‘I guess,’ I admit with a shrug.
45
DC Clements
It is Tanner who draws her attention to the plasterboard on the ground. He impatiently kicks it as he strides towards the luxury building. ‘Bloody litter louts. I hate them. They have the right idea in Singapore. Three-hundred-dollar fine for dropping a fag end or sweet wrapper. Crap like this would get a court appearance. Stringent enforcement.’
Clements looks up. She can see light bouncing and glinting on most of the windows above. But one, on the fourteenth floor, is opaque because it is open, and the light is being swallowed. It’s a possibility. She grasps at that because sometimes, a possibility is enough. ‘We need to get up to that floor,’ she says.
The place is deserted, no sign of the concierge but they find his number, pinned behind the desk, conscientiously left for residents who might need his help. Within twenty minutes Alfonso is at the building and he is happy to let them in. He seems pleased to be needed. Irritated that the residents have sent him home.
‘I saw that mess, wanted to sort it out, but they wouldn’t give me the time. Mr Janssen said I had to get on my way ASAP.’
‘Everyone is being asked to work from home now. I’m jealous,’ says Tanner. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘We’re glad you are here though. Very grateful,’ adds Clements.
The man straightens his shoulders, purposeful. ‘Well, the apartment with the open window belongs to the Federovas. Russian couple. Rarely here. Haven’t seen them for months. They have workmen in and out now and again. Doing it up. Haven’t seen many of those for a while though either. Normally Mrs Federova emails me in advance because I sort out access. Can’t think why a window might be open. They may have loaned the place out to a friend, I suppose.’
‘Can you let us in?’
‘Happy to.’
They knock on the door of the apartment, out of courtesy but there is no answer, so Alfonso presses the key code and the door swings open.
They swiftly walk through the rooms. The only thing that initially seems out of place is a typewriter and a pile of paper on the floor outside a bedroom door. They open that door. Clements’ eyes jump from one thing to the next, taking it all in in an instant. The hole in the wall, chains attached to the radiator, debris, empty water bottles, food wrappers, a stinking bucket of crap.
‘Call it in, Tanner. We need to take prints, or maybe tests of the waste in the bucket; we need proof she was in here, but I think it’s—’
‘A safe assumption.’
‘I was going to say a decent lead. There’s no such thing as a safe assumption.’ But Clements feels something scorch her belly: adrenaline. This is something. This is big. She has to admit, this is the closest you ever get to a safe assumption.
‘No body though. You think he’s done her in and got rid of her?’ Tanner asks.
‘I hope not but we need to find Daan Janssen. Let’s pay him a visit right now.’
Alfonso is holding a handkerchief to his face. He looks pale, shocked. ‘I’ll take you up. I can let you in there too, if he’s gone.’
46
Fiona
Fiona is trying her best to be as sympathetic as possible. Kylie is her best friend. Well, she was; everything has changed irredeemably. It is very hard to see her beaten and broken body. Clearly, she’s been through a lot. Yet Fiona can’t help but feel just a bit irritated by Kylie’s continued self-justification of her bigamy. She wants to yell, ‘Own it!’ Kylie has been alone for a week, locked up with nothing else to think about, yet she still does not appear sorry; she just wants to keep explaining why she’s done what she’s done. Fiona thinks about Mark’s pain, the boys’ fear, Daan’s anger. Why can’t Kylie see that what she has done is unforgivable, unjustifiable? Fiona bites her tongue and offers to bandage up Kylie’s hand. She straps it close to her chest which means Kylie has to eat supper one-handed but as it’s the right hand that’s damaged, it doesn’t cause her too much of an issue.
Fiona has prepared a basic pasta dish with a jar of tomato sauce. She expected Kylie to be ravenous, but she is just listlessly picking around the edges of the hearty serving. Kylie is taut, brittle. It’s understandable but hard to negotiate. Fiona wants to feel on solid ground. She wants to be able to recognise her friend and their friendship, however, she isn’t sure she knows Kylie anymore. It’s disconcerting to have a stranger in the kitchen. Has she done the right thing in bringing her here after all?
She nods at the pasta. ‘Sorry it’s nothing special but obviously I packed in a hurry, I just grabbed some groceries out of my cupboard.’
‘It’s great, honestly,’ Kylie assures her, but she continues to poke the pasta with her fork, not quite managing to shovel it into her mouth.
This won’t do, thinks Fiona. She needs Kylie to relax. She needs to relax too. ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine. I think I have a few quite decent ones stashed away.’
Kylie knocks back the wine quickly enough. Once she has sunk a glass she loosens, her limbs lose their contorted hardness. Her eyes become a little glazed and slippery. Obviously, the alcohol has gone straight to her head. Fiona doesn’t know where to start in bringing Kylie up to speed. Should she mention that she dated Daan? That Mark’s first wife did not die of cancer? That Daan was planning on leaving the country? That Oli knew about Daan? That she kissed Mark too?
It seems like a lot to load on her at once.
Instead, she decides it is safest to put the conversational onus on Kylie. Fiona asks, ‘So tell me, which one
