Blood Secret (11 page)

‘Did Max give you his keys last night?'

‘No.'

‘So he had his keys with him when he went out to the car?'

‘I assume he did.'

‘Does he carry just a car key or a bunch of keys, you know, house and office and whatever else?'

‘A bunch. Why?'

‘Just a thought.'

Rennie saw the give-nothing-away flatness in his eyes, the cop expression every detective she'd ever met had perfected and knew it was more than an errant thought. If Max had his wallet and keys, it wasn't a big leap for someone to find the doors they opened. ‘Do you think I should have the locks changed?'

‘If that would make you feel safer.'

His noncommittal response told her something else. He was asking about keys and gauging state of mind. Max had been stressed, drinking champagne before he left for the car park. Detective Duncan was assessing whether Max had left of his own accord. She searched for words to convince him that Max wouldn't leave but she had none – no promise not to, no deal struck between them. Only a rebuffed marriage proposal and resentful last words.

‘Does Max have other family here in Haven Bay?'

Yes, there were other reasons Max wouldn't pick up and leave. ‘It's just James and Naomi now but he's lived here his entire life. He's a fixture at the sailing club and the soccer club.' She smiled, hoping he understood what
that meant.

‘Okay, all I need now is the contact details of a few friends.'

Rennie felt the smile falter. ‘Sure.' Trish and Pav were Max's closest friends. They were the first people he would turn to. But as James took her place on the sofa, she wondered what kind of help they'd offer. So far, Trish had sown seeds of doubt and Pav was party to Max's
earlier indiscretions.

 

 

15

‘It's a gorgeous afternoon. Let's sit on the deck,' Naomi said.

Rennie pulled her face away from the other end of the room and eyed the view through the windows as though she'd forgotten it was there. The lake was still and flat, the calm after a breezy afternoon. She knew nothing about sailing, didn't like the vulnerability she felt on the water, but Max would know with a glance the wind direction, the knots, the best tacking tactics. At this point, though, the only thing she wanted him to tell her was, ‘Hey, babe. I'm home.'

Naomi hooked an arm through hers. ‘Come on. You're doing everything you can. Some fresh air will help.'

Naomi sat at the barbecue table, while Rennie stood with a coffee mug, watching the talking heads through the windows. ‘What should James tell me?'

Naomi squinted up at her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Earlier, when the cop rang, you said, “You should tell her, James.” Tell me what?'

She sipped tea with her eyes on the lake. ‘I love the view from here.'

‘Please, Naomi.'

Curling her hands around her mug as though the day was cold and she needed the warmth, she said, ‘Something happened at work. I don't know the details.'

‘What kind of something?'

‘They had a big argument on Friday. I didn't know anything about it until this morning. James wasn't going to tell me but he's so worried about Max.'

‘What were they arguing about?'

Her small smile was apologetic, anxious. ‘Work stuff. I don't know the details.'

Inside, Detective Duncan's mouth was moving and James
was nodding.

‘Did something go wrong on a job?' There'd been stuff-ups before – wrong deliveries, billing mistakes – and
cross words.

‘James should explain it to you. I don't like to get involved in the business side of things.'

‘I don't either but . . . is James worried about Max because of the argument?'

Naomi ran a hand down her throat, dropped it to her belly. ‘I can't, Rennie. It's not for me to say. Please.'

Rennie lifted her eyes to the windows again, alarm growing in her gut. What the hell had happened? And why hadn't Max
mentioned it?

She didn't press Naomi further, figured anything she told her would be a watered-down version of whatever it was she didn't want to tell. Thinking back to Friday night, Rennie remembered Max was distracted. So was she, working on a huge canvas out in the studio. He was tired, said he planned to veg in front of the telly and he was asleep in bed when she came back in
at midnight.

Rennie checked her watch, uneasy that James was taking longer with the cop than she had. When the two men finally stood, she walked back inside, looking expectantly from one to the other. James looked right back and
said nothing.

‘All I need now are those phones numbers and that DNA sample,' Detective Duncan told her. Okay, so he wasn't sharing. She'd tackle James when he was gone.

In the bathroom, she grabbed Max's toothbrush from the cup on the basin, held it for a second like it might send her a message. Christ, she was collecting DNA. She didn't want to give it to the cops. She wanted Max to come home and use it.

