Heart breaker, p.8
Heart Breaker, page 8
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Gemma puffed softly, her crystal blue gaze daring Harmony.
Harmony let out an explosive kiai yell as she advanced on Gemma, pounding at her with a flurry of punches. Gemma blocked each one, and in her frustration Harmony pulled her arm back to get a full swing in.
Gemma ducked and punched, the hit landing square in Harmony’s side. Harm’s breath left her body in a whoosh, and she clutched her side as she staggered. She turned, arm up in truce as she dropped to her knees, winded. She leaned forward, trying to catch her breath.
Gemma tore at her wrist straps with her teeth as she slowly walked over to her, her joggers squeaking on the mat. She dropped the mitts and squatted next to her, eyeing her with some concern.
Harmony met her best friend’s gaze, saw the care, the warmth, and finally the slow burn of tears came. Gemma held out her arms, enveloping her in a hug, and Harmony cried with big, noisy intakes of air as her lungs tried to restore oxygen to her body.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetie,’ Gemma murmured, soothing a hand down Harm’s back. ‘I saw the news.’
Harmony closed her eyes and sucked in a breath as her friend rocked her. They knelt there for a few minutes in silence, holding on to each other, until finally Harmony could breathe, could wipe away her tears. Could think.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered as Gemma leaned back to look at her. ‘I needed that.’
‘Any time you need an arse-whooping, you know where to find me.’ She rose to her feet and offered a hand. ‘Come on, let’s go to my office.’
Harmony accepted the assistance to gain her feet, then crossed over to pick up her handbag and shoes. ‘Technically it wasn’t an arse-whooping,’ she murmured as she fell into step behind her friend. ‘You got lucky.’
‘Whatever you need to tell yourself, Grasshopper.’ Gemma lifted her hand as they passed the reception desk. ‘Hold my calls, Adelle,’ she said, and the young woman nodded, eyeing Harmony warily as they walked through to Gemma’s small but functional office.
Gemma closed the door, then went and leaned a hip against the desk. Harmony took the seat.
‘Tell me,’ Gemma said quietly.
Harmony did so. Everything. Every miserable, gory, horrific little detail. Gemma listened quietly, without interruption.
‘And then they investigated me,’ she finished, and her breath caught.
Gemma swore, then waved her hand. ‘They’re either doing their jobs and covering all bases, or they’re idiots. Which do you think?’
Harmony sat for a moment, thinking of Bern ... er, Detective Knight. He was a detective, and her faith in detectives was—well, nil. Even so, he’d been different to the men she’d had to deal with after her father’s death. He didn’t seem cavalier, or inept. He’d seemed patient when they’d first met. Supportive. Gentle. This morning, he’d been ... intense. Determined. Canny. Then ... hot.
‘He’s not an idiot,’ she stated quietly. ‘He came out and told me later that my alibi checked out.’
‘Well, at least that’s a start,’ Gemma muttered, folding her arms. ‘How is your mother taking it?’
Harmony just looked at her friend, and Gemma winced. ‘That good, huh?’
‘She’s doing her thing. At least she hasn’t gone for the meds. Yet.’
‘Don’t write her off just yet, Harm.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy, Gem. I really don’t think I have the patience to deal with her.’
‘You’ve dealt with her since you were fourteen. You have the patience.’
Harmony shook her head. ‘Aunty Jen is shattered, and my mother is acting as though she lost a daughter.’
Gemma sighed. ‘This will be hard for everyone. Your aunt—god, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to lose a daughter ...’ Her gaze fell to the photo on her desk of a laughing young girl in a soccer uniform. ‘She must be going through hell,’ she murmured, then she looked at Harm. ‘And this will bring up all sorts of messy stuff for your mum. You have to expect some regression, some depression ... some anger. This will put her right back in that zone after your father died.’
Harmony nodded. That was exactly what she was afraid of.
Gemma dipped her head to the side and her dark hair slid over her shoulder. Harmony always envied those long, straight locks. Her friend’s hair always looked so shiny. Not like her own curly mop.
