Darkest Place (7 page)

She woke with keys in her hand – on the sofa, the light outside dimmed to grey. Carly remembered the two-hour wait for the forensics officer and sitting down to pull on shoes for the dash to her last class. Looking down, she saw the laces hanging from the one shoe that had made it onto a foot. ‘Shit.'

It was cold now and she flipped on the heating, checked the balcony door and stood to watch the encroaching darkness. Wind blew in blustering bursts against the glass. The ache at the base of her skull was gone, her mind was still and for the first time since she'd woken with a man on her bed, Carly thought about it without the agitation.

Dean and Jacinda considered someone climbing up from the street. Or from another apartment. But why hers? She was two floors down from the roof, three balconies in from the corner. Not the easiest to get to.

And why now? She'd only been here two weeks, the apartment had been empty for months. Unless … her eyebrows rose. Unless it wasn't his first visit. Had he been here when the apartment was empty? Used a key or climbed over the balcony, making use of the place because
no one was here? She glanced at her reflection. That only explained the first visit, an
Oops, someone moved in
. Not the second one, not after the squad of police that had been here both times.

Her gaze roamed around the suburb below. The streetlights were on, their glow pale in the early evening. The cluster of vacant warehouses loomed silent and watchful. Around them, bright squares of light marked bungalows and cottages. Occasional shadows passed behind drawn blinds like ghosts. The few uncovered windows were like movie screens: a woman awash in steam as she cooked dinner, a teenager studying at a bedroom desk, a man drinking beer while he watched the news.

Carly turned away from them, looking at her own home and the lights on in the living room and over the kitchen counter. She imagined the east wall of the warehouse at night, its five floors of windows. How many of her neighbours had blinds or curtains? How much of her apartment could be seen from outside?

Was someone playing
Rear Window
? Watching through binoculars and amusing himself with the lives of the strangers?

Feeling suddenly exposed, she took a couple of steps back, glancing up and around at the huge checker board windows. If there were curtains somewhere big enough to cover them, she couldn't afford them.

She switched a few bulbs off, skipped her nightly perusal of the view from the balcony doors and kept to one side of the expanse of glass, looking for faces at windows. When she went to bed, she left the ensuite light on and the door ajar – if he came back, she wanted to see him. It was meant to help her relax but the harsh white stripe around the door made her ankles and lower
back ache, visceral reminders of the six weeks she'd spent in hospital after the fall – in pain and distraught, drugged and watched – and other brief, anguished stays in hospital, the last just five months ago.

Around two, she couldn't stand it any longer; she turned the bathroom light out and left the one at the bottom of the stairs on – not as bright but maybe she'd sleep. When she did, it wasn't hospital she dreamed of.

The moon was full and bright. Clouds like drifts of muslin floated through its glow. The ledge was deep and level, wide enough for four. Wide enough to light a fire and stay warm all night. Only Carly was so cold her tears felt like hot water.

Debs?
She was behind Carly, out of sight. The sharp stuttering of her breath had stopped.
Debs!

Carly turned her face, found again the dark halo that had spread around Jenna's head. Adam's hand in Carly's was loose now, the blood drying and tacky. His panic had filled the canyon with sound.
The bone, oh fuck, it's sticking out.
He'd dragged himself to her, howling with pain, an artery spilling his life across Carly in a warm, fast gush.

Alone now, the shattered bones in her ankles and lower spine pulsed with fire. Pale shadows shifted and slid across the rock shelf. Carly's voice was barely more than a whisper but it was the only one in the canyon.
Take me too.

 

Carly shouted Dakota a cappuccino in a break between classes, an apology for not turning up yesterday when they'd planned to visit the cafe.

‘Dodgy curry, huh?' Dakota said, dropping onto the bench seat beside her, something cheeky in her grin. ‘Sure it's not a hangover?'

‘Not unless you can get one from a glass of wine and a takeaway.'

‘Pity. At least you have a little fun before a hangover.'

Not always, Carly thought. ‘That's the only bonus.'

‘Did you get the assignment that was handed out yesterday?'

‘I picked one up just now. Haven't looked at it, though.'

‘We have to work in pairs. I thought we could partner up.'

Carly smiled, surprised. ‘Are you sure? I don't have a business idea to contribute. Apparently that's an issue.'

Dakota cast a look over her shoulder, leaned in closer. ‘Yeah, but I like talking to you. What do you think?'

‘Yes. Love to.'

 

I need my garage pass and my mail. Call me!

Carly sent the text standing outside Howard Helyer's apartment. She'd already knocked and got no answer, but she listened at his door for a ping from a phone, wondering if he was in there and avoiding her. She heard only the weird hush of the foyer and the creaking-whispering that always made her think people were tiptoeing about just out of sight.