Detective Duncan had a plastic zip lock bag ready when she came back, held it open and asked her to drop the brush in. It was all nice and friendly, no crime scene gloves, no drama, no grave respect for the evidence. Just a friendly smile and a ‘Ta.' He gave her his business card on the way out. ‘Don't hesitate to call,' he said. ‘And make sure you let me know if you hear from Max.'

She found James and Naomi on the deck. ‘What took so long with the detective, James?'

He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and gazed at
the water.

‘I told her about the argument on Friday,' Naomi said. ‘I thought you should be the one to explain it.'

‘We should sit down,'
he said.

Oh, Christ, it was bad.

They sat around the small, scuffed table in their usual places – Rennie facing Naomi, James in between. One empty seat.

‘We've had some financial issues in the business,' James started. ‘There's some money missing. A considerable amount.'

Rennie frowned. ‘And?'

‘I've been trying to trace it back through our accounts.'

‘Is that what you were looking for on Max's computer?'

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I spoke to Max about it and he couldn't explain it.'

‘So he was trying to trace it, too.'

James paused, took a breath. ‘I'm concerned he had something to do with it.'

It took a couple of seconds for his meaning to sink in. ‘You think Max
took
it?'

‘I don't know. It's possible.'

‘
Possible?
'

‘Yes.'

Naomi put a hand on
her arm.

‘How much money is missing?'
Rennie asked.

‘Several hundred thousand.'

Her eyebrows rose as though they were on strings. ‘How does someone take several hundred thousand without anyone noticing?'

James's smile was laced with amusement. ‘We're not running a cafe, Renée. We deal with invoices for that kind of money all the time.'

She pressed her lips together, embarrassed by her ignorance, irritated at his condescension. ‘Did you ask him if he took it?'

‘Of course I asked him.'

‘And?'

‘That's what the argument was about.'

‘He denied it, right?'

James nodded.

‘Doesn't that tell you something?'

‘It doesn't tell me where the money went.'

‘Oh, come
on
. You can't seriously think Max stole money from MineLease? It's
his
business.'

‘I don't know what to think.'

‘For Christ's sake, James. He's your cousin. You grew up together. You know he wouldn't do something like that. Couldn't.'

James didn't answer, just let his eyes fall to his hands on
the table.

She glanced at Naomi and saw only distress. What the hell? Was James feeling guilty for suspecting him or because he actually thought Max was capable of it? Rennie pushed her chair back, unnerved by James, unnerved by the whole damn day. Then completely thrown by the next thought that went through her mind. ‘You think Max's disappearance has something to do with the money going missing, don't you?'

James's eyes were dark when he
looked up.

‘Oh Jesus. You think he took the money and ran.'

‘I don't know what to think,' he
said again.

She stood. ‘Yeah, James, you do. This is Max we're talking about.'

‘And he's a complicated man.'

‘
Max
is complicated?'

‘How long have you known him, Renée? Four, five years?'

She took a breath, ready with a rejoinder but swung away. What did it take to know a person? What did she know about making an assessment? She'd never trusted anyone but her sister before Max.

Rattled and edgy, she stalked away from them across the deck, leaning against a corner post as the clump of her footfall on the timber brought memories of Max – breakfasts out here and drinks in the evening. He'd carry bowls of food and icy glasses to the table, lounge on a chair with his feet propped on another and say, ‘Wonder what the peasants are doing?'

She watched James across the lengthening afternoon shadows, wishing she could read what he was thinking. ‘How much did you tell the cop?'
she asked.

‘I answered his questions.'

‘Did you say there was money missing?'

‘Yes, of course. He's asked to see my documentation.'

‘Did you tell him you think Max took it?'

‘I said it appeared that way.'

She clenched her teeth. ‘Did he have anything to say about that?'

James seemed to bristle at her tone. ‘He asked if I thought Max had . . .' he made quote marks in the air ‘. . . done a runner. I said, yes, I thought it was possible.'

For someone who claimed to be smart, he was a goddamn fool. Her voice was loud with exasperation. ‘What if he hasn't, James? There was blood in the car park. It might be his. He might be hurt somewhere but the cops aren't going to be in a hurry to follow it up now. Not when they think it's more than likely he's taken a bunch of money and . . .' fingers in the air ‘. . . done a runner.'

James lifted his chin. ‘I wasn't going to lie.'

Was he worried about the money or Max? ‘You could've given Max the benefit of the doubt so they might look more places than your paper trail.'

