Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 7

  The sound of a voice calling out, ‘hello’, downstairs, sent Narla into a panic. ‘Fuck.’ She remembered that it was Friday, the groceries were always delivered on Friday and Mr Johnson would expect paying too. She looked around for a towel. ‘Damn.’ All the towels were used, lying in the laundry basket. She stood and let most of the water drip from her body before deciding to streak across the hall to the bedroom. She grabbed Charles towelling robe and wrapped it around herself. She quickly brushed her wet hair, slicking it back, and making sure she was not about to give the septuagenarian grocer an eyeful that would surely kill him and ran down the stairs to be greeted by his wizened features.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Fleisher.’ George Johnson smiled, handing Narla the bill for the three bags of groceries that were sitting on the floor next to the old man. Narla took the receipt from his shaking wrinkled hands, the bones around the knuckles, arthritic, stretching the thin waspish skin almost to breaking point.

  ‘Have to be a check, George. Fool husband of mine's taken all the cash.’ She instinctively put her hands in to the pockets of her husband’s dressing gown. Her fingers wrapped around two thin pieces of what felt like card. ‘Hang on a moment George. The check book is in the kitchen.’

  George nodded.

  As Narla walked to the kitchen she pulled out the pieces of card from her pocket. The black backing surrounded by the white border told her instantly that they were Polaroid photographs. She flipped them over and visibly staggered when she saw the images of herself naked on the bed.

  Fifteen

  Rick, Leroy and Georgina entered the office to find Barbara Dace waiting. She was smoking a cigarette; patiently waiting for their return. She had been there for over an hour. Barbara stubbed out the remainder of her cigarette and stood to greet the three detectives. She lit up another cigarette and pulled sharply on the long stick, orange embers raced towards her lips. Her gaunt cheeks sucked in, causing hundreds of thin lines to gather around her eyes and mouth. She exhaled a bank of blue smoke, which she directed to the rotating fan in the ceiling, where the swirling blades dissipated it. Barbara sat on one of the chairs that faced Rick Montoya’s desk.

  Leroy opened the refrigerator. ‘Cool, the fridge fairies have been.’ He pulled out a cool beer from the freshly replenished appliance. ‘Beer anyone?’

  Georgina raised her hand.

  ‘Mrs Dace?’ Leroy thought it only polite to ask. She surprised him by accepting. Rick already had his hand out ready to receive. As the sound of beer cans being opened filled the office, Barbara began to answer.

  ‘This story is big.’ She drew down to the filter tip, whilst pouring the beer simultaneously. ‘It’s the sort of story that if you worked in a major city like LA or New York comes along every other week but you’d still kill for, pardon my choice of words. But to happen here in a small community like Turtle Island, this is my one shot. I know what you’re thinking; who is this middle aged woman? ... but ... something happened this morning.’ She stubbed the half spent cigarette out on the rim of her beer can, letting the smoke escape from her lips as she spoke. ‘I received a package to my house a couple of hours ago...’ Barbara put a Jiffy envelope on the table. It was A4 in size and the addressed to Master Robert Dace in purple ink, hand written, delivered by courier.

  ‘As you can see it was addressed to my grandson. I’ve advised my son and family to go back home until this thing sorts out...I think it will be safer.’ She lit another cigarette.

  Georgina pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the envelope. A videocassette fell out. ‘Have you played this?’

  Barbara drew hard on the cigarette. ‘You see these?’ She held forward her trembling hands, smoke from the cigarette was drawn upwards by the rotating ceiling fan. ‘I recommend something stronger than beer before you view it.’ She stubbed out the remainder and immediately lit up another.

  ‘Mrs Dace, I’m going to have to ask you to give us your fingerprints and a DNA swab. Although I very much doubt it, there may be a chance that our killer may have left some incriminating evidence on the cassette or envelope, it will cut out confusion.’ Leroy tried to be sympathetic asking an awkward question.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ The smoke drifted into Barbara’s eyes stinging them.

  ‘Was there anything else, notes, messages?’ Leroy was eager to view the video; he needed to make a connection with the murderer.

