Chase unfolded his body, a knowing glint in his eye. "We'll see," he murmured, sauntering off in the direction of the tearoom.

Riley watched him go and grimaced. The gall of the man! Where did he get off speaking to him like that?

So what if he found Kate attractive? It wasn't like he'd fallen in love with her. The fact she was beautiful enough to have modeled for a fashion magazine meant squat. He'd never been the kind of guy to fall for someone because of their looks. Iris had been testament to that.

Granted, Iris had been attractive, in a cla.s.sical kind of way, but it was her sharp mind and quick wit that had drawn him. It was only later he'd discovered she had no softness to her at all. To Iris, it was all about winning-at what, it didn't matter-and any means justified the end, no matter who got hurt along the way.

In the end, she'd just plain worn him out. He couldn't keep up with the frenetic pace such an att.i.tude demanded. And he hadn't wanted to.

His laid-back outlook on life had driven her mad. It had been one of the reasons they'd split. At least, that's what she'd yelled at him as she'd stormed around their apartment packing her belongings. It was only later that he discovered she'd already lined up his replacement.

The thought no longer wounded him like it used to. He could only imagine it was the entry into his life of a certain exotic-looking art dealer who had made the difference.

Kate.

It was as if she'd invaded every corner of his life. As much as he wanted to deny it, he thought about her all the time and not just in the context of her mother's disappearance. If only things weren't so complicated. If only he knew how she felt. If only he had the confidence to find out. If only...

Riley swallowed a groan. Leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, he ran his fingers through his hair and wished he could scrub away the alluring images of Kate just as easily. He could still recall the moment in her motel room when her body had melted against him. It had felt like his soul had melded with hers; that if he'd had the courage to tilt her chin upward and kiss her like he'd wanted to, the world would have disappeared. Changed forever...

Which was plain stupid, really. His sisters teased him mercilessly about his romantic streak and he'd always denied it. Real men didn't wax lyrical about their love life. He'd be howled out of town if any of the boys got wind of it.

But he'd meant it when he'd told Kate he believed she wasn't involved in the disappearance of her mother. The more he got to know her, the more impossible it became to think of her as a cold-blooded murderer and as much as he'd argued Darryl didn't have a motive, Kate didn't have one, either.

So far, the only a.s.set he'd found in Rosemary's name was a bank account into which her disability pension was paid every fortnight, with a grand balance of two thousand, four hundred and thirty-nine dollars. Not exactly a sum worth killing for.

So, what had happened to Kate's mother?

The last person to have seen her was her husband, when he dropped her off at the wharf at Circular Quay. Or so he said.

Riley picked up his pen and notebook from his desk and slipped them into his shirt pocket. He stood and walked over to Hannaford's office. "I'm heading out for an hour or so," he called through the open doorway. "Got a few leads to chase up."

Hannaford squinted at him. "This about that missing cow of Sampson's?"

Riley averted his eyes. "Um, yeah. I have a couple of more people to talk to." Without giving him a chance to reply, Riley turned and strode toward the stairwell.

"Elaine Spencer, is it? I think we spoke on the phone last week. I'm Detective Munro." Riley extended his hand to the woman behind the counter of the Thames Travel Agency. She smiled and shook his hand with fingers that were considerably lengthened by bright red nails. Her jet-black hair and well-preserved features were in stark contrast to the wrinkles that criss-crossed her neck and the deep lines embedded around her mouth.

"Yes, Detective. I believe we did. You were calling about Rosemary Watson?"

Riley nodded and surveyed the small but tidy booking office. Glossy posters picturing exuberant holidaymakers in exotic locations lined three of the beige-colored walls. The fourth one was comprised of floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s and contained the double electronic sliding doors he'd entered through.

An office junior sat to one side at a crowded desk, pamphlets and tour brochures piled high near her elbow. She spoke softly into a phone and took notes on a yellow legal pad.

"So, Detective, what can I do for you?"

Riley returned his attention to the woman in front of him and flashed her a smile, keeping his voice casual. "I'm making a few enquiries about Mrs Watson. A member of her family is trying to contact her. She was meant to embark on a cruise about five weeks ago, departing from Sydney. Her husband told me he dropped her off at the wharf on the day of her scheduled departure, but she never boarded. He hasn't heard from her since. Some family members are becoming concerned."

The woman frowned. "Oh, I see. That sounds a bit strange. Just give me a moment and I'll pull up her booking for you. It ought to give us a little more information."

Elaine moved to the desktop computer and began tapping keys. A few moments later, she spoke again. "Yes, here we go. Rosemary Watson. She was booked on the Sun Princess. An around-the-world tour." She scrolled down the page. "It departed on July tenth."

"I know when it departed, but the thing is, Mrs Watson didn't board the ship. I spoke to the ship's purser. She's not on the cruise."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Now I remember. I gave you the phone number." A frown added years to her face as creases found their grooves and deepened. "So, she's not on the ship? That's odd. I wonder where she is?"