It was late afternoon when she headed across the suspended walkway on the fourth floor, an overcast sky turning the light in the atrium to an eerie glow. Her living room was bathed in a washed-out grey as she pulled out books and sat at the wrought-iron table. A knock at the door an hour later made her jump with fright.

Peering through the gap allowed by the security chain, she saw a tall, blond, absurdly handsome man.

‘Charlie,' he said.

‘Sorry?'

‘Are you Charlie?'

‘I'm Carly.'

‘Right, right, Carly. I'm Howard.'

She was tempted to smile – of course the conversation made no sense, and you just didn't see that kind of handsome walking around. But she leaned against the wall, kept the chain on its hook. ‘Howard. At last.'

‘Yeah, sorry about the mix-up. I've had the flu.' He ran a hand through thick wavy locks. ‘Actually, I think the drugs were the problem.'

Carly raised her eyebrows. That explained a lot.

‘Oh, ha-ha, not those kind of drugs,' he said. ‘I took some cold tabs and had some weird reaction. Just sort of flaked out and lost a few days. You probably thought I was, I don't know …'

‘Hung-over.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

He shrugged, held up a large envelope. ‘Got your stuff.' He sounded like a dealer, looked like a light-haired Superman in civvies. Chisel-jawed, broad-shouldered and athletic enough to leap tall buildings.

‘Great.' Carly held fingers up to the gap in the door.

He made no move to hand the package over. ‘Got a minute?'

‘Okay.'

‘Can I come in?'

She hesitated, debating man-shaped shadows and his job as supervisor. Finally unlatched the chain and pulled the door wide.

He followed her to the living room, glancing around as though he was the landlord. ‘Not much different to the last time I saw the place.'

Carly stayed near the hallway, more comfortable with the open front door at her back. ‘When Talia was here?' Maybe she hadn't had much furniture either.

‘No, when it was empty. The family had a bit of work done and I dealt with the tradesmen.' He took something from the front pocket of his jeans. ‘You should have this.'

It was a key. Carly's heart thumped. She wanted to snatch it from him, she wanted to get the hell away from him. Opposing urges that held her to the spot.

‘The cops came to see me at uni today,' he said. ‘They asked if I had a key to your apartment. I said no, then remembered this one and rambled on about why I had it.' He shrugged. ‘I'd forgotten about it. Here.' He let it drop from his palm to hers.

It was warm from his body. Like the hand on her throat.

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. ‘Did Talia give it to you?'

‘No. Her dad. He came over from Perth after the accident. They had to pack up her things and make arrangements for selling the apartment. There was a problem with a couple of the walls.' As he pointed at the plaster on the long wall Carly shared with Nate, she wondered what kind of accident. ‘There was a hole there and another one in the loft.' He made a circle with two hands, thumbs and index fingers together. ‘And smaller ones where Talia had hung pictures. There was a heap of them along here.' He indicated the stretch from the French windows to the hallway. ‘It must have been like an art gallery when she was here. Her dad decided to get them all patched and have the whole place painted before it went on the market. Asked me to hold onto the key in case he decided not to fly back. And, you know, to let tradesmen in.'

Carly glanced back at him. ‘You gave the key to tradesmen?'

‘No. I let them in and they'd lock up on their way out.'

‘So you're the only one who used the key?'

He ducked his head. ‘Not ex
act
ly. I gave it to the painters once. They wanted to start really early and I was going out or away or something the night before, I can't remember now, but I … well, they let themselves in. Just that one time.'

‘You mean they had the key overnight.'

‘Until they gave it back to me.'

Her shoulders stiffened. ‘How long did they have it?'

‘Couple of days. Tops.' He held up a palm as though taking an oath.

It didn't matter how many days. An hour was enough to have a copy made. ‘Did you tell the police?'

‘Didn't need to. They returned it.'

‘No, I meant today,' she snapped. ‘Did you tell them about the painters
today
?'

‘Oh, right.' He rubbed a hand over his chiselled jaw. ‘Yeah, see, that's what I was rambling on about. I couldn't remember why I wasn't going to be here and that woman detective looked at me like I was spinning some story to cover my arse. I kept thinking, TV cop show, guy talks too much, sweats all over the place, gotta be the perp.' He huffed a nervous laugh. ‘That was me. Sweating and blabbing. I wanted to handcuff myself.'

Even tense and impatient with him, Carly could imagine the scene and wanted to smile: Superman and Anne Long's deadpan face. ‘Did you give the detectives the name of the painters?'

