Pieces of a Lie

Two Weeks From Now

Mina hums to herself as she crosses the backyard. The air throbs with the promise of something fierce and grey clouds hug the horizon. Yet her head is filled with sunshine because she is actually doing it. Leaving. Selling up. Cutting everything that ties her to Failie, to the past.

No one knows of her decision. Not even Forbes. She’s convinced herself she doesn’t want to worry him, that he has too much at stake to be distracted. The truth is she knows he’ll try to talk her out of it. Not about selling up. He’s been on about that for too long. But he won’t want her to leave. He’ll steamroller her into moving into his house, and life will settle into a rhythm too stifling to survive. It must be a clean break. A new life. One where she can be herself without all the baggage.

She steps into the kitchen and collects another packed box, this one marked for charity. Behind her the rusting hinges on her screen door squeal.

‘You look like someone who’s made a decision, babe.’

She gasps and steps backward. The box hits the floor with a thud.

‘What are you doing here?’ She manages to keep the tremor out of her voice. Good. She needs to stay calm.

He grins and the darkening sky can’t hide the gleam in his eyes. ‘You need a hint?’

The repetitive rasp and snap of his flick-knife as he opens and closes the blade fills her head: open—snap—closed—snap—open—snap—closed. He takes a seat at her kitchen table and from the meagre pickings in her fruit bowl selects an under-ripe banana.

‘Took my guys two weeks to spring me outta that shithole they call a remand centre.’ He touches the blade to the black stem of the fruit, making sure she’s watching as he slices at the young skin. ‘Do you know how much those weeks cost me?’

She can’t pull her gaze away from his steady hands, can’t stop thinking how the sticky flesh came away so easily at the deft touch of his blade. He places the strip on the table and proceeds to remove another thin slice of skin.

‘Leave now,’ she finally says. ‘I won’t tell anyone you’ve been here.’

He looks up and grins. ‘You hear that?’

‘Yeah, boss.’

She twirls in the direction of the baritone. His huge, impassive henchman blocks any escape through the back door. She hadn’t heard the hinges squeal.

‘Bargaining.’ He peels another slice of yellow skin. ‘Doesn’t take them long to get here, does it?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Should have done that earlier, Everton. Bargaining.’ He drops the strip on the table with the others and starts on another. There is barely any banana peel left now. ‘You and me could’ve worked well together. The way you milked those dealers was really something.’

‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’ Her voice comes out reedy and thin.

He smiles lazily and places his knife alongside the peelings. Then he begins to tap his fingers on the table. Tap—tap—tap—tap—tap. Like he’s gathering his thoughts, though his face says he’s come with a plan.

The methodical drumming chips at her control. She can’t drag her gaze away from those blunt fingers with their incongruously manicured nails. Tap—tap—tap—tap—tap.

‘I guarantee right now your little heart’s like a drum roll,’ he says. ‘Odd that. The slower my fingers go, the faster their chicken hearts beat.’

A dog’s bark breaks the spell. Spirit. Thank God! He sounds close, near the back door. If she can just get past the big Maori—

‘Don’t even think it, babe. You’re all alone. No one cares. No one’s coming for you.’

Mina wills away the prick of tears. She lifts her chin and holds his gaze. ‘You don’t know anything.’

‘Cooler than a fridge, this one.’

‘Yeah, boss.’

‘Watch this, babe.’ He picks up his knife, lays the blade upon the last strip of skin and shaves the finest line from its edge. It drops to the table in a string of curled flesh. He does it again. Faster this time. ‘Know where I learned that control?’

She says nothing.

‘Practice.’ He puts down the skinned banana and runs his hard gaze along her body. ‘Of course, it’s a bit messier on people. They tend to struggle.’

1. Blind To The Truth

‘CAN’T YOU READ? Sign says private.’

The man’s face flushed as he spoke, as though his arteries were so blocked the effort of speaking was too much. She’d seen the faded sign tacked to the door and ignored it. Just like she tried to ignore the whippet-thin teen sitting at the table, inching his wet tongue along pale, flaking lips. Sunlight through the blinds left shadowed bars across his face. Mina hugged the cardboard box she carried closer to her body and wished she’d worn her usual business shirt and trousers, not a thin summer dress that showed more skin than it covered.

‘I want to buy these.’ She rattled her box at the man whose silvered head nearly brushed the sloping ceiling. ‘You don’t even have to smile.’

‘I ain’t open for business, so clear off.’ He shoved his arms up into his pits and glared.