"Exactly. That's why I'm here. I was hoping you could tell me more about the booking-when it was made, who made it...that sort of thing."

"Of course, Detective. I'm sure Mr Watson wouldn't mind. He must be crazy with worry. It's very strange, isn't it? Very strange."

Riley chose not to comment. The man he'd met last week had appeared far from overwrought. That was one of the things that disquieted Riley most. He waited as Elaine pulled up the information he'd requested.

"Ah, here it is." Her gaze drifted over the entries on the computer screen. "It looks like it was paid in full by way of check on July eighth, a couple of days after the booking was made. Take a look."

She swung the monitor toward him. Riley leaned across the counter and skimmed over the data. "Do you keep a record of whose check it is?"

"No, but the receipt is generally made out to the drawer of the check unless there is a specific request otherwise."

She opened a drawer and riffled through it, pulling out an old-fashioned receipt book. Flipping it open, she ran her finger down the various entries for July.

Riley stepped away and gazed around the office. The young girl was now off the phone and tapping on her keyboard, her honey-blond ponytail bobbing every time she turned her head.

"Ah, here it is. It's made out to Darryl Watson." Her finger traced down to the signature at the bottom of the receipt and tapped it with one of her elongated nails. "That's Isobel's signature. She might be able to tell you a bit more about it."

Riley returned to the counter and looked at the page Elaine indicated. The girl with the ponytail swung around on her chair, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Is something the matter, Mrs Spencer?"

"Isobel, this is Detective Munro. He's here about Rosemary Watson. She was booked to go on the Sun Princess, but apparently, she didn't show. No one's seen or heard from her for a while. Her family's getting worried."

Clear blue eyes clouded with concern. "Rosemary Watson. She's the lady in the wheelchair, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Riley said. He turned and walked closer to the girl. "So, you remember her?"

She scrunched up her nose and crinkled her forehead in the way young women do who haven't yet learned to worry about wrinkles. "Not her; I never met her, but I remember her husband."

A tingle of premonition-the kind he often got just before a case broke-skipped down his spine. "Really? What do you remember about him?"

Isobel's lips widened into a smile, showing a neat set of colored braces. A blush stained her cheeks. She turned her gaze up to his. "He was just so romantic. Planning a secret holiday getaway for his wife. It cost him a fortune, but he said she hadn't been on a real holiday for years and that she was worth every penny. He couldn't wait to surprise her with it."

Riley frowned, recalling Watson's explanation about why Rosemary hadn't taken her cell phone. The cost of those calls seemed miniscule when compared to what he'd already spent.

Riley tugged out his notebook and pen and addressed Isobel again. "When did you first meet Mr Watson?"

The girl repeated the scrunched-up-face look and bit her lip. "Mm, I'm guessing it was July sixth. I'm sure he came in a couple of days before he paid. He came in to enquire about our holiday packages, when the next one was available-that sort of thing."

"Did he tell you she was in a wheelchair?"

A dreamy expression crossed the young girl's face. "Yes," she smiled. "That's what made it even more romantic. He paid for the very best stateroom on the ship. It cost a fortune, but it was the one most able to accommodate her disability." Her eyes widened in delight. "Isn't that about the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"

Riley stayed quiet. The young girl's impressions of Watson were about as far south of his own as was possible, but he duly recorded them in his notebook. "Did he say why he wasn't traveling with her?"

Another frown. Then a shake of the head. "No, I don't think so. It was all about his wife. How difficult things had been for her lately. How much she deserved some time away. How much she meant to him."

"So, he actually talked about that kind of stuff?"

"Yes, he did. I still remember him saying how she'd come into his life and had made it so wonderful. They'd had more than twenty years together and yet he loved her as much as he had the day they'd married." She sighed. "Oh, Detective, it was so romantic."

"Yeah, it sure sounds like it." He was having trouble reconciling the obnoxious, arrogant pig he'd encountered with the thoughtful, loving husband Isobel described.

He closed his notebook and slipped it back inside his shirt pocket, along with his pen. "Okay, well I guess that's about it for now. I appreciate your time." Nodding to both of them, he walked toward the electronic doors. They slid open almost soundlessly and a wall of cold air gusted inside. He pulled his jacket close and b.u.t.toned it up as he made his way out to the squad car, still no closer to solving the puzzle.

Even the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the window of Kate's rental car couldn't warm her. She forced air between her clenched teeth and did her best to ignore the anxiety that clawed at her insides.

She was clinging to her courage with her fingernails-what was left of them. Any second, she expected to lose her grip and it terrified her to think what might happen if she did.

She peered through the windscreen. Her gaze darted around like a startled bird, refusing to linger in one place for more than a second or two.

The garden was as tidy as always. The heavy scent of wattle filled the air and settled around her, bringing with it memories of her childhood. Memories she'd buried, along with all the other bleak moments of her youth.

The red and pink geraniums growing alongside the roses that lined the path that led to the front door were incongruously bright against the dullness of the gra.s.s. The sun was descending fast. It wouldn't be long and another night would be upon her: Yet another night of angry, restless questions buzzing inside her head, stealing her sleep and her sanity.

