IDLE LIES
Lian Knight was born in Sydney at a time of prosperous growth for the country’s busiest city. She almost missed her start in life, being dangerously ill at birth, resulting in family urgently congregating from interstate and her father rushing the birth details, changing the spelling of her name on her birth certificate. Following a miraculous recovery through the quick thinking of talented Sydney doctors, her family moved closer to their origins in Melbourne where she was raised in the eastern suburbs. For thirty years she forged a satisfying career with numerous senior roles in major corporates before fulfilling her lifelong dream to write crime fiction. She is excited to have completed her first novel and has a second currently underway.
LIAN KNIGHT
IDLE LIES
Published by Hybrid Publishers
Melbourne Victoria Australia
© Lian Knight 2019
This publication is copyright. Apart from any use
as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced
by any process without prior written permission from the publisher.
Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction
should be addressed to the Publisher,
Hybrid Publishers,
PO Box 52, Ormond, VIC Australia 3204.
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A catalogue record for thisbook is available from theNational Library of Australia |
ISBN 9781925736144 (p)
9781925283495 (e)
Cover design: Gittus Graphics www.gggraphics.com.au
To my gorgeous husband Warrenaffectionately known as WAK –whose unwavering patience and understanding enabledme to overcome my writing befuddlement, marshal myconfidence and fulfil a lifelong dream.
PROLOGUE
Saturday, 4 November
IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. It had to be an accident.
The lifeless body lay sprawled in the cool grass. One leg stretched forward among the lush green blades, relaxed and peacefully still from the pleasure of a deep slumber. The other curled back awkwardly, pivoting the hipbone above the tight denim jeans like an odd piece of angle bracket encased in a layer of iridescent white paper. The twisted foot turned on a strange angle and rested ungracefully on a mound of dirt.
From the hips, a long, slender torso extended into the verge until it reached a pallid head, contorted to one side. A startled expression, frozen in time, mirrored the open mouth. Beyond a tangle of yarn, a solitary arm extended, two fingers idly outstretched, almost beckoning for someone to come. But no one came, nothing stirred, the park was quiet.
He stood over the motionless figure. Across his brow, small beads of sweat joined larger beads and began a slow trickle down his neck. He made no effort to wipe them away. He could not move, he could not look; his stomach cramped and his feet remained anchored to the spot. A passer-by, had there been one, might have thought he was a scarecrow, his rigid body guarding an unsuspecting prey that had fainted in fright. Or a strange statue, shielding another that lay fallen, its carved stonework flickering in the fading light. Whichever it was, the last remaining sunbeam, devoid of opinion, traced a lone path over the motionless objects to the slender ferns and the dogwood, away from the clearing that adjoined the picnic area. Soon the sun would disappear, and the bizarre spectacle would be swallowed by the shadows and fade into the darkness of the surrounding forest.
He fought the urge to move. Inwardly everything craved escape, but outwardly he could do nothing but stand transfixed. At last he felt a loosening of the invisible grip, a long, procrastinating release, and gradually he impelled his body to shift slightly. He looked down.
Blades of grass wavered in the light breeze, gracefully stroking the stiff denim and twisted wool. Longer stems patted the glimpses of bare skin, stroking the silent jaw and mingling with strands of hair that brushed the brow and tangled with the lashes. Glass eyes, still and unflinching, stared outwards, silently, across the green. Mesmerised by their unyielding gaze, he followed their direction over the quivering grass to the forest’s edge. Tall timbers swayed peacefully in the evening air and for a moment he was riveted by the gap in the trees, captivated by the silent leaves dancing in the waning light. But the moment dissipated and a painful awareness dawned. There was nothing. They were looking at nothing. The eyes were dead.
In a flash he sprang into action, pacing back and forth, fists clenched. A large grey kangaroo beginning its evening graze swiftly bounded away.
It was all a terrible mistake, a volley of strong words – sudden, incomprehensible anger, inexplicable fury, momentary retaliation. It had been out of control, but only for a few moments. Just how many moments he did not know, he could not remember, he could not think. He could only look now with appalling realisation at the frightful figure.
He dropped to his knees, head bent, fingers interlocked behind his neck. What the hell have I done?
Closing his eyes, he began to shake. Surely this could be fixed; he could not possibly live with this reality now. Maybe this was just a terrifying possibility. He opened his eyes and, still crouching, took one slow step forward. Gingerly, he lifted an arm and felt for a pulse. There was none.
The arm bounced on the soft grass. Recoiling, he lurched backwards and his shoe catapulted into soft tissue, making the body twitch. He twisted on his knees, stumbling and clutching frantically at the grass to hasten his escape. Gasping, he reached the gravelled path and, dodging a large black crow taking flight, sheltered himself behind the picnic table nestled among the shrubs, away from the awful sight. The crow, having been unexpectedly displaced, settled its wings and eyed him suspiciously from a safe distance. Oblivious of his feathered observer, he stared with wild, glazed eyes at the unopened takeaway wrapped in white paper and the solitary bottle of Coke that sat idly on the table.
His cheeks flooded and his neck pulsed. Shit! This was not what he had planned.
Raising his fist, he banged it so hard on the table that the bolts at the other end jumped and the bottle tipped over, hissing violently. Immediately he yelped and pulled his hand close. Part of a large splinter stood straight out; the rest of it lay firmly embedded in his palm. Droplets of blood began to fall on the table, bouncing onto the bench seat.
Cursing, he ran to the car, wrenched open the passenger door with his other hand and yanked at the glovebox lid. Holding the bloodied mess over the ground, he fished among the contents until he found the pliers. Taking careful aim, he clamped them over the exposed timber spike and, with one deep breath, ripped it out. He folded in pain as the crimson fluid began to spurt. He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it quickly around the wound.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ he shouted at the body.
Immediately he checked himself. He scanned the area urgently, eyes darting, but the air was calm, the park was silent. Nothing moved.
He let his shoulders release and exhaled slowly and completely. Slowly he retraced his steps to the table and sat down, resting his hands on his head. His palm throbbed.
What now?
Police. He would go and tell them. It was an accident.
No. That would not work. Right now, his face burned. It would burn