‘It's the police, Renée. I'm sure they know what they're doing.'

Her scoff did nothing to win his approval. He didn't speak for a long time, just stared at her with the same unreadable, impassive expression he always wore. Naomi glanced anxiously
between them.

‘We should go,' he said as
he stood.

As Naomi braced herself for the upwards push of her belly, he strode ahead to the door and passed Rennie without meeting her eye. Naomi stopped to hug her, whispering in her hair, ‘It'll be okay. They've just got their wires tangled. I'm sure that's all it is.'

Rennie followed them through the house, anger and uncertainty and dread loud and pulsing inside her. She closed the front door before they were on the driveway, took long resolute paces to the bedroom, filled with memories of other times in a different life when the same emotions had surged
through her.

Like one of Pavlov's dogs, she reacted with her own brand of learned behaviour. She threw open the wardrobe, hauled the stepladder from under the hanging space, climbed high enough to reach the rear of the top shelf and dragged a backpack over
the edge.

Unzipping, working fast, she found with her fingers the items she knew were in there: the change of clothes, the rolls of money, the rigid coldness of the weapon, the phone. That was what she wanted. She pulled it out, the charger still attached, plugged it into a socket by the bed and stood by the window as she waited for it to come to life, watching James's car disappear at the end of the street. She scrolled through the stored numbers. There were only a handful, just the names she wanted to keep with her – for speed dialling, for comfort, for police notification – but there were only three she needed to see right now: ‘Jo' and ‘Evan Delaney' and ‘Max'.

She checked the driveway again and thought about running. Leaving and not looking back, the way she'd done it all her life. Never staying to finish anything, leaving when time was up. She'd learned it at her mother's side. Her father's existence, even in prison, kept the training close. Sometimes, lots of times, it'd been more excuse than reason. Sometimes she and Jo had left because they'd never learned how
to stay.

The urge was pressing hard on her mind but she didn't
want
to run. Not yet. Not with a chance Max would be back. But she left the phone by the bed to charge and placed the backpack on the floor inside the wardrobe. They were just in case. In case she needed the numbers. In case she needed to run. And because she felt calmer knowing she was ready
to go.

 

 

16

It was well after six-thirty now and the sun wouldn't set for an hour or so but the end of the day was already in the light that hung over the house. Long shadows stretched across the drive at the front and the edges had softened the shade around the lawn in
the yard.

And Hayden had been gone for hours. She found his number in her mobile, typed a text:
Do u need a lift back? I can come get u.

She hit send and stood by the back door, looking out along the carpet of lawn that rolled towards the lake. The lush hedges that marked the borders of the yard were given extra height by the gnarly, old fruit trees on one side and the pitched roof of the converted garage on the other. It screened them from their neighbours and anyone on the pathway who wasn't standing directly in front of the fence. Secluded, safe, blinkered from the rest of the world. Like her life here. Now, she wondered what she hadn't seen.

Shifting her eyes around the garden, settling her gaze on the veggie patch over near the studio, an involuntary smile started. ‘Hey, M–'

She stopped before his name got further. She'd been going to announce that the first cucumber of the season was ready to pick. But he wasn't here to enjoy it. And his best friends thought it was possible he'd buggered off with someone else or left with a bag of stolen money, that he didn't care about his cucumbers. Christ, Rennie, they're
cucumbers
. She squeezed her eyes for a moment then pushed her mobile into a pocket and grabbed the handset for
the landline.

Crossing to the fence first, she opened the gate and looked up and down the path again. Nothing had changed. She let herself into the studio, glancing quickly around the neatly stacked tins and canvasses. If James had been in here searching for a clue to the missing money, she'd know. She never left without returning everything to its allotted place. Max laughed about it, called her anal like it was an insult. But she knew what happened when stuff wasn't where it should be.

She was five or six when that lesson was burned into her psyche. She couldn't find a teddy bear one cold morning when they left in a hurry. The next time it was her favourite cap. After that, everything went back where it belonged and she kept only what would fit in her backpack. Later, when it was just her and Jo on the run, the military-style order their mother had instilled in them had let them know when he'd been there, sifting through their stuff – the warning to grab their kits
and go.

Rennie spent years drooling in art stores at the big tablets of thick paper but had only ever bought cheap supermarket notepads, the kind that could be stuffed in a bag or left behind without regret.

