Excitement skittered up my spine as I tried to sound professional. 'I appreciate that. I'd really love to see Pia-'
He made a negative sound.
I looked to him, surprised. 'Then who, and why?'
'Can't say who. Don't know if they'll come through. They go right back. As for why - because I owe it to Veevie's restless ghost.' Arthur gave me that lopsided smile which could have been either cynical or ingenuous. 'And perhaps, because a politician needs all the publicity he can get. Take your pick.'
As I looked into his face I realised both these reasons could have been true. And they probably were. 'Then what was with the, don't want to rake over the past for profit speech inside?'
He dunked his biscuit and ate it with relish. 'I had to sound you out, test your motivation.'
'And I passed the test?'
He grinned. 'I think we both passed.'
Now that was obscure.
After brushing biscuit crumbs onto his trouser leg, he offered me his hand. 'I'll call.'
I was being dismissed but at least I had hope. 'Great. I'll be waiting.'
By the time I'd driven back down the mountain to St Kilda and parked my car, I was no closer to understanding Arthur Davidson, ex-bad-boy/philosopher/rock-balladeer turned independent politician. And I hadn't recorded anything. Perhaps I could get him to repeat that 'we were little shits' quote for the podcast.
Feeling light-hearted, I shut the rear door of the garage and stepped into the tiny backyard of One-Eight-One. The sky had clouded over bringing an early end to twilight, cloaking the neat little yard in shadows. But I knew what it contained.
The house and yard were very different from when the Tough Romantics lived here. Then, One-Eight-One had been a run-down terrace house with an overgrown square of dirt yard. Now, the neatly-paved yard was dominated by a beautiful Japanese maple, reflected in a small pond. Very peaceful, very zen.
A shadow moved in the darker shadows.
I froze, straining to see. My search produced only the dancing squiggles of light-starved eyes. I must have been mistaken; there was nothing there. I'm not usually so jumpy but, since moving into One-Eight-One two nights ago, I'd felt as if I was being watched. It was hard not to think about the band and how Genevieve had died here. I'd even had trouble sleeping and, when I did, my dreams woke me in a cold sweat. I was determined that the panic attacks that had nearly crippled me when my marriage crashed and burned would not resurface again.
The intruder moved. I froze. Not my imagination then.
The dark figure was a head taller than me with broad shoulders. It had to be a guy, not many women were built like that. I could smell that the calf-length leather jacket he wore was new. Would a mugger be wearing a brand new leather jacket? Maybe he'd stolen it from his last victim.
My heart rate went up a notch. Could I jump the pond and make it to the back door before he tackled me?
I didn't fancy my chances.
'Scared the shit outta ya, didn't I?' a familiar voice teased, his eyes and teeth flashing in the darkness of his face.
'M- Monty? You bastard!'
'Black bastard! Get it right, Antsy.'
'Antonia. Get it right, Monty!' More mind games. Since we'd met while studying he'd never called me anything but Antsy and it hadn't been long before the rest of the gang took to calling me that. I had him to thank for it.
He grinned unabashed. I brushed past, going around the pond. The motion-sensitive lights flicked on, triggered by the timer. Monty followed, as I unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped inside the kitchen/breakfast area. Apart from the garden spotlights, there was only the glow of the digits on the computerised oven.
'You're a shit, you know, Monty,' I said, flicking on the lights and adjusting the central heating. The lights were set into the ceiling, positioned over the workspaces. Even with the lights on, the place felt dim. It was all chrome and tinted glass - not my idea of a kitchen.
Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors made the little kitchen and breakfast nook part of the backyard. Clever retractable shade cloths allowed the winter sun in and kept the summer sun out. The place had been architect designed. It was a far cry from when Genevieve was attacked in this very room. It had been a kitchen then, too. Fatally wounded, she'd staggered out through the long grass and climbed into the front seat of O'Toole's taxi which was parked in the lane.
Why run back to the taxi if O'Toole was the killer? There was no point in locking the doors against him. The police claimed she wasn't thinking clearly. But this was just one more thing that didn't add up.
When he'd radioed dispatch to call the police, O'Toole had claimed he'd found her there and that she'd been too far gone to tell him who her killer was. She died in his arms. Poor kid.
The exterior spots flicked out, leaving only inky blackness outside. I felt vulnerable with the darkness looking in so, after dropping my satchel on the table, I went to the blinds and tugged on the cord to draw the verticals into place.
Finally, I turned to face Monty.
He stood across the slate tiles from me, an appreciative half smile illuminating his face, eyes oddly intent. 'Looking good, Antsy.'
My body, oddly, surged with desire at his compliment. The depth of my reaction surprised me and I turned away. 'It's not me,' I said, smoothing down the cream suit I'd worn to impress Arthur. 'I'm more at home in trackie daks.'
'No. I meant you're looking good for someone who nearly died.'
'Oh, that.' I slipped off the overcoat and hung it over the back of one of the bench stools. Who would have thought the garden tap was a killer? I'd turned it on a thousand times but the family home was old and, as we later discovered, mice had chewed through the wiring.
'Lucky for me our neighbour was a retired nurse.' I felt an odd surge of panicky guilt because, less than three weeks later, she'd dropped dead of a heart attack and there'd been no one around to save her. 'Mrs Ormiston saw it happen from her kitchen window. She was the one who got my heart started again, got me breathing on my own. No brain damage, thank god. I'd hate to be a vegetable.'
I paused, seeing the lurking smile in Monty's eyes. 'Okay, so I wouldn't know if I was, but I hate the thought.'
He nodded. 'Tell you what. If I ever end up in a coma with no brain function, promise you'll pull the plug.'
'Sure. And you do the same for me.' I'd meant it lightly, but Monty nodded in all seriousness as if we'd just signed a pact in blood. That was the thing about Monty, he liked to play mind games. Back at the Queensland College of Art I'd always met him with a counter bluff, now I wished I knew what he was really thinking.
As I tried to see past his handsome face, past the trickster to the real Monty, the burn scar on my palm itched and I rubbed it, turning my hand to the light. 'That's all I've got to show for dying and coming back to life. We couldn't afford to rewire the whole house so we cut our losses and sold up. And here I am, sinking my share of the family home into a project I'm trying to get off the ground.'
And here I was with Monty watching me far too closely. I closed my hand feeling the scar pull across my palm. Trust Monty to come back into my life by scaring 10-year's growth out of me. 'Did I mention you're a shit, Monty?'
'Frequently,' he smiled. His black leather jacket made a soft, brand-new sound as he pulled a bottle of wine from the pocket, standing the wine on the metal bench top in front of me.
'What's this, a peace offering?' I studied the label. A Pinot Gris. He knew I was a sucker for a nice white.
'Nah. Bribery. I know what you're working on. I want in.'
I glanced up at him. Monty looks like the kind of a man you wouldn't want to run into in a dark alley. He's tall and black. From Mauritius