Intrigue in Paradise

CHAPTER 1

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Fear and grief make terrible travelling companions. The flight from Heathrow to Brisbane was proof beyond doubt.

I’d gone to England to testify for the prosecution in a murder trial. The experience had exceeded my worst nightmares: nothing had prepared me for the murderous hatred blazing straight at me from the accused in the dock, or for the savaging by his legal team. The jury had brought down a verdict of guilty. So why the fear gripping my guts? It wasn’t rational, my left brain asserted. But that man, that convicted murderer, wanted me dead. Some time, some day, he’d get his chance. My intuitive right brain knew it.

The grief? I’d had to choose, and I’d chosen life with Steve in Brisbane over a romantic but spasmodic liaison with the nomadic Rafaelo – but ending our affair had become immeasurably harder when Rafaelo had appeared unbidden in the courtroom, showering me with the love and support I so badly needed. He was also the reason I was flying home ten days later than planned.

It was an interminable flight. My every attempt to sleep, or read, or watch a film, was overtaken by gut-wrenching scenes from the past few weeks replaying over and over in my head. When I staggered off the plane at dawn I was a mess. My heart lifted when I saw Steve’s large, bearded figure waiting for me, leaning heavily on his crutch. He hooked me into a one-armed hug and held me tight. I clung to him, gratefully absorbing his feel and smell of home, security and the future. At least I did until he spoke those two fateful words.

‘You’re late,’ he said into my hair.

I pulled away, surprised. ‘Are we? They said on board that we’d be landing on time.’

‘That’s not what I mean. You’re ten days late, as you well know.’

‘Oh.’

I’d fully intended telling Steve what had happened in England; he’d known I planned to contact Rafaelo in Europe, to finally end our relationship. Prevarication wasn’t my style, but as an independent woman in my thirties I found myself bristling – hey, this was my life, and how I lived it was my business. I held my tongue.

‘I will explain, Steve, but not right now. I’m stuffed. That flight was straight from hell. Hey, if you’re here you must be driving. That’s looking good.’

A terrible accident had left Steve a legacy of seemingly never-ending operations, the last just before I’d left. I was surprised he was driving so soon, even given his iron determination.

‘I’ve borrowed an automatic,’ he explained. ‘This is my first outing on wheels. You should be honoured.’

‘I am.’ I squeezed his hand.

‘I’ve missed you, Annie.’ He put his arm around me. ‘After all those weeks together out west … I didn’t hear much from you while you were away.’

Another warning bell clanged. ‘I know,’ I said carefully. ‘No-one did. The trial was just so full-on, Steve, I was wrecked. Martin Barclay kept glaring across the courtroom like he wanted me dead. It was just hideous.’

‘He probably does. After all, it was your evidence that got him arrested .’

‘You’re not wrong.’ I swallowed. ‘He never took his eyes off me, not for a second.’

He pulled me closer. ‘It’s over, Annie, and justice was done. What about the sentence?’

‘Still to come. The police predicted he’d get a long stretch.’ I was suddenly cold. ‘Let’s hope so.’

Steve picked up my daypack and I trundled my wheelie behind me as we headed for the car park and the drive home.

Home: now where was that exactly? The realities of life, pushed aside for weeks, descended on me. If Steve and I were to live as a couple, many decisions lay ahead of us. Would we move in together? When would we take that momentous step, which totally terrified me? And where? – in my home in Dutton Park, or in his bachelor pad in Auchenflower? Or should we start afresh somewhere else? My head spun at the possibilities.

I glanced at him but his eyes were firmly on the road and his look was grim, so I fell silent, quietly warmed by the familiar sights of my home city – the winding grey river, the tall silver buildings, the sharp contrast of the old and modest with the new and lavish which was fast becoming a Brisbane signature.

As we pulled up I surveyed my little cottage affectionately, where I lived amid a companionable if unmanageable clutter of books and papers and a garden that right now looked more like a jungle. The first property I’d ever owned, it sat comfortably in a street of nineteenth-century houses, some renovated and some – like mine – still waiting for their big day.

Once inside, Steve threw his arms around me and gave me a long, hungry kiss which I returned with enthusiasm. I found myself clinging to him, unwilling to separate myself and face his questions. Eventually we opened the windows and I put the kettle on. We took our mugs of tea out to the little verandah. The early summer breeze was soft on my face, and I inhaled the sweet air gratefully.

‘So,’ he said, any vestige of romance having completely evaporated, ‘do you want to tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing since the trial finished?’

I stared at him. When had this man decided he owned me? Well, he’d have to realise that he didn’t, and soon. Now, in fact. I took a deep breath.