‘I couldn't remember that, either, of course. But I've got copies of the receipts. I said I'd dig them out and let her know.'

‘Can you do that?'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

She'd heard that from him before. ‘Tonight?'

He faltered, seemed to think past his own embarrassed explanation for the first time. ‘You think one of the painters was in your apartment?'

‘Well the guy wasn't carrying a brush but it's possible whoever was here got in with a key.'

‘Oh, right. Whoa.' He froze for a second, as though the news had shocked him to the spot. Then he hooked a thumb at the door. ‘I'll go look now.' He headed down the hall in long, loping strides: Clark Kent looking for a phone booth. ‘Sorry about the key,' he said on the threshold.

‘Right.'

‘It wasn't me, by the way.' He declared it with sudden gravity, then grinned.

Hilarious. ‘And Howard, don't make another announcement of it. Keep it to yourself this time.'

‘Sure, sure. Yeah, sorry about that. Didn't think it through. Oh hey, it was you who wanted the lights replaced, wasn't it? I'm free tomorrow if you need a hand with that.'

She held back on an eye-roll. ‘It's done.'

When she'd locked and chained herself in, she started to wonder about his I'm-an-idiot show. A person could hide a whole other face behind a smile and a steady voice – she'd done it for years, guilt and anxiety tucked behind her
How can I help you?
at the post office. Howard had a PhD, he was studying engineering and biomedical science, there was no way he was stupid – and he'd had access to her apartment for months. She got Anne Long's voicemail when she rang the detective's number.

‘Anne, it's Carly Townsend. The building supervisor had a key to my apartment, he just gave it to me. He said he'd loaned it to some painters. He's going to call you with their name but I wanted to make sure you knew, in case he doesn't. In case … I don't know. In case it's them. Or him. I'm just … not sure what to think. Can you call me back?'

‘There were two painters and they moved back to New Zealand three months ago,' Anne said when she finally returned Carly's call.

‘Oh.' Carly was silent for a moment. It was Monday morning and Carly had spent the weekend checking for messages, anxious about a painter with a key, hoping it was one of them and that the police found evidence and made an arrest. Hoping he didn't use it again before that happened. ‘What about the real estate agent?'

‘It's a large agency. We're still talking to people.'

Carly watched a car pull into a space opposite. Its driver was one of the tradies from her class. They were both three minutes late now – he got out and set off at a trot. Carly stayed where she was. ‘What about Howard Helyer? He's had a key for months.'

‘You said he returned it.'

‘He might've made a copy.'

Anne paused a moment. ‘Did your shadow look like him?'

Carly heard the sceptical emphasis on
your shadow
and felt heat creep to her face. ‘I … don't know.' Howard was
man-shaped and lean but she wasn't going to say that out loud. ‘What about the fingerprinting? Are there any results?'

‘We're still waiting on those.'

‘Even the first ones?' It had been almost two weeks.

‘I'm going to get back to you on those, Carly.' It wasn't
I'll find out for you
. It sounded like
I'm not willing to discuss it now
.

And Carly was sick of not having the details. If Anne Long thought it would stop her worrying, she was wrong. ‘When?'

‘When there's something to talk about.'

‘I …'

‘I'll be in touch, Carly.'

‘But …' The connection ended. ‘And fuck you too.'

Carly tossed the phone at the passenger seat. Not the painters but possibly her building supervisor, a neighbour or any number of people in a large real estate agency that the police were taking their time talking to. Shit. She wanted it over, she wanted to sleep at night. At the very least she wanted information that would unwind the anxiety, not give it a reason to twist itself into more knots.

It wasn't just that, though. She'd come here to start again, to be someone else. Not the reckless Carly who had killed her friends and not the guilt-burdened version who'd waited thirteen years for fate to exact its punishment. Someone better, stronger and less selfish; someone worthy – but she wouldn't find that person if she was screwed around by a scary guy sitting on her bed.

 

The new parking pass was great – it didn't make the garage any less creepy, though. It was a cave of poured concrete, low ceilings, wide columns, dim lighting, and cold like
the inside of a fridge day and night. And now the fluorescent tube behind her designated spot was out. She glanced around the shadows, tempted to make a dash for the lift, but she had things to collect from the back seat. Loading up with a shoulder bag, coat and folder, she bumped the door closed with a hip and bent to pick up her shopping bags. As its echo faded, she heard a voice.

‘Hi, Carly.'

Swinging around, she saw a man standing in the gloom at the rear of her car.

‘Damien,' he said.

All she registered was that her arms were tangled in bags and bulk, and she was hemmed in by a column and another car.

