 
DEGREES OF CLARITY

A crime novella

by

Deborah Sheldon
Degrees of Clarity

© Deborah Sheldon 2015

Cover Art [Copyright symbol] by James, GoOnWrite.com

Internal Layout by Cohesion Editing and Proofreading

Set in Palatino Linotype (tbc)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

'300 Degree Days and other stories'

Sometimes, the ties that bind are sharp enough to cut. In these eleven stories, set in contemporary Australian suburbia, Deborah Sheldon examines the darker side of family relationships. Unsettling and incisively written, each story of betrayal, envy, loss or bad blood resonates for a long time after reading.

Originally published by the award-winning Ginninderra Press, '300 Degree Days and other stories' is literary fiction at its most accessible.

Praise for Deborah Sheldon:

'Sheldon has the ability to make you sit up with her insight... I enjoyed 300 Degree Days for its authentic portrayal of how people behave and respond to challenges in their relationships. It's not always pretty, but it's real, and that made it a winner for me.'

\- Whispering Gums / Australian Women's Writers Challenge

'...a wonderful collection.'

\- Sandra James, editor 'Positive Words'

'...insightful: with the kind of imagery that stays with the reader long after putting the book down.'

\- Tiggy Johnson, founding editor of 'Page Seventeen' magazine

Get your free copy of '300 Degree Days and other stories' when you sign up to the author's Newsletter Mailing List. Get started here:

FOR ALLEN AND HARRY
1.

The limestone boundary fence of Trilliant Manor ran on for hundreds of metres. Jayne McMurray slowed her car and turned at the gates. The driveway swept in an arc through manicured lawns flanked by crab apple trees just beginning to change colour from burnt orange to green. It wouldn't be long before their buds started to open. Jayne thought of her own garden, of the seedlings she had put into the earth last autumn, the bulbs that must be pushing up shoots by now, and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

'Ah, screw it,' she muttered. Why think about her home when it belonged to someone else? She forced the memories aside.

Her hatchback finally cleared the last of the crab apples. Trilliant Manor came into view. Jayne had been the cleaner here for a few months now, but still couldn't get used to the spectacle. Trilliant Manor was a vision in white, its second-storey windows peeping like welcoming eyes from a pitched roof that featured no less than eight chimneys, all of them redundant because the owner's wife didn't like the smell of smoke. Jayne knew this from having to dust, every week, the giant baskets of decorative stacked wood and pine cones that filled each of the eight hearths.

At the turnaround by the fountain, vehicles choked the parking area. Jayne edged into a space near the garage. On the far side of the grounds, two men lugged stacks of chairs into a huge canvas gazebo, while a third had his arms filled with bouquets. Tonight was the 60th birthday party for Damien Georgiou, the owner of Trilliant Manor, which was why Jayne was cleaning the house, for the second time this week, and on a Saturday for double her usual fee. The estate would be crawling with event planners and caterers the whole day long.

How amazing to attend a soiree on this kind of scale, Jayne thought, as she got out of the car. She could only imagine the finger-food that would be on offer to the guests. There'd be no party pies or sausage rolls, she could bet her last dollar on that. The Georgiou party promised to be a highlight on Melbourne's social calendar. Despite the remote location of the estate – some 30 kilometres south-east of the city and set amongst bushland only accessible via rutted tracks that would be hell on the suspension of a luxury car – no one in their right mind would decline an invitation. She opened the boot of the hatchback and grabbed her buckets of cleaning supplies.

'Morning, Jayne.'

She looked around. Damien Georgiou laid the garden hose on the ground and walked over. He was a stocky man with a jovial face and a few wisps of grey hair on his florid, round skull. He seemed breathless. In one hand, he held a sudsy sponge. Jayne closed the boot.

'Don't tell me you're out here cleaning cars, Mr Georgiou,' she said, grinning. 'Not on your birthday.'

'Actually, my birthday isn't until next week. And I like getting my hands dirty every now and then. It's good for the soul. Tell me, am I doing a good job?'

He gestured a thumb over his shoulder. Behind him, the vehicles he owned – a Range Rover, Jag, BMW, Maserati – sat wet and shining on the turnaround nearest the guesthouse. Jayne's Holden Astra wouldn't be worth one set of their tyres.

'Excellent job,' she said. 'How about giving my car the once-over while you're at it?'

He laughed. 'That's my girl. Has Valma given you the details?'

'Yes, the whole house, but particularly the bathrooms and powder rooms.'

'Okay, sounds fine. Just go on in, the front door's open. Leave your invoice on the kitchen bench as usual and I'll take care of it Monday. If you need Valma, she's in the gym being put through her paces.'

'On the day of the party? I'd have thought she'd want to save her energy.'

'It's because of this new dress.' Damien Georgiou shook his head. 'She reckons it shows off her pot belly. She hasn't got anything to worry about, but you know Valma. You can't tell her anything.'

'Yes, of course,' Jayne said, smiling politely. Valma Georgiou was tall and lean; a handsome older woman with a style that revolved around sensible heels and navy pantsuits. Jayne couldn't picture Mrs Georgiou feeling insecure about anything. Jayne continued, 'If I don't see you before I go, have a great time tonight.'

Damien Georgiou touched a forefinger to his head in salute, picked up the hose and went back to his fleet of cars. Jayne took the steps to the double doors and went inside, the latch clicking softly behind her.

The air smelt like jasmine. As usual, Jayne slipped off her sneakers and left them in the entrance hall. Padding on thick socks, she entered the living room, a space big enough to contain her granny flat some three-times over. Lingering, she admired the familiar sights. She loved the decor in this room above all others in Trilliant Manor: walls butter-yellow, furniture off-white, accessories lilac. If she ever again owned a home of her own, she would decorate it in these exact same colours.

She cut through the kitchen, kept walking across the expanse of the meals-and-family area. The sliding glass doors to the patio offered a glimpse of rose garden, tennis court, in-ground swimming pool. Beyond the lawn at the distant gazebo, the two men who had been lugging the chairs were now setting them up, the remaining man packing vertical planters with flowers.

At last, Jayne approached the laundry, which was next to the gymnasium. Fully outfitted, the gymnasium took a long time to vacuum and dust, so Jayne usually cleaned there first to get it over with. However, she didn't want to interrupt Valma Georgiou during a workout. Today she would start at the entrance hall.

Jayne began to fill one of her buckets with hot water. While waiting, she pondered the design of Mrs Georgiou's new dress. If Mrs Georgiou felt worried about her abdomen, then either the material was clingy or else the cut was snug. Which would it be? Actually, Mrs Georgiou's slender frame could carry a dress that was both clingy and snug. Jayne, on the other hand, would look like a sausage about to split its casing. At thirty-two, the neat hourglass figure she had maintained so effortlessly in her twenties had decided to get a little more generous in its proportions. Her new career as a cleaning lady hadn't kept the extra kilograms in check.

The bucket was full. Jayne turned off the tap. From a pocket in her tracksuit pants, she took a scrunchie and twisted her hair into a ponytail. While unrolling a pair of rubber gloves, she stopped, listened. She couldn't hear any noise from the gymnasium. No clink of weights, no thrum of the treadmill or stair master, no words of encouragement from Christopher Llewellyn the personal trainer, no brusque requests for clarification from Valma Georgiou. Perhaps the workout had already finished. Jayne went to check.

The gymnasium, originally purposed as a media room, had few windows; just a bank of frosted, slitted panes arranged horizontally down one wall. Without the electric lights switched on, the space was gloomy in the late-winter sunshine.

As she was about to call out Mrs Georgiou, she heard it: short, rhythmic grunts, high-pitched, a woman's register, sounding too abandoned and greedy in nature to be anything else but...

In alarm, Jayne's hand flew to her mouth.

Oh my God, she thought. And with hubby on the premises?

Then, panicking, Jayne realised that she had to sneak out before Mrs Georgiou spotted her or else there would be no saving the cleaning job. She turned to leave. Christopher Llewellyn was standing in the shadows by the lat-pulldown machine, hands on hips, his shorts around his ankles. He had his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The dim light couldn't hide his bored expression, or the figure of Valma Georgiou, in her thousand-dollar jogging suit, kneeling in front of him, pumping her head back and forth.

Shocked, Jayne froze.

In that same moment, Llewellyn looked straight at her.

Some people appreciated an audience, Jayne knew, and Llewellyn was obviously one of them. His face lit up. Staring into Jayne's eyes, suddenly animated, he grabbed Mrs Georgiou's coiffed blonde head in both of his hands and drew a loud, shuddering breath. Jayne bolted from the gymnasium, silent on socked feet, before Llewellyn could share any more of his performance.

***

Jayne scrubbed wildly at an upstairs bathtub. If Mrs Georgiou found out that she'd been sprung fellating the help, she would dismiss Jayne on the spot. Losing this income would jeopardise Jayne's rent payments. Most cleaning jobs took two hours; Trilliant Manor took all day and paid time-and-a-half thanks to Damien Georgiou's generosity. Shit, Jayne thought, this could be a disaster.

Then again, perhaps Christopher Llewellyn wouldn't tell Mrs Georgiou. It had been almost half an hour since Jayne had witnessed them in the gymnasium. Nothing had happened yet. Llewellyn may well have decided to keep his mouth shut in case Mrs Georgiou, embarrassed and angry, fired him too.

Exasperated, Jayne dropped the scouring pad, ripped off the rubber gloves, and sat back on her haunches. This worrying was getting her nowhere. She needed a break. After standing up and stretching to ease the fatigued muscles of her back, Jayne went across the hall to the library.

The shelves held hundreds of books. However, each book was exactly the same size and leather-bound, as if from the same set. In Jayne's experience, this usually meant that the entire collection had been purchased for show. She selected a book at random and opened it. The pages parted reluctantly. The spine creaked. Definitely for show, she thought, as she returned the book to its slot.

She crossed to the window, propped against the arm of a Chesterfield sofa and looked out over the estate. At the party tonight there would be a string quartet, apparently, and valet staff, waiters in tuxedos, crates of imported champagne...

An anguished yell came from somewhere in the mansion: 'They're gone.'

It sounded like Mr Georgiou. Jayne hurried to the library door. Turning one way and then the other, she scanned the long hallway, straining her ears. There was nothing but the far-off whirr of ride-on mowers. Mr Georgiou's voice sounded again, this time as a grief-stricken wail.

'Hello?' she called out. 'Where are you? Do you need help?'

Pausing at every door, she glanced into the music room, sitting room, billiard room, ran past the elevator and adjacent stairwell. Was she going in the wrong direction? She stopped by another bathroom, and called, 'Hello, can you hear me?'

This time, the voice was nearby: 'They're gone.'

Jayne dashed across the mezzanine towards Damien Georgiou's private study.

The room had panelled wooden walls and bookshelves, a giant desk, red leather furniture. At first, there appeared to be no one in the room. Damien Georgiou lurched out from behind an open cupboard door and slammed it heartily. His face appeared both chalky and flushed.

'Are you all right, Mr Georgiou?' Jayne said. 'Can I get you anything?'

He groped for the red leather chair and slumped into it. The impetus carried the chair across the floor on its castors and bumped him against the nearest wall. He didn't seem to notice. At a guess, the man was drunk.

'I'll get Mrs Georgiou,' Jayne said, and went to leave.

'They're gone,' he shouted, his voice a constricted gargle. 'They're gone.'

Jayne hesitated. The poor old bastard, she thought. He must have discovered his wife and her personal trainer in flagrante delicto, which caused them to subsequently flee the manor. And on the day of his birthday party too.

'Is there anyone you would like me to contact for you?' she said. 'A relative?'

Damien Georgiou's eyes glazed over. Perspiration sprang across his forehead. Grimacing, his face turning grey, he began to reflexively grope at the collar of his t-shirt as if he couldn't get enough air. No, this man wasn't drunk. In horror, it dawned on Jayne that he might be having a heart attack. The effort of washing the cars must have brought it on.

'Oh Jesus,' she said. 'Look, wait; everything is okay, Mr Georgiou. You'll be okay. I'll get help.'

Flustered, she grabbed the phone from the desk and dialled 000. As she gave directions to the emergency operator, Damien Georgiou clamped his damp, cold hand over hers and gave a wretched sob.

'They're gone,' he whispered.

Then his eyes rolled up into his head.

***

At nearly 7 p.m. came a knock at the door of Jayne's granny flat.

On the veranda were two strangers. The slightly built, stooped woman looked to be in her late fifties, and wore her white hair combed flat as a bathing cap. Next to her stood a soft and fleshy man; perhaps in his forties, he had the kind of hooded eyelids that made him appear both sleepy and bored. The strangers were dressed in cheap two-piece suits. The man held a satchel against his thigh.

Jayne smiled. 'You'll find Mr and Mrs Radmacher in the main house. They're a little deaf, so just keep ringing the bell. They'll hear it eventually.'

'The Radmachers are your landlords?' the woman said.

'That's right.'

'And you rent this granny flat from them?'

Jayne dropped her smile. 'The Radmachers should be at home. Excuse me, I'm about to make dinner.'

'We're here to see you,' the woman said.

'Sorry, I'm not interested in any kind of religious conversion.'

Jayne went to close the door.

The man put his hand against the door and said, 'Jayne McMurray?'

'We're from the Organised Theft Squad,' the woman said. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Pam Thorpe. My colleague: Detective Constable Nigel Rudkins.'

'Pleased to meet you,' Nigel Rudkins said, not looking pleased at all.

'You're the police?' Jayne said.

Pam Thorpe nodded. 'We'd like to talk to you about Damien Georgiou.'

'Oh my God.' Jayne opened the door wide. 'Is he okay? I took a first aid course a few years ago, and absolutely none of it came back. The paramedics got there pretty fast, though, considering the country roads. He isn't dead, is he?'

Pam Thorpe said, 'Not yet. They've got him in intensive care.'

The detectives crossed the threshold. Jayne gestured towards the two-seater couch. The detectives sat down, looked around. The flat had a square layout: the living room and kitchen on one side of the square; the bedroom, bathroom and laundry on the other. The furnishings were cut-rate and meagre. Jayne felt her face colour. You should have seen the house I lived in back when it was mine, she wanted to say, it was beautiful.

'So you're the one who found Damien Georgiou,' Pam Thorpe said.

'Yes. I called for the ambulance. Do you know what hospital he's in?'

'Melbourne Private,' Pam said. 'Not that you can visit him, considering you aren't family. You aren't family, are you, Miss McMurray?'

'No, I'm the house cleaner. I'd like to send flowers.'

'How long have you been working for Mr Georgiou?'

'About three months.'

Nigel Rudkins widened his eyes, a reaction that didn't make any sense to Jayne. Then he unzipped his satchel and took out a notepad. From an inner pocket of his jacket, he extracted a pen, uncapped it, and started writing.

'How many times a week, on average, would you clean the house?' Pam said.

'Once,' Jayne said. 'Look, is there anything in particular I can help you with?'

Pam said, 'Tell us what Mr Georgiou does for a living.'

'You don't know?'

'We'd like you to tell us.'

'Sure, okay. He's a jeweller.'

'A jeweller? Can you be more specific?'

'More specific?' Jayne picked up her glass of merlot from the kitchen bench, gulped a quick drink. Over the course of the evening, she'd been working on a half-bottle to soothe her nerves. It wasn't every day that she stumbled across a medical emergency. Finally, she said, 'I don't know what you want me to tell you. Mr Georgiou sells jewellery – earrings, necklaces, engagement rings, that type of stuff.'

'And what type of stuff is it? Costume jewellery?'

'Diamonds.'

The detectives exchanged glances. Nigel capped the pen, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and slipped the notepad inside the satchel. Both detectives stood up at the same time.

Jayne put her hands on her hips. 'Did I say something wrong?'

'Of course not,' Pam said. 'Please come with us.'

'What for?'

'We need help with our enquiries.'

'Into Mr Georgiou's heart attack?' Jayne frowned, smiled. 'Why on earth would something like that be a criminal matter?'

'We'll let you know once we get to the squad room.'

Jayne looked from one detective to the other. Their faces were closed, impassive. After a moment, she sighed and shrugged.

'Well, sure, if it'll help Mr Georgiou. Let me get changed first.'

'Oh no, don't worry.' Pam gave a perfunctory grin. 'Track pants are fine.'

2.

The distance from Jayne's Burwood flat to the police complex in South Melbourne was only some fifteen kilometres but traffic was heavy that Saturday night. To make matters worse, Nigel Rudkins had driven the unmarked police car along the most direct route, Toorak Road, which happened to feature strip shopping malls crowded with dozens of popular bistros, restaurants and bars. After some thirty minutes of stop-start progress, the car finally came to a standstill. A line of brake-lights led over the next rise, and the one after that.