‘How are you coping?’
‘Fine.’ Harmony’s response was automatic. She was fine. She was safe. She would make everything fine and safe.
‘Puh-leeze. You almost punched my bag off its post.’
‘At least it wasn’t a detective’s head,’ muttered Harmony, then sighed. ‘I know they’re just doing their job, but this is what happened when Dad died—and we all know how that turned out.’ She shook herself. ‘Argh. Enough of that. Time to move on. How are you?’ She pointed to the photo on the desk. ‘How is Angie?’
Gemma frowned. ‘Don’t try to divert me with chitchat, wench.’
‘No, seriously. I need something else to talk about, something else to think about,’ Harmony said, tapping her temple. She needed to be distracted from the thoughts and images in her head, from the gloom, the grief, and a certain hot, yet out of bounds, detective. ‘How is Angie?’
Gemma smiled, turning to look at the photo. ‘Awesome. She’s been selected for the interschool soccer gala day.’
‘That’s great.’ Harmony leaned down and unstrapped the shin pads. ‘Any new ... customers?’
Gemma grimaced. ‘Yes, one, but I’m hoping we can help her through normal means.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘Not yet, but if I do, I’ll let you know.’
Harmony nodded. ‘Please do.’
‘Like you don’t have enough on your plate.’
‘This will be a good distraction.’
Gemma looked at her for a moment. ‘Only you would think creating new identities for victims of domestic violence is a good distraction,’ she said.
Harmony winced. Gawd. Her life totally sucked.
She looked down at the shin pads she held, then glanced at Gemma through her eyelashes.
‘Mum asked me to investigate.’
‘What?’ Gemma gaped at her for a moment, then walked around the desk to flop into her chair, an expression of horrified disbelief on her face. She shook her head, as though to shake a nonsensical thought out of it. ‘What?’
‘I need to find out what happened.’
Gemma’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, then she took a deep breath and screwed her face up in an expression of confusion. For once, Gemma was speechless. Gemma’s eyes widened, then her breath exploded from her mouth. ‘Of course you need to find out what happened—that’s what the cops are there for. What does your mother expect you to do?’
‘She wants Leona’s killer brought to justice. So do I.’ Harmony blinked. Jeez—for once she and her mother were in perfect accord.
‘Again, that’s why we have police. You’re not some caped crusader who can run down a dark alley and fight the bad guys.’
‘But I do have a very particular set of skills,’ Harmony began in a low voice, and Gemma closed her eyes.
‘Don’t.’
‘Skills I have acquired over a very long career,’ Harmony continued, trying to keep a straight face.
‘Skills that make you a nightmare,’ Gemma continued the Liam Neeson quote, a smile creeping over her face despite the seriousness of the topic. ‘You are hopeless. I regret taking you to see that movie.’
Harmony smiled for a brief moment. ‘You’re a good friend,’ she said.
Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘There you go, playing that friend card.’ She sighed. ‘What can I do to help?’
Bern looked up as Josh leaned his hip against the desk. Josh held up a folder, his expression serious. ‘You’re going to want to see this.’
‘What’s “this”?’
‘Harmony Talbot’s phone records.’
Bern held out his hand. Harmony had left just over an hour ago, and he was still trying to warm himself from the Arctic chill of her ice-grey gaze. He was doing his job, yet he felt like a royal schmuck with his necessary questions. He didn’t think she’d killed her cousin. He hoped she hadn’t killed her cousin, but he’d been wrong in the past, and was determined not to repeat his mistakes. He had to pursue every possible avenue of investigation. She was a person of interest. Simple. The fact that his interest had, for the most part, nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the woman herself just served to annoy him further.
He flicked through the records. There were print-outs of texts to and from Harmony’s phone. He was still surprised she’d handed it over, just like that, but her move did go a long way to alleviating the suspicions he knew he should harbour about her.