She crossed the studio, flipped open the large sketchbook on one of the easels Max had made for her and ran a hand over the heavy paper. She didn't remember when she'd started drawing, just that she'd rarely been without pencil or paper. She sketched what she saw: hands, trees, park benches, beach, bush – and the swirls and shapes she saw in her head. There were never any lessons, just the sometimes calming, sometimes frenzied compulsion of it. Then she'd come to Haven Bay and Trish and Pav had unleashed it from
its cage.

Not that it was their intention, they just wanted the cafe repainted and left her alone for a couple of hours with paint and brushes. Rennie had never painted anything, let alone a huge expanse of freshly undercoated wall. One long streak of gorgeous lime on pristine white and she couldn't stop. Without thinking, she kept dipping the brush and spreading the green, giving size and colour to the swirls she'd only ever drawn in pen and pencil. By the time they got back, she'd covered half a wall.

Embarrassed, she apologised, promising to paint over it. Trish and Pav insisted she keep going. It turned into a mural and they told everyone about the ‘promising artist' working for them. Rennie thought it was a tad over the top until someone offered to pay her. That she could earn money by having a ball with paint and a brush still astonished her.

Rennie stood in front of the almost completed work in the middle of the room. It was as tall as she was, a commission for one of the customers at the cafe who'd wanted a ‘wow factor' for the foyer of her home. She'd been working on it for a week. Max had leaned on the doorframe yesterday afternoon and said, ‘Nice one, babe.' The rose pink and taupe was still wet on the overalls he'd peeled off her later. What were you thinking then, Max?

The impromptu passion wasn't out of place. He had a thing for her in her overalls and the bed in the studio had got some use more than a few times. But the mood yesterday was . . . different. Their spontaneity was usually lighthearted and fun, especially when there were large canvasses and wet paint to work around. She remembered the naughty-boy grin he'd had on his face when he came into the bedroom but it hadn't stayed there. As he'd covered her body with his and plunged urgently inside her, his expression became focused, driven, his eyes closed until the throaty groan of
his release.

When they were done, she'd raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Impressive.' He'd replied with a slow, deep kiss on her mouth. At the time, she'd figured he was thinking the same thing she was: that it was a pity they had to go, that they couldn't stay there all night. Now she wondered what else might have been in his thoughts. A final kiss? A lasting memory? A
farewell fuck?

She picked up a tube of paint and hurled it at the wall. ‘Where
are
you, Max?'

Her voice bounced off the studio walls and came back at her, angry, anxious, apprehensive. She wanted him to drag his arse home and explain himself. Make him mad as hell that she was doubting him, hear him say, ‘Why the fuck would you think I'd leave you?'

She wanted to believe he wouldn't. She wanted to believe he loved her. She wanted to believe her life here was the real deal, not something she'd invented to fill a gaping hole in her heart. ‘Just come back, Max,'
she whispered.

The click of the side gate came like a reply. She lifted her head, heard a crunch of gravel. The path that ran beside the house.

Max?

She skipped around the end of the bed then hesitated at the half-open door. Why would he come around the back? He had keys – or at least he did last night. There was a shuffle on the pebbles, a skitter of stone on stone as feet stumbled. Outside, the yard was grey. She could only see the garden opposite but knew the narrow strip between the house and fence would be dimmer, shadowed by the house and the neighbour's garage. Max left pots and tools and big bags from the nursery down there – his organised chaos, not her fastidious order. Still, Max would know
his way.

A clang as something fell. An ‘oomph' of male voice.

Rennie glanced behind – not a lot of weapons in an art studio, unless she was happy to swing a can of paint or go for close-order combat with a scraper. Her eyes landed on a stainless-steel kettle. Five seconds later, she was gripping its handle and listening at
the door.

Maybe it was Hayden. He had a key, too. She had no idea if he'd brought it with him last night, figured he was more likely to knock on the door and phone if he didn't get a response: Gen Y and unable to proceed without using a mobile first. But he might come around the back if he didn't want to speak
to her.

She stood by the wall, pushed the door wider, poked her head briefly around the jamb. There was a lamp glowing deep inside the living room – too far away to illuminate beyond the deck. In the yard, the shrubs and flowers were unformed and colourless in the shadow. Except by the doorway she stood in. Light spilled over the threshold and through the window beside her. If it wasn't Max or Hayden . . .

She slid a hand up the wall, flipped the switch and listened in the sudden gloom to the quick intake of a breath. Not hers. Out in the yard.