  Barbara shook her head

  ‘Has anyone else seen the cassette?’ Georgina asked.

  ‘Chris, that’s all.’

  ‘Chris Hurley?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Barbara sighed expelling a vast amount of smoke.

  O’Neil exchanged bemused glances with Leroy.

  ‘Did he make a copy of the tape?’ Rick asked before downing the last drop of cool amber beer.

  ‘I don’t know, ...I mean he could have. I took the tape to his office. We watched it there. It’s possible he could have run a duplicate simultaneously.’

  Georgina picked up the cassette, carefully holding it by its edges, mindful of any prints that could get smudged by her latex gloves. ‘It’s Showtime.’

  ‘Should we run the tape down to the lab first for prints and analysis?’ Leroy said somewhat nervous of exceeding protocol.

  ‘That will take them the best part of two hours, maybe longer.’ Rick argued ‘I say we watch it now.’

  ‘Send the envelope down to forensics; get them to check the gum for DNA.’ Georgina said.

  Barbara stood. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve no desire to push it into the Nielsen’s by viewing it again. Once is more than enough. Before you play it, I think I should warn you that there is a message directly aimed at the investigating team right at the end. I’ll be waiting outside if you need me.’

  ‘Go down to the second floor and get printed. It’s gonna save a whole load of trouble later.’ Leroy said. ‘You gonna be all right?’

  Barbara Dace shook her head. ‘I seriously doubt it but thanks for asking. Thank God I’ve got a bulletin to get together for the six o’clock to keep me occupied.’

  ‘You sure?’ Georgina reiterated.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Barbara said. She walked out of the office.

  Georgina span around. ‘Right, let’s get it on.’

  She held the tape in the mouth of the eagerly waiting jaws of the V.C.R. The tape was snatched from her hand and consumed into the stomach of the black box. The telly screen was awash with dancing static until the cassette slotted home and began to play. Montoya, LaPortiere and Agent Georgina O’Neil sat in the darkened room holding their breath.

  Narla didn’t know what to do. Should she ring Charles and question him? She looked at the pictures once more. Sitting on the lounge suite in the living room with a glass of brandy in one hand and the photographs in the other, she tried to understand the significance of the images. Although she was naked in one of them, she appeared to be asleep. A thought flashed through her mind. What if there were other photographs hidden around the house? Maybe there was other women? The thought had never before entered Narla’s mind during their entire relationship, it was a giant leap but the photographs disturbed her. The thought came like a sledgehammer; her mind began to think about Charles’s late work, his long hours, and his business conferences away from home. Suddenly Narla’s life was unravelling in front of her. His study and gym, that’s where he’d hide anything from her, he knew she rarely entered his domain. It seemed to Narla to be the obvious choice. Charles had specially converted the old summerhouse at the foot of the garden by the river. He ‘needed somewhere where he could train and study in peace’. Narla knew the summerhouse would be locked, there was a spare key somewhere, now where was it?

  Charles washed and shaved in his small but well-appointed personal office suite. It was handy to keep fresh after strenuous gym sessions or other strenuous sessions with female clients. Half an hour till his date with Karen Fuller. The Kingsley deal was wrapped up as he’d expected. Charles was feeling good; he
was going to give ‘Miss’ a night to remember? He brushed his teeth, grimacing wide-mouthed in front of the mirror, studying the two perfect rows of white tombstone teeth for unwanted debris. Dining in one of the local restaurants would be too risky, so Charles had booked a table at Palacs, a quiet restaurant outside Missouri in Campbelltown. He had used it many times before and felt comfortable there. The staff were discreet and the atmosphere conducive. An expensive dinner there had always brought its rewards later in the evening. Though tonight, Charles knew there would be no doubt about the consequences. Karen Fuller was the find of his adulterous life, a borderline nymphomaniac with an insatiable appetite for wild uninhibited sex, almost paralleling his own. The meal was merely foreplay, something he knew Karen would find torturous.