Stomach grumbling, Jayne looked out the back window at the crowds of mostly young and smartly-dressed people thronging the footpaths, and said, 'Can we pull over and get something to eat?'

Pam said, 'When we get to the squad room, I'll find you some biscuits.'

Jayne's mouth tightened. 'Look, I'm trying my best to cooperate for Mr Georgiou's sake. But since you haven't arrested me, that means I can ask you to turn around and drive me home. Otherwise, please stop the car for takeaway. Anything South-East Asian would be fine, thank you, but I prefer Malaysian.'

Pam gave the nod after a few seconds. Nigel flipped the indicator and pulled into the kerb.

Jayne ate the spring rolls in the car, careful to drop the crumbs into the paper bag. Since the seafood laksa came in two containers – soup in one, noodles in the other – she would have to wait until they were in the squad room before she could assemble it. The fragrant aroma made her hungrier than ever. Nigel made irritable noises of complaint and opened a window.

They drove for another ten minutes. The high-rise police complex had an underground carpark. From there, the detectives escorted Jayne through a heavy door to a hall that contained six elevators. She drank it in: the drab, utilitarian decor; the officers who criss-crossed the hall wearing either blue uniforms or suits; the gun on the belt of a beer-bellied detective who shared the elevator ride. Jayne had never before helped police in their investigations. How exciting: almost glamorous. She only wished that she'd been given the time to change into more respectable clothes. Then she remembered Mr Georgiou's plight and was ashamed.

At the second floor, Pam and Nigel led her from the elevator. Thanks to television programs, Jayne expected to be taken into a grim and dismal interview room, but it seemed that the Organised Theft Squad was too tiny to have any interview room at all. Pam walked her to an alcove that contained an island of four desks pushed together.

'You may as well start your dinner,' Pam said.

Jayne sat at one of the desks, combined the laksa ingredients, and began to eat. The detectives moved away and turned their backs. Out of earshot, Nigel conferred with Pam for a few minutes before leaving the alcove.

'How is it?' Pam said, taking a seat and opening a manila folder.

'Not as spicy as I'd like, but still very good.' Jayne dabbed at her mouth with the serviette. 'Where's Nigel gone?'

'Detective Constable Rudkins is making a few calls.'

Jayne nodded. 'And the other two in your squad? You've got four chairs here.'

'Checking lines of enquiry.'

'Into a heart attack? Off the top of my head, I'm guessing the culprits were blood pressure and cholesterol.'

Pam stared at her without blinking. To the casual observer, this diminutive, older detective might seem like someone's grandmother. Jayne already knew better. Putting down the serviette, Jayne said, 'It's not the heart attack, is it? Before we go any further, I'd like you to tell me what this is about.'

'All right.' Pam closed the manila folder. 'The Organised Theft Squad is a specialised division. Officially, we're part of the Fraud Squad, but we operate independently.'

'So Mr Georgiou committed fraud?'

'That's an interesting assumption.'

'If that's the case, then I'm sorry, I don't know anything about it. No one tells me their secrets. I'm only the cleaner.'

'And what makes you think Damien Georgiou committed fraud?'

Jayne gave a tight laugh. 'The fact that you just told me you're part of the Fraud Squad. Please, are you going to explain the situation to me or not?'

Pam laced her fingers together and laid her hands on the desk. 'Damien Georgiou sells jewellery to the public, yes, but he's mainly a wholesaler. For seventeen years, he's imported and supplied diamonds to retail businesses and other wholesalers across Melbourne and throughout Australia. He's got sales reps, but prefers to manage the bigger clients himself. My guess is that he doesn't fancy paying hefty commissions.' Pam stopped, smiled. 'Is this information ringing any bells?'

'Why would it?' Jayne said. 'I still don't know what you're getting at. So Mr Georgiou works with diamonds. How is that relevant to me?'

'He was robbed this morning.'

'Robbed?'

'The thief took about $800,000 in natural diamonds which are untraceable, much like Bearer Bonds. Apparently, Mr Georgiou had a sales meeting on Monday and was keeping the merchandise in a cupboard at Trilliant Manor over the weekend.'

'Did I hear you right?' Jayne said. 'Eight-hundred thousand dollars?'

'That's correct.'

Jayne shook her head. 'Wow.'

'Indeed. Our theory is that he opened the cupboard, discovered the missing diamonds, and the shock put him into cardiac arrest.'

'Oh, damn,' Jayne said. 'Now I know what he meant. When I found him, he kept saying, "They're gone". He must have been talking about the diamonds.'

'And what did you think he was talking about?'

Jayne hesitated. 'Nothing in particular; I assumed he was drunk at first.'

'Damien Georgiou is an alcoholic?'

'What? No, look, I don't know the first thing about him. Usually when I turn up on a Wednesday morning, he's already left for work. I deal with Mrs Georgiou, and even then, for maybe just a minute at the front door.'

With a disappointed sigh, the detective opened the manila folder to peruse the papers. A minute or so passed in silence while her fingers tap-tapped at the desk. Something about the woman's studied nonchalance started to fray Jayne's nerves.

Finally, Pam looked up and said, 'You don't normally clean on a Saturday?'

'No. That was extra to get the place ready for the party.'

'Okay,' Pam said. 'Who else was on the estate this morning?'

'Mrs Georgiou's fitness trainer.'

'And who else?'

'The gardeners, I assume. I don't know their names. I didn't see them either but I heard the lawn mowers. There would have been caterers too. And the hired gazebo had two guys setting up chairs and another one doing the flowers.'

'Okay, good. Anyone else?'

'Not that I saw. There were plenty of cars I didn't recognise that probably belonged to casual employees. This party was going to be a big deal.'

Pam nodded. 'And how many of these casual employees would have had access to the house?'

'I don't know. All of them, I guess.'

'All of them?'

Jayne shrugged. 'People have to go to the toilet, don't they?'

'Ah, good point.' Pam let out a slow, mirthless chuckle. 'In other words, you're suggesting that the thief could have been everyone and no one.'

'Actually, I'm not suggesting anything.'

'Okay. So how many rooms are in Trilliant Manor?'

Jayne rubbed the back of her neck. 'Uh, I would say... maybe thirty.'

'Goodness, that's a big house. Do you clean every room?'

'That's my job.'

'Then you must know the layout of the place quite well.'

Jayne didn't answer.

Pam leaned back and addressed the ceiling. 'A casual employee, on the other hand, a stranger hired for the day of the party, couldn't possibly have any idea where diamonds are kept unless they tossed the place, thirty rooms, from top to bottom.' She offered a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes. 'The house wasn't tossed.'

Jayne felt a flutter of panic in her chest. 'I don't like what you're getting at.'

'Is that right?'

'Yeah, that's right. Stop talking in circles and say what you want to say.'

Pam opened her hands in an expansive gesture. 'Miss McMurray, you're the only regular employee who has access to every room on every floor.'

As if a plug had been pulled, Jayne felt the blood running from her cheeks. Pam must have noticed. Cocking her head to one side, narrowing her eyes, the detective watched her carefully and waited.

'Christ almighty,' Jayne said at last. 'Am I a suspect?'

'Oh, no; better than that. You're the only suspect.'

After a few seconds, Jayne spluttered a laugh. 'Me? A diamond thief? That's ridiculous. How did I smuggle the goods out of the house? In my buckets?'

'You tell me.'

'My God, are you serious?'

'As a heart attack,' Pam said, lifting one side of her mouth in a dour grin.

'But it couldn't have been me. I stayed with Mr Georgiou until the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance. Ask anyone. Go ahead, ask Mrs Georgiou. She came into the study. She'll tell you I didn't ransack any cupboards.'

'That's because you already had the diamonds in your possession.'

For a surreal moment, Jayne felt sure this frame-up must be the work of her ex-husband, Gordon Winkle. He had promised revenge for her attempt to sue him. However, she dismissed the thought almost as soon at it came to her. Gordon had turned out to be a formidable opponent, but surely he didn't have the spite – let alone the political power – to influence a police investigation. This must be merely bad luck; the wrong-time-wrong-place kind of bad luck. She would be cleared soon enough.

'Oh, come on,' Jayne said. 'Can't you see how crazy this is? What on earth would I do with stolen diamonds?'

'Sell them.'

'But I don't know the first thing about diamonds. Who would I sell them to? I don't have any connections.'

'I've worked Fraud Squad some thirty years,' Pam said. 'In my experience, a person with close to a million dollars in merchandise tends to make a lot of connections very quickly.'

'That may be so, but I don't have any merchandise.'

'No?'

'No. I swear I'm innocent.'

The detective gazed at her fondly, as if Jayne was a child who had done something precious, and then said, 'Can you guess where I've heard that song before? From every inmate I've ever put behind bars.'

Nigel approached the desks, his nylon trousers whisking with each step. Pam nodded and waved him towards a chair. Arranging his heavy body carefully, Nigel sat down and began to leaf through his notebook in an offhand manner. Pam returned to reading the pages in her manila folder. The silence stretched on.

Jayne closed her eyes and listened to the pulse beating in her ears. What was the protocol in a situation like this? She didn't know. Perhaps she should ask to call a lawyer. But the only lawyer she knew was the one she had engaged to fight Gordon, and he specialised in civil claims, not criminal cases. Besides which, she barely had enough money to pay for her living expenses, and wouldn't a criminal lawyer ask for a retainer? Jayne had nothing left to hock. Then again, maybe she didn't need a criminal lawyer unless she was charged. Asking for a lawyer prematurely would look like an admission of guilt... wouldn't it? Before she could follow this train of thought to any kind of conclusion, Nigel's soft voice broke in.

'Miss McMurray,' he said, 'you owned and ran an employment agency until last year. Correct?'

'I don't see what that has to do with anything.'

'Just bear with me. You and Gordon Winkle, your husband – '

'Ex-husband,' Jayne cut in.

'My apologies, you and Winkle, your ex-husband, operated an employment agency that secured casual and permanent jobs for tradesmen such as plumbers, electricians, labourers, boilermakers and the like. Isn't that right?'

'Did Gordon tell you to bring me here?'

'Please answer the question,' Pam said.

'Okay, yes, Gordon and I ran an employment agency. So what?'

'It operated for twenty-two months,' Nigel said, 'and then you ceased trading. Can you explain why?'

'Because we went bust.'

'Bust?'

'Yeah, bust. You heard me right the first time.'

'Settle down, Miss McMurray. How did your agency run out of funds?'

Jayne glared at the detectives. 'Fine, you want the dirt? Here it is. Gordon was screwing our receptionist. They siphoned all the money into a secret account. By the time I found out, it was too late.'

'Too late to do what, exactly?' Nigel said.

'Save the business.'

Nigel consulted his notebook. 'Once Winkle left the marriage, you found out that he'd listed every debt under your name, including the house. According to court documents, you allege that a few months prior to your separation, Winkle surreptitiously remortgaged the house as an investment property rather than as a family home, so that under Australian bankruptcy laws, you weren't able to keep it.' Nigel gave a low whistle. 'If that's true: how very nasty of him.'

For a time, Jayne couldn't find her voice. 'Where are you getting this information?' she said at last.

'After that, creditors forced you into bankruptcy,' Nigel continued. 'According to your bank manager, you're unable to get a loan for another six years.'

'Jesus, you spoke to my bank manager? When? Just now?'

'There's no two ways about it, Miss McMurray, you're in a tough financial position. You lost everything including your credit rating because of Winkle. You no longer work in the recruitment industry. You clean houses for pocket change. In six years when you're eligible to apply for a house loan, you'll be hitting forty. The future isn't looking rosy for you, is it?'

'Until you saw the diamonds,' Pam added.

'That's not true.' The blood rushed to Jayne's face. 'And none of this is your business anyway,' she said, voice rising. 'How dare you rake through my affairs? This is personal information and you've got no right.'

Nigel lazily raised his palm in a placating gesture. 'As police officers investigating a crime, we have every right in the world and then some. Now feel free to correct me if I'm wrong on any point in your financial history.'

As if agreed upon by a secret sign, the detectives simultaneously began to peruse their notes again. Jayne crossed her arms. No doubt this silence was one of their standard interrogation tactics, a ploy to unsettle her even more.

And it was working.

Time passed. The air conditioning hummed. After glancing at the half-eaten bowl of laksa, Jayne needed to close her eyes again while her stomach turned over. These detectives would soon realise that she'd had nothing to do with the robbery. Nevertheless, her guts churned on and on. The detectives were right. Gordon had done quite the number on her. The only asset she had left was a twelve-year old car. Upon being told the news of Gordon's betrayal, Jayne's mother, sneering, had said, How goddamned stupid can you be? When he put the contracts in front of you, you just went ahead and signed? Didn't you read any of the fine print?

Jayne had taken a steadying breath. He was my husband.

Meaning what?

That I trusted him.

As she watched the two detectives perusing their notes, Jayne tried to reassure herself. Gordon had been an accountant; it had made sense to leave the financial stuff to him while she concentrated on front-of-house. For God's sake, they were working fifteen-hour days at the start. They'd had no choice but to split the workload.

How goddamned stupid can you be?

Jayne felt sick. No matter how she tried to cut it, the truth was simply this: people who sign paperwork without reading the fine print have only themselves to blame. And God, did she blame herself. She had beaten herself up over it every day.

Oh no. Tears were pricking her eyes.

Enough, she'd had enough; she wanted the detectives to take her home... Home, to the dog kennel she rented from a couple of senior citizens. Home had once been a lovely little cottage on a couple of acres at the foot of the Dandenong Ranges.

'Please,' she said. 'I'd like to finish up here.'

The detectives shared a glance that Jayne couldn't read. Then Pam got up from the desk and left the alcove. For a minute or so, Nigel idly flipped pages in his notebook. Jayne bit at her lips and waited.

'Miss McMurray,' he said at last, uncapping a pen, 'we need to start over from the beginning. How long have you worked for Damien Georgiou?'

***

The detectives returned Jayne to the granny flat at about 3 a.m. Nigel again drove along Toorak Road, the traffic meagre at such a late hour. They reached the suburb of Burwood in less than fifteen minutes. No one had spoken. Nigel pulled the car against the kerb outside the Radmacher weatherboard and left the engine running.

Pam twisted in the front passenger seat to proffer a business card. 'Miss McMurray, a willingness to cooperate would be in your best interests,' she said. 'Next time you see us, we'll be handing you a search warrant. Have a good night.'

Jayne took the business card. When she got out of the vehicle, she tore up the card, flung the pieces at Pam's head, and slammed the door. She half-expected the detectives to come after her. Instead, as she walked stiff-backed towards the Radmacher house, she heard the car pull away from the kerb at high speed. Her shoulders dropped.

No exterior lights burned at the house. Jayne had to step carefully, since the concrete path that led into the backyard was buckled, the cracks tufted with grass and weeds. The granny flat looked forlorn in the muted light of the quarter-moon. Jayne fumbled in her handbag for keys.

Once inside, she switched on the lamp, then the heater. It was late, yes, and she felt exhausted right down to her marrow, but she needed coffee.

She went into the kitchen. Propped against the kettle was an envelope. To Jayne was inscribed in Mrs Radmacher's spidery handwriting. Shit, Jayne thought, this looked like more bad news. She snatched up the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper. On it, Mrs Radmacher had written: We don't want to get mixed up in your criminal activities.

The paper was an eviction notice, effective immediately.

3.

As if to spite her, Sunday was clear and fine; perfect spring weather. Drained, Jayne yearned to go back to bed. Her eyes were puffed almost shut from lack of sleep, but the Radmachers had insisted they would call the police if she wasn't out by 10 o'clock Monday morning. Jayne hadn't thought that such short notice could possibly be lawful, but an Internet search had revealed, to her dismay, that a tenant's 'illegal activities' gave a landlord the right to a fast eviction. Of course, Jayne could kick up a fuss, go to the Tribunal. But what was the point? She was stressed enough already.

At least packing wouldn't take long. The cardboard boxes Jayne had picked up from the supermarket were arranged on the lawn directly outside her door. The granny flat may have been furnished, but she still had a few belongings. As she carried out a stack of newspaper-wrapped plates, she glanced again at the Radmacher house. Their curtains remained closed. She'd been looking at those closed curtains the entire afternoon, the sight paining her.

Earlier, when she had tried to protest her eviction, the elderly couple had refused to unlock their screen door. Pam Thorpe and Nigel Rudkins must have made quite an impression. Mrs Radmacher actually cowered behind her husband, even though every week, Jayne had helped the woman to peg her sheets on the Hill's Hoist. As Jayne argued her innocence, the couple goggled at her in mounting horror as if she were about to erupt into violence. Where there's smoke there's fire, Mr Radmacher had finally shouted before slamming the door in Jayne's face.