But right here, right now, none of it mattered. She was outside the house of her nightmares-outside the house her mother thought would be a haven for them both.

Kate took another breath and counted to ten. Releasing it on a sigh, she opened the car door, squared her shoulders and headed up the driveway. She could do this. She could. For her mother.

The front door opened long before she reached it. She shivered. He must have been watching. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Darryl strode down the path toward her, his lips turned up into a sneer.

"If it isn't our high-flying daughter finally come home to rest. And here I was thinking not so long ago we'd never see you again."

Kate came to a stop and braced herself against his taunts. His long-sleeved white linen shirt fit snugly around a still-muscular chest and was tucked neatly into the waistband of a pair of denim jeans that encircled a waist that had only marginally softened.

She was filled with jarring disappointment. She'd hoped his outward appearance had finally begun to reflect the degradation of his soul, but someone with far more influence than her over these things hadn't seen it that way.

She glared at him from behind her designer sungla.s.ses, glad she'd taken the time to dress in her best. Let him scoff all he liked; he couldn't touch her now. Bravado surged through her.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up, Darryl."

His eyes narrowed in surprise. He nodded, almost approvingly. "Well, well, well. Our little girl's gone and got herself all grown up and she's grown a bit of a mouth along the way."

His gaze raked over her with slow insolence. Kate forced herself to remain still. Even covered from head to toe in her expensive winter woolens, she felt naked and unclean beneath his close scrutiny. She resisted the urge to protect herself with her arms and seared him from behind her lenses. He seemed impervious to the heat in her eyes.

"Not bad, not bad at all." His gaze slithered over her again. "A bit on the scrawny side, but I can see what all the boys at the station are in a lather about."

The insult drew blood. Anger clogged her windpipe. She sputtered and wheezed and tried to draw air into her suddenly depleted lungs.

"Cat got your tongue, Kathryn? It's not like you to be short of words. At least, you never used to be."

Nausea swirled once again in her stomach, depleting her short lived courage. She couldn't go through with it. She had to get away. She turned to leave and then stopped.

White-hot rage boiled up inside her to the point where she could almost taste it. She spun on her heel and whipped off her gla.s.ses, her gaze intent on his face.

"I want the laptop." Low and guttural, she could barely believe the voice was hers.

Surprise momentarily slackened Darryl's features. He belched and she was almost overcome by the smell of alcohol. She stepped backward.

"Give me the laptop, Darryl. I know it's here. Riley told me."

A knowing grin split his features. He nodded and chuckled. "Ah, I see. Now it all makes sense. I knew there had to be a reason he came sniffing around here last week. You're f.u.c.king the young detective." He took a step toward her. Kate gasped, her tiny reservoir of bravery almost exhausted.

"Tell me, Kathryn. What's it like to suck black c.o.c.k?"

Bile rose in her throat, harsh and acidic. She turned away, fighting the sudden urge to vomit.

Darryl laughed. The pungent smell of alcohol reached her seconds before he grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head around. Tears of humiliation burned behind her eyes.

The man she hated most in the world narrowed his eyes menacingly, his face only inches from hers. His voice, in stark contrast to the expression on his face, was soft and soothing, almost as if he was crooning a lullaby.

"Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn. You were always so feisty, always ready to argue." He chuckled. "As if you could talk your way out of it." He shook his head. "You never learned. Right down to that last time, you never learned."

He leaned in even closer and pressed his mouth tightly against her ear. She shuddered and strained against his hold. Terror pumped through her veins.

"You do remember our last time, don't you?"

She cried out in agony and would have fallen if his hold on her hair hadn't tightened. She was going to be sick. Right there, on his perfect lawn.

Defeat settled inside her, heavy and hard and cold. She'd failed. Her mother was gone and she'd never find her.

Darryl's voice, now strangely disembodied, floated into her ear.

"I remember that last time. It was such a special time. Just the three of us. My friend was so disappointed when you refused to let him play. Now I understand why. You should have told me you preferred black c.o.c.k."

Pent-up sobs seized her chest in a vicelike grip. Her lungs refused to function. Lights spun behind her eyes, like sparklers that had been lit and left to their own devices. She was going to die. Right there. In Darryl's picture-perfect front garden.

A mighty thump hit her between her shoulder blades. She choked and gasped for air.

"Breathe, you little s.l.u.t. I don't want you dying in my yard." Darryl's hand came down hard once again and she gasped. The lights behind her eyes receded.

She dashed at the tears now coursing down her cheeks and stared into his face with all the hate and fury she could muster.

"I want my mother's laptop. I bought it. I want it back."

Darryl let go of her and took a step backward, shrugging as if what had just pa.s.sed between them was of no consequence.

"Take it. Why would I want the f.u.c.king thing? Waste of time, if you ask me. Your mother was never off it. Why she found it so interesting, I'll never understand." He shook his head. "All this new-fangled technology. I say, bring back the old days, when you could get by with a visit to the library and a letter in the post."