  The door finally gave way to the pressure Narla inserted on it with a large steel screwdriver. She had pulled back on the handle with all her strength and weight, watching the steel shaft of the driver bend, hoping it wouldn't break. She no longer cared about the damage to the door. If she had to, she would have used an axe to gain entry. Charles had been careful enough to take the spare keys with him. This only confirmed to Narla that he was trying to hide something. She stepped into the summerhouse. The white pitch board walls on the outside deflected the sun, making the interior cool and dark. Charles had boarded over the windows ‘to help keep the temperature down when I’m working out’. ‘Sure.’ Narla said to herself. She switched the light on. A neon tube flickered. While the light was strobing, Narla imagined Charles walking toward her. A dull ache had begun to throb in her temples, she promised herself two migraine tablets when she got back in the house. She felt uneasy entering his domain, even though she knew Charles would be home late. ‘Was that another of his little secrets, was he meeting secretly with someone? They could even be making love right now.’ Her mind conjured thoughts that were unimaginable.

  Weights were scattered around the floor. His desk was over the far side of the room. Slowly, she walked toward the old oak writing bureau. She held on to the screwdriver; the bureau would be locked but not for long. Narla tugged at the writing flap with her fingers just in case it had been left open, but its refusal to budge confirmed the need for the screwdriver. She wedged it behind the lock at the top of the flap near the centre and pulled back sharply. It gave way with a lot less protestation than the door. The flap bounced down. Papers, pens, a book dealing with real estate law, some property sheets from his office, advertising Turtle Island’s hottest properties and a photograph of Narla with Harley were the desks only contents. Narla began to wonder if she was being paranoid or oversensitive. Her period loomed, which always made her a little edgy, and now with her head aching, she began to think there was a perfectly innocent explanation for the Polaroid’s. ‘No, No, No!’ Narla shook her head. She rocked the bureau back and forward frustrated by the lack of incriminating evidence. Something inside a secret compartment jingled. Narla shook the desk again. There were always secret compartments on old writing bureaus. Her fingers ran along the flat seam edges of all the joinery, hoping to find a false panel or tiny door. She never heard the footsteps behind her, creeping closer, stealthily, so as not to be heard, so intent was Narla at finding out the key to her husband’s betrayal.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Narla turned her heart racing. ‘Harley, you nearly scared me to death.’ She clutched the screwdriver to her breast, feeling her heart pound fiercely inside her chest and her head. Harley stood still, looking admonished, holding her school bag.

  ‘You never came to collect me.’

  ‘Oh my god, is that the time? I’m sorry Lamb. I kinda got caught up in things. Did Mrs Pearson drop you home?’

  ‘Yeah. Is it alright if I go to Leigh’s for dinner tonight, Mrs Pearson said I could sleepover?’

  Narla looked at her daughter. ‘Of course it is.’

  Harley turned to run away, but before leaving kissed her mother and said. ‘Thanks, you’re really cool.’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring some clean clothes for tomorrow and ring me?’ Narla called after her daughter who was already half way up the garden heading toward the house. She heard Harley reply ‘Yeah, okay.’ before her daughter disappeared inside the house. Narla sat against the wall and slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She felt physically sick and mentally drained. Her nerves were jangling. Her arms pulsed and felt heavy. After a few moments, she had calmed sufficiently enough to resume her search. Narla rocked the bureau again, trying to pin down the exact source from where the noise was coming from. Lattice carved wood shelves that housed paper and envelopes took up two columns, which ran from the right and left of bureau, separated by an arch. Narla felt around the arch. Two thin joinery lines ran to the back of the bureau. Her fingers pressed upwards and there was a small click. She pulled her hand away and in her palm was a little wooden drawer with two keys rattling around the bottom of it. She lifted the keys from their sanctuary and looked around the room for somewhere to fit them. Her heart beat a little faster; expectation and trepidation were implicit pals. She could feel the pulse in her head throbbing. Thud, Thud, Thud. Sweat tricked down her back, her palms were clammy. The heat seemed to engulf the room. There was no obvious door, maybe it wasn't in the summerhouse; maybe Charles liked to keep his secrets far away. She pulled the bureau away from the wall. Set into the wall behind the desk was a small square door about twelve inches by twelve. It had been painted over to blend in with the rest of the room’s decoration. Narla inserted a key in to the tiny aperture and twisted it. The key jammed, the door did not budge. She jiggled the key, freeing it before inserting the second key. This time the key span in the barrel and the lock pulled back, releasing the door from its frame. There were two shelves in the tiny cubbyhole; on the floor of the cupboard were three rows of videotapes. Tiny black mini cassettes, each labelled in Charles handwriting. H in bath, H in bed, H with C, H mouth C, T and G C-h-tel, M C-h-tel. The list went on. Narla counted over twenty of the miniature videocassettes. On the shelf above were rows of neatly stacked Polaroid’s, and a small cash box, metallic green and locked. Narla picked up the cash box and shook it. She placed it down on the ground next to her knees and took a pile of the photos, so neatly arranged.