Now where would she go?

She had no idea. Briefly, she'd considered ringing her mother, but decided against it. A determined alcoholic, Mum didn't particularly care about Jayne one way or the other. And as far as friends were concerned, Jayne had only acquaintances left. One by one, her friends had quietly disappeared throughout her terrible, year-long ordeal with Gordon. The betrayals still hurt. Most people were like the Radmachers, Jayne thought, preferring to turn their backs rather than extend a helping hand. And then, despite herself, her chin quivered. Hastily, she crammed the plates inside a box.

'To hell with it,' she said through clenched teeth, 'and to hell with them all.'

'I'm sorry, are you talking to me?'

Jayne spun around. A stranger stood at the path. Tall and wide-shouldered, aged perhaps in his thirties, he wore a suit and tie, his dark hair clipped short. Another detective, no doubt. He had his weight on one foot and both hands in his trouser pockets, as if he'd been standing there and watching her for some time. She felt her temper rise.

'Hey, I didn't mean to startle you,' the man said. 'You're Jayne McMurray?'

'Piss off.'

He laughed as if she'd been kidding. 'Sorry, I can't do that.'

'Yes you can. Give it a try.'

Amused, he pulled a face as if to say nah, and shook his head.

'This is harassment,' Jayne continued. 'You know I've been evicted from my flat because of you people? That's it, I've had enough. Go back to your squad room and tell Pam I've answered every question I'm ever going to answer.'

'Pam Thorpe? Yeah, she can be a right bitch. But I'm not a police officer.' Walking over, he took a business card from his pocket and held it out. 'My name's Ted Shepherd. I'm from the insurance company.'

'What insurance company?'

'The one that's coughing up the money for the stolen Georgiou diamonds.'

He again offered the card. In response, Jayne retreated inside the flat and shut the door. He didn't knock or call out. She began wrapping her remaining pieces of dinnerware in newspaper.

As the minutes slipped by, she began to wonder exactly what Ted Shepherd was doing out there. It was quiet. Perhaps he had gone. Yes, she thought, he's given up and left. When she came out holding a stack of plates, he was standing exactly where she had left him.

'Here, allow me,' he said, and took the plates from her. Crouching, he started to tuck the plates inside a cardboard box. 'I'm a veteran of moving house,' he went on. 'If you don't wedge the china, it tends to break in transit. You've got to arrange this stuff like a jigsaw puzzle.'

'I'm busy. Please get to the point.'

He finished packing the plates, stood, and approached. Up close, he was taller than she had first reckoned. In contrast with the hard lines of his face, his eyes were large and gentle, ocean green, framed with dark lashes. Jayne tugged self-consciously at the hem of her ratty t-shirt. Jesus, she must look a fright. Her unwashed hair was twisted up into a thoughtless bun.

'I want to talk about what happened at Trilliant Manor yesterday,' he said.

'What for? Pam and Nigel already questioned me for hours.'

'Yeah, I know. I read your interview transcript this morning.'

'You read it?' The breath seized in her chest. God, was there no end to the humiliation? 'So you're aware of everything I told the police.'

Ted lifted both palms. 'Don't take it personally. The information I collect is confidential. There's no judgement in this, I promise. I'm only trying to verify the insurance claim.'

'Get out of here.'

'I'm sorry. I can't do that.'

'Get out.'

'Okay, listen, how about I come back another time? Just give me your forwarding address.'

'I don't have one yet.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Then where are you headed?'

'I'm not sure; maybe a motel.'

'You don't have anywhere else to go? No one to take you in?'

Damn. She felt her chin start quivering again.

Then he touched her bare arm, the slightest brush of his fingertips, and said, 'Hang on, Jayne. Let me make a call for you.'

Pacing towards the other end of the garden, he took out his mobile phone and thumbed at it. Jayne swiped the tears wetting her face. What an idiot, she admonished herself, blubbering in front of this man who must have assumed her guilt like everybody else. She glanced up at the Radmacher house. The corner of a lifted curtain suddenly dropped. Terrific. Now the Radmachers had seen the latest instalment in Jayne's persecution. What would they make of Ted Shepherd, who was currently strolling around their backyard as if he owned the place? They might suppose him to be a police officer. Or maybe even an accomplice.

Oh God, she was tired.

The door of her flat hung open. Spent, groping at the cement sheeting, Jayne lowered herself until she was sitting on the front step. She put her face in her hands. If there was a way out of this mess, she couldn't see it.

'Jayne?'

She looked up. Ted Shepherd towered above her. His compassionate expression made her want to cry. Instead, she clenched her jaw. Hitching at his trousers, he squatted down. Now they were eye to eye.

'I know someone who operates a rooming house,' he said. 'It's in Camberwell, not far from here, privately owned.'

'A rooming house? You mean a hotel?'

'More like a bed-and-breakfast without the breakfast. You rent a furnished room by the week, and share the kitchen, bathroom and laundry with other tenants. Most people who live there are long-term. The rest are backpackers. It's not the Ritz, but it'll be a better option than a motel. Cheaper too.'

Jayne sighed. 'I appreciate the suggestion, but forget it. My landlords believe I'm a thief. They're hardly going to give me a glowing reference.'

'You don't need any reference, glowing or otherwise. There's a room available if you want it. Check-in at 2 p.m. tomorrow.' He made a casual gesture. 'I'm owed a favour.'

'A favour?'

'Right.'

'That you'd waste on somebody you don't even know?'

He shrugged. 'Like I said, it's not the Ritz, but it's the best I can offer.'

Jayne regarded him carefully. He stared back at her, his gaze open and clear. Perhaps Ted Shepherd didn't want anything in return, she considered at last. Perhaps he was simply one of the good guys. Unlikely but possible: good guys must still exist somewhere in the world.

She said, 'I'm hoping there aren't any strings attached.'

'One string.' From a pocket, he took his business card. 'Your interview.'

Accepting the card, she looked it over. Plain white, it had blue-embossed text, a fancy logo in the corner. His office was in the city.

'What's Ted short for?' she said. 'Edward?'

'Edwin.'

'Let me guess, you're named after a family member.'

'My father.'

'I know how it is. I'm named after an aunt. Does anyone call you Edwin?'

'Grandma, but only when she's angry with me.'

He stood up and offered his hand. After a moment, Jayne took it. He helped her to her feet and they held each other's gaze. Then Ted retrieved his wallet, searched through it, and extracted another business card.

'Here's the address of the rooming house,' he said. 'The owner, Carl, is expecting you. It's a single room on the top floor, no pets, no smoking. You'll have to pay the first couple of week's rent up front.'

'Thanks.' She slipped both cards inside the pocket of her track pants.

'No worries. I'll be in touch. How about I give you a day or so to get settled over there? If you want, we can meet for a drink.'

'You mean coffee?'

'Or coffee, yeah, if that's what you prefer.'

Jayne touched reflexively at the back of her hair. Great hanks of it had fallen out of the slapdash bun. She remembered her puffy eyelids, her naked face, and then, blushing, couldn't think of anything to say.

'Okay, see you later,' Ted said. 'If I don't hear from you, I'll call.'

With a smile, he ambled from the backyard, past the corner of the Radmacher house and out of sight. Jayne hesitated. She hurried across the lawn to watch him tread the concrete path that ran alongside the house to the pavement. He walked with his hands in his pockets, relaxed, his attitude more like that of a man wearing jeans than a suit. If he turned around and caught her looking, she wouldn't know what to do. Wave, perhaps? Thankfully, he didn't turn around. When he reached the footpath he cut right, presumably towards his car, and then he passed behind the hedge next door and was lost from sight. Jayne let out the breath she'd been holding.

***

Monday morning, Jayne got up early to clean the granny flat. As she ran the vacuum, she allowed herself to think about the rooming house. The idea of it scared her. What would be the next step after rock-bottom accommodation like that? Sleeping in her car? Grimly, Jayne raked the vacuum across the carpet. The rooming house was a temporary measure, she reminded herself. If the actions of her ex-husband weren't enough to break her, this misunderstanding with the police wouldn't break her either.

The housework done, Jayne took a shower. Afterwards, while using the hairdryer, she realised with a jolt that this would be the last time she would have a bathroom to herself. How did tenants at the rooming house ensure that everyone got fair access to the bathroom? With a roster? Or was it first in, best dressed? Anxiety churned her stomach.

It took her a long time to decide what to wear. She wanted to appear casual yet professional. In the end she chose jeans, blouse and jacket, minimal makeup and jewellery, her straight brown hair loose around her shoulders. Finally, at about 9 a.m., one hour before the Radmacher deadline, Jayne was ready to go.

She looked around the granny flat as if to commit it to memory. What a pokey little dump. Nevertheless, she felt sentimental. She put the key on the kitchen bench. There was no point trying to say goodbye to her landlords; the windows facing the backyard still had their curtains drawn. If she knocked on their door, the Radmachers probably wouldn't answer.

One box at a time, she began ferrying her belongings to her car, which was parked on the street. Clouds scudded overhead, rushing towards the horizon on hidden winds. With two boxes remaining, Jayne's mobile rang. It was Ruth, her supervisor at the cleaning company.

'Hi, Ruth,' Jayne said, leaning against the hatchback. 'Good timing, you've saved me a phone call. I'm moving to a new address today. Have you got a pen?'

'Ah... No, look, that's okay.'

'Huh?'

'Sorry, I don't actually need any address. That's why I'm calling. There's no more work for you at this company.'

Jayne's grip tightened around the phone. 'No more work...?'

'Yes, I know, short notice and all that. Sorry.'

'Because of Trilliant Manor?'

'This wasn't my personal decision, by the way,' Ruth said. 'Don't be mad. But you have to understand the situation from our point of view. We don't have a choice. This company has a reputation to consider.'

'What about my reputation?'

'In good conscience, we couldn't possibly send you into people's houses, not after what we've been told. Besides, we'd probably be liable if something happened.'

'I didn't steal any diamonds,' Jayne said through her teeth.

'Well, I don't know. The detectives were pretty adamant.'

'Listen to me, Ruth. I didn't steal anything. You know what happened? I saved Mr Georgiou's life. He was having a heart attack and I called an ambulance.'

'That's really great. Oh, I've another call on the line.'

'Please listen to me.' Jayne squeezed her eyes shut. 'The same detectives spoke to my landlords. I've just been evicted. Please, Ruth, I've always done the right thing by you, haven't I? Please. I swear I'm innocent.'

'Good luck with everything. I sincerely mean that.'

The line went dead. Jayne held the phone at arm's length and stared at it. The blood ticked in her ears. God almighty, she thought, how much money did she have in the bank? A few hundred dollars. Now what? Her mind felt scoured, burned.

The trumpeting notes of a far-off motor gradually came closer.

Dazed, Jayne looked up the street. A red MG Roadster, top down, took a fast corner and headed towards her at speed. She knew the car although it took her a moment to place it. The battered two-door belonged to Mrs Georgiou's personal trainer, Christopher Llewellyn.

This was no coincidence.

Jayne tensed. Llewellyn crossed the white line and pulled up in front of Jayne's hatchback, bonnet to bonnet. Jauntily, he waggled his fingers as he pulled the handbrake and switched off the engine, greeting her as if they were old friends bumping into each other unexpectedly. Apart from the occasional 'hello' in Trilliant Manor's driveway or ground floor, they had never spoken.

He leapt from his car. Despite the morning chill, he was dressed in his customary Lycra shorts and singlet. Jayne pocketed her phone and braced herself as he strolled over. Llewellyn wore his bleached hair long – collar-length, it would be described, if in fact he ever wore a shirt – with every strand brushed straight back and held stiffly in place with some kind of product. Too close, less than a metre away, he looked in his early twenties. She could smell his cologne.

'How are you going?' he said. 'It's Jayne, right? Yeah, we had a kind of threesome happening in the gym on Saturday: you, me and Valma. There was definitely a bit of synergy going on. You should've stuck around.'

'What are you doing here?'

Looking surprised, wounded, he spread his arms. 'Just talking.'

'How do you know where I live?'

'You're on the Georgiou books like the rest of us.' He bent down, looked through her car windows at the boxes. 'Going on a trip?'

She didn't answer.

'Moving house?' he added. 'It can't be a holiday. Who goes on holiday in September? The weather's too shit. The forecast reckons it's going to hail tonight. But maybe you're going north or overseas. Is that what you're doing? Following the sun?'

'Tell me what you want so we can both get on with our day.'

Llewellyn dropped his ingratiating smile. For the first time, Jayne noticed the perspiration dotting his forehead. He took a casual step closer. Jayne shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet.

'You were with the coppers a long time,' he said. 'What did you tell them?'

'Nothing they wanted to hear.'

Llewellyn nodded. 'You tell them about me and Valma?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'At the time, I didn't think it was important.'

'You didn't mention it?'

Jayne put a fist on her hip. 'If you don't believe me, go ask them.'

He turned his head, looked at her sideways, his speculative gaze cold and empty. Then he reached around to the small of his back. For one panicked moment, Jayne imagined that he would be pulling a firearm from the waistband of his shorts. He brought out an envelope instead.

'Here,' he said.

'What is it?'

'Have a look.'

'No. Tell me what it is first.'

Llewellyn advanced upon her, fast, and grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull away. His grip was too strong. A tight grin revealed his teeth. Pressing the envelope into her hand, he said, 'Take it.'

He let go. Jayne looked inside the unsealed envelope at a wad of hundred-dollar notes.

'I don't understand,' she said.

'You don't have to.' He backed up towards his car. 'That's a one-off payment, by the way. Don't get smart.'

He got into his car, started it, twisted the wheel for a U-turn and raced away. At the end of the road, his indicator light started blinking.

Jayne watched the MG speed out of sight, then ran to the driver's side of her hatchback and jumped in. She tossed the envelope to the passenger seat. Before she had figured out what she was doing and why, she was on the main road and tailing the distant view of Llewellyn's bleached and gelled hair. Staying a few car lengths' behind, she dogged his MG Roadster all the way to a busy street in the cosmopolitan inner-city suburb of Hawthorn. Llewellyn parked. Jayne did too. She watched Llewellyn go into a cafe.

After a few minutes, she followed him inside.

4.

The long, narrow cafe had a glass-fronted counter running along one side. Tables chocked with customers filled the remaining spaces. The noise level was high enough to hurt: the bare wooden floors and walls amplified every customer's voice, every note of the jazz CD and hiss of coffee machine, every shout of the harried staff as they tried to keep track of orders.

Where was Llewellyn? Jayne couldn't see him. Ducking, she slid into an empty chair near the window. Dirty dishes cluttered the table. She grabbed the menu. The laminated page shook in her fingers. Christ almighty, what was she doing?

She glanced up. And there he was, on a table at the rear.

He had his back to Jayne. Opposite him sat a young, petite Asian woman wearing a pink ruched top, her black hair parted exactly and falling in a dead straight line to her jaw. While Llewellyn threw his arms around, obviously agitated, the woman observed him with her pretty face propped in one hand, radiating an exaggerated boredom as if she were trying to shame him into shutting up. The cafe was so loud that Jayne knew she didn't have a hope in hell of eavesdropping.

'Can I take your order?'

Jayne looked around. A waitress stood at the table, smiling brightly.

'Uh, cappuccino, thanks,' Jayne said.

'Something to eat?'

'Not right now. Is there any way I could sit closer to the back?'

'You mean nearer the toilets? Everything's reserved but I'll check.'

The waitress left with the dirty dishes. Christopher Llewellyn had his arms loose by his sides and his head hung low. As the young woman talked to him, she rolled her eyes, twirling her wrist from time to time as if emphasising a point. Jayne wished for a sudden talent in lip reading.

A few minutes later, Llewellyn jumped up and stormed to the exit. Jayne hid behind the menu, heart in her throat. The bell tinkled as the door shut. At the table, the young woman didn't seem bothered by Llewellyn's sudden departure. She motioned towards one of the staff, gave an order, spread a newspaper, and began to read.

The waitress, delivering Jayne's cappuccino, said, 'There are no available tables at the back. You want me to keep checking?'

'That's fine, don't worry about it.'

The waitress left. Watching the steam as it curled off the cappuccino, Jayne considered that instead of playing amateur sleuth, she ought to be concentrating on more urgent things such as checking in at the rooming house, unpacking, spending the afternoon applying for other cleaning jobs, focusing on getting her fractured life in some kind of order. Instead, she stood and began walking towards the young woman.

Jayne wanted answers.

No, more than that, she wanted vindication.

What was left of my shitty life has been ruined, Jayne imagined saying, now I have nothing and that's your boyfriend's fault.

