Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
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last night."
"I told her the wig was overdoing it," Sally said with a smile that wasn't in the least bit friendly.
"There's no point going out half disguised," Rebecca stated, obviously trying to ignore the envelope that Sally had removed from her briefcase. She sighed. "Don't tell me that's another one."
Sally placed her fingers over her mouth so she couldn't speak.
"Who was the bloke you were talking to, Sally?" Kit asked.
"What bloke?"
"The big guy in the foyer on your way in," Kit prompted.
"Oh him. That was, um, you know RJ." Sally turned to Rebecca. "It was that up-himself wanker with the penis-name that we just had to have a drink in the bar with last week."
"You mean Donker?" Rebecca laughed, then turned to Kit and gave a dismissive wave. "He's a long, long-ago-ex of an old friend of mine. We'd crossed paths here a couple of times in the last fortnight and I finally did the sociable thing last week."
"Pff! You could have said no to the Donker bore," Sally emphasised.
"Is he staying in the hotel?" Kit asked.
"No. He has a business in the city and sometimes does lunch here."
"And there's no other connection?" Kit asked. "He's not an old ex of yours as well?"
"Good god, no!" Rebecca laughed. "And, until this visit, I hadn't seen him for twenty years."
"Okay," Kit shrugged. "Um, can I see today's note?" she asked Sally, holding out her hand.
Sally glanced at Rebecca and then drew her moment of total disapproval out for so long that Kit contemplated enrolling in a car maintenance course just to fill in time.
"For heaven's sake, Sally," Rebecca snapped. "Give it to her!"
"It's already open," Kit noted, trying to ignore Sally's antagonism.
"I open all of Rebecca's mail," Sally stated.
Kit glanced at Rebecca and raised one eyebrow.
"Sally is my PA," Rebecca finally explained.
Kit returned her attention to the envelope, which was exactly the same kind as the previous one and, like it, was also postmarked 'Melbourne'.
"Have they all been posted from the city?" Kit asked.
"I don't know," Rebecca said.
"Yes," Sally verified. "I checked," she said with a shrug, when Rebecca looked surprised. "It's something that detectives always ask, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess," Kit laughed, wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes would cope in this day and age with so many no-name brands of paper, and envelopes with no distinguishing features. Just like this one, she thought pulling out the single sheet, which was unusual only because of the collage of coloured letters cut from one in a million copies of the New Idea. This time it said:
So you're still here, you slut, you hore
And you think you can come back for more
Watch out or you'll die in a field of slime
For trying to take what's mine, all mine.
"Am I still going to die?"
"Looks like it," Kit replied.
"Don't talk like that, RJ. And you," Sally snarled at Kit, "you're supposed to be solving this."
"Hey, I'm good," Kit claimed, gesturing to herself with both hands. "But I'm not that good."
"Don't be so narky, Sally," Rebecca said. "I have only two choices while Kit is solving this; either I laugh about it or I hide in my room."
"The latter probably being the next best thing to running you out of town, which is obviously the purpose of these lovely poems," Kit said, handing the note to Rebecca. "You'll be pleased to know there's no mention of your cat this time."
"Thank god for that," Rebecca smiled.
"You don't have a cat," Sally stated.
"My pussy, Sal. My pussy," Rebecca said.
"Oh."
Darian Renault was a gangly, thick-necked, wiry-haired, bespectacled, no-other-noun-would-suit nerd. Oh, maybe dweeb, Kit thought. The guy looked like the closest he'd ever come to taking drugs was watching Trainspotting on video. His clean, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual image was probably why half the journalists in town where questioning the authenticity of his semi-autobiographical grunge novel Shoot.
The story of his alleged ex-life as a junkie, engendered by a childhood of abuse by yet another of those religious brotherhoods that had completely misunderstood the concept of cheek turning, had been successfully controversial because of its explicitness even before the brouhaha over its veracity was sparked by a leading question on a local radio show.
While Heart and Soul was culture not current affairs, high art and punk rock not foot-in-the-door tabloid TV, it was obvious that Rebecca Jones knew a 'story' when she smelt one. One of the trademarks of her show was the on-location conversations with her guests. Studio interviews were a rare thing, as Rebecca knew she and her viewers got a better feel for the artist, writer, rock singer or symphony conductor, if they were presented in their natural habitats - at the easel, in a room of their own, or in the beer-stained pub or Concert Hall.
Kit watched Rebecca at work in Darian Renault's lair. She was a consummate professional, relaxed and comfortable before the camera, and unfazed by Darian's deliberately tangled responses to her straightforward questions. And while it seemed she was doing a standard author profile, her questions were subtly circling the truth contained in his book.
Kit also noticed, with interest, that Darian's home turf was providing him with no advantage at all. His in-the-process-of-being-renovated workers' cottage in Abbortsford, reflected how he wanted to live, now that fame was shining a small spotlight on him, but his immaculately tidy office provided no backdrop and no insight into the man as a writer, or rather no insight into the man as someone who had written anything.
Darian Renault - and where did he get that name, Kit wondered - was cool enough when the camera was on him, but almost hostile when it wasn't, and he answered everything in generalisations, ultimately saying nothing he hadn't said before.
"I understand that you don't wish to name the school, Darian," Rebecca was saying, "but don't you think it's time that the so-called Christians who did this to you and the other boys back in the seventies are held accountable?"
"Of course I do, Rebecca. But I am not the only one involved in this tragedy. I have to wait until I have tracked down my fellow students before taking the matter further. I have found two old friends and I am hoping my book will bring the others to me. You see," Darian stopped, and swallowed dramatically, "I can only guess what their lives have been like. Some may have conquered our shared demons and found a peaceful or profitable life, others may have taken the road I did, but... but may not have survived it."
Oh yeah. Sure thing, Kit thought. She was unmoved, unimpressed and unconvinced by Darian's performance. She'd dealt with a lot of junkies during her time on the force. She'd also seen the eyes of the few who'd managed to get off the crap, and no matter how straight they got there was always that look of vacant yearning, for either the drugs themselves or for everything they'd lost because of them; as if their very souls were haunted.
The look in Darian Renault's eyes held none of that; it was calculating, way too calculating. Kit didn't believe a word he said.
She slipped quietly off her stool and retreated through the kitchen and out into the back garden where the still-very-pregnant girlfriend was being held captive at a table by a still-very-grumpy Sally Shaw.
"How's it going in there?" Sally asked pointedly. She'd been given the job of keeping Rhonda occupied and away from Darian, so no 'rescue me now with another fake labour' plan could be put into action. Sally looked