  As she thumbed through them her entire life began to crumble. She had steeled herself for her husband’s betrayal, but nothing prepared her for the images on the tiny squares of paper. As she looked at her husband defiling their daughter, it slowly dawned on her what the ‘H’ might be on the videocassettes. Narla’s stomach turned. ‘Why didn’t Harley say something to her? How could she, as Harley’s mother, not have noticed what was happening to her daughter?’ Narla took the videos marked ‘H’ and left the summerhouse. Her legs, both laden and jelly-like at the same time. For a moment Narla thought she was going to be sick, her vision blurred over.

  The tape was even worse than Barbara had indicated. It was evident that she was shocked by the contents, but nothing, not even Dace’s warning about the message at the end of the tape, prepared the detectives for the pure evil savagery played out for their ‘entertainment’. Georgina O’Neil sipped from a cool glass of water. Her throat felt tight and her stomach was queasy. Leroy closed his eyes and held the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He breathed deeply. ‘Man, I’ve seen it all now. Don’t worry, Rick; I am sure the department will pull all of the stops out to catch this sick son-of-a-bitch. Jo-Lynn and Ray are safe.’

  Rick sat staring at the TV screen. Shock was painted on his features with a broad brush. ‘I…I…what has he got against me?’

  ‘Guards will be getting there right now, Rick. Even as we speak.’ Leroy’s hand on Rick’s shoulder did nothing to control Rick Montoya’s deep sense of ill ease.

  ‘How does he even know I exist?’ Rick said.

  ‘The threat is non-specific, Rick. We are just taking precautions.’

  ‘He’d have to be mad to try anything now. He would know we would post troops all over y
our house.’

  Rick turned to face Leroy. ‘Tell me, Leroy, did they look like the actions of a sane man?’

  Leroy’s silence amplified what everyone in the room was feeling.

  Sixteen

  Norman Frusco rocked back and forth on his office chair. This was not the sort of job for a man with his patience, then again what was? Captain, was the moniker on the door but it hardly began to tell the story of twenty-five years’ service to the Missouri police. His once resplendent head of hair was now a memory, his slim athletic figure gave way to middle age spread; the curse of promotion to a desk job, though he still liked to get out in to the ‘war zone’ occasionally. The war zone, used to be the city, used to be areas of deprivation, where tough living forced tough choices on to people with no choice. God, he and his wife had talked about retiring to Turtle Island. Frusco watched the news on the slim portable T.V that was sandwiched between a row of unread books and the trophy his division won three years on the trot for the highest arrest and conviction rates. The trophy was now tarnished but then again what wasn’t? Barbara Dace was looking at him from the tiny TV screen, reading the major story tonight. In Norman’s mind, she was not tarnished. Norman Frusco during honest moments with himself, found Barbara Dace very attractive, he always had done. They went way back far too long for Frusco to care to count. It seemed that Norman and Barbara were always destined to be on parallel courses that were designed to cross. He pressed the intercom in front of him.

  ‘Where’s Montoya and LaPortiere?’ he let go of the switch before anyone would be foolish enough to reply.

  It was eight o’clock and it had been a very long day. All Frusco wanted to do now was go home relax with a beer and take a month off. The chances of taking a month off were as remote as was relaxing, unless of course he got totally drunk. As his finger depressed the intercom switch again the door to his office opened, Frusco looked up. It was Montoya and LaPortiere.