s a TV repairman, always on the road, often calls me on his cell. Crappy handset, I keep telling him to replace it. Lots of interference. And, of course, much worse this last week with the heavy winds.’

  ‘Exactly. There is a chance then – just one – that Jillian did receive that call,’ said MacLaine. ‘If Georgina phoned her from a mobile. It would explain the excessive static Jillian reported.’

  ‘We’ve already established she wasn’t on her cell,’ said Don.

  Robyn saw where MacLaine was going with this. ‘No. But what if she was on someone else’s phone.’

  ‘Don, get on to all the mobile phone operators. Have them prepare their data on all calls for last Friday night and early Saturday morning,’ MacLaine said.

  He figured if he put together a team of at least four, they could scan those lists in a matter of hours. If any of the data files had a call listed to Jillian’s number at the specified time, then that would bear out her story.

  What it wouldn’t explain was why Georgina had made the call on someone else’s phone.

  • • •

  Marcus visited Jillian at the station that morning. With accusing eyes, he’d asked: ‘How could you do this?’

  He wouldn’t listen to her plea of innocence.

  After he’d stormed out, Jillian felt a new sense of determination. She knew she had to stay strong and think clearly. She remembered that Marcus had visited her at the shop the previous Friday.

  She asked to see MacLaine and told him about the apples she kept at the boutique – and about the visit from Marcus.

  ‘I want you to think very carefully about this,’ MacLaine said. ‘I need a list of any other friends who visited you last Friday. And, to the best of your memory, all the customers you had as well.’

  The cell phone data came through that afternoon. There were groans when MacLaine enlisted Robyn along with the two constables to work with him in scanning the lists.

  At 4.45, a red-eyed Don Christie leapt from his seat. ‘Bullseye!’ Here’s a call made to Jillian’s home at 12.23 am on Saturday.’

  MacLaine glanced over the sheet and found the name of the phone’s owner. ‘Mr Neville Smith,’ he muttered. ‘Who the hell is Neville Smith?’

  ‘Didn’t have to look far for that,’ Don said. ‘He’s a sales rep for the same telephone company. Lives over on Harwood Drive.’

  Don accompanied the inspector to Smith’s home.

  Smith was a slightly built man with a fair complexion. He screwed up his face and scratched his earlobe when confronted with the records. His wife, a thin brunette, stood in the background and watched with concern.

  MacLaine noticed a number of books on modern detection and forensic science in the bookcase. He went over and picked up a volume on forensics.

  ‘Hobby of yours?’ he asked Smith.

  ‘Yes. Always has been. I once wanted to be on the police force, but…well, as you can see–too short.’

  MacLaine opened up the book’s contents. There was a section listed on bite-mark analysis.

  Then Smith noticed the time the call had been made. ‘Ah, after midnight. My daughter sometimes borrows the phone in the evenings,’ he explained, ‘and I pick it up from her apartment on my way to work of a morning. What’s this all about, Inspector?’

  ‘Routine,’ MacLaine replied. ‘Why does your daughter need to borrow your phone, hasn’t she one of her own?’

  Smith raised his eyes skyward. ‘Today’s kids. Always leaving the thing somewhere, or misplacing it. It usually turns up but in the meantime she keeps borrowing mine. Lately, she’s been driving me crazy. That’s our Nicolette, I guess.’

  ‘Nicolette? Does she play in a local band and call herself Nikki Vibrant?’

  ‘That’s her,’ Smith said proudly. But then a cloud of concern came over his features. ‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’

  ‘Can I ask you, Mr. Smith, where we would find your daughter this afternoon. I believe she could assist us with our enquiries.’

  • • •

  They drove through another burst of rain with thunder booming in the distance. This was the second day of storms, but MacLaine had noticed that the force of each was beginning to diminish.

  He recalled the words of the barman at the Sports Club: Marcus was having an on-off fling with the band’s singer.

  ‘Nikki could’ve easily slipped away from the club after midnight, driven to Bellwood and been back at the club well before the others headed off to Rogue’s Place,’ MacLaine told Don. ‘I’d say she held the gun to Georgina’s head and forced her to call Jillian on the cell she’d borrowed from her Dad. She was smart enough to figure we’d suspect Jillian and check the Bellwood Villa phone records and Georgina’s cell. What she didn’t anticipate was that we’d check all other cell phone records in the area.’

  ‘But why? Because of Marcus?’

  ‘No doubt she wanted a lot more of him than just a fling. Think about it. She needed to be rid of Jillian so she could win Marcus over and marry him for the inheritance. Murder Georgina and frame Jillian, thus getting rid of the two of them in one single blow.’

  And,’ Don speculated further, ‘she did that by leaving the apple. Her father’s forensic science books gave her ways to plan that. Damned if I know where she got that apple from, though.’