‘From the community gardens,' he said. ‘We met at the markets. Can I give you a hand with those bags?'

She flicked her eyes around. Where had he come from? ‘No, I'm fine.'

‘I'll get the lift for you then.' He started towards it.

Carly followed, happy to keep a few steps behind him. He'd seemed nice at the markets, still did, she supposed, but it was dark down here and a man had climbed on her bed and she had no idea how he got in.

Damien tapped the button, waited until she reached him. ‘Talia, the girl who lived in your apartment, I used to help her sometimes with her cello.'

Carly smiled politely, thought
Maybe Talia had given him a key
.

‘She had a three-door hatch and that thing only just fit in the back with the seats down.'

‘Did you know her well?'

‘I asked her to play at the community gardens open day two years ago. I thought she'd do a few numbers over
lunch but she played for hours. It was fantastic, classical music among the vegies as people wandered around. We had a record number sign up.' He chuckled as the doors started to slide apart. ‘I think some people thought she'd be there every weekend.'

Inside the small cab, he hit the buttons for two and four, Carly pressed into the opposite corner, shopping bags a barrier on the floor between them.

‘You having a quiet one tonight?' he asked.

It was the Dickens celebration at the book club, but he didn't need to know that. ‘Yes, you?'

‘Got a ton of work to catch up on. I'll probably be drinking coffee at midnight to get through it.'

He was wearing dress trousers and a white shirt, nothing like his community gardens/markets look. ‘What do you do?'

‘I'm in IT.' He glanced at the floor indicator as the elevator slowed, shuffled backwards as it bounced to a stop in the foyer. It opened on someone else she'd met at the markets: Stuart, the uni supervisor. He took a second to eye Damien, then Carly, his head pushed forward by a stoop, face moving side to side like a bird with a long neck.

‘Hey, how you doing?' Damien asked.

‘Yeah, good.' He stepped in, filled the small space between Carly and Damien, turned to face the closing doors.

His presence was a conversation stopper. Carly felt wedged into the corner now, trapped at the back of the lift, her only way out blocked by two man-shaped, thin-ish neighbours. A pulse drummed in her throat, her palms were suddenly slippery. She smelled the wind still clinging to Stuart's scarf and musky office on Damien's shirt. She tried to hold her breath. She wanted to get out and take the stairs.

As the lift slowed for the second floor, Damien said quietly, ‘This is me.'

Stuart hadn't pressed a button. Was she going to be stuck with him to the fourth? But he was moving before the doors parted, head forward, leading with his shoulder, exiting stage right as soon as the gap was wide enough. Damien paused on the tracks. ‘Shout you a coffee if you drop by the markets on Saturday,' he smiled.

He seemed nice but she wasn't sure. ‘Do you bribe all your customers?'

‘Wherever possible.'

 

Carly couldn't find the earrings she'd bought at the markets. She'd searched the small box where she kept her few bits of jewellery, the bathroom, the half bath, the coffee table and the kitchen counter. She'd spent twenty minutes at it and was annoyed she'd been careless, more agitated than she should have been about losing them – knowing it wasn't really what she was stressing about.

Leaving for the book club without them, she walked the zigzag stairs to Elizabeth's apartment with a bottle of wine and
Great Expectations
, anxiety jittery in her legs. Carly had once been outgoing and confident but Charlotte was inside her tonight. She was uncomfortable in social gatherings, always felt as though her mistakes were tattooed on her face and hands. Charlotte hadn't let anyone close since the reckless, arrogant version of herself had killed her friends. It was self-imposed isolation – not just punishment but because she was frightened to trust herself.

Carly reminded herself she had accepted Elizabeth Jennings' invitation because it was time. Still, knowing it didn't cure the nerves – thirteen years of undeserving and on the sidelines was hard to unlearn.

‘Carly.' Elizabeth said it like an announcement, standing in her doorway and looking her guest up and down. She
waited until Carly was in the hallway before curling a bony hand around Carly's forearm. ‘I hear you had a nasty incident. Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine.' She smiled like it was already forgotten, not wanting her ‘incident' to be the topic of discussion.

‘Good girl. Then not another word.' A brusque pat and Elizabeth was hobbling ahead of her, clapping her hands when she reached the living room. ‘People, people, our guest has arrived.'

Carly kept the smile stitched to her lips for the faces that turned her way. It looked like a throng but as Elizabeth handled the introductions, Carly realised it was only six people. Christina, holding a platter of cheese and crackers, called, ‘Hello, hello.' Carly recognised the man with funky angular glasses from the second-hand bookstall at the markets. There was an older man with a thick white moustache and dark bushy eyebrows, and three other women. Carly guessed the one leaning on crutches was Brooke.