‘No, Steve, I don’t. I need a long hot shower, not to mention some sleep. We’ll talk about it when I’ve got myself together.’

His lips tightened. ‘And when might that be?’

‘I don’t know – tomorrow, maybe?’ I made an effort. ‘Hey, what is this, Steve? It’s not like you. We’ve always given each other space.’

‘Have we?’ He heaved himself to his feet and leaned over the verandah railing, his back to me, and cleared his throat. ‘I’m not sure any more, Annie. See, I thought we were rock solid, you and me. Then you shoot off to England and all I get is a couple of hurried phone calls and two-line emails before you disappear entirely for over a week. How do you expect me to feel?’

‘I don’t believe this.’ I banged my mug down. ‘Get real! It’s not as if I wanted to shoot off to England. I simply dreaded it – and I was dead right, it was a shattering experience, you’ve got no idea. I was a write-off when that damned trial finished, I needed some time out. And you weren’t there for me, either.’

He spun round to face me. ‘Not there for you? How could I be?’ he yelled. ‘You know perfectly well I would have come with you if it hadn’t been for that bloody operation.’

I squeezed my eyes shut and clapped my hands over my ears. ‘Just listen to us. Can’t we leave all this?’

‘Leave it? Why?’ His voice was harsh. ‘To give you time to dream up some more fiction for me? Or to psych yourself up to tell me that the Latin lover turned up on the dot as arranged to whisk you away when it was all over? That’s what happened, isn’t it? All quietly organised in advance while I swallowed that story about ending it all, mug that I am. That’s what’s been eating away at me, Annie.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ It was out before I could stop it.

His brown eyes bored into mine. ‘I was right then. I knew it! So if it wasn’t like that – tell me, Annie, how was it exactly?’

Suddenly a mist of rage swept over me and I lost it completely. I seized my mug and hurled the contents at him, showering him with the remains of my tea.

‘I’ll tell you how it was when I’m ready to tell you,’ I screamed. ‘That’s if I decide to waste my time on a class one bully. Now get lost.’

Purple with fury, Steve wiped his face and his beard. He glared at me for what seemed an eternity, breathing heavily. Then without another word he grabbed his crutch and stumped down the path, revved up the car and disappeared.

I put my head down on the table and burst into tears.

CHAPTER 2

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For the rest of that day I battled a pounding headache and tried very hard not to think about Steve, Rafaelo, Martin Barclay, ferocious barristers … the list of no-go areas seemed endless. How come, I speculated, they were entirely populated by men?

Forcing myself into action, I phoned my parents to check in, then my aunt and great friend Jo on the Sunshine Coast. She knew me all too well.

‘What’s wrong, Annie?’

‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

‘Don’t give me that. Why don’t you come up? I’m dying to hear about the trial anyway.’ Jo had been in on this case before it became a case.

‘I’d love to. How about Friday?’

‘Whenever suits, dear.’

I made myself ring Steve but to my relief he was out of contact. Then I hit the domestic chores and leafed through the mail mountain, mostly deeply unattractive envelopes with windows. When I replayed my phone messages, I jerked to attention.

‘Annie, this is Patrice Lonsdale. Some work has come up that sounds like you. Would you call me?’

I admired Patrice and liked working with her. She was a smart and highly professional consultant, but still compassionate and interesting. Maybe she could salvage something from my calamitous day. We arranged to meet the next morning.

That left the string of emails; the latest was from Rafaelo, loving and sad – we must go our separate ways, he said, but he’d always be there for me. Always. I blinked back the tears.

By six I was seeing double. I set the alarm and crashed, desperate for oblivion.

Jet-lag, the ever-present spectre of the murderous Martin Barclay and anguish over the row with Steve conspired to give me one of the worst nights of my life. Could we possibly get ourselves back on track? It didn’t look good. Apart from the emotional wreckage, what about our working partnership? We’d become dependent on each other professionally and I needed to start earning again, and quickly. Then there was the aching loss of Rafaelo, as intense as it was bizarre, given how little time we’d spent together; somehow he’d burrowed right into my psyche. I was still thrashing around when the alarm went off.

By ten I was sitting in Patrice Lonsdale’s small but stylish office in West End. She looked as serene and elegant as ever: casually dressed with her blonde hair pulled back, she was a model of how a career woman in her forties could present a graceful face to the world, discreetly screening her formidable talents.

‘I’d just about given you up, Annie,’ she said as she made coffee, ‘You’ve been overseas, you said?’

‘I had to go to England to testify in a murder trial. It was an awful experience.’