  ‘When Marcus visited Jillian at the shop last Friday,’ MacLaine revealed, ‘Nikki and John Tanner were with him, on their way to a rehearsal. Jillian didn’t think anything of it, but she mentions it on the list she made out for me this morning. Nikki must have seen the apple with the bites taken out of it, and seen it as the perfect opportunity. A young woman like Nikki who’s been reading up on forensics, would know that sprinkling the apple with lemon juice almost immediately would preserve it, keeping the surface crisp and prevent discolouring so that she could plant it at the crime scene.’

  They pulled up outside the rehearsal room, hearing the strains of music coming from the rear.

  ‘None of this conclusively proves that Nikki is the killer,’ Don pointed out.

  ‘No, but it’s enough for us to take her in for questioning and to examine her clothing for a match to the fibres at the scene. I expect they’ll match, and I believe Robyn St Clair will also find a match between the slivers of wood found at Bellwood and the wood from which Nikki’s guitar is made.’

  He explained to Don how splinters can be transferred to clothing when timber objects were brushed against garments. Each species of wood was highly distinctive in its structure and easily identified under the microscope. ‘Guitars have a lacquer finish, but if there’s a scratch or chip, that would expose and scuff the wood beneath and allow it to brush against Nikki while she’s playing.’

  MacLaine added, ‘A match of fabric and splinter will place Nikki at Bellwood at the time of the murder.’

  ‘And she knew Marcus well enough to know there was a gun in the house,’ Don realized.

  Marcus Bellwood looked annoyed when he saw the police officers enter. Tanner and the drummer had impassive expressions. It was Nikki Vibrant, MacLaine noted, whose eye
s betrayed both alarm and guilt as they approached her.

  • • •

  In the evening, after her release, Jillian simply needed to spend time alone at her home, feeling secure. She ran a hot bath and eased herself into it gently, allowing the warm caress of the soapy water to soak away her tensions.

  After her arrival home, she’d received a phone call from Don Christie. He wanted her to know a positive identification had been made between the wood and fabric particles at Bellwood Villa and those of Nikki Vibrant’s clothes and guitar. Jillian was aware of the warm and caring tone to his voice and had the feeling he would call her again.

  She decided that would not be a bad thing.

  She then put the answering machine on, and now listened as Marcus left a message, gushing about how sorry he was he hadn’t believed in her.

  Jillian knew she would never have anything to do with Marcus again.

  She’d left the radio playing and country music melodies filtered through to the bathroom. Between songs, a DJ announced the freak weather conditions were over. The forecast was for warm, sunny conditions.

  Jillian sighed with relief, anticipating the soft, golden light of autumn and the earthy colours of reds, browns and ochres that were balm for her soul.

  SECRET DAY

  I would never forget the day I discovered that my husband, Stuart – a man I’d been certain could keep nothing from me – had a secret.

  It was an unusually balmy Friday for mid-winter. My plan was simple: I would surprise Stuart by arriving at his office at quarter to one and announce I was taking him out to lunch. That would make a pleasant turnaround from the norm on the occasion of this, our third wedding anniversary.

  I parked the car across the street from the building that housed the offices of Callaghan, Mayer and Stott, Architects. I was waiting to cross when I saw Stuart stride out of the building, a bunch of small red roses in his left hand. He placed the roses in his own car then slid into the driver’s seat and drove away.

  He’s heading home to surprise me, I thought. Panic set in. I didn’t want to spoil his surprise so I jumped back in my car and took off. If I took the route across the south-eastern edge of town and linked up with the Princes Highway I’d just beat him back. Just.

  The traffic wasn’t bad and I drove faster than I should have. When I arrived home, I rushed to our bedroom, changed quickly and sat down to wait. I expected Stuart to walk through the door any minute.

  Forty-five minutes later I realized he wasn’t coming.

  I tried his cell phone but, as usual, got his voicemail message.

  I phoned the office. The firm’s receptionist, Mandy Carpenter, answered in her sing-song voice. ‘Callaghan, Mayer and Stott.’

  ‘Hello Mandy. Tina here. Can I speak to Stu?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Callaghan. Stuart’s out, not expected back until about half-past three.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  I bit my lip – I hadn’t intended to let the anxiety show in my voice.

  ‘No, Mrs Callaghan, he didn’t let me know where he would be. But then, he never does on a Friday.’

  ‘Friday? What’s so different about Fridays?’ I hoped I wasn’t sounding like a paranoid little wife. But I knew I was.

  Mandy’s reply seemed a little tentative. ‘Oh nothing’s different, but Stuart sometimes takes an extended lunch break on Fridays. I think he catches up with a few of his mates.’

  Mates? I felt like shrieking inside. He doesn’t have any mates who’d appreciate seeing him turn up with a posy of miniature red roses.

  ‘I can take a message-’

  ‘Thank you, Mandy. No, don’t bother, there’s no message – I’ll speak to him later.’

  I put down the phone and buried my face in my hands. The tears came quickly. I’m being silly, I told myself. Stuart will explain everything to me when he gets home tonight, said the eternal optimist who lurked somewhere deep inside.

  He arrived home carrying a bunch of carnations in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.

  ‘Happy anniversary, darling,’ he said, and he took me in his arms and kissed me. ‘I’ve booked a table for two at Jordans for seven o’clock.’