He frowned when he read the log, then turned back to his computer to pull up the communications he’d just received from the hotel Harmony had stayed at, along with an email from the conference organisers. He’d managed to confirm the flight information with the airlines. The ME had given him an estimated time of death, and Harmony’s alibi checked out. His frown deepened as he compared the data. Something was niggling at him, though.
‘Is this correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there maybe a time stamp issue?’
‘No. Times have been confirmed with the phone company.’
‘Is there any way these records could be altered?’ This time his voice was low as he read through the texts between Harmony and her cousin. ‘Could she actually create this log?’
Josh shrugged. ‘Daniels believes her phone was basic, kind of surprising for a digital forensic investigator. There was no suspicious software, no shadow data trails from deleted applications. He did a thorough sweep, and compared with the service provider—this is accurate.’
Bern quickly scanned the content of the texts. Two cousins jokingly avoiding contact with their mothers. Harmony apparently didn’t like conferences, and Leona didn’t like parent-teacher interviews, but they could both suck it up as it got them away from ‘the elders’.
Harmony had quietly contacted her cousin during each break at the conference she’d attended, and Leona had responded. The final record caught his attention and held it, turning his blood cold.
‘There are a few texts from Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning,’ Josh said quietly.
‘And none mention her being held captive, beaten or raped.’ Bern closed the folder and looked up at his colleague, not bothering to conceal his shock, his dismay. ‘The killer wrote those texts, not Leona.’
He turned away from the television. It had been the leading story; the woman’s body discovered in the trunk of a car. The picture they’d posted of the victim was one he was familiar with—her Facebook profile image.
‘She probably asked for it,’ his mother muttered as she chewed on a piece of steak. He eyed her with distaste, the gnashing of her teeth a horrible hypnosis, gravy dribbling down her wet chin. ‘She looks like a tramp.’ She grabbed a tissue and wiped the gravy-coated lens of the spectacles that were hanging around her neck.
His mouth tightened as he rose from the lounge. Leona wasn’t a tramp. She’d been a lady, a conniving, manipulative bitch, but never a whore.
‘Are you finished, Mum?’ he asked patiently.
‘Thank you, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she said, licking her lips. He deposited the plastic dishes into the trash, and pottered about the kitchen until he was satisfied it was clean and tidy.
‘You’re so good to me, sweetie,’ his mother murmured as he stepped back into the living room. Her hand toyed with the collar of her dressing gown. ‘Such a good son. What would Mummy do without you?’
Those words hit him like a freight train, and his stomach twisted in revulsion at the light in her eyes. Just like that, he was an eight-year-old boy again, the one she’d tucked into bed ever so tenderly, ever so ... lovingly. Ever so shamefully.
‘I’m tired. Do you need anything else before I turn in?’ It was hard, keeping his tone civil when he wanted to hit her.
‘I need my meds,’ she snapped at him, her manner changing in an instant. ‘But make sure you get it right this time. I don’t want to wake up in an ambulance again.’
‘Sure, Mum.’ He got the tablets and the syringe for the old bitch and waited for her to swallow the pills, an exercise that involved lots of noisy sips from the glass of water he presented, along with a hitching of breath, usually followed by the disgusting burp. He fantasised that tonight, finally, one of those capsules would lodge in her throat, that her eyes would bulge and her skin would turn a mottled purple as her repulsive life hacked out of her. And this time he wouldn’t call the ambulance.
He turned away, and she chortled. ‘You’re not finished yet, remember?’ He got the syringe and readied it, measuring the dose.
‘Show me,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t trust your eyes.’
He made sure the amount was correct. She lifted her spectacles and eyed the syringe, blinking owlishly until she finally nodded. She leaned forward to grab the hem of her dress, and he disguised his shudder.
‘No, Mum. In the shoulder. You’ll be more comfortable watching TV then,’ he told her, and swabbed a patch of flabby skin. He jabbed the needle into her arm, deriving some small satisfaction from her yelp.
‘Easy, son. You might have to kiss it better.’