She looked startled. ‘Good heavens. No wonder you look the worse for wear – sorry,’ she added hastily, ‘I didn’t mean …’

I sighed. ‘True though – but it’s behind me now, and I’m keen to get to work.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘So what’s the project?’

She picked up a folder. ‘There are two, both a bit unusual,’ she said. ‘I seem to recall saying that last time.’

I flinched at the memory. ‘I remember the cracked ribs better than the briefing.’

‘That was most unfortunate.’ She compressed her lips. ‘There should be no such risks here. Okay: I’ve taken a contract to investigate social isolation on the Gold Coast, which seems to be on the increase.’

‘Social isolation?’ I was amazed. ‘That doesn’t seem to jell with the fun-in-the-sun image.’

She smiled. ‘I’m sure there’s lots of that too, but yes, isolation is becoming a problem. I’m setting up a couple of pilot schemes to try to build some local networks. That’s where you come in.’

‘How come?’

‘There’s a good deal of interest among older folk around local history. The locals would like to contribute, and the newcomers are curious about where this city came from.’

‘About time.’

She nodded. ‘I’m setting up three groups along the strip between Southport and Coolangatta to delve into the local background, and I hoped you would work with them as a facilitator. I know you’re into local history.’

I considered. ‘What outcome would you want?

She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘In the long term, I’d like the groups to become self-sustaining. Immediately, I’d like the participants to become involved in something they enjoy, to meet like-minded people, to be motivated to contribute – and to feel their contribution is valued.’

Too good – a Steve-free project with guaranteed dollars and a history flavour to boot. ‘I’m in, Patrice,’ I said. ‘I’d want the library on side though. They’re a major resource.’

‘Excellent. Moving on …’ She passed me a sheet of paper with a name, address and phone number.

‘Jack Riversdale,’ I read. ‘That sounds familiar, but I don’t know why. Who is he?’

‘He was a well-known businessman in his day, and a very successful one, though you’d never pick that now except for the air of authority. He’s probably well into his eighties and looks pretty seedy but he’s still on the ball. He got a carer to bring him to a meeting. He had no interest in my project at all – in fact he was a damned nuisance in the discussion. He probably is isolated, but that’s just how he likes it. It turned out he was only there to try to get hold of someone to investigate his suspicions.’

I leaned forward, but she raised her hand. ‘Despite appearances he’s quite wealthy. Anyway, he wants someone to take up his case where the police left off. It’s right outside my remit, of course, but I thought of you and Steve.’

‘The police? What case?’ I recalled those cracked ribs with apprehension.

‘Apparently his younger son committed suicide recently, or so the police believe.’

‘He doesn’t think so?’

‘No way. Once he got going it was hard to follow what he was saying and –’ she rolled her eyes ‘– even harder to stop him. He’s obviously used to calling the shots. He said something about a home movie being the key. His older son disappeared years ago and he’s worried about that, too.’

‘So if it wasn’t suicide, what then? An accident? Murder? And why get involved?’

She pursed her lips. ‘When I checked him out I found he was well known and well respected in his day. Jack Riversdale is nobody’s fool, and I deplore the culture that ignores people and their concerns just because they’re old. He’s been brushed aside by the authorities as a demented old man, which he most certainly is not. He deserves to be heard, and he’s ready and able to pay for some more investigation. I imagine it will be about accessing records, that sort of thing.’

‘Surely a private investigator would be a better bet,’ I said.

‘That’s what I suggested. But he’s been down that track before, he said. He called it rip-off territory.’

I hesitated. ‘It could be very hard to get a result for him,’ I said. ‘He’d have to realise that.’

‘I agree.’ She looked at me searchingly. ‘Is there a problem that you haven’t mentioned?’

I swallowed. ‘I’m not sure that Steve will be available, Patrice.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t pursue it. ‘That could be a drawback for Riversdale. I don’t think he’s caught up with gender equity.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we could meet him tomorrow – say at nine? Then you could decide.’

He didn’t sound a very attractive proposition, but I needed to work. ‘Okay. Let’s do that.’

She checked her diary and lifted the phone. Riversdale agreed. I had no premonitions.

None.

Wrong again.

CHAPTER 3

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To: —— Steve

From:—Annie (anniebryce@bigpond.com)

Steve, we’ve got to talk when we’ve cooled down. I’m going up the coast to see Jo – how about Sunday afternoon?

A

To:——Annie

From —Steve (maxtons@optusnet.com.au)

Not Sunday. Monday pm?