‘Go on, Kegs. Might make some cash for a change.’

‘Shut it, Dunny, before I do it for yous.’

The kid lost his stupid grin and dropped his gaze to the jumbled assortment of brass and silver objects on the table. Tossed among the dull gleam was an old fob watch.

One, two, three, here we go. It’s time—

She gasped at the sharp slap of memory and plucked up the watch. Some of the silvering had worn away. As her fingers curled around its edges, the brass felt warm and more familiar than it should.

‘That ain’t yours.’ Thick fingers grabbed her wrist. ‘Give it here. The watch ain’t for sale.’

Mina twisted her arm free. ‘I just wanted a look.’

The kid’s gaze ran over her, his tongue busy as if he could taste her. In other circumstances she would have told him to take a picture, but this creep would probably take it as an invitation. The big one—Kegs—made another snatch at the watch, but she held it fast and moved out of reach. In a room this small, a man his size wouldn’t get from behind the table without some effort, and his sidekick was too busy trying to peer through her dress to act.

She ran her fingers over the ridges on the watch cover, every bump as cold and smooth as she remembered, then she tilted the watch toward the window. The patterning came to life: a running dog, the bower of stars, the curving river at his feet. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. She thumbed the clasp and the cover sprang open. The inscription was there. Just one word. Forever.

The floor seemed to slide from under her. She groped for a chair, clutching the watch, focusing on its solid feel, the reality of it, as her head filled with white noise.

‘Does the picture mean something?’ she’d asked her dad.

‘The stream represents life,’ he said. ‘And the dog represents protection. My dad told me a story to go with it. It’s the one I’ve told you, about the boy and his superhero dog.’

She’d wanted him to tell her again, but he wouldn’t.

‘We have guests, and lots to do.’ He’d held out his hand for the watch and laughed when she’d tried to keep it. ‘It’ll be yours one day, Mina Mouse. Until then, it stays with me.’

And yet, here it was. In the back room of a country junk store, tossed aside like it meant nothing.

‘Hey!’

A sweaty red face thrust close to hers. Stale odours of hair oil and unwashed skin wafted from his body. She was seated at the table. The chair hard beneath her buttocks. The lizard-tongued creep had hold of her hand, stroking it like she was his pet. She pulled herself free. In her other hand she still clasped the watch, slippery with perspiration.

‘You think I got nothing better to do,’ Kegs said, ‘than stand here while you run your fingers over things that ain’t yours?’

To think her heart had once trilled with excitement at the Sunday tea laid out, her mother smiling, the unbearable anticipation as they waited for him to spin a tale of bunyips or wombats or little girls who could slay dragons.

One, two, three, here we go, it’s about time for the Everton show.

It was a show all right. Only her mother had clung to the fairytale, determinedly blind to the truth.

‘Sometimes I think I love you and your mother too much,’ he’d said that day.

‘How can you love someone too much?’ she asked. ‘How do you know if you do?’

‘When you’ll do anything for them. Even when it’s wrong.’

How prophetic that last statement had been. She didn’t believe he’d done any of it out of love for her or her mother.

Kegs shoved his calloused palm at her. ‘Hand it over, cupcake.’

Cupcake? That was a new one. She’d been called a few choice names before—buying up other people’s keepsakes and selling them to the highest bidder wasn’t always popular—but never cupcake.

‘Leave off, Kegs. Can’t you see she’s sick?’ The kid flicked his tongue. ‘You’re sick, hey, babe? You need to lie down.’

Lie down? Here? As if!

Kegs blocked her path to the door, his huge fists balled. He looked like he’d happily throw her out, but the other one …

Perspiration peppered her brow and dampened the back of her dress. Her pulse thudded. Why hadn’t she told Forbes where she was headed? He’d nagged her often enough. She’d left her phone in her car and her keys were in her handbag, which was—where?

She spotted it on the floor beside the kid, resting neatly on its base, whereas her cardboard box had strewn its treasures across the scuffed floorboards. Kegs wasn’t that much bigger than that slimy developer who was always at her to sell her house, and she’d faced him down more than once, enough to know creeps like these grew fat on fear.

‘I’ll give you fifty bucks for those.’ She pointed at the scattered tea caddy spoons she’d unearthed from a pile of discoloured trinkets in a cabinet out front. They were worth one-hundred-a-piece to a collector, but to her they promised entry into a new life.

‘Pick ’em up and I’ll think about it.’

As soon as Kegs shifted, she shot from the chair and gathered up the spoons. She still gripped the watch. It had almost become part of her.