But as she neared the table, Jayne spotted the woman's drawstring bag on the floor. The woman was still reading the newspaper. Without thinking it through or breaking her stride, Jayne kicked the bag towards the open toilet door. The cafe was so loud, so busy and boisterous, that nobody appeared to notice. The woman didn't even look up from her paper. Jayne booted the bag into the women's room and slammed the door, securing the bolt.

Calm down, Jayne thought.

She put the bag on the sink and took out the purse. The driver's licence listed 'Millie Chan'. Jayne took a picture with her phone. Rifling through Millie's bag, Jayne photographed everything before returning the belongings and opening the door. Trying to act casual, she kicked the bag along the floor back under Millie's table, and then headed to the counter. No one gave her a second glance.

'You didn't drink your cappuccino,' the same waitress said, now behind the counter and working the till. 'Was something wrong with it? Can I get you another?'

'Thanks, but I've got to go. How much do I owe you?'

'Nothing, it's free of charge.'

'Are you sure?'

'Positive. Have a good day.'

The waitress's gesture felt like an omen, a quirk of good luck in a run that had been running bad for a long, long time. Jayne nodded her thanks and left. Once at her car, she grabbed Ted Shepherd's card from her wallet.

***

The bistro section of the pub featured wooden panelling, green paisley carpet, soothing music from the 1970s piped softly through the speaker system. Jayne sat opposite Ted Shepherd in a booth. They were drinking coffee. At just after 11.30 a.m., the bistro had a few other patrons scattered amongst the tables; the remainder were hunched in the pokies section, their machines ringing and singing every few seconds.

'I shouldn't talk about any of this,' Ted said.

'But I'm not asking you for details.'

'I know, but it's not exactly ethical. Being an investigating officer for an insurance firm carries certain obligations. You've got no idea how many confidentiality agreements I've had to sign. I'm not a copper, but you should think of me as one.'

'Is she a criminal or not? That's all I'm asking. Considering the shit I'm in at the moment, it's a small ask.'

Ted ran a palm over his short, dark hair. 'Fine, here's what I can tell you. Millie Chan is twenty-two years old, a dental assistant, with priors for shoplifting and possession of cannabis, but as a juvenile. A charge for receiving stolen goods at twenty years of age fell through.'

'In other words, yes, she's a criminal.'

'No. She was a kid when she did those things, so her priors don't count.' Ted smiled. 'And none of this means she's conspiring to turn your life to crap. Don't tail her again. Promise?'

'I'm not paranoid. This isn't about me in particular.'

'It's not? Then what are we talking about?'

Jayne put her forearms on the table, leaned forward. 'I'm an accidental scapegoat. Can't you see? Christopher Llewellyn and Millie Chan committed the crime, they took the diamonds, but they didn't set me up on purpose. The police just figured me as the most likely suspect based on circumstantial evidence.'

'Then you should talk to Pam Thorpe.'

Jayne crossed her arms. 'Forget it. Why do you think I called you?'

'Okay. For what it's worth, I'll take a look at Christopher Llewellyn.'

'Wait a minute, don't you believe me? I'm sure he took the diamonds. Why else would he give me a thousand dollars? It's hush money so I don't tell the police my suspicions.'

'Or it's not about the diamonds. He wouldn't want it becoming public knowledge that he's banging Valma Georgiou. For a start, he'd lose his job.'

She sighed. 'Damn. That could be a reason too, I guess.'

Ted reacted, took his mobile phone from a pocket and frowned at it. 'Sorry, I've got a text. Won't be a second.'

She sipped at her drink and watched him. Ted wore an open-collared shirt, a diver's watch, no wedding ring. His hands were large and broad. The faint shadow across his jaw revealed that he hadn't shaved that morning. Idly, she thought about how he might look with a three-day beard. He had an athletic, outdoor quality about him that suggested camping, fishing, hiking... She broke from her reverie as Ted pocketed his phone.

'Yeah, sorry about that,' he said. 'Somebody from the office.'

'Anything important?'

He pulled his nah face, and said, 'So what are you going to do with the money Llewellyn gave you?'

'Live off it. I got sacked from my job today, thanks to Pam and Nigel.'

'Seriously?' He shook his head. 'That's rough.'

'It's been a rough few days... years.'

'Let me ask you something,' he said, and hesitated for a moment, as if he didn't quite know how to proceed. 'You've worked as an employment agent for a long time; even run your own agency for a while. What are you doing cleaning houses? The money has to be shit in comparison.'

Jayne felt her face and ears grow hot. She dropped her gaze.

'Pretend I never mentioned it,' he added. 'I didn't mean to pry.'

'No, it's okay. The industry is quite small. Everyone knows me and Gordon. Everyone knows what happened. I can't face them.' She lifted her gaze. 'You must think I'm an idiot.'

'No, I think you're a good person.'

She actually laughed. 'How do you figure that?'

'In my line of business, I run across it every day. Good people don't realise they're being screwed until it's too late. It takes an arsehole to know an arsehole.'

'Then I should try being the arsehole for once. Maybe I'd get somewhere.'

They both laughed. The directness of his stare made her turn her face. Across the other side of the pub, a few more pensioners were occupying seats at the poker machines. She made out like she was watching them. Seconds passed. Jayne could feel still Ted's eyes on her. It gave her a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach.

'I guess I'd better go,' she said. 'I've left two boxes in the Radmacher's backyard. If I don't hurry, my stuff will end up at the tip.'

'Stay and have lunch with me first.'

'It's Monday,' Jayne said, blushing again. 'You should be at work.'

'I worked on the weekend.'

'You investigate a lot of robberies?'

'Most of my cases are policy owners faking a claim to get insurance money. They're the easiest cases to solve. Generally, I can tell when people are lying.'

'How?'

He shrugged. 'I've been doing this job for years. It gets so you can almost sense what a person is thinking. And you're thinking that you don't have time for lunch, but you'd rather we went out for dinner anyhow.'

Jayne ran a hand through her hair, took a moment to admire Ted's green eyes and long lashes, his lips parted in a grin. Out of nowhere, an image of her ex-husband came to mind. Her fun and flirty mood soured. Gordon had been similarly handsome in that olive-skinned, Mediterranean kind of way. She would have to be careful. A relationship of any sort, no matter how casual, was out of the question; not just with Ted Shepherd, but with any man. Jayne was in no hurry to be vulnerable.

But what would be the harm of one dinner? She and Ted could discuss the Trilliant Manor case in greater depth.

'Okay,' she said at last. 'Pick me up from the rooming house at eight.'

***

The street was residential, lined with elm trees. The rooming house turned out to be a two-storey Victorian terrace, free standing, Italianate-style with frilly cast-iron lacework around the veranda and a balcony on the second floor. Jayne pulled up to the kerb and shut off the car engine.

On closer inspection, the house's paintwork was faded, peeling or missing. The railing fence didn't have a gate. Instead, the path led from the pavement up concrete steps and through the shabby yard to the door. Next to the door sat an abandoned swing-seat, its blue and white canvas in varying stages of rot.

Jayne's mouth dried out. All pleasant thoughts evaporated of Ted Shepherd and the dinner they would share that night. It took her a few minutes to gather herself together, to climb out of the car. Her knees felt weak as she mounted the steps. She knocked. Nobody answered. The door was open. She went inside.

A corridor extended down the middle of the building, ending at a staircase. Rooms ran off the corridor on both sides. Jayne tapped her knuckles on the door marked 'Office'.

'I'll get to the godforsaken shower-head when I'm good and ready,' shouted an exasperated male voice. 'Go away, Lionel, for the love of everything that's holy.'

She wanted to leave. Instead, she called, 'Hello, I'm Jayne McMurray. You spoke yesterday with Ted Shepherd about holding a room for me.'

The door opened. The man was tall and bald with heavy pouches under his eyes. Taking off his glasses, he said, 'Sorry about that. Lionel's been interrupting me all day, the bugger.'

'You must be Carl.'

He nodded. 'Let's get a key and I'll show you the room.'

She followed him up the stairs. The house smelled faintly of mothballs and ammonia. On the top floor, they passed an open door. Sitting on a bed was a dishevelled old man with a deeply lined face, his trousers rolled to the knees, his feet bare and dirty. He was smoking a cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger.

'Lionel, shut the godforsaken door,' Carl shouted. 'You want the whole place to stink of durry, you selfish bastard? And open a window in there.'

Lionel glanced up. His desolate eyes locked with Jayne's. Then he twisted his mouth, flung out a leg, and kicked the door shut. Jayne felt shaken.

'Aw, don't worry about Lionel,' Carl said. 'He's maudlin when he's drunk.'

'Drunk? It's one in the afternoon.'

Carl halted, raised an eyebrow theatrically, and kept on walking.

Jayne's room overlooked the road. A glass door led to the balcony, which held two plastic deckchairs. The room contained a single bed with an orange velour bedspread, a chest of drawers, a dressing-table with a blue plastic chair tucked underneath, a chipboard wardrobe.

Carl pressed the key into her palm. 'Get yourself moved in, then come and see me. There's paperwork that needs filling out.'

'Wait, how do you know Ted Shepherd?'

'He's my nephew.' Carl winked. 'On account of that, no charge for the balcony, you've got the base rate.'

Jayne turned to thank him, but Carl was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Lightheaded, her limbs numb and tingly, her breath short, she had to sit down before she fell down. The bed creaked under her weight. She felt stunned. How had everything turned out this way? How had her life, so full of promise, winnowed itself to nothing but this single room?

By increments, she thought at last. Bad luck. Bad decisions. One little thing after another over many years. The anecdote of the boiled frog suddenly came to mind: if you put a frog into a pot of cold water that is heated slowly, gradually, steadily, the frog will allow itself to boil to death. Was the anecdote true? She didn't know. But it didn't matter. She understood that her pot was coming to the boil.

And then, in a kind of creeping horror, it occurred to Jayne that she had reached the nadir of her life. The dreams and aspirations of youth were not just postponed, she realised, but never going to happen. Not now, not ever. The future loomed in her mind's eye, a nightmarish vision of destitution. The fear of it nearly choked her. Tears wouldn't come. The situation was beyond tears. Weakly, Jayne lay back on the mattress. She could hear Lionel coughing from down the hall.

***

The Greek restaurant was cosy, no bigger than a lounge room, with a wonderful atmosphere, its walls painted white with sky-blue trimmings and decorated with framed pictures of Santorini Island. Bouzouki music played from an iPod on the counter. Every table was filled. The old Greek woman who served the tables appeared to be one of the cooks, since her apron became increasingly spattered as the night wore on. And the food was delicious too: pickled baby octopus as soft as ripe cheese, perfectly spiced kofta, dolmades that were homemade rather than out of a can. At any other time, Jayne would have been delighted. But this wasn't any other time.

Ted had been doing most of the talking so far, keeping up a light and breezy chatter. At last, he put down his fork and said, 'Okay, tell me what's wrong.'

'Huh? Nothing, this is a fabulous place, really. I'm having a great time.'

'Come on, Jayne. Cut the crap.'

Ted's eyes were filled with solicitude, making her take a long swallow of wine to ease the ache in her throat. At last, she said, 'There's this old man at the rooming house, an alcoholic.'

'You mean Lionel? Yeah, he's a pain in the arse, I know, but harmless. Don't worry about him. He likes to complain.'

'And there are two young girls, backpackers, from Germany. Staying at that place is a big adventure to them. They're lucky if they're twenty years old. You know I'm nearly thirty-three?' Jayne took another mouthful of red. 'Oh wait, I forgot, you already know everything about me from my interview with Pam and Nigel.'

'Jayne, it's okay.'

She gave a short, jeering laugh.

'Let me help you find somewhere else to live,' Ted said.

'Where? I can't afford anything better.' She wiped a hand across her forehead. 'It's not just the rooming house. God, I'm sorry. I appreciate what you did for me, I swear I do, I had nowhere else to go. You must think me so ungrateful.'

He smiled. 'Give me honesty over chitchat any day.'

'I'm ruining dinner. Let's call it a night.'

'Not until you tell me exactly what's bothering you.'

She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the whirlpool, the eye at the centre of the maelstrom. 'I'm classed as a bankrupt for good,' she said. 'By the time my bankruptcy expires and I can apply for a loan, I'll be too old and broke to afford a place anyway.'

'Where would you prefer to live?'

'Ideally?' She drank more pinot noir. 'Adelaide Hills. Have you been there?'

He shook his head. 'I've been to Adelaide once, just for a day on business.'

'Half an hour north from the city are wineries, fruit orchards, walking trails. It's beautiful. You've heard of the Barossa Valley where they make reds like Shiraz?'

'Sure.'

'That's in the Adelaide Hills. Well, I want to live there, start again in all that green, all that nature, where nobody knows me. I want a roof over my head; a roof that I own outright. And by the way, not a shitty trailer in a caravan park, like my mother. I want to own the land under my feet so no one can ever kick me out. To be safe and secure, that's what I want. Nothing grand: a unit, a one-bedroom flat. It's a pretty small dream, but one I can't reach...' She stopped, took a breath, a sip of wine. 'Pathetic, huh?'

Ted's eyes were soft and warm. 'Life kicks the shit out of the best of us.'

'Amen to that.' Jayne went to drain her glass. Ted grabbed her wrist. Pulling away, annoyed, she said, 'What are you doing?'

'I think you should slow down.'

'And I think you should mind your own business.' At his wounded look, Jayne hurried on, adding, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Honest I didn't.'

'It's okay. Let's eat. Your food's getting cold.'

Blood flushed into Jayne's cheeks. She was making a fool of herself. The bottle of pinot noir was nearly empty. Meanwhile, Ted had just ordered his second beer. Oh Christ, she thought, humiliated. She closed her eyes. Giddiness swept over her. She would never see him again, she decided. Once he drove her back to the rooming house, she would throw out his business card and that would be that.

5.

A hacking cough, over and over, chipped into her dream until Jayne reluctantly woke up. She turned onto her back. The ceiling of the rooming house stared down at her. Disoriented, Jayne sat up in bed. Sunshine blared around the curtain edges, illuminating the chipboard wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the dressing table and its plastic chair. With a stab, Jayne remembered where she was. That hacking cough must be Lionel at the end of the hall.

The alarm clock said 8.42 a.m. With a pounding head, Jayne sank back to the mattress. Keep sleeping, she thought. What was the point of getting up? But slowly, agonisingly, drip by awful drip, the details of last night's dinner with Ted Shepherd began to filter into her consciousness, one embarrassing misstep at a time. Groaning, she pressed her face into the pillow.

She had railed against the injustices she had suffered; ordered retsina after the pinot noir had run out, argued with the old woman that ice cream wasn't an authentic Greek dessert. Towards the end of dinner, Jayne's memory petered out altogether. What had she done? She couldn't even remember the drive home. She winced, cheeks burning in shame.

Clearly, she would have to apologise to Ted.

This morning, no excuses, she would go to his office and apologise in person.

Right now, she needed a shower. The bathroom was at the end of the hall past Lionel's room. She got out of bed, gathered toiletries, a towel, dressing-gown, and put an ear to her door. When she couldn't hear any movement, she drew back the bolt and peered out. No one was around. Lionel kept coughing but his door was closed. She darted to the bathroom and locked herself in.

When she came out again some twenty minutes later, she pulled up short.

Waiting outside her door were Detectives Pam Thorpe and Nigel Rudkins.

The detectives turned and appraised her. Nigel kept a poker face. Pam smirked. Cheeks flushing, Jayne tightened her mouth, lifted her chin, and approached the detectives. If only she wasn't wearing a goddamned dressing-gown.

'We got this new address off Ted Shepherd,' Nigel said. 'You should have notified us.'

'Why? You've got my mobile number, haven't you?'

'Your reluctance to keep us informed makes us wonder about your motives.'

'Wonder all you like.' Jayne walked between them and unlocked her door. 'Sooner or later you'll realise that you're harassing the wrong person. If you had any brains, you'd be investigating Christopher Llewellyn, Mrs Georgiou's trainer.'

The detectives followed her inside.

Pam gazed around the room and made a tut-tutting sound. 'On the plus side, Nigel, I would have to say that it's better than a cardboard box.'

'Not by much,' he said.

Jayne dropped her toiletry bag to the unmade bed. 'I'm here because the two of you got me kicked out of my flat.'

'Oh yes, I forgot.' Pam smiled. 'You're always the victim. How comforting that nothing is ever your own fault.'

Stung, Jayne sucked in a breath. Was that how she came across? Finally, she said, 'Tell me what you want.'

'To give you the chance to add to your statement,' Pam said. 'Sometimes, people have a change of heart after a little time to reflect.'