  ‘It will be a perfect night for it,’ I replied. I looked into those sensitive brown eyes, at the impish grin and the curly brown hair. All my fears and anxieties vanished. Stuart was the most genuine, down-to-earth man I’d ever met, and a romantic to boot. I knew he could never be capable of having an affair. Perhaps the red roses had been for one of his firm’s female clients. Nothing unusual in that.

  It didn’t matter now, anyway. The night was perfect and nothing else mattered.

  I didn’t give the matter any further thought and it didn’t return to haunt me again until the next week. But on the following Friday Stuart’s monthly credit card statement arrived in the mail. Normally, I never concerned myself with these things, but, this time, I opened the envelope.

  Stuart had charged the roses to the account. Next to the previous Friday’s date was the name of the shop, Mid-Metro Florists, and the amount of $40. Simply to set my own mind at rest, I looked back at the dates for the previous three Fridays in the month. My heart sank as I saw a listing for Mid-Metro Florists, and the amount of $40, against each of the dates.

  How long has this been going on? I wondered.

  I sat motionless for a long time. Why was this happening? I had felt so happy in my life with Stuart. And I had been certain he felt the same. How could he be seeing another woman? I’d detected no difference in him these past few weeks. Stuart had been his usual, loving self, even though slightly distracted by the pressures at the office. They had taken on several new clients lately and the entire office was bursting at the seams with work.

  It seemed incredible to me that he’d been deceiving me like this. There must be another explanation, I told myself, but this time the pessimist inside me came forward gleefully, and refused to believe a word of it.

  I went straight to the phone book and looked up the number of the florist.

  ‘Good morning, Mid-Metro Florists.’

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, adopting a cool, professional tone. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m the executive secretary at Callaghan, Mayer and Stott. One of our architects, Mr Callaghan, has been ordering roses for one of our clients. He normally makes all the arrangements himself, but he’s been called away today. He’d asked me to send the flowers for him, but I’ve just realized I’m not sure which client the roses are for.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure if I can help you with that.’

  ‘I was wondering, as this was a regular purchase for the past few weeks, whether there might be a card that Mr Callaghan asked you to supply with the roses. Perhaps, if there’s a name, that would indicate the appropriate client company to me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young female voice on the other end of the line, ‘how silly of me. There is a card and the words are the same every week, and have been ever since I’ve worked here.’

  ‘How long is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Six months now. Hold on a moment, let me check that particular order. It’s a fairly regular one, you see.’

  Six months? Fairly regular?

  ‘Here we go,’ the girl came back on the line. ‘Very simple. The card always reads: For Casey. Love Stuart.’

  She giggled. ‘Sounds more personal than professional, doesn’t it? I hope that helps you identify the client, Miss. And the flowers should be delivered into the office in the next hour, as usual, so you would’ve seen the card then anyway.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ I said coldly, and I hung up. There were no tears in my eyes. No sadness. Perhaps that would come later. For the moment there was just a growing anger, unlike any I had felt before. I had believed in him. Right up until a moment ago I had believed in him. And all this time he’d been two-timing me.

  All this time.

  Yes, but how much time was that? The florist said she’d worked there
six months. What about the time prior to that?

  I went through to the study, opened the drawer and pulled out the folder he’d marked “Financial Statements”. I flicked back through the monthly credit card account, six months back, twelve months back, eighteen months back. That was as far as he’d kept paper copies. Although he could access them digitally, Stuart liked to have the printed statements as a ready access for him to highlight business costs for his tax returns.

  On several Fridays the charge was there from Mid-Metro Florists. Sometimes just one in a month. Sometimes for two or three Fridays in a row. Only the amount had changed. Eighteen months earlier the charge had been for $29.90. Even red roses for mistresses are prone to inflation, I thought bitterly.

  We had only been married three years and Stuart’s affair had been going on for at least half that time, probably longer. This wasn’t just a case of a fling with some floozy. Here was a man who had long been leading a double life.

  But as I placed the folder back in the drawer, my attention was drawn to another folder that had been lying beneath the first. The light blue colour of this other folder was faded and its corners were dog-eared.

  I opened it up and found a tattered, yellowed newspaper clipping. My eyes wandered to the date at the top of the page. Why on earth did Stuart have a newspaper cutting that was more than ten years old sitting in the drawer of his desk? Beneath the dateline, there was the headline to a half page article. It read: ‘Grieving Parents’ Strange Request.’

  I was about to read on when I became aware of the time. The clock on the study wall showed it to be quarter to eleven. In another hour Stuart would leave his office, roses in hand, for his secret rendezvous.

  Perhaps the only way to handle this is the dramatic way, I thought. I’ll follow him and confront him when he’s with this other woman. Of course it will be the end of everything between us. But obviously that was clearly the case before today and I just hadn’t known it. Until now.

  I was still curious about the old press clipping. What did it mean? And why had Stuart kept it? On an inexplicable impulse, I picked up the folder and went outside to my car.