Handed a glass of wine, Carly was offered nibbles and absorbed into the chitchat. Relieved they were more interested in catching up with each other than interrogating the newcomer, Carly took in Elizabeth's lovely apartment. It resembled Carly's and yet was entirely different. Same high walls and French windows but a bigger, reconfigured layout, maybe two or three bedrooms, and decorated with beautiful, exotic … things.

Shelves dominated one side of the room and were filled with books and shiny pieces of porcelain and little sculptures and objects Carly couldn't identify, that she wanted to go over and touch. There were worn leather sofas, a coffee table with intricately carved legs, a battered dining table, a dresser with rows of tiny drawers.

‘Three minutes to kick-off.' It was Roland, the older man, who seemed to think it was his duty to keep the glasses filled.

‘Elizabeth said “kick-off”?' the man from the markets asked, a smooth, lilting accent in his voice.

‘I stand corrected,' Roland returned. ‘She said “call to order”. But I thought my sporting analogy was more appropriate for the usual scrum.'

Scrum?
Smile, Carly, they're joking.

‘Don't listen to him,' Christina told Carly, still holding the cheese plate. ‘It's all in good fun. Elizabeth likes to play head girl and we like to shout her down.' She snorted a laugh. ‘That's how it works, isn't it, Dietrich?'

The man from the markets nodded slowly, giving it serious thought. ‘Exactly. When she asks you to speak, just be honest.'

‘When she asks me to speak?'
Was it too early to leave?

‘Oh, definitely,' Christina popped a cube of cheese into her mouth and talked around it. ‘Just remember. It's a book club, she can't give you detention.'

What followed wasn't close to the courteous debate Carly had expected of Elizabeth's book club. It was considered and well read, rowdy and opinionated, and pretty damn funny from where Carly sat. Bold statements were countered with shout-downs, academic commentaries were met with TV and movie references. There were long-winded diversions, including one by Maxine, a woman who lived on Carly's floor, that involved airport bookshops, a recent trip to Croatia and Turkish delight.

Elizabeth kept things moving, adding opinions, calling for order and finally cornering Carly. From the midst of a discussion about
Great Expectations
and
A Tale of Two Cities
, she said, ‘Carly, we haven't heard from you yet.'

It wasn't quite true. She'd voted for Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie version of
Great Expectations
and made a couple of attempts to speak up, urging herself to join in, unsure of when it was her turn, then waiting too long and finding the topic had moved on. ‘I've enjoyed listening,' she said.

‘Listening is an important quality in a book club, a timely reminder to some of our members.' Elizabeth aimed stern looks at Roland and Maxine. ‘But listening is not discussing, Carly. I noticed you brought one of the novels currently under discussion. I'd like to hear your thoughts.'

Carly's mouth went dry. The room fell silent. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I've only read one Dickens novel so I don't think I qualify for an opinion.'

‘I see,' Elizabeth said. ‘But you've read
Great Expectations
?'

‘Yes. I finished it this morning.' Fictional anxiety let her forget her own for a while. ‘Which probably makes me more likely to remember the details but less likely to have something relevant to say.'

Carly had hoped a little humour might let her off but Elizabeth responded with a firm voice. ‘The only relevance is that you have read the book, Carly.' Then to the meeting: ‘I propose we conclude our current discussion and move onto the work our guest is familiar with. Who would like to begin? Christina?'

Not wanting to be singled out again, Carly found the volume required to be heard and offered short, brief sentences she hoped would keep Elizabeth at bay.

The meeting was closed exactly two hours after it opened, Elizabeth announcing supper would follow. She caught Carly's eye across the coffee table and sent her a single, unsmiling nod. Approval or disapproval, Carly couldn't tell.

She avoided the older woman at the post-discussion gathering, drinking wine with Maxine and Dietrich, learning the
former was a university lecturer and the latter was German and writing a crime novel in his spare time. Carly's presence eventually prompted the subject of her new apartment.

‘Why did Talia leave?' Carly asked. ‘Howard mentioned an accident.'

Maxine exchanged a glance with Dietrich. ‘She was in a car accident. A bad one.'

‘Spinal injury,' Dietrich added. ‘C-eight.'

‘Quadriplegic.' Maxine raised her eyebrows in silent commiseration. ‘Anyway, you bought a great apartment.'

Using a dessert platter as an excuse to move on, Carly carried it around, making her way to Brooke on the other side of the room, hoping cakes would get her some more information about Talia.

‘Christina told me you were a friend of Talia's,' Carly started.

Brooke's eyes stayed on the cake selection. ‘Yes.'