Jayne shook her head.

The detectives regarded each other. Pam nodded.

'Thanks for your cooperation.' Nigel opened the door. 'We'll be in touch.'

They left, Nigel clicking the latch behind them. Jayne sank to the bed, stared at the closed door. Could Pam be right? Did Jayne see herself as a helpless victim? The tears rose. No, she thought, no more damned tears. There must be something she could do, something concrete that would help her gain control over this terrifying situation, get her out of this mess.

Jayne got up, paced around the room, gazed out the window, and sat on the edge of the bed with her hands folded tightly in her lap.

An idea was taking shape. Could she do it? Did she have the guts?

It was a simple idea, straightforward. Not much could go wrong.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to do it, felt compelled to do it. The idea wasn't exactly legal, but she had always been the good girl, always done the right thing, turned the other cheek. Where had it got her? Here, to this shitty room, that's where. Jayne squeezed her eyes shut. No, she didn't want to end up like her mother, bent into a hateful, vitriolic shape, the kind of person who is always angry, broke, drunk, lashing out at everyone and everything. She would take any risk to avoid that fate.

Yes, the idea was crazy. But she would be crazier still to miss this last, desperate shot at salvation.

And if she failed?

Then, big deal, she failed. So what? She had nothing left to lose anyway.

***

Ted Shepherd walked from the elevator hall across the lobby. His gait was loose and rangy, long-legged. Jayne's pulse quickened at the welcome sight of him, until memories of last night sprang to mind. Hurriedly, she stood up. Feeling awkward and foolish, she held out the posy of yellow, pink and white daisies, and wished she had never come.

Ted stopped short, a puzzled look on his face. 'What's this?'

'A token of my embarrassment.'

'You bought me flowers?'

'I wasn't planning on it, but there's a florist right over there. This is a great lobby, by the way. Florist, coffee shop, salon, dry cleaners – it's a regular little arcade. Terrific sculptures. And the leather lounges are very comfortable.' She ran out of chatter. When Ted didn't say anything, she blushed. 'Look,' she continued, 'I'm sorry about dinner. I drank too much and I'm not used to it. Please don't think that's how I am.'

He took the posy and turned it over in his hands. 'No one's ever bought me flowers before.'

'Maybe I should've bought chocolates instead.'

'No, the flowers are good. Thank you.'

'Once again, I just want to say how sorry I am.'

'Don't worry about it. You weren't so bad; in fact, you were pretty funny. That bit about how the restaurant shouldn't serve ice cream cracked me up.'

She groaned. 'Don't remind me.'

'Jayne, listen, I understand. You're going through a tough time right now. I work in insurance, remember? People act a bit loony when they're stressed; I see it all the time. So relax. You don't have to justify yourself to me. Okay?'

'Okay.' Briefly, she found herself wanting his arms around her. Shaking off the thought, she continued, 'Have you got time to talk?'

'Sure.' He indicated one of the leather couches. They walked over and sat down. 'What's on your mind?' he said.

'The Georgiou case. I'm in the dark. Could you explain a few things to me?'

'All right, but a few details might be confidential.'

'Yes, I understand.'

He nodded, waited. The seconds passed. Finally, he said, 'Well? Go ahead.'

It was now or never. Jayne braced herself, took a breath. 'First things first: where would the thief try to sell the diamonds?'

'Probably overseas.'

'Why not here in Australia?'

'Because diamonds need certificates to prove they're not mined in a war zone. The Kimberley Certificates for the Georgiou diamonds were locked in the glove box of Damien Georgiou's Range Rover. Without them, the thief can't sell the goods here without risking jail.'

Jayne nodded. 'So where overseas?'

'Probably South America. We've had a few cases this year already that involved organised gangs from Brazil and Peru.'

'So if the Georgiou diamonds are worth eight-hundred thousand dollars, what are they worth on the South American black market?'

'Usually about half.'

'So four hundred goes to the thief. And the payment would be in cash, right?'

Ted had been leaning back on the couch. Now he sat forward and turned in his seat to regard her intently. His brows were drawn together in a small frown.

Jayne gave him a wide-eyed look. 'What? Aren't I allowed to ask questions?'

'Some questions sound more suspicious than others.'

'You know what sounds suspicious to me?' she went on. 'That Mr Georgiou would keep those diamonds at home in an unlocked cupboard instead of back at work in a vault.'

'Oh, you'd be surprised how cavalier the Australian diamond industry can be,' Ted said, relaxing, leaning back on the couch again. 'There's no armed escort, no cash van, no getting handcuffed to the merchandise like you might see in the movies. Standard practice, I swear to God, is a sales rep carrying the stuff around in an ordinary handbag or briefcase, and even leaving the stuff unattended in a car while they have lunch. We're talking tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars in diamonds, just sitting around with no protection whatsoever. Sales reps don't even carry guns.'

Jayne crossed her arms. 'Well, that's just nuts.'

'Oh, I don't know. It's a way of hiding in plain sight, I guess.'

'And these businesses still get insurance payouts when they're robbed?'

'Seems odd, right?' Ted shrugged. 'I follow the rules, I don't make them.'

There was a sudden din of shouting. A delegation of boisterous men in suits drew everyone's eye as they strode from the elevator hall through the lobby and towards the sliding glass doors of the exit.

'See those blokes?' Ted said, gesturing with a thumb. 'They're from some whizz-bang financial planning mob on the top floor. All they ever seem to do is go out for lunch.'

He grinned at her, the smile shining from his green eyes. Glancing away, Jayne gnawed on her lip, composing herself for a moment. Ted was handsome, yes, but so what? Plenty of men were handsome. It didn't have to mean anything.

She said, 'Back to the Georgiou case.'

'You're very persistent.'

'Let's say, for argument's sake, that Mrs Georgiou's trainer, Christopher Llewellyn, stole the diamonds. Would he deal with the South Americans direct?'

'If he was an idiot. Every Georgiou employee is under scrutiny right now.'

'And assuming Llewellyn is not an idiot?'

'Then he would use a go-between.'

Such as Millie Chan, Jayne thought. Millie had the diamonds. But for how long? Perhaps Millie had offloaded them already.

'Hang on,' Ted said, 'I don't like where this conversation is heading.'

'It's not heading anywhere. I'm asking a few harmless questions.'

'Leave the robbery to its investigating officers.'

'The investigating officers are trying to build a case against me.'

'That may be true for Pam and Nigel, but I'm not.'

'So this go-between,' Jayne continued, 'this person who has the diamonds, how would they give the diamonds to the South American buyers? In person?'

Ted dropped his gaze to the posy of flowers. Time passed.

At last, Jayne said, 'What's the matter?'

'Don't do anything silly.'

'Silly?' Jayne tried to laugh. 'Like what?'

'Stay out of the investigation. I know you've been caught in the middle, and it must suck losing your job and your flat in one hit, but trust me, you don't have the qualifications or the experience for this.'

'Oh, you think I want to play detective?'

'If Christopher Llewellyn is involved, it might be dangerous to be in any kind of contact. Promise me you'll stay away from him.'

'I'll do better than that.' She held out her little finger. 'I'll pinky promise.'

His face relaxing into a smile, Ted entwined his own little finger around hers for a moment. The gesture made them both laugh.

'Feel better?' she said.

'No. Why do I get the feeling you're up to something?'

'Because of your job. You're in the habit of looking at everyone from the cynical point of view of an insurance investigator.' She stood up. 'Thanks for the chat. You'd better get upstairs and put those flowers in water.'

He stood up too, stared at her, and finally said, 'Jayne, I'm serious.'

'Me too. Those daisies won't last long without water.'

'Professional crime gangs can be ruthless.'

She patted his arm. 'I know what I'm doing.'

'No,' he said, shaking his head with a sigh. 'You don't.'

***

The residential apartments looked cheap. There was not a single tree, shrub or blade of grass visible on the block. The building was 1970s-style, cream brick, flat-roofed, arranged in a U-shape around a central car park. The second storey faced onto a balcony that had multiple concrete staircases. At 8 p.m. on a Tuesday, the car park was nearly full. Most of the windows were lit behind their drawn curtains or blinds. Jayne took the nearest set of stairs. The acoustics echoed the ring of each footfall around the three faces of the building. She could smell frying onions. As she walked along the balcony, the noises from behind each closed door rose and fell: a murmur of canned television laughter, country music, angry voices. From behind the door of apartment seventeen, however, came silence. Perhaps the place was empty tonight. Perhaps the lights were on to fool potential burglars. Jayne knocked anyway.

The door opened. Millie Chan stared at her blankly.

'Hello, Millie,' Jayne said. 'We need to talk.'

'Who are you?'

'Christopher's other girlfriend.'

Millie narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. After dragging her gaze up and down the length of Jayne's body, she said, 'Chris has lots of girlfriends.'

'Yes, but right now, I'm the only one that counts.'

Millie put a hand on her slender hip. 'Whatever. Look, if this is some kind of jealous psycho-bitch kind of thing, forget it. I've got no interest in Chris. You can have him with my compliments.'

She went to shut the door. Jayne grabbed it.

'So does that mean I can have your share of the diamond heist too?'

Millie froze. 'What?'

'He plans to cut you out.'

'Cut me out?'

'He told me he was going to use you, but split the proceeds with me.'

Millie looked dazed for a moment longer. Then, getting up on tiptoes, she craned to look past Jayne into the car park below, peered left and right along the balcony. 'Who else is with you?' she said.

'Nobody,' Jayne said.

'Don't screw with me, bitch, I'm armed.'

For a moment, Jayne's heart fluttered into her throat, a spooked bird. Then she steeled herself. 'I'm alone. Christopher doesn't know I'm here.'

Millie stepped back from the doorway and gestured for Jayne to get inside.

The living room had burgundy carpet, cream walls, and a gallery-wrapped canvas hanging over the couch. Without asking permission, Jayne took a seat under the violent abstract of red and black paint. Surprisingly, she felt good.

No, she felt great.

The singing of adrenaline, the clear head, the prescient sensation that her every move would be the right one; these factors combined to boost her confidence. She smiled. The last time she'd felt like this, so alive, laser-guided and precise, so unerring, was when she had secured that half-million dollar contract from a building company to supply plumbers, electricians and plasterers for a development estate featuring hundreds of houses. And that deal had been signed even before their agency was officially up and running. It had been their big break. To celebrate, Gordon had bought a magnum of French champagne...

As Millie sat down opposite her in the single armchair, a tremor of anxiety needled through Jayne's guts. The unexpected memory of her ex-husband had wobbled her resolve. Hold it together, she thought. You can do this. No, more than that, she had to do this. There was no other option. A vision of Lionel from the rooming house flashed through her mind.

'What's your name?' Millie said.

Jayne took a long, slow breath. 'Rachel.'

'Rachel, how do you know Chris?'

'From various scams. Have you got anything to drink?'

Millie nodded. 'Is white okay?'

'White's always okay.'

Millie went into the kitchen, came back with two wine glasses and a half-bottle of sauvignon blanc. She poured, handed a glass to Jayne, sat down in the armchair. Interestingly, Millie swallowed half of her own drink in one gulp. Jayne took a sip. The wine tasted hollow and overly sweet. Despite this, she drank again, a tiny mouthful, in order to be sociable. Then she put the glass on the coffee table.

'Okay,' Millie said. 'What's up?'

'It's not fair.'

'What isn't fair?'

'Christopher's double-cross,' Jayne said. 'You take the risk for him, but you won't get the reward, not like he promised.'

'Is that what he told you?'

Jayne nodded.

'When?' Millie said.

'A few days ago.'

'Uh huh. Look, Rachel, I don't know. Chris has never mentioned you before.'

'And you're surprised?'

'Ugh, I suppose I shouldn't be. He holds his cards pretty close to his chest.' Millie crossed one slim, delicate leg over the other. 'Then again, I've known Chris for a couple of years. I've known you for precisely twenty seconds.'

'You think I'm lying?'

'I'm not sure. But you're playing some kind of angle.' Millie put her glass on the coffee table and picked up her mobile phone. 'There's only one way to check.'

Jayne's pulse jumped. 'What are you doing?'

'Ringing Chris.'

'What do you expect him to tell you? The truth?' Jayne managed to chuckle. 'Give him the heads up if that's what you want. Either way, I get money. But the only way you'll get any money is by doing things my way.'

Millie hesitated, regarded Jayne intently. Then she put her phone on the table. 'How do I know you're not hustling me?' she said.

'You don't.'

'What if Chris sent you?'

'He didn't.'

'Rachel, for all I know, this whole scenario is a test of loyalty.'

'I'm here representing no one else but me.'

Millie sighed. She picked up her glass and took a long, slow drink. Jayne waited, the tension in her body almost unbearable. Just hold it together, she thought. So far so good, you're doing fine, just hold it together.

Finally, Millie pulled a disgusted face, and said, 'You're right. This is exactly the kind of shit Chris would pull. He can be such a bastard.'

Jane smiled. 'You can say that again.'

'He cheats on everybody. I should have known better.'

'Don't blame yourself, Millie.'

'No, I should have seen it coming. That prick must have fed me the same bullshit line he fed the old lady.'

'The old lady?'

Millie's eyes hardened. 'You don't know?'

Jayne's mind scrambled. God, what would be the best answer? For a moment, she panicked. No, she was great at thinking on the fly, she reminded herself, great at coping under pressure. How many CEOs had she dealt with over the years? How many high-pressure business meetings had she handled? Millie was just a young girl.

Jayne took an authoritative air and sat forward. 'Hey, let's be clear,' she said. 'Christopher has a knack of keeping his various women in the dark. You don't have the full picture and neither do I. Okay?'

Millie nodded reluctantly. 'Okay.'

'So who's the old lady?' Jayne said.

'The diamond dealer's wife.'

Shocked, Jayne sat back on the couch. 'Valma Georgiou?'

'None other,' Millie said. 'Chris has been giving her the length for months now, softening her up, talking her into running away with him to live the life of poor yet honest lovers, that kind of romantic garbage. But a woman like Valma Georgiou would sooner eat shit than live on the poverty line. Chris's hunch about her paid off.'

Jayne gave a slow shake of her head. Amazing. So the person who had stolen the Georgiou diamonds had been Mrs Valma Georgiou herself. Damn, it made perfect sense now that Jayne thought about it. Why hadn't she put the pieces together before?

'Chris had no intention of ever sharing the money with Valma,' Millie went on. 'Or with me either, as it turns out. So how come he wants to share it with you?'

'I work in banking,' Jayne said. 'Christopher needs me to launder the money.'

'Well, the shithead certainly gets around, doesn't he?' Millie picked up her handbag from beneath the coffee table, searched through it, and took out a small automatic handgun. She aimed the gun at Jayne. 'No more games, Rachel. Tell me why you're here and what you want.'

6.

Shaking, Jayne showed both palms. Sweat flashed across her face and chest, soaked her armpits. 'Oh Jesus, don't shoot,' she whispered, her voice a creak. 'Please.'

'If he's sharing the money with you,' Millie continued, 'why do you give a solitary goddamn that I'm getting shafted? You don't know me.'

'Because of the pattern.'

'The what?'

'The pattern,' Jayne insisted. 'I'm not a fool. He betrays Valma yesterday, you today. That means he betrays me tomorrow.'

Considering, Millie lowered the muzzle of the gun.

Jayne found she could breathe again. Her voice stronger, she added, 'It's an absolute fact that Christopher Llewellyn must be canoodling with some other woman right now, telling her how he'll share the money with her, and not me.'

Millie sighed. 'You've got a point.'

'Unless we take a stand, together, we'll both end up with nothing.'

'And you have a plan, I suppose?'

'Yes, I do.'

Millie placed her hand with the gun on the armrest of the chair, the muzzle pointing harmlessly towards the front door. 'If you're so smart,' she said, 'why share the money with me? Why not keep it for yourself?'

'Because you're the go-between.'

'Fair enough,' Millie said. 'So if I'm the one who exchanges the diamonds for the money, why should I give any of the cash to you?'

'Because I told you the truth about Christopher.'

Millie giggled. 'You think I'd be motivated out of honour?'

'Yes.'

Millie hesitated, sobered, and blinked her heavily lashed eyes as if weighing things up. Then she put the gun into the handbag and pulled the zip. Dropping the handbag under the coffee table, her expression became embarrassed, contrite.

'Let's do things your way,' she said. 'No hard feelings?'

'None,' Jayne said. 'Although I think I may have pissed my pants a little.'

Millie laughed. Jayne, despite her fear and nausea, joined in. If she had to get up from the couch, she wouldn't be able to do it. Her legs felt like jelly.

'Okay, we're partners,' Millie said. 'What's your plan?'