‘Fifty bucks,’ she said.

‘Cash only, then piss off.’

‘Aren’t you even going to haggle? Must be hard doing business in a remote place like this.’

‘What’s it to you?’

She should have kept her surprise to herself. Guys like this always haggled. For most of them it was the only thrill they got, the reason they were in business.

‘I want the watch too.’

‘You deaf or something?’

‘Look. It’s rubbish.’ She held the watch up to the light but stayed out of reach. ‘Not worth a cent to a collector.’

‘What’s it to you, then?’

She shrugged. ‘Feeling sentimental. My dad had one like it.’

‘Go on, Kegs.’ The kid winked at her as if they were co-conspirators, but his gaze dropped to her bare legs and once more his tongue got busy.

‘Piss off.’ Kegs grabbed her wrist, pried the watch from her fingers and tossed it on the table. It landed with a thunk. At some point they’d covered their horde with a limp tea towel. She pretended not to notice.

‘Give me my bag.’ She held out her hand.

‘Give it to her, Dunny.’

The kid picked it up by the straps and dangled it just out of reach. It took everything she had not to grab it and run. She didn’t need the watch to remind her of her father’s lies—that legacy was there every time she walked down her street—but she did need those spoons.

From her purse she pulled out all the notes she had left and tossed them at Kegs. He caught some and began counting, sorting them into their five and ten dollar denominations. Dunny scrounged on the floor for the rest.

She risked a look at the table. From beneath the tea towel poked a striped ribbon, the kind usually attached to a medal. There was something familiar about it, something that made her skin crawl. She couldn’t think why. She didn’t know anything about medals.

‘Ain’t enough,’ Kegs snapped.

‘Of course it is.’

She’d had a busy day, but she could cover fifty in cash. Her credit card was maxed out. Besides, there was no way she’d hand over her card to these two. The less they knew about her the better.

She squared her shoulders. ‘Take it or leave it.’

‘I’ll take it, you leave it.’

Kegs pocketed her cash then seized the spoons.

‘Hey, I paid for those.’

‘You didn’t see no money change hands, did you, Dunny?’

‘Nah, mate. And I reckon she owes us something for our trouble.’

Dunny moved forward, grinning. His wet lips shone in the sunlight. As hard as she could, Mina shoved Kegs backward. He staggered against his bag-of-bones friend and they fell against the back door swearing.

Mina snatched up the watch and ran.

2. Remnants Of Her Mother's Life

MINA WOKE WITH A JOLT and opened her eyes to pitch black.

She jerked upright, the thin summer sheet clasped to her chin. Her scalp prickled. What had woken her? A dream? She’d been dreaming a lot lately, about the workshop and her mother, of the bellows fanning the fire, and the smell. Always the smell. It surrounded her now, but this was different. Cloying and astringent. It stung her nose.

Sundays. It reminded her of Sundays in the lounge room, sun streaming through the curtains, sliced teacake arranged on her mother’s favourite platter, her belly tight with the excitement of a story. One, two, three, here we go …

No, she would not remember. She would not let herself get sucked down again.

The odour lingered, almost as if someone had stood beside her bed. That couldn’t be. Spirit would have warned her. She reached out, seeking his warm fur, already used to the comfort of the stray’s steady heartbeat. She found only rumpled covers. Through the thud of her pulse, her ears strained for the clack of his nails on the kitchen lino, or the gentle slap of water as he drank. Then, from somewhere deep in the house, Spirit growled.

Mina hunched into her cotton sheet. It was too easy to conjure her childhood monsters from the dark silhouettes in her unlit bedroom. Maybe he’d knocked over a perfume bottle in his eagerness to corner a field mouse or a lizard, except that she’d had no unwelcome creatures in her house since they’d knocked down the derelict villa next door. And the odour wasn’t her perfume.

Spirit’s growls came from the direction of the kitchen. She unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth and threw back the sheet. The night was almost too humid to breathe, but she shrugged on her dressing gown. It gave her confidence, a kind of armour. Too bad it was satin.

She checked her en suite first—didn’t want any surprises when she turned her back—but she didn’t dare turn on the light. Lights signal where you are, Forbes had told her.

There were no human-shaped outlines to set her pulse racing, so she tiptoed through her bedroom and into her sitting room. A bright moon burst through the open curtains. Though she knew this house and its quirks as well as her own face, the heft of a torch would have been a comfort.

