Murder Undone - Gripping Psychological Suspense

Chapter One – April 2015

CHAPTER ONE

April 2015

It was the snoring that woke her, bouncing off the walls of the bedroom. Eva half sat up and looked at the man lying on his back beside her. Her heart skipped a beat. For just a moment—the shape of his bald head, the contours of his cheeks—he looked like Charlie. But in the creeping dawn light it was easy to see the man was nothing like him. Jowly, a thick pelt of hair on his chest and arms, bloated belly that rose and fell in rhythm with the snores. And oozing stale alcohol.

She grimaced. She supposed she smelled the same. Certainly her dry, gritty mouth and gathering headache was testament to that. She checked the bedside clock. Five am. She was getting soft—she usually kicked them out straight after s*x.

She shook his shoulder. 'Hey, time to get up.'

No response. What the hell was his name? Last night was hazy—she thought back to when he'd sidled up to her at the bar and bought her a drink. They did the usual introductions, as if names really mattered, as if they weren't going to end up in bed together, strangers grasping at each other for whatever temporary comfort they could find.

'Frank!' A thunderous snore almost deafened her. 'Eddie! George!'

His eyes flew open. George, that was it. He turned his head and stared at her, frowning.

'You have to leave! Now!'

Comprehension slowly dawned. 'You're not even going to cook me breakfast?'

'Do I look like the chef at The Sheraton?'

'Jesus, you're a hard woman.'

He sat up and hauled himself out of bed. She watched him as he retrieved his jeans, underpants and shirt from the floor and put them on. Her memory was waking up and she saw his thick, hairy hands exploring her body as his mouth clamped down on hers, moving down to bite her n*****s, which made her yell. A couple of rough finger pokes to make sure she was wet enough, a few minutes of humping, it was all over. She'd made the mistake of allowing herself to drift off to sleep instead of getting rid of him.

Not a lot of s****l pleasure, about as much as she'd got with Edgar before he lost interest completely, but it was the closeness, bare flesh melded together, need and want and desire mingling in the illusion that she mattered to someone, if only for a few hours.

She got up, wrapped a robe around herself and escorted him through the living room to the front door. She always used the guest wing when she brought men home, it helped to keep that part of her life separate from her normal life. George turned to her and grinned.

'I like a bossy woman. Reminds me of my wife. She died last year of cancer. But I told you that last night, didn't I?'

She had no recollection of that. 'Yes, you did.'

Looking at him now, she couldn't imagine what had attracted her to him. That's what double whisky shots and dim lighting in bars did to you.

George took his mobile phone out of his pocket. 'What's your number, honey? I'll take you out to dinner one night.'

For God's sake, let's not pretend this was anything but a one night stand. She'd told him she was widowed and he obviously thought he was on to a good thing when the taxi dropped them off the night before.

'Wow! This is some joint!' he’d exclaimed, staring up at the three-storey mansion set into the cliffside with its views of Tamarama beach.

'Sorry, I'm not interested,’ Eva said.

He gave her a hard look before slipping his phone back in his pocket. 'I see. One of those love 'em and leave 'em types. Good luck, might see you again, picking up some other poor sucker.'

He slammed the door shut behind him, and she watched him through the window as he strode down the front path, wearing his injured pride like a mantle.

●●●

She was too wide awake to go back to sleep, so she locked the guest wing and went back into the main house. She'd tidy up and wash the sheets later—Edgar wasn't due back till tomorrow. Not that he ever went into the guest wing.

After showering and dressing in her designer sweat pants, T-shirt, hooded jacket and Nikes, she slipped out the front door and down the sloping front path that was bordered by a lush lawn and well-behaved garden. On either side stood two large identical fountains, with cherubic angels peeing water. She shuddered every time she passed them; Edgar's taste was in direct proportion to his wealth. She'd tried to persuade him to replace them with something more tasteful, but although he let her have her way on most occasions, he remained steadfast about the angels.