Jayne scooted down in the couch to rest her head against the back cushion. Exhausted, she listened to her racing pulse for a few seconds. Millie was looking at her brightly, expectantly. Jayne was in over her head. The realisation came too late.

'We're going to screw him over,' Jayne finally said.

'Screw him over how?'

'Exchange the diamonds for cash, and then tell Christopher you were robbed.'

'Robbed?'

'That's right. Lots of people on both sides must know about this transaction. It's conceivable that someone might decide to take the cash for themselves.'

Millie chewed on a manicured nail. 'What if Chris doesn't believe me?'

'Tell him to take it up with the South Americans.'

Millie didn't react. Relief washed through Jayne's weakened body. Ted must have been correct. Christopher Llewellyn was selling the diamonds to a gang from Brazil or Peru. Fate seemed to be on Jayne's side. She reached for her wineglass, took a gulp of sauvignon blanc. The mouthful burned on the way down. She said, 'When are you exchanging the diamonds for the cash?'

'Thursday.'

Today was Tuesday. Jayne said, 'What's your cut meant to be?'

'Five per cent.'

Jayne calculated on Ted's estimate. 'About twenty grand?'

Millie nodded.

Wow, so Ted was right again. The merchandise was, indeed, worth four-hundred thousand on the black market. After a moment of elation, Jayne felt a transitory stab of panic. She had never before done anything illegal. But she had lost every last remaining thing because of Christopher Llewellyn and Millie Chan. Why shouldn't she claw back some money? It was compensation for pain and suffering, she reminded herself.

'Out of the four-hundred thousand,' Jayne went on, 'you keep three-hundred.'

Millie's eyes goggled. 'Bullshit. Just one-hundred for you?'

'You'll earn the lion's share meeting the South Americans, telling Christopher you were robbed after the exchange. My end is a spotter's fee.'

Millie started to laugh.

Jayne didn't know how to respond. She waited, and then continued, 'Let's meet at another rendezvous point to divvy up the money. No phones. We can't afford to leave a digital trail. We'll meet in person.'

'You're a funny kind of thief,' Millie said, stifling giggles behind a hand. 'I like your plan. I like it a lot. But there's one sticking point.'

Jayne reached for her glass of sauvignon blanc. 'Which is?'

'If we're partners, I don't want to do the exchange by myself.'

Jayne drained the glass. 'The South Americans will expect you, no one else.'

'That's fine. You can wait in the car.'

'No. I'm only a banker, Millie. I wouldn't know what to do.'

'You don't have to do anything but wait in the car. I'll do the rest.'

Jayne gave a wan smile. 'That's not part of my plan.'

'It is now.' Millie leaned forward, her eyes cold. 'We're partners, Rachel. Either we both go to exchange the diamonds or it doesn't happen. Look, full disclosure, I have problems with a bikie gang: the Overlords. In exchange for not going to prison, the cops want me to testify against a couple of members. If the Overlords find out about this, they'll come after me.'

Stymied, Jayne said at last, 'When do you have to testify?'

'Next month. But next week, I'm flying to New Zealand on the sly whether I get my cut of the diamond money or not. You want your spotter's fee, don't you?'

Things were changing too fast.

Jayne said, 'Please. I can't be involved.'

'You're involved already.'

'I can't do it.'

'You'll drive the car. How hard could that be? I'm doing the tough stuff.'

Jayne shook her head.

'If you won't drive the car,' Millie said, 'I'm out. New Zealand, here I come.'

Putting her empty glass on the coffee table, Jayne whispered, 'Okay.'

'Okay what?'

'Yes, okay.'

'So we're partners? You'll do it?'

'Yes. For God's sake, yes. I'll drive the car.'

Millie got up, poured more wine, and offered the replenished glass. After a moment, Jayne took it. Cheerfully, Millie clinked her glass against Jayne's as if they were celebrating together. Jayne tried to muster a happy expression and failed.

Sitting down again, Millie said, 'Hey, you know what else?'

Numbly, Jayne shook her head.

'Chris knows I'm in trouble. I'll tell him the Overlords took the money. He'll back off so fast we won't see him for dust. Nobody messes with the Overlords.' Suddenly pensive, Millie took a sip of wine. 'Except me, I suppose.'

Jayne had read about the Overlords in the paper, had seen news reports on television about their ongoing feud with another bikie gang, the Golden Jackals. Arson, driveby shootings, bashings, murder... When Ted had given Jayne the rundown on Millie's criminal history, he hadn't mentioned anything like this.

The wine soured in the pit of Jayne's stomach. Focus, she thought. It'll be okay. Drive the car – nothing else – and collect one-hundred thousand dollars.

Jayne took a gulp of wine. 'Let's get started,' she said. 'Give me the details about the exchange with the South Americans. Don't leave out a thing.'

***

Side by side, they were sitting in the deckchairs on Jayne's balcony at the rooming house. Ted had dropped over despite the late hour of Jayne's call. Being next to him, seeing his face, listening to his voice, somehow made her feel better.

'There goes another one,' Ted said.

She looked where he was pointing. A possum, silhouetted by the street light, scuttled along the nearby phone wire, fast, without missing a step.

'I bet it's going for the same tree,' Jayne said.

'Yeah, they must be a family.'

The possum was lost from sight behind a spray of branches. Only the sound of swishing leaves signified its leap into the elm.

'I wonder if they've got a nest up there,' Jayne said, 'full of little babies.'

'Probably. Hey, you want to know something funny?'

'Always.'

'I've got a possum that knocks on my kitchen window at night.'

'Knocks?' she said, giggling. 'You mean with its paw?'

Ted laughed too. 'No, with its nose. When I moved into the place, I made the mistake of leaving out apple slices for the possums. Now I've got one that makes demands. It won't go until I put something for it to eat on the windowsill.'

'Aw, that's so cute.'

'Apart from the shit it drops everywhere. Serves me right for making friends.'

He rested his elbows on his knees. It was a mild night; his shirt-sleeves were rolled up. Jayne's eyes lingered on the thick cords of his forearms.

Looking back towards the elm tree, she said, 'Brush-tail or ring-tail?'

'Ring-tail.'

'The brush-tails scare me,' she said. 'When I hear them hissing in the middle of the night, I get the willies. They sound like zombies.'

'Yeah, I've lost count of the times those bastards have woken me up. I keep finding tufts of grey fur. A heap of them must be having a turf war in my backyard.'

'Your property has lots of trees?'

Ted nodded. 'I'm in Eltham.'

'That's a lovely part of Melbourne. Are you near the river? You must worry about fires with so much bushland around you.'

'Actually, I'm in a street off the main shopping drag. No chance of a bushfire in that neighbourhood.' He took out his wallet, retrieved a business card and wrote on it. 'Here,' he said. 'My home address.'

She took the card. 'What's this for?'

'In case you ever need me.'

He held her gaze for too long. Jayne got up, put her back to him, leaned against the balcony and slid his card into the pocket of her jeans. Eventually, she said, 'How's it going with the Georgiou diamonds case?'

'Slow and steady.'

'And the investigation against me in particular?'

'You know I can't talk about it.'

'Except in generalities.' She turned around. Now he was sitting with his hands behind his head, his shirt tight across the expanse of his chest. She added, 'Tell me if Pam and Nigel still have me in their sights.'

'Not like before.'

'So who are they looking at?'

'A few other people.'

'Can't you give me their names?'

Ted shook his head.

'Damn, you're cagey,' she said.

'And you're nosey. How come? An innocent person shouldn't be worried.'

She looked away. The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of hyacinths. She let out a sigh. Oh, she was tired. More tired than she'd ever been in her life. What the hell was she doing? Maybe she'd gone crazy. Yes, that had to be it. The marriage breakdown, the loss of her business, the forced bankruptcy and now the police investigation had finally shaken something loose. God, she had nowhere to turn.

She said, 'Have you ever been tempted to do the wrong thing?'

'Don't tell me you're involved in this diamond heist.'

'No, I'm talking about you, not me.' She faced him. 'Have you, Ted Shepherd, ever thought about bending the law? You're an insurance investigator. You've seen all the scams. Surely, you've come up with the perfect caper by now.'

'Yeah, a couple of times: but only in theory.'

'Never in practice?'

He shook his head.

'What if you had the chance to walk away with a lot of money that no one would ever miss?' she said. 'Would you take it?'

'Only if I was a moron. There's always a paper trail a mile long with insurance money. They'd have me arrested before I'd spent a single dollar.'

'No, I mean if it was the kind of money that doesn't belong to anybody. Like money from criminals.'

He frowned at her. For a second, Jayne thought she had overstepped the mark.

Then he said, 'Well, that depends. How much are we talking?'

'I don't know. It's a hypothetical question.'

'Give me a figure anyway.'

'All right: one-hundred thousand dollars.'

He nodded. 'And what would be the chances of me getting caught?'

'Almost zero.'

To her surprise, a sudden change came over his face, a look of sadness. His gaze, staring out across the balcony as if at nothing or everything, seemed pained.

'Are you okay?' she said at last.

'I work hard, pay my taxes, drive at the speed limit most of the time, drink in moderation, take good care of my health.' He shrugged. 'My sister was the same. She died last year.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, Ted.'

'Breast cancer. She was forty-one.' He glanced at Jayne. 'Something like that gets you thinking. It makes you think about whether playing it safe is always the best way to live. Know what I mean?'

'Yes.'

'I'm thirty-six. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I wonder what I would do differently if I knew I'd be dead at forty-one.' After a few seconds, the cloud over his face lifted. He gave a rueful half-smile. 'I didn't mean to get morbid.'

'That's not morbid, that's life.'

'Life can be a bitch.'

'You've got no argument with me,' she said. 'But you still haven't answered my question. Would you take the money if you could get away with it?'

He eased back against the deckchair. 'Once upon a time, the answer would have been a categorical "no". But now? I'm not sure. Put it this way: I'd give it some serious consideration.' He grinned. 'Don't tell my boss.'

'Agreed.' Holding out her pinkie finger, Jayne added, 'I'll keep your secret if you'll keep mine.'

'Yours?'

'About the Georgiou diamonds.'

Suddenly grim-faced, Ted stood up. He was very tall. Jayne took a backwards step, bumped her hip against the balcony railing. As he advanced, she turned her back to him and stared at the elm tree, at the leaves stirring in the breeze. You idiot, she thought. Shut up. For God's sake, shut up.

'Is this a confession?' Ted said, close behind her now.

'No, I swear, I didn't take those diamonds.'

'Then what's wrong with you tonight?' he said. 'What's the matter?'

She grabbed hold of the metal balustrade. 'You should have told me Millie Chan was involved with the Overlords.'

'How did find out?'

Hesitating, Jayne said, 'I Googled it.'

'You haven't spoken to her?'

'No. Let's not talk about this any more.'

'Quit messing with the investigation. You'll get hurt.' His hands settled on her shoulders. 'I don't want you getting hurt.'

He was so close that Jayne could feel the radiation of his body heat. With effort, she resisted the urge to lean against him.

'What do you care?' she said. 'I'm nothing to you.'

His hands on her shoulders turned her around. She kept her face down. Ted's shirt was light-blue check, jeans an old denim shade, boots black and scuffed at the toes. She had to move away from him.

But she didn't.

Ted's arm slid along the curve of her lower back and pulled her against him. Don't give in, Jayne thought. He was a threat, someone who might deliver her to the police. Let me go, she wanted to say, even as her hands, of their own accord, reached out to rest on his outer thighs. Her fingertips pressed against the muscles and found them to be firm and flat without a pinch of skin. Stop, she thought. Stop touching him. Ted's arm drew her closer. His other hand grazed her jaw, lifted her chin.

'Jayne,' he whispered.

She looked up. The streetlight illuminated the deep green of his eyes. Then he kissed her. She opened her lips. The feel of his mouth and tongue, his tightening grip about her waist, the pressure of his body took the strength from her knees. A tingling sensation shot through her core. She wanted to yield.

Instead, panicked, she put both hands on his chest and shoved him away.

'You have to go,' Jayne said.

He appeared confused, hurt. 'Did I do something wrong?'

'Please leave.'

'Are you kidding?'

'No.'

He stared at her for a long time. Finally, tightening his mouth into a thin line, he said, 'I'm sorry,' and left the balcony.

Jayne followed him into her room. He opened the door to the hallway and paused, glancing back at her. Damn, his eyes looked so wounded.

For a moment, Jayne weakened.

Then she remembered the fix she was in. If Ted realised she was planning to drive Millie and the diamonds to the exchange, would he tell the police? It was a risk Jayne couldn't afford. No matter how much she wanted him.

'I'm sorry too,' she said. 'Goodbye, Ted.'

With a nod, he shut the door behind him.

***

Jayne dreamed about him that night; an intense, erotic dream that woke her in a sweat. Unable to get back to sleep, she went out on the balcony. The air was cool and still.

She had to forget about Ted. There was no other option.

Nonetheless, as she closed her eyes, she recalled his touch, smell and taste. She began to think about the things she would do to him if only she had the chance.

7.

On Wednesday afternoon at precisely two o'clock, as arranged, Jayne knocked on the door of Millie's flat. Time passed. A chill breeze sifted through her hair, making her pull her jacket even tighter. She knocked again. The occasional car swished by on the road behind her.

'Millie?' she called at last. 'Hey Millie, are you there? It's Rachel.'

She checked her watch: 2.03 p.m. A sinking feeling hollowed out her guts. Millie was gone already. Gone with the diamonds. Obviously, Jayne had been duped. But then, in the window next to the door, a slat of venetian blind lifted and dropped. A chain rattled; the door opened. Millie ushered Jayne inside with quick motions of her hand, slammed the door, and locked it.

'What's wrong?' Jayne said.

'Look, Rachel, this rule of not having contact details on each other is stuffed. I needed to call you about half an hour ago. I almost didn't wait.'

'What's happened?'

'I've got to get out of here, that's what happened.'

Millie hurried from the lounge room. Jayne followed her into the bedroom, which was decorated with mirrors, stuffed toys, a hat-stand laden with scarves, berets and floppy fedoras. Two half-packed suitcases lay open on the bed. Millie turned to the wardrobe, grabbed clothes off hangers and flung them at the suitcases. A few items missed, landing on the floor. Millie didn't appear to notice.

'Did Christopher threaten you?' Jayne said.

Millie barked out a laugh. 'That little pussycat? He couldn't threaten a mouse. No, he turned up at noon on the dot, handed me the diamonds, ran through the details of the exchange one more time, and then pissed off.'

'You don't think he suspects us?'

'Relax. Chris believes he's getting the best part of four-hundred thousand by tomorrow night. He's too fixated on the cash to worry about anything else.' Millie dropped to her knees and began raking out pairs of shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe: sling-backs, platforms, stilettos, wedges. 'It's not Chris I'm worried about,' she continued. 'Remember what I was telling you about the Overlords?'

The back of Jayne's neck prickled. There was only one way in or out of this flat: the single door. 'Did you hear from them?' she said.

'I heard from somebody. An anonymous tip.' Millie paused, sat back on her haunches, considered. 'It might have been a cop feeling an attack of conscience.'

'A cop?'

'A dirty one. He probably told the Overlords about my cooperation deal, and now he feels guilty that they're coming to break my legs.'

Jayne sucked in a breath. 'Are you serious?'

Millie looked around, her eyebrows raised. 'Well, duh, Rachel. Why do you think I'm in such a screaming panic?'

'Panic? This isn't panic. Jesus, Millie, why the hell are you stopping to pack?'

'Hey, I'm not starting over in New Zealand with nothing. You see these shoes?' She held up a pair of orange peep-toes. 'Nearly three hundred bucks.'

Jayne rushed over to one of the suitcases. Flipping the lid closed, she stuffed the overhanging clothes inside and began zippering.

'What are you doing?' Millie said, leaping up.

'Hurry, come on. How long since they called?'

'Like I told you, about half an hour.'

'Get the other case.'

'I haven't finished packing. Hey, stop it; you're catching things in the zip.'

'Millie, people are coming to hurt you – '

'You're gonna rip holes in my stuff – '

'Screw all that,' Jayne shouted, 'you've got to get out of here.'

Millie grabbed Jayne's arm, hard, wrenched her away from the suitcase, and said, 'Back off, Rachel. I know you mean well, but shit. You're too much right now.'

'My God, aren't you afraid?'

'This isn't my first rodeo with the Overlords. And besides, I can talk my way out of anything. Now take the diamonds and wait in the car.'

'What? No, come with me.'

'Rachel, you need to chill out. Drive around the block. Have a cigarette or something. By the time you get back, I'll be waiting on the footpath.'

'Let's both of us go together. Okay? Please.'

