Imperfect Stranger. Elizabeth Oldfield

remember my mother sighing over him and…’ She broke off as the Swiss couple marched into the shop. ‘G’day again,’ she said.

      Smiling, Danielle backed away. ‘I’ll see you later.’

      * * *

      The Land Rover ticked over, coughed and cut out. Danielle muttered an imprecation beneath her breath and tried again. This time a steady thrum was established. As she swung off the Lodge’s gravelled forecourt and on to the road, her brow furrowed. It was now clear that the engine dying could not be blamed on her, but why did it die? Danielle sighed. She did not have a clue and, as there was no motor mechanic available to consult, all she could do was hope that the intermittent problem would somehow solve itself.

      She did not have a clue about Flynn either, Danielle mused, as she drove along. Some people you could read like a book, but with him it was impossible even to make out the title. Might he be an actor? To her he did not seem the type—and if he was one of any standing, surely she would know?—yet a desire to avoid identification and thus keep away from the limelight would explain his evasions. Danielle nibbled at her lip. Rather than Flynn reminding her of someone, might she have seen a photograph of him? Suddenly that seemed more likely. But where and when? She had a knack of remembering names and faces, yet, although she tried hard to jog her memory, nothing came.

      On reaching the coast road, Danielle turned north. Yesterday she had travelled south, initially heading back in the direction of the ferry before swinging off to explore a succession of dirt tracks. Some had ended at campsites, some at dwellings, while others had gone on for miles before looping back on to the road, but all had cut through dense forest which had seemed bereft of marijuana-growing potential. Today, she planned to drive some of the way up the track which led eventually to the commune. Danielle made a face. It would be another wasted effort, but if Clive Bredhauer should want to know how ‘poppet’ had spent her time, at least she would have something to report.

      The track proved to be another of the hard-baked, grossly uncomfortable variety, and after ten minutes of being jounced around Danielle began to wonder if her journey was really necessary or whether she should do a three-point turn at the first opportunity and retreat. She was dithering when, ahead among the trees, she saw a pair of stone gate-posts at the start of a metalled drive. A letterbox was incorporated in one of the posts, with a nameplate fixed below, and, driving up, Danielle peered out at it.

      ‘Mears’, she read.

      Her interest roused, she hesitated for a moment then swung in between the gate-posts. Flynn had gone to Port Douglas, so she would take a quick peek and see what kind of a property it was he had rented. Admittedly she could be accused of nosiness, but the man intrigued her and there was no harm in it. The drive travelled beneath a shadowy archway of trees then curved, bringing her out into a large cleared grassy area in the middle of which stood a house. Danielle blinked against the sunshine. All the other houses she had seen in the rainforest had been relatively humble, corrugated-iron-roofed bungalows and she had assumed that Flynn would be living in yet another, but ahead of her was a pristine white two-storey building, with black shutters framing the windows, shiny black glossed front door, and a separate garage block off to one side. The grass around the house was cut into neat lawns, interspersed with clusters of white frangipani and pink oleander. As Danielle motored on, she frowned. She had underestimated the mystery man.

      Halting where the drive spread into a semi-circle in front of the house, she climbed down. The exterior of the Mears’ residence was ordered, affluent and impressive; what did it look like inside? Danielle crossed to a picture window on the right of the front door and raised a hand to her eyes.

      ‘Tasty,’ she muttered.

      She was looking into a spacious L-shaped livingroom, with white walls and satiny wooden floors covered with rich kilim rugs. Three pistachio-coloured sofas formed a seating area around a smoked-glass coffeetable which carried a bowl of exquisitely carved jade flowers. She saw pale shaded Thai celadon lamps, the statue of a golden Chinese horse, and, standing guard at a door which stood half-open into what must be the hall, two enormous filigree brass tusks. Danielle drew back. If Flynn had rented such a chic and expensively furnished house for three months, he could not be short of money. Drug dealers have money, whispered a sneaky little voice inside her head.

      At the end of the room was another picture window and, interested to see how the hidden bar of the L was furnished, she made her way around to the rear of the house. A veranda hung with bougainvillaea which exploded in fireworks of purple and pink stretched across the full width, and she stepped gratefully into its shade. Peering in again, Danielle saw a leather-topped desk, swivel chair and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; the bar of the L was a stylish study area. She tilted her head. There were some typewritten papers on the desk; it would be interesting to know what they said. Walking to the next window which opened on to the dining-room, Danielle gave a wistful sigh. The limed oak table, long low sideboard and oyster velvet upholstered chairs were to die for.