S

To:—— Steve

From: —Annie (anniebryce@bigpond.com)

3pm Monday at Vibes in Milton?

A

To:—— Annie

From:—Steve (maxtons@optusnet.com.au)

OK.

S

While that exchange wasn’t exactly effusive, it was an advance on stony silence. I knew our meeting would be crucial to a future together – and after all that had happened, how could I contemplate life without Steve? Hurling another faceful of tea at him would not, I decided, be the way to go. Nevertheless there were big issues here, for him and for me, and we would have to find a way through them.

I crashed early, slept fitfully, woke before the sun peeked over the horizon and took a coffee into my study to see what I could find out about Jack Riversdale on the internet. Then I set off on the eighty kilometer drive down the busy Pacific Highway to meet Patrice at his home; he lived right on the Broadwater at Paradise Point.

During my schooldays we’d spent countless weekends and holidays at the Main Beach weekender belonging to Dad’s family, but since then all my man-made landmarks had been demolished and rebuilt, some two or three times. New roads snaked along and around and among endless new, huge developments of extravagant houses crammed onto tiny allotments. Signposts proclaimed a host of unfamiliar names. Consequently I was now perpetually disoriented. No wonder people were becoming isolated, I thought.

I found this so unsettling that I had virtually abandoned visiting the Gold Coast in favour of the northern beaches of the Sunshine Coast. It was heading the same way but altogether more gradually and with a lot more regulation, debate and protest, often spearheaded by residents who had taken refuge there from the urban jungle that the Gold Coast had become.

The street directory open on the seat beside me, I followed the route I had plotted marking highway and exit numbers, street names … one false move on these roads and I could be hours late. Sighting the calm blue expanse of the Broadwater stretching across to the sand-fringed green of South Stradbroke Island, I sighed with relief: home and hosed. I followed the water along to the north.

Jack Riversdale’s was one of the very few detached homes still standing, squashed between two blocks of high-rise units. It was a shabby old fibro cottage on a large, overgrown block, which no doubt had been keenly sought by the developers on both sides; but someone had defied the developers with all their ruses and temptations in order to Stay Put. In fact, the house itself, with its peeling paint and rusty roof, made a very loud statement. The thought warmed me.

Patrice was waiting for me in her car. ‘You’re looking a bit better,’ she greeted me. ‘Sleep helps,’ I told her. ‘Hey,’ I gestured at the house, ‘this is pretty grim. I thought this guy was loaded.’

‘He is – loaded and seriously eccentric. I should have expected something like this,’ she said, taking in the cracked windows, the sagging curtains, the neglected yard, the two defunct washing machines propped against the fence. ‘He probably enjoys degrading the neighbourhood; he’s that sort of character.’

She rapped on the door. After a few minutes it creaked open and we found ourselves facing a stooped figure wearing only a tatty singlet and shorts, leaning heavily on a walking frame.

‘It’s Patrice, Mr Riversdale,’ she said loudly. ‘I rang, remember? And this is Annie Bryce.’

‘Of course I remember,’ he snapped, his rheumy eyes flicking in my direction. ‘You don’t have to shout, I’m not deaf. You’d better come in.’

The interior was even worse, with a grubby brown carpet that may once have been beige and an overpowering smell of tobacco. Two large chairs sat in a sea of ash and burnt carpet, one overlooking the water and the other facing the ancient TV set which was blaring away. He made his slow, painful way across to the set and turned it off, then sank into an armchair, parked his walking frame, groped for the makings on the table beside him and started to roll a cigarette. We settled on a cluttered vinyl lounge, shoving the debris on it to one end.

‘So who did you say she is?’ he asked, nodding in my general direction. I noticed that some of his teeth were missing.

‘Annie Bryce, the investigative reporter I mentioned.’

‘You said you’d bring a man.’

‘I work with a partner, Steve Maxton,’ I explained in my first and only attempt to placate him. ‘He’s not available, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.’ And if you don’t want to, I thought, that’s fine by me.

‘Hmmph. You’re just a girl.’

Patrice intervened. ‘Mr Riversdale, Annie is a skilled, experienced journalist. She’s got an excellent record, she’s prepared to take on unusual assignments and she may agree to investigate your concerns. This meeting is for you both to decide whether she will. If you don’t want her to work with you, just say so.’ Coming from the diplomatic Patrice that was pretty blunt, I thought.

He lifted a hand. ‘Not so fast.’ He finished rolling his fag and felt around for some matches, lit it and exhaled a stream of foul-smelling smoke. ‘Alright – Annie, is it? How do I know you’re any good?’

I decided to follow Patrice’s lead. ‘Before we go into that, I’ve got two questions.’