Locking the security gate behind her, she crossed the road to the path that wound along the coastline, snuggling into her jacket against the crisp autumn breeze. The sea was blue-grey, the sun a glowing orb poised at the edge of the horizon, as if waiting for the curtain call to come out from the wings. Apart from the occasional jogger on the beach, she could almost believe she was the only person in the world. The path was part of the popular Bondi to Coogee Beach Coastal Walk, but it was still too early on a Sunday morning for the recreational walkers.

Her steps marked out a soothing rhythm, in time to the throbbing in her head. She swallowed her hangover nausea. If she walked fast enough, maybe she could walk off the memories of last night. Because she'd had them again. The visions. They haunted her almost every night now, though she'd hesitated to call them visions when they started six months ago, because it made her sound like a psychic or a religious maniac.

But they were more than dreams. Larger, clearer, sharper. And always of Charlie. Right there in front of her—she could touch his skin, feel his pulse, the warmth and aliveness of him, resurrected from the still, wax-skinned body that was her last memory of him. And always the same expression on his face, asking the same question. Why?

'You were going to leave me,' Eva had said. 'There was no other way.' Her cheeks were wet with tears. 'Can you forgive me?' she whispered.

He didn't answer, his eyes cold, a look she knew well. She shouted, sobbed, begged, pummelled his unyielding chest. No matter what the vision, it always ended the same way, with her sitting bolt upright in bed, hair damp with perspiration, staring wide-eyed into the darkness where Charlie had stood before her just seconds ago.

Sometimes Edgar woke and insisted on making her a cup of cocoa, even though she reassured him it was only a bad dream. Last night, thank God, George had slept through it all and she eventually drifted off to sleep again. The visions always exhausted her, leaving her feeling wrung out the next day.

After an hour the sun had risen, taking the edge off the breeze and promising a clear morning. Eva took off her jacket and wrapped it around her waist. The world was awakening; people were cycling, walking their dogs, striding out while bellowing into their mobile phones, heading to the beach with towels and surfboards.

She left the path and crossed to a small bunch of shops overlooking Coogee Beach. She bought a couple of bananas from a fruit shop, then found an outside table at the Coogee Cafe and ordered a double strength latte. While her stomach revolted at the thought of eating, she forced herself to eat both bananas. She'd been given that tip from an old drunk she'd met in some bar—apparently it was the potassium in the bananas that got rid of the nausea. Whatever the reason, it always worked. Within minutes her stomach had settled, just in time to drink her coffee.

The breakfast crowd buzzed around her. A balding man in slacks and sports jacket strode past. Eva held her breath. Of course it wasn't Charlie, but the spring in his step reminded her of him, how Charlie seemed to bounce up from the balls of his feet when he walked. She was seeing him everywhere during the day as well. What was happening? It had been almost twenty years—why now? He's haunting me. He's doing it for revenge. He's waited this long so he could catch me unawares. Though she had no belief in psychic phenomena and her rational mind told her it was bullshit, it was the only explanation she could think of.

She finished her coffee and got up, feeling half-human again. As she was about to cross the road to retrace her steps home, the sound of voices singing floated towards her. Angel voices, clear and pure. She turned and walked in their direction and found herself in a leafy side street shaded by trees on either side, crammed with parked cars. A pink sandstone church stood in front of her. St Gabriel's Catholic Church. The voices faded away to an 'Amen.'

She went to the front door and peered in. The church was about three-quarters full—religion was still alive and well in this part of town. Perhaps the well-off were the only ones who could afford the luxury of believing. The priest, a tall man with unruly grey hair brushed back from his forehead and a bushy beard, reminded her of a folk musician she'd picked up at a bar a couple of months ago. His tone of voice was warm and conversational, a far cry from the fire and brimstone booming she remembered from her youth. The all-female choir sat in the side gallery, heads all turned towards her as one.

She either had to come in or leave, to avoid further attention. She slipped in and sat in the back row next to an elderly woman with purple hair. The woman gave her a curious sideways glance.

'Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this bread to offer, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the bread of life,' the priest proclaimed.

'Blessed be God for ever,' the congregation replied.

The Eucharist, leading up to communion. Eva was amazed that she remembered it—she hadn't been to Mass since she was fourteen, having plucked up the courage to announce one Sunday morning to her mother that she was an atheist (pronouncing the word with pride) and would no longer be accompanying her to Mass. She never forgot the look on her mother's face, as if it was her own fault that her daughter had eschewed her beloved God.

Cora Stewart had made a career out of suffering, and Eva, determining that religion was to blame, had decided to throw off its yoke before it dragged her down. No way was she going to live her life apologising for being alive, and at that moment, she made a commitment to herself that she would carve out her own destiny.

The words of the priest and the responses of the congregation flowed over her like the ripples of sun through the stained glass windows. The aroma of wood polish mingled with the lavender scent of the woman next to her. It was comforting enfolded within the womb of the church and its rituals, a solid and unchanging sanctuary in an uncertain world.

Eva looked up at the slice of blue sky visible through the top of the nearest window, imagining her mother looking down on her from heaven, her face as Eva last saw it, caving in on itself, her eyes huge, skin as fragile as tissue paper. You'd be proud of me, Ma, at Mass for the first time in forty-six years.

'The peace of the Lord be with you always,' the priest said. He was looking straight at her. She shivered and looked away.

'And also with you,' chanted the congregation.

'Let us offer each other a sign of peace.'

The purple hair nodded towards her. 'Peace be with you.''

'Peace be with you,' Eva said, and again to the couple in front who turned around and smiled. This was the part that had always embarrassed her when she attended church as a teenager. Some people just nodded, others shook your hand, one time an old man with wet rubbery lips kissed her on the cheek. After the breaking of the bread came communion. She watched as the congregation lined up, pew by pew to receive their wafer and sip of wine.

Her mind flashed back to the age of ten when she'd had her best friend Sally sleep over on a Saturday night. Eva’s mother had insisted on them both accompanying her to church the next morning. When Eva went up to receive communion, Sally followed her.

'You can't take communion, you weren't baptized!' Eva hissed at her.

'Who's going to know?' Sally whispered back, with a mischievous grin.

When they sat back down again, Sally said, ’That bread's disgusting, it tastes like cardboard!' All the heads in the row in front of them swivelled around in unison. Eva glared at her and spent the rest of the service in a sweat, waiting for God to rain down his anger on her, for allowing an 'unblessed' to receive communion.

As her neighbour returned to her seat, she gave Eva a quizzical glance. What good Catholic went to church and didn't take communion?

Then they were standing, singing the closing hymn, led by the choir. The women in the choir were a range of ages, but they all had one thing in common—their faces shone with a guileless enthusiasm, a smile hovering around their lips as if they all shared a divine secret. How much easier would life be if she believed? If she woke up each morning lit up from inside with that unswerving devotion, that certainty? God supposedly forgave you all your sins, even if people didn't. For a few moments, Eva's heart ached for what those women had. But even if she did believe, it wouldn't change anything.

After a couple of community announcements and a closing prayer, it was over. It was Eva's intention to make a quick getaway, but somehow the priest—perhaps he had angel wings—had made it to the front door just as she was walking out.

He held out his hand. 'I'm Father O'Halloran. Are you new to the area?' His handshake was firm.

'I'm Eva. I live in Tamarama—I'm just here for the day.'

Up close he looked older, easily in his sixties. His profession was portrayed in the planes and gullies of his face; he’d seen suffering and the worst of humanity, yet a sheen of compassion overlaid it all.

'Nice to meet you,' he said. ‘Feel free to drop by at any time.'

He smiled, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he turned to greet the person behind her. The look was so intense it stopped her in her tracks. It was as if he knew what she'd been thinking in church, knew everything about her, that she had secrets she'd never told another living soul. You're getting paranoid now.

Her arms had broken out in goosebumps. She put on her jacket and walked away without a backward glance.