Millie dragged Jayne to the lounge room. From the coffee table, she snatched a leather case that was about the size and shape of a hardback book, and slapped it against Jayne's stomach. Jayne took hold of the case with both shaking hands.

'Take the diamonds,' Millie said, and opened the door. 'I'll be five minutes.'

'Oh, please leave now.'

'Go round the block. See if you can get a grip on yourself.' Millie studied her for a moment with pursed lips, narrowed eyes. 'If this is the way you're going to behave, you're the most shithouse partner I've ever had, and that's a fact.'

With a shove, Millie pushed Jayne onto the balcony and slammed the door. The chain rattled. Aghast, unsure of what to do, Jayne stumbled along the balcony, raced down the stairs and headed to her car. Hold it together, she told herself. Drive around the block like Millie suggested. She opened the driver's side door, threw the diamond case onto the passenger seat, and stabbed the key into the ignition.

But when Jayne pulled out from the kerb, a horn sounded. She stood on the brake. Damn, she had forgotten to check her mirrors. She waved an apology to the other driver. Carefully, deliberately, she merged into traffic and kept a gentle speed. At the first red light, she remembered the leather case.

She glanced down at the passenger seat. The case was matt black, hinged, with the type of keyless latch you would find on a child's music box. Apparently, the diamonds were in there. Another horn sounded. Startled, Jayne looked up. The light must have turned green quite a while ago; the car in front of her was already some fifty metres away. Hastily, she pressed her foot on the accelerator, raised her hand in yet another apology.

Things had become very complicated very quickly.

Her initial plan had been simple: convince Millie that Christopher Llewellyn was planning a double-cross; receive one-hundred thousand dollars as a thank-you gift. Blockhead. This is what happens when you make a plan without knowing the facts, she admonished herself. It was her failed business and failed marriage all over again... Jayne clenched her teeth. No, there would be no failure this time. The debacle with Gordon had surely toughened her up. This time, she would adapt to circumstances on the fly. This time, no matter what, she would come out the winner. She only had to drive Millie to the exchange, nothing more.

She pulled into the kerb outside Millie's block of flats. Millie wasn't waiting on the footpath. Jayne left the engine running. After a few seconds, she leaned over to peer out through the front passenger window at Millie's door. The afternoon sun had the second floor in shadow.

Jayne sat back in her seat and chewed on a fingernail. Millie and her goddamned clothes. That shoe collection was ridiculous.

Another minute passed. Jayne cut the engine, exited the car, walked across the car park and took the stairs. Millie's door hung open. The lamp lay broken on the floor. Before Jayne had time to comprehend this bewildering scene and what it might signify, a plump woman with her hair in a top-knot came out of the neighbouring flat. Her breath heaved in and out. She held a phone to her ear.

'Good Lord,' the woman gasped. 'They took her.'

'What?'

'Two big men with tattoos. They kicked in the door and took her.'

Jayne felt dizzy for a moment. 'Millie's gone? You mean kidnapped?'

'I've called the police. I'm on hold. Oh, I pray that little girl will be safe.'

'You're on hold?' Jayne said. When the woman nodded, Jayne continued, 'Tell them Millie got taken by the Overlords.'

'The Overlords? That awful motorcycle gang?'

'Tell them Millie got a phone call about forty-five minutes ago from a corrupt police officer, warning her the Overlords were on their way over to break her legs.'

The woman's eyes goggled. 'Break her legs? Oh, the noise when they smashed that little girl's door. She screamed fit to be tied. So you heard the commotion too? Which flat are you in?'

After a moment, Jayne said, 'Downstairs. Number four.'

The woman's face screwed up, perplexed. 'You're at the Robinsons?'

'I mean number five. Don't forget to tell the police what I told you.'

Then Jayne fled; like a coward, she rebuked herself, ashamed. She ran to her car. Her mind sandblasted with shock, the bile rising in her throat, she drove away at speed. Twenty minutes later, she parked outside the rooming house. She was halfway up the front steps before she remembered the diamonds. Returning to the car, she grabbed the black case.

Once in her room, she locked the door. As if the case was too hot to touch, she flung it to the mattress. She sat on the bed. Now what?

Quit panicking.

And think.

Millie would be all right, she figured at last. The Overlords would threaten and intimidate Millie, but they wouldn't hurt her. A sophisticated criminal gang couldn't possibly be that stupid. If Millie turned up with injuries, the police would know straight away who had done it. No, the smartest option for the Overlords would be to convince Millie to recant her testimony while not letting on to police that she was doing so under duress. That seemed the most reasonable assumption, especially since Millie hadn't been particularly frightened. What had she said, exactly? That it wasn't her first rodeo with the Overlords. Millie must have known from experience that she wasn't in mortal danger. So there was no need to worry, Jayne decided.

Millie would be fine.

The remaining question: would Millie be released in time for the meeting with the South Americans tomorrow afternoon? Yes, Jayne concluded after a moment's reflection. It wouldn't take the Overlords some twenty-four hours to persuade Millie to cooperate. No doubt, Millie would be home this evening, at the latest.

So relax.

Jayne focused on her breathing. When she felt better, she leaned over and picked up the black case. She experienced a tremor of nerves, of excitement. The gold latch dropped open at the slightest pressure from her fingertip. The lid opened on oiled hinges. And here they were at last: the Georgiou diamonds.

They didn't seem right.

Disappointment took the air out of her.

Now that she was looking at them, Jayne realised that she had expected polished gems, cut and sparkling, ready to be set in rings, bracelets or necklaces. But these must be rough diamonds. Packed together on the cropped velvet lining of the case, the thirty or so chunks were cloudy with just the faintest blue-green tint, misshapen and ugly, each stone the size of an ice cube. Well, no wonder diamonds are known as ice, Jayne thought. If someone slipped one of these babies into a bourbon and cola, she wouldn't know the difference – except that the ice chip wouldn't melt.

The diamonds looked like nothing.

In fact, the more she stared at them, the more let-down she felt. It was hard to believe that she was gazing upon eight-hundred thousand dollars. Jayne's hand hovered over the diamonds.

No, she wouldn't touch them. Not without gloves. The last thing she wanted was her fingerprints on stolen goods. In fact, she must remember to wipe down the case. Jayne closed the lid. Then she closed her eyes. Oh Millie, she thought, why didn't you leave with me when you had the chance?

There was a knock on the door.

'Who is it?' she said.

'Your landlord: Carl. Have you got a minute?'

Jayne slid the case beneath the pillow, went over and opened the door.

'I'm sorry,' Carl said, looking apologetic. 'They insisted I couldn't warn you.'

He stood aside. Jayne found herself staring at the cool, professional smiles of detectives Pam Thorpe and Nigel Rudkins.

'May we come in?' Pam said.

'As if I have a choice,' Jayne said, stepping back into the room.

'Undeniably, you've got a choice; what a paranoid assumption.' Pam crossed over the threshold, glanced around and said, 'I love how you've done absolutely nothing to the place.'

Chuckling, Nigel ambled inside and closed the door. Jayne set her jaw. She had been home for only a few minutes. Had the detectives been sitting in a parked car out front waiting for her? Had they watched her carry the leather case into the house? Jayne couldn't remember seeing any other vehicles parked nearby, but that didn't prove a thing; she had been too distressed to notice anyway. If the detectives found her with the diamonds, she would be arrested.

She said, 'How is Mr Georgiou?'

'Better,' Pam said.

'He's out of intensive care?'

'Not yet. But at least he's out of the woods: conscious, sitting up, talking. He's been very helpful.'

'That's wonderful,' Jayne said, trying to smile. Had Mr Georgiou described the black leather case to these detectives? Had they seen her with it?

Pam said, 'Tell us about Christopher Llewellyn.'

Nigel took a pen from his jacket pocket, flipped the cover of a small notepad, and paused expectantly.

Considering for a moment, Jayne said, 'He's a personal trainer.'

'Anything else?' Pam said.

'Not really.'

'Try a bit harder, Miss McMurray.'

'Okay, he drives a red MG Roadster. I'm sure he colours his hair.'

'Your opinion of him?'

'To be honest, he's a wanker. Anyone can see that he loves himself.'

'What do you know about his relationship with Valma Georgiou?'

Jayne hesitated, her mind scrambling to work out the angles. If the police found out that Llewellyn had scammed Mrs Georgiou to get the diamonds, they would lean on him; he would give up Millie; and then Millie would give up Jayne...

'Miss McMurray?' Pam said.

'Christopher Llewellyn goes to Trilliant Manor twice a week to train Mrs Georgiou. I'm not sure how long he's been employed. He was already working there by the time I became their cleaner.'

Pam nodded. 'How would you describe him?'

'You mean physically?'

'No, as a person, what's he like? Apart from being a wanker.'

Jayne shrugged. 'I really couldn't say. Our paths never crossed. The most conversation we had was the "hello, how are you" kind.'

'That's interesting. You know why? The last time we were here, let me refresh your memory, you told us...' Pam turned to her partner. 'Nigel?'

He consulted his notebook. 'You told us, "If you had any brains, you'd be investigating Christopher Llewellyn".'

The detectives stared at her patiently.

Jayne said, 'He seems an untrustworthy type, is what I meant: a lady's man.'

'So you're unaware of his background?' Pam said.

'Well, he must have a degree of some sort to do his job.'

Pam smiled. 'I'm referring to his criminal background.'

'Oh?' Jayne's mouth dried out. 'I didn't realise he had one.'

'He's got a long and complicated history, ranging from cheque fraud and shoplifting all the way up to assault and murder.'

Jayne blinked. 'Murder?'

'He's been a suspect in two separate homicides, both with insufficient evidence to make an arrest, unfortunately. The women were bludgeoned. You can bet there are more cases we don't know about. It seems he gets short-tempered with associates from time to time, probably when things don't go his way. Don't let the hair and yoga pants fool you, Miss McMurray. He's a dangerous man.'

Jayne didn't reply. How would this new version of Christopher Llewellyn react to being told the money for the diamonds had been stolen? Previously, she had imagined nothing more than a tantrum, some resentment on his behalf, sulking... but Jayne's plan to rip off Llewellyn might actually put Millie in harm's way. God, this plan kept going from bad to worse.

'Miss McMurray?' Pam said.

'Yes?'

'You look pale.'

'I'm just feeling a little...'

'What?' Pam said. 'You're feeling a little what?'

Jayne tried to smile. 'Shocked.'

'And why is that?'

'Because you never expect that someone you know could be a murderer.'

'I thought you said you didn't know him.'

'Look, that's true, I don't.' Jayne put a hand to her forehead. Her fingertips were cold. 'But I know of him, I've seen him around, okay? It's still a shock.'

The detectives exchanged glances.

Nigel pocketed his notepad and pen. 'Thanks for your cooperation, Miss McMurray,' he said with a bored, lacklustre grin. 'We'll be in touch.'

'Call if you think of anything,' Pam said, and opened the door.

From the threshold, Jayne watched the detectives stroll the mezzanine towards the staircase. A nearby door opened. Lionel came out, his grizzled face unshaved and ruddy, his hair clumped in a mess of greasy curlicues. The detectives hardly glanced at him as they walked by.

Taking the cigarette from his lips, Lionel said to them, 'I smell bacon.'

Pam chuckled. 'Have another drink, sir. That hangover is making you nasty.'

Lionel mugged an exaggerated surprise. As the detectives headed down the stairs, he leaned over the mezzanine railings and said, 'Oink, oink.'

'Lionel,' Jayne hissed from her door. 'Stop, do you want to get yourself arrested? You can't verbally abuse the police.'

He turned to her. 'Didn't you see? I just did.'

Jayne hurried past him, looked down the staircase and saw the detectives exit the front door. They were gone, thank Christ. When she made to return to her room, however, she found Lionel in the way, staring at her speculatively.

'Your mates?' he said.

'Not a chance.' She approached. 'I take it you know them?'

He shook his head.

'Then how did you figure they were police?' she continued.

'Familiarity. I've spent most of my life with coppers and the like.'

'You were in the force?'

Lionel's guffaw carried the smell of beer. 'I was in "A" Division.'

'What's that, a special squad?'

'A section of Pentridge Prison.'

Jayne felt the blood come to her cheeks. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for? My dumb decisions?' He waved the cigarette dismissively and took a long drag. 'I should've lived the straight and narrow. A bloke with limited smarts is no good for anything else.'

Carl's voice carried up the stairs. 'Lionel? Are you smoking on that godforsaken landing? I can smell it down here in the office, you selfish bastard.'

Smirking, Lionel winked and retreated to his room, closing the door.

Dazed, Jayne locked herself inside her bedsit. She dropped to the mattress.

Limited smarts...

Clearly, Jayne wasn't cut out to run with criminals. She had made too many mistakes already. She would make more. If she continued on this track, she might end up in prison like Lionel – or dead at the hands of Christopher Llewellyn, the pretty-boy who had turned out, somehow, to be a killer.

Or she might be richer by one-hundred thousand dollars.

Her thoughts turned to Millie. Surely, by six o'clock, Millie would be home. Please God, she'd be home. If she wasn't, Jayne wouldn't know what to do.

7.

Millie Chan wasn't home at six o'clock.

Or at six-thirty either. Jayne pulled up at the flats and looked out the car window at Millie's door, which was still boarded like it had been half an hour earlier, still criss-crossed with the blue-and-white chequered tape that carried a single word over and over, POLICE.

Jayne drove off, her guts in a knot. At the next block of shops, she parked and found a restaurant, a Vietnamese takeaway that had a couple of laminate tables pushed against the front windows. She ate a noodle soup. No, that wasn't true: she tried to eat it. The tofu and vegetables kept sticking in her throat. Adding more coriander didn't help. She kept glancing at her watch. The sun was setting. The approaching thunderstorm filtered the light through dirty clouds, giving everything outside a weird, greenish cast. Jayne wasn't a superstitious person, but the view through the windows put her teeth on edge.

She drove again to Millie's block of flats. Nothing had changed. The swathes of blue-and-white tape still netted Millie's door. The remaining dregs of sunlight now looked grey. Soon, Millie's door would be hard to see from the road.

That's it: she had to call Millie.

Jayne took out her mobile. Then she hesitated. If she rang Millie's number, it would remain as evidence on Millie's phone records. Okay, no problem, she would call Millie from a public phone. But did public phones still exist? Jayne couldn't remember the last time she had seen one. And even if she did find a public phone, she might still be traced by the number and then identified from a CCTV photograph: cameras were in every public space these days. Damn, was there nothing a person could do anymore without being traced?

She drove off again. Aimlessly, she circled the neighbourhood, changing radio stations, opening and closing her driver's side window as she found herself too hot, too cold. Every half-hour, she returned to Millie's flat. The streetlight kept illuminating the police tape.

By midnight, Jayne felt keyed up and desperate.

Tomorrow, she would buy an untraceable mobile phone, a disposable. Then she would call. Poor Millie must be staying with relatives or friends, possibly hiding at a motel, too frightened to come home. If only Jayne had thought to buy a disposable phone earlier, she wouldn't be trapped in this torment of not-knowing. I'm fine, you dope, she imagined Millie saying. Rachel, stop getting your knickers in a twist. Jayne regarded the police tape, bit at a fingernail.

She needed help to figure out her next move.

Impulsively, she reached into her handbag and took out Ted Shepherd's business card. If she could find a way to quiz him about the Georgiou case without raising his suspicions... Before she could take this line of thought any further, Ted's green eyes came to mind, and then the memory of his kiss.

No, forget it. She had to stay away. How could she trust him? Or herself not to break down and tell him everything? Feeling scared and alone couldn't possibly justify visiting Ted tonight, of all nights, the night before the diamond exchange.

But what if she were careful?

Weighing it up, she gazed at his handwriting on the back of the card, read over his home address. If she got the cut she'd negotiated with Millie – one-hundred thousand dollars – Jayne would leave Melbourne for Adelaide and never see Ted again. She had to see him tonight.

One last time.

But running to Ted would be crazy. A single slip-up could land her in prison.

'Ah, screw it,' she muttered, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the kerb. She was taking so many harebrained risks anyway, why not take one more?

***

The single-storey unit was one of three on the block, cream brick with a slate roof. Jayne knocked on the door, waited. Knocked again. Her nerves rising, she went to knock a third time when a light shone from inside. The door opened.

Ted, sleepy-faced, squinting one eye closed against the glare, wore striped pyjama pants low on his hips and nothing else. A charge jolted through Jayne's belly. Ted's shoulders were very broad. A trail of hair ran from his navel and disappeared beneath the pant's drawstring waist. Oh, this was a beautiful man. She had a maddening urge to pull the drawstring's bow, to touch him.