The dog growled again. Louder this time, or perhaps just closer. Then came tapping and scratching, like he was pawing to get outside. She almost laughed with relief. He was probably worrying at that broken lino near the back door.

‘Come on, boy.’ She entered the kitchen, tapping her thigh. ‘That’s enough damage for one day.’

But the dog wasn’t near the back door. Hackles raised, he stood near the entrance to her mother’s part of the house. She hadn’t been in there since—

Her ears filled with the gruff chatter of the paramedics, the clack of the wheels, she saw again the covered shape of her mother—

‘Stop it! Focus.’

The dog turned his face to her, shoulders hunched, his ears twisting like a radar dish in search of a signal. The moonlight made his pale eyes luminous. Against his black lips his teeth looked white and very sharp. She took a tentative step backward.

Spirit resumed his vigil at the door.

Behind that locked door were the remnants of her mother’s life: her clothes, perfumes, medications, her shattered dreams. Perhaps Spirit sensed her presence. Not a ghost or anything otherworldly—she didn’t believe in that crap. Not really. But perhaps her mother’s personality, strong right up until the end, permeated the walls and furnishings.

Mina touched Spirit’s shoulder, oddly comforted by his thick pewter fur and the rumble of his growl.

‘It’s nothing.’ If it was nothing, why was she whispering? ‘Look, it’s all locked up tight.’

She grasped the brass knob and twisted. With a gentle clack, the latch gave way. She let go with a gasp. The door swung inwards on silent hinges.

Spirit bared his teeth again, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond. His growl rolled along the gloomy hallway. Crouched low, he eased in, his tread deadened by the carpet. Mina bunched her dressing gown over her fluttering stomach and tiptoed in his wake, every muscle tensed. Sweat pricked her armpits.

Light flashed across the far wall. She froze. Spirit growled and hunched lower.

It was just a car headlight. It had to be, though a thick Lilly Pilly hedge shielded her home from prying neighbours and all the windows were hung with heavy curtains.

The beam shifted. Spirit took off, barking like a maniac. A crash—a shriek—the light jerked about, disappearing and reappearing in haphazard arcs.

Mina hurried to the doorway of the airless lounge room and flicked on the light switch. Spirit had someone pinned to the sheet-draped couch, and the space reverberated with grunts and snarls. The intruder had his forearms up, shielding his head, a flashlight still clasped in one fist.

‘Get out of my house!’

At the sound of her voice, Spirit hesitated. The intruder shoved the dog away and landed a kick to his ribs. Mina yelled. Spirit whimpered and flopped to the floor, breathing heavily. The black-clad figure raced toward her. A balaclava hid his features, but his eerie, swamp-water eyes almost glowed.

She readied herself. When he got close enough, she thrust out her arm. The heel of her hand missed his nose, caught his cheek. His head snapped left. It didn’t stop him. He reached out, gripped her forearm with one hand and with the other covered her mouth and nose with the cloying vinyl of his glove.

3. A Shoo-In For Suspect

LINC DRUMMOND CHECKED his watch. Zero seven thirty. The woman probably wasn’t awake yet, but Forbes had insisted they visit early. He lifted the pitted brass knocker on the villa’s front door.

‘Not that one, mate. Over here.’

Forbes Monroe pointed to a narrow pair of French doors at the end of the veranda, then pressed the bell on the weathered architrave. Linc stepped down onto the gravel driveway that ran alongside the house and petered out near a stone building that must have seen out a century. Nestled against the warm stone was a small oasis awash with summer colour and far less formal than the clipped hedge and the plantation of well-tended roses in the front yard.

‘Come on, sleepy head.’ Forbes pounded on the door. ‘Open up.’

This Everton woman was probably a spinster in a wide hat and gardening gloves, though that didn’t seem the type to interest the man yelling through the keyhole. Linc had only been in town a day and already he knew of Forbes’ womanising reputation. The guy was down-to-earth and friendly, with a quirky face that seemed permanently ready to break into a smile and an easy-going charm that some women would find irresistible. As far as Linc was concerned, the jury was out. The guy was just too damn helpful.

‘Maybe we should come back later,’ he said.

Forbes frowned and worry deepened the lines in his forehead, but when he caught Linc’s eye, he grinned.

‘It’s only fair I interrupt her beauty sleep,’ he said. ‘She kept me up until the crack of dawn.’

So that’s how it was. The image of the gardening spinster morphed into a Botoxed, scotch-drinking blonde, far too close to his stepmother for comfort.

There came the scrape of metal as a deadbolt was pulled back, then the click of a turned key. The door opened a crack.