‘Which are?’

‘One: what do you want me to investigate? And two: will you guarantee to pay my fees and costs, with or without a result?’ I’d decided not to waste words here – that way we’d be out of this decrepit den all the sooner. And I needed to find a way to level the playing field.

He cackled. ‘Not much charm, eh?’

‘That makes two of us, Mr Riversdale. Now we haven’t got all morning.’ I knew a game-player when I met one, and this game-player obviously had nothing else to do.

He looked disappointed, but punched back. ‘And why should I pay you if you can’t find anything new?’

I was ready for that one. ‘Because of who you are.’

‘You’ve got no idea who I am, young lady.’

‘I think I have. I know that you set up RTD Furniture in the fifties and floated it in the late sixties, reaping you a fortune. Then you established DTR Enterprises which dealt in office equipment, and that company went public twelve years later – fortune number two. I know you were awarded an Order of Australia Medal for services to industry and the environment, to which you have given substantial donations. You retired to your beach-front house at Mermaid Beach about twenty years ago and after your wife died five years later, you sold it – for fortune number three – and moved here. Since then you’ve chosen to live a very private life.’ I looked around. ‘Virtually incognito, I’d say.’

Speechless, he just stared at me while smoke spiralled off the cigarette in his motionless hand and ash dropped on the carpet. Even Patrice looked impressed.

‘Now the way I see it,’ I went on, ‘a man with all that behind him fully appreciates that time is money, and he can also be trusted to honour any agreement that we may reach this morning. Am I correct?’

He recovered his breath. ‘Yes. You are.’

‘I think that’s taken care of my credentials,’ I said smoothly. ‘So what is it you want me to investigate, Mr Riversdale?’

He took a drag of the cigarette. ‘Smart, aren’t you?’ He sounded as if he didn’t like that much. ‘I suppose you found out about my family, too?’

‘Only the bare bones. Two sons: Robert died last August at the age of fifty-one; and Simon would be fifty-six. Robert had two children, Emma and Nathan, both now in their twenties. I found no recent mention of Simon.’

There was a knock on the door. He groaned and struggled to his feet. ‘Hang on. That’ll be one of those damned carers. Bob wanted me to go into some sort of home, but no bloody fear, so instead he set up this parade of women. This is the second today …’

He creaked across to the door and ushered in a middle-aged woman clutching a couple of bulging shopping bags. ‘Just get on with whatever you’ve got to do,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve got people here.’

She nodded and scuttled into another room.

Patrice checked the time. ‘We’re going to have to leave in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Bloody women,’ he grumbled, ‘they run every show in town these days. It’s a long story, and it started over thirty years ago. It’ll take me hours to tell. But if you’re in such a hurry … well, I don’t believe Bob killed himself. Not a possibility. But would the police believe me? Never. Then there’s the films. And Simon.’

‘Films? What films?’

‘The film Bob had been watching before he died. Projector still switched on, reel empty so it must have been pinched, but two more films were locked away in his safe. He was killed, plain as daylight. House had been ransacked, but they missed the safe. So did the police. I had to tell them where it was. I want to know what those films are about. The police brought them back yesterday. They’re here somewhere.’ He waved towards the door, and I saw a carton against the wall.

‘Have you seen them?’ I asked.

He stubbed out his cigarette and started rolling another one. ‘Can’t see much now, young lady. Macular degeneration. Can just about get around without breaking my neck. Can’t see faces, can’t read any more.’

‘Oh.’ I was silent as the full enormity of this struck home, and suddenly the plight of this game old man tugged at my heart. ‘I suppose you can’t write, either,’ I said.

‘Course not. Why?’

‘Well, if it’s such a long story I was going to ask you to write it down. Maybe I could leave you a tape recorder?’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t see to use things like that.’ He looked at me evilly. ‘You’ll have to come back.’

‘That will depend on whether you agree to my fees.’ I told him my hourly rate. ‘Plus costs and GST.’

‘What costs?’

‘Travel, phone, photocopying, records searches, that sort of thing.’

He thought for a moment, then for the first time sounded like the CEO he’d been for most of his life. ‘I agree to your terms and conditions. Will you work for me?’

I hesitated, weighing the pros and cons. Finally I compromised. ‘Look, Mr Riversdale, why don’t we trial our arrangement for, say, ten hours of my time?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you don’t seem to like me much, and I don’t think you want me to like you, so it might just be too hard for both of us. But if you want me to, I’ll hear the details of your story, talk to your contacts in the police and look at the films and see what I can make of them.’

‘You don’t