He managed not to force the plunger down, but administered it slowly. It didn’t stop him from fantasising about the day he could plunge the syringe in and watch her clutch her chest and gasp for breath. In this fantasy, he made sure the phone was way out of her reach.
When finished, he removed the syringe and flipped the cap, crossing to the yellow bin near the door to toss it away.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he told her abruptly. He placed the flagon of sherry next to her seat, and suddenly she was all smiles again.
‘Oh, thank you, son. You look after Mummy, don’t you?’ Her hand dropped to her enormous chest. ‘You know what Mummy likes ...’
He turned to walk towards the door that led to the hallway, to freedom.
He climbed the stairs two at a time. At least that disgusting pile of humanity was a creature of habit. After the news she’d watch whatever cooking show she could find, drool pooling in the corner of her mouth, then she’d sit there and watch any of the crime shows. She particularly liked the CSI shows, and would yell obscenities at the screen about how any cleaner worth her salt would screw them up but good, and how those criminals were the stupidest to walk the earth. She’d pour glass after glass of sherry, each sloppier than the last, until she subsided in her armchair, too drunk and too fat to haul her gigantic arse anywhere close to bed, and then she’d sleep.
He closed his bedroom door and leaned against the mirror that hung on it, dragging in deep breaths to calm himself. His single bed was shoved up against a wall, its covers tucked in so tight he could make a coin bounce on it. His gym equipment took up most of the available space, but even that was neatly stored, with his dumbbells nicely paired and stacked according to weight. He leaned over to switch on his stereo, and the throbbing beat of an AC/DC song stifled the coarse yells from downstairs. A sense of peace stole over him, and he smiled as the music created his own universe that not even she could break. The police would be chasing their tails. He was confident he’d left no trace of himself behind. Anywhere.
He turned his neck, trying to ease out the kink in his muscles. The scar tissue that extended down the side of his face and over his neck across to his collarbone, needed a little stretching, a little moisturiser. Later.
He turned to face his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. His room was dim, but not dark. He could barely see his scars, in this light. He pulled his shirt up, exposing the ridged muscles of his abdomen, the three marks visible on his torso, like a warrior’s survival scars. That’s what he was. A damn warrior. He’d come back stronger than ever.
His phone vibrated on his dresser, and he picked it up, looking idly at the screen. He smiled, feeling the left side of his face pull with the movement. He rubbed at the scarred flesh absently. Madeline had sent him a friend invite. He pressed the green accept button and sat back down on the weight bench as her image filled the screen on his phone. He hardened at the sight of the stunning, sexy woman on the screen, and he traced her long, straight blonde hair with a shaky finger, her brown eyes sparkling, her lips revealing strong, even white teeth as she smiled at him. She was beautiful.
She was next.
CHAPTER
8
‘And what’s happening with your case, Knight?’ Commander Steve Preston asked brusquely.
Bern looked towards the head of the table. His boss was in his late forties, and despite the silver that dusted his hair the man was fit, his face relatively unlined, his eyes sharp with intelligence, and he had a serious countenance that marked a man who dealt with violent death on a daily basis. Preston had worked on some tough cases, including the state-wide manhunt for the rapist and murderer Nigel Hickson, as well as the disturbing serial killer, the Beachside Strangler. He may have been the youngest cop to ever be appointed commander, but he’d earned every one of his promotions. The guy could be a demanding prick, sometimes, but his intention to put murderers behind bars was never in doubt.
Bern opened his notes. Every week they sat through a debrief meeting, where ongoing cases were presented and discussed by the detective inspectors from all sub-sections of the Homicide department. Now it was his turn. He cast a quick glance at Josh across the table before he started speaking.
‘Leona Thomas, single, thirty-year-old primary school teacher, was discovered in the trunk of her car on Sunday afternoon, along with a single white rose.’ He paused, glancing down at his notes. There wasn’t much to tell, damn it. ‘Forensics have processed the scene.’ He lifted his gaze to Preston. ‘We found no trace of her killer.’