‘You’re seven hours too late, Forbes.’

‘Please, honey. Can we talk? I promise to listen this time.’

‘I’d prefer time to finish my shower.’

The door swung wide. Linc’s thoughts burgeoned with steam room fantasies as he gazed at the girl wrapped in a bath sheet, tucking another about her head. Mina Everton was a long way from needing Botox and even further away from the gardening spinster he had imagined. No wonder Forbes had the energy and style of someone twenty years younger.

The girl appraised him with amber-flecked green eyes. One glance from those amazing eyes and something thrummed in his chest, a minor vibration that affected his ability to think.

‘Better close your mouth,’ she said with the hint of a smile, ‘unless you plan on catching flies.’

Linc grinned. ‘Only criminals.’

She lost the smile and turned her gaze to the man at his side.

Forbes cleared his throat. ‘Mina, this is Detective Linc Drummond.’

He completed his introductions looking about as comfortable as a man on a toddler’s tricycle. Perhaps he was having second thoughts about letting the newbie within touching distance of the girlfriend.

‘With any luck,’ Forbes said, ‘he’s going to shut down this gang terrorising our seaside paradise.’

She shot Linc a glance then turned a stony face to Forbes. ‘You know how I feel about cops.’

‘Don’t you think we should come inside, honey?’ Forbes said. ‘I know it’s the height of summer and that’s a relatively large towel, but still.’

‘Oh!’

She ramped up Linc’s fantasy by crossing her arms over herself like Botticelli’s Venus before retreating inside. He followed and tripped over the threshold. Forbes didn’t bother to hide his amusement.

God, what was he thinking? He hadn’t come here to ogle the talent, and he couldn’t afford to put Forbes Monroe offside. The guy had practically championed his transfer from Sydney. Without Forbes he’d be languishing on desk duties, at the very least, reduced to running errands for his sniggering colleagues. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had been waiting for Forbes Monroe seven hours earlier.

The Everton girl moved stiffly towards her bathroom and slammed the door.

‘Friendly type,’ Linc murmured.

‘She’s just embarrassed you caught her in a towel.’

Forbes announced it like he was giving some kind of insider tip as he sauntered across the living room. Embarrassed she might be, but as distracted as he’d been by her attire—or lack of it—Linc hadn’t missed her reaction to the news he was after criminals.

The living room was one of laidback comfort, the kind of place a man could kick off his shoes and put up his feet. It was cool too. Failie wasn’t as humid as Sydney, but the day was heading for a stinker and his lightweight Armani was already uncomfortable. Near the window, an occasional table held some mail and a lampshade of stained-glass dragonflies that filtered the bright morning light and cast purple-tinted prisms across an overstuffed armchair. A quick sift through the half-dozen envelopes revealed an array of overdue notices. Pinned beneath the lampshade was a bank statement. The closing balance was several thousand in the red.

‘Come on through.’ Forbes was suddenly at his side, steering him toward the kitchen. ‘We can talk while I try to figure out this fancy-arsed coffee machine.’

‘Known Ms Everton long?’

‘Long enough. Come on. Latte, cappuccino, long black, short black, diamond-studded-mochaccino. You name it, this thing makes it.’

The kitchen was big on louvered windows and low on renovations, a mishmash of fifties cabinetry and seventies geometric wallpaper. It filled most of the rear annex with the exception of what he guessed was the bathroom on his left, where Mina Everton was divesting herself of her towel, unwinding it from her slender—

Crockery rattled as Forbes removed cups from an overhead cupboard. Despite his earlier comment, he had no trouble figuring out the machine, and it was obvious he knew his way around this room like a blind man on Braille.

Linc scoped out the kitchen. It would do him no good to dwell on Mina Everton and her middle-aged conquest. Ahead of him was the back door. A little way to his right, along what must be the original rear wall of the house, was another door. Time had yellowed the white paint and the stippled pane in the upper panel hadn’t been popular for more than half a century. Beyond it, all was dark. He recalled the disused grand entrance and the small lounge room he’d just passed through. Before she’d slammed the bathroom door, the Everton girl had walked through a bedroom; he’d seen the foot of a bed and rumpled sheets as she passed. Apart from the wide kitchen, her life seemed contained to the left wing of the villa.

‘Does she only use these few rooms?’ he asked.

‘Yep. Set this up as a flat when she quit study to look after her mum.’

Something about that internal door was odd. The light in the kitchen was poor, but still… He moved in for a closer look.

‘What was she studying?’ he asked.

‘Forensic accounting.’

Near the handle shallow wedge marks scored the layer of paint revealing the raw timber beneath.

‘What was the problem with her mum?’

‘That’s my business.’ Mina stood grim-faced in the shadowed doorway between the lounge and kitchen. A towel still covered her hair, but a long, tight-belted satin robe covered her from neck to ankle. Her attitude was familiar. It was the speed with which it had appeared that astonished him. Perhaps it compensated for her previous state of undress.

Forbes was still working the coffee machine. ‘I just wanted Linc to understand why you locked everything up when your mum died.’

Grief blurred her features. She bit her lower lip. Drawn to offer sympathy, Linc stepped forward, but she retreated into the shadow of the doorway, his compassion as unwelcome as his job title.

The coffee machine hammered to life.

Forbes spoke over the noise. ‘Linc reckons the robberies are a blind for a gang stealing antiques.’

She pulled the towel from her head and blotted at ropes of dark blonde hair. It was hard to tell from the way she stayed in the shadows, but he was sure that when she’d removed the towel she had winced.

‘What kind of antiques are you talking about?’ she asked.

‘Linc reckons he’s found a pattern.’ Forbes pressed a button and aromatic coffee cascaded into two serviceable white cups.

The wet strands of her hair turned the robe’s fabric translucent, revealing the outline of a lace bra and hinting at the gentle curve of her breasts. Was her skin as silky as it looked? He imagined slipping the robe from her shoulders—

What the hell was wrong with him? He was here to do a job, one that might save his career, and she was the girlfriend of the guy who’d tugged a lot of very powerful strings to get him here. He pulled his cop persona tight and held up the display folder in which he’d collated images of all the items of significant value stolen from Failie and surrounding suburbs. There weren’t many. Initially, he’d thought the thieves had just got lucky, but once he’d recognised it the pattern was too significant to ignore.

‘I need you to look at these photos, Ms Everton. Give me some idea of the value of each, and if any of them have come up for auction or been offered for sale.’

‘Wow. Is there a please in there anywhere?’

She waited. If she expected him to apologise or make a plea for assistance, she was out of luck. He’d used up all his humility points getting Forbes’ help to pursue this lead in the first place. And her attitude pissed him off.

‘I need names,’ he told her, ‘of anyone who may have shown an interest in acquiring them.’

Mina glared at him and made no move to take the folder.

‘Everything all right, then?’ Forbes handed her a cup of coffee and a look passed between them that suggested this was no casual question. Mina’s lips tightened and she looked at her bare feet. Forbes sighed then covered it with a smile when he noticed Linc observing them. ‘You took my advice about the stray, I see.’

Mina lifted her gaze and shook her head.

‘Where is it?’

‘He.’

‘You’ve named it?’

‘Spirit.’

‘Ah.’

Forbes turned away and raised his eyebrows. The girl saw, or knew him well enough to know that was how he’d react.

She said, ‘You didn’t believe any of it, did you?’

Forbes handed Linc the second cup, forcing him to tuck the folder beneath his arm.

‘Linc is new to antiques. I told him you’re the expert he needs to get to the bottom of it.’

She frowned. ‘This business is built on loyalty and discretion.’

‘Help him out, Mina. You might find you can help yourself.’

‘Oh yes. Because that worked out so well last time.’

Last time? Linc sipped the potent black coffee. Forbes had offered various concoctions but hadn’t asked what he preferred. Just as he hadn’t bothered to mention that this little get-together could somehow ‘help’ his girlfriend. And what was all that stuff about the dog?

Forbes said, ‘It wouldn’t hurt your business for you to be seen as an expert.’

‘Expert for the police? Oh sure. This town will flip that into guilty quicker than you can say assisting with inquiries. It’ll just prove what they’ve always known.’

Her sarcasm was thick enough to spread. There was an undercurrent between this pair that had nothing to do with Forbes Monroe throwing a bit of consulting work the way of his latest squeeze. He longed to hear exactly what it was everyone knew about her, but he couldn’t stare at his coffee all day. He needed to get on with the case. And he wanted to re-examine the door splinters before he left.

‘Come on, Mina.’ Forbes showed a playful smile. ‘You have to think of the future. Didn’t you once tell me looking back is for losers?’

She glanced at Linc. ‘My business isn’t even open yet. I barely have a client list. If I did, I wouldn’t let him loose on it, or anyone else’s.’

Forbes lost the smile. ‘You know how much trouble this gang is making, honey.