'Jayne?' he said, scrubbing a hand over his stubble. 'What's wrong?'

'I'm sorry. I know it's late.'

'That's okay. Come in.'

She followed him across the lounge room. The furnishings were sparse, the decor a mix of greys and browns. The open-plan kitchen had dishes stacked on the sink, a glass door that showed a tiny paved courtyard. And on the kitchen table, the posy of yellow, pink and white daisies that she had given him on Tuesday. The sight both surprised and delighted her.

She pointed. 'Hey, are those flowers in a beer glass?'

'Pint glass. I don't have any vases.'

'They still look fresh.'

'Yeah, as daisies, so the old saying goes. Is that why you're here? To check on the flowers? Or maybe you're hoping to see the resident possum tap on my window.'

She blushed. 'Look, I should apologise for my behaviour yesterday.'

'And it couldn't wait till morning?'

'I feel terrible about how I treated you. Kicking you out like that.'

'Ah, don't worry. Bottom line, I shouldn't have kissed you.' He scratched at the stubble under his chin. 'Can I get you a drink? Coffee?'

'No thanks.'

He nodded, went to the fridge and took a swig from a carton of orange juice. It was such a personal, private thing to do that Jayne felt awkward. What in hell was she doing here in the middle of the night anyway?

'I should go,' she said.

'Come on, are you shitting me? You've woken me up; you may as well tell me what you came here to say.'

Tongue-tied, Jayne dropped her gaze to the floor. Well, what had she come here to say? Or do... She didn't exactly know.

'Jayne? What's the matter?'

'Nothing. I think you should put on a shirt.'

'How come?'

'You're half-naked.'

'And that bothers you? Why?'

She looked up. A tiny, amused smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. She thought about how she would be leaving for Adelaide tomorrow, how she would never see him again, and she levelled her gaze.

'It bothers me,' she said, 'because I want to touch you.'

His reaction was almost imperceptible: a sudden hint of colour in his cheeks, a small, sharp inhalation through his nose. Jayne took a few steps closer.

'Don't tease me,' he said.

She stopped in front of him. His arms hung loosely by his sides. Reaching out, she brushed her fingertips against the backs of his hands, ran them along his forearms, and then across the flatness of his belly, gently raking her nails over that tantalising line of hair that trailed into his pyjamas. He stared at her intently but didn't move. Finally, she slid her palms over his chest. She could feel his heart beating.

'Kiss me,' she said.

'You don't know your own mind.'

She put her arms about his neck and pressed herself against him. Closing his eyes, he exhaled in a long, slow breath. Still his arms remained at his sides.

'Please,' she said. 'I need you.'

He looked down at her. 'Are you going to push me away?'

'Not this time, I promise.'

She felt his hands take hold of her hips. It had been years since a man had touched her like that. She lifted her face to his, rising on tiptoe. In response, his arms tightened around her waist, and his mouth closed over hers with a hunger that made her quiver. When his lips dropped to her throat, she couldn't bear it any longer.

'Where's your bedroom?' she said.

Keeping his arms about her waist, he walked her through a nearby doorway. He helped her strip, flinging each item of clothing behind him without looking. The feel of his bare torso against her, skin on skin, was an electric shock. Fingers trembling, she pulled the drawstring on his pyjamas. The pyjamas fell to his feet. Naked, he lowered her to the bed and stretched out beside her.

Jayne clutched at his haunches. 'No, I want you now.'

'Now?'

'Yes, right now.'

His smile was puzzled, almost shy. 'But what about, you know... foreplay?'

'We can do that later.'

He laughed. 'You're the boss.' He shifted his body over hers, paused. Holding himself away from her, looking conflicted, he whispered, 'Hang on, are you sure?'

'For Christ's sake,' she said, wrapping her limbs about him. 'I'm sure.'

***

A soft rain pattered at the roof tiles. Jayne listened to the far-off rumble of thunder. Ted lay on the other side of the mattress. She reached out and slid her hand over the wide expanse of his shoulders until he stirred.

'Are you asleep?' she said.

'Not any more.'

'I have to talk to you about something.'

'It's nearly three o'clock.' He rolled onto his back, rubbed at his eyes. 'I've got to work in a few hours.'

'I know. I'm sorry. Am I still a suspect?'

He sighed. 'We're looking at Chris Llewellyn. If anybody asks, you didn't hear that from me. Please let me sleep, okay? See you in the morning.'

'What would you say if I told you I had the diamonds?'

Even in the half-dark, Jayne saw him freeze.

'Do you?' he said.

'No, of course not. Just hypothetically, though, what would you say?'

'That you should stop talking and engage a lawyer.'

'And that's all?'

'Yep.'

'Wouldn't you want to know how I got them?'

'Not unless I had plans to appear for the prosecution at your trial.'

She propped herself on an elbow. 'Wait a minute. Trial?'

'If you had the diamonds, logically, you were involved in their theft.'

Chewing on her lip for a moment, she said, 'Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say I wasn't involved in stealing them. Let's say I sneakily nabbed them from the thieves. Now I want to hand the diamonds back to the authorities. Wouldn't that make me the hero?'

'That depends. Did your heroics include fraud and deception?'

'Only towards criminals.'

'What about lying to police and other investigating officers?'

'Uh... maybe.'

'Then you'd most likely be charged,' he said, 'as an accessory after the fact, receiver of stolen goods, something along those lines.'

'Are they serious charges?'

'Serious enough.'

'Would I go to jail?'

'Probably.' He regarded her with sombre eyes. 'Should I be advising you to stop talking for real? This sounds like a confession.'

'If it was, would you have me arrested?'

After a long while, he said, 'No, I wouldn't.'

'Why not?'

'You've had enough shitty things happen already.'

'Letting me go would make you a criminal too.'

'Yeah, but we're talking hypotheticals, right?'

'Right.' She paused, moved closer. 'So, apart from pity, are there any other reasons why you wouldn't turn me in?'

He began to smile. 'Just one: you're great in bed.'

Giggling, she lightly slapped at him, which made him laugh. They kissed. When he put his arms around her, pulling her close, she drew back.

'Hey,' she said, 'I thought you wanted to sleep.'

'Yeah, me too. Looks like we were both wrong.'

***

The beeping of an incoming text message woke them. Sitting up, Ted patted a hand over the bedside table until he found his mobile phone. The brightness of the screen lit the room. Jayne groaned and rolled over.

'Aw, shit no,' Ted said.

'Everything okay?'

'Not really. Millie Chan is dead.'

'What?' Jayne's breath stopped. 'Are you sure?'

'Her body turned up at a golf course. It looks like she was strangled.' He put the phone on the table and dropped back to the pillow. 'The cops aren't going to release her name, but so what, the Georgiou case is stuffed anyway.'

Within minutes, Ted's breathing became deep and regular. How could he sleep? Staring unseeing at the wall, Jayne bunched the sheets inside her fists.

Millie was dead. It didn't seem real.

And then, in a slow, queasy flush of adrenaline that kept flowering and building, it occurred to her that now she was stuck, alone, with the diamonds.

The diamond exchange was scheduled for 2 p.m. Millie had apparently never met the representative of the South Americans, or the South Americans themselves. Although everyone knew Millie's surname was 'Chan', that didn't mean they could predict what she might look like, considering Australia's multicultural society. Instead, both sides had agreed upon the use of certain signals, all of them environmental, which meant that Jayne, if she were brave enough, could probably masquerade as Millie and take the cash... Oh no, Jayne thought, adrenaline crimping her guts. That option was too scary to contemplate.

All right, she could hand in the diamonds to police.

And get arrested.

Or she could keep the diamonds and sell them somewhere else, even though she had no idea where to start, which meant she would, more than likely, bungle the sale. And get arrested.

Dear God, every option was fraught.

Might she simply throw the diamonds away? No, that would be impossible; ludicrous, in fact. Who could throw away nearly a million dollars worth of merchandise and live with it for the rest of their days? Not Jayne.

Or she could turn in the diamonds anonymously; post them, perhaps. And then, thanks to the wonders of forensic science, get traced somehow: by a thumbprint on a stamp, a photo from a CCTV camera, the triangulation of mobile phones...

She was still trying to figure out what to do when the alarm went off. Ted shuffled to the bathroom. She listened to him taking a shower, focusing on the run and splash of water, his off-key singing, while her heart skittered against her ribs. Maybe there was no way to get out of this situation unscathed, she thought. Maybe every choice carried the risk of terrible consequences. The realisation that she was trapped – doomed, in fact, no matter what – finally helped her to make a decision. She was a frog in a hot pot of water, that was true, but she was determined to leap out while she still had the chance. That chance was now or never.

Ted appeared in the doorway with a towel around his waist. 'Cereal or toast?'

Jayne mustered a grin. 'Toast.'

'Stay right there. I'll get you breakfast in bed.'

When it was time to leave, she clung to him, tried to commit to memory the feel and smell of him, the sound of his voice, the green of his eyes.

'Hey, are you okay?' he said.

I'm going to miss you so much, she wanted to say, and I'm frightened. Instead, she whispered, 'Goodbye, Ted,' and turned to the door.

He grabbed her arm. 'What's the matter?' he said. 'Tell me.'

'I'll tell you later.'

She pecked his cheek and hurried out into the foggy chill of the morning.

8.

It took Jayne the best part of an hour to drive from the rooming house to Lillydale Lake, a park some forty kilometres east of the city on the outskirts of suburbia. A nature reserve and the dark green forest of the Yarra Ranges lay beyond the park. On any other day, it would have been a pleasant drive towards the countryside.

Jayne steered between the low stone walls that flanked the entrance, and made her way to the rendezvous point: the car park situated closest to the lake. For a Thursday afternoon, there were more vehicles than she had expected: the car park was about one-third full. As instructed, she picked a spot as near to the lake as possible. Then she cut the engine.

Eight minutes to go.

She blew out her breath, stared at the vista. A group of anglers had their lines in the water. Two kayakers were moving abreast across the lake, paddling in long, easy strokes. An overweight cyclist laboured around the bike track. Jayne turned her head. The car park had families coming and going: pregnant mums, little children, retirees. It was a giant public space without CCTV cameras. She would be safe here. Nothing bad would happen. For a while, she watched the passage of a red kite as it bobbed and tugged through the sky above the nearby picnic area, the owner of the kite hidden by a valley and a bank of gum trees.

Six minutes.

Jayne glanced around again at the parked cars. The South Americans might already be here, watching her, perhaps taking photographs. Before heading off from the rooming house, she had altered her licence plates with a black marker pen, turning L into E, 0 into 8. It was the best she could do. Hopefully, her workmanship would hold up. Hopefully, if the South Americans ran her plates, they wouldn't discover her identity. Nevertheless, as soon as she had the money – as soon as she had the entire four-hundred thousand dollars – she would buy another car and get rid of this one.

Dear God, four-hundred thousand dollars...

What an unimaginable amount of money. She could buy a home outright. How would the South Americans transport so much cash? She had no idea.

Four minutes.

Now that it was finally time for the diamond exchange to take place, she marvelled at how calm she felt. Anticipating the exchange had been far worse. Actually, she would be relieved to get this thing over and done with. She wanted to face the consequences instead of simply worrying about them. After untold hours of reflection, she knew that she deserved the money. Hadn't she lost every last pitiful thing because of these criminals? And more to the point: how could she let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slide? Her ex-husband had screwed her, and the law hadn't given a damn. Now, in return, she didn't give a damn either. Why should she? After all the indignities she had suffered, why should she give up? Why should she agree to boil to death inside life's metaphorical pot?

Dear God, I've become a criminal.

Calm down, she admonished herself, and stop thinking.

Two minutes.

She pulled the large knitted beanie over her hair, which was already twisted up into a bun, and checked in the rear-view mirror for any loose strands. A woman's hair was a memorable feature. The fewer features she had on display, the better. Thankfully, the bright blue sky meant that hiding her eyes behind sunglasses would not look suspicious. Finally, she put on gloves and got out of the car.

As per instructions, she put a thermos flask on the roof. Seconds later, a man climbed from a four-wheel drive and started walking over. Jayne's stomach tightened. Speak as little as possible, she reminded herself. If in doubt, say nothing.

The man's look was contrary to her expectations. Aged perhaps in his late twenties, he was thin despite the bulky overcoat, and wore his ginger hair in a bowl cut, the fringe hanging low enough to hide his forehead. As he approached, she saw that his face, while unlined for the most part, had deep wrinkles etched around his eyes as if he habitually scowled. No, he was much older than late-twenties; perhaps late-forties or more.

When he stopped in front of her, she gave a tentative smile.

'Hugh?' she said.

'Hey, Millie.'

He hunched his shoulders, pivoted on his heels to gaze at the sky, trees, surrounding vehicles. She looked around too. Nobody was paying them any attention. They could have been two picnickers conferring on where to set up their blanket.

'This is a good spot,' she said.

'Take off your sunnies.'

'Huh? What for?'

'Take them off.'

After a moment, she complied, tucking the sunglasses into her jacket pocket.

Hugh said, 'I thought you were supposed to be Chinese.'

'I am, on my grandfather's side.'

'You don't look Chinese.'

Jayne set her jaw. 'So what do you want? A DNA test?'

He stared at her for a moment, smirked, laughed. She did too. Taking a packet of cigarettes from his coat, he said, 'Smoke?'

'No thanks.'

After lighting the cigarette and sucking a quick couple of drags, Hugh dropped it to the asphalt and ground it underfoot. 'Let's have a look at them.'

She opened the car door, and took the black leather case from the passenger seat. Hugh held out his hand. Hesitating, she gave him the case. If he started running, she wouldn't know what to do. Probably nothing. Just watch him go.

Hugh opened the lid. Gnawing at his lips, gently rattling the diamonds inside the case, he began nodding.

'Happy?' Jayne said.

'Happy.' He shut the case and latched it, pivoting again on his heels to peer around. 'Okay, Millie. Wait here.'

As he began to walk away, Jayne said, 'How do I know you're coming back?'

Hugh turned, waved a lazy one-armed shrug at her, and kept walking. He's not coming back, she thought. Now that he's got the diamonds, he's going to drive off.

But Hugh came back. He carried an airline bag, the type with leather handles. When he was close enough, she reached out for the bag. He strode around her instead, put the bag on her car bonnet, and stepped away. The bag looked too small.

'That's it?' she said.

'Correct. Take a peek.'

Inside were bundles of notes stacked adjacent and on top of each other.

'This is the whole amount?' she said. 'Really?'

'Listen, you've got four thousand $100 notes in there. The notes are kept in straps of 100, so there's $10,000 to a strap, and 40 straps all up, which comes to four-hundred grand in total. Are we good?'

Jayne widened her eyes. 'I don't think I followed any of that.'

With an exaggerated hunch of both narrow shoulders, Hugh started to back away. 'Not my problem, Millie,' he said. 'Peace out.'

He scurried back to the four-wheel drive. She watched him peel the vehicle out of the car park, churning gravel. A surge of relief hit her knees. Quickly, she zipped the bag, tossed it into the foot well of the passenger seat, lobbed the thermos flask into the back, and jumped in. Her fingers shook as she turned the ignition key.

She had done it.

Her foot jittered against the accelerator as she drove from the park and along the main road. Soon, she felt calm enough to listen to the radio. A song was playing that she knew. She hummed along. Her foot wasn't jittering any more.

When she at last reached the truck stop, a run-off strip of dirt shielded from the road by trees, she pulled in and parked, leaving the engine running. Earlier, on the way to Lillydale Lake, she had stopped here to bury her handbag. Now, it took her less than a minute to dig it out from beneath a pile of leaf litter. Hugh hadn't asked for identification anyway. Nonetheless, it always paid to be cautious.

Back in the car, she opened the airline bag and picked up a sheaf of notes.

God damn: four-hundred thousand dollars.

She flipped the sheaf of notes with her thumb, inhaling the unmistakeable fragrance of money. Amazing. The thought of owning her own home, a place that no one could take, brought tears to her eyes. She would need a decent-sized yard. Birch trees, she imagined, a small vegetable plot, an ornamental weeping cherry. And flowering bulbs; lots of them. Sniffing back the tears, she began to laugh. Now she was rid of financial worry, free from the destitute life that Gordon had planned for her as his spiteful farewell gift.

Something tapped at her driver's side window.

Jayne looked around.

Crouched outside was Christopher Llewellyn. He gestured come out with one hand. With the other, he tapped again on her window using the muzzle of a gun.

Her mouth as dry as sand, Jayne switched off the engine, got out of the car and stood by the bonnet. Parked a little distance behind her own vehicle sat Llewellyn's: a white Ford Fairlane. The radio must have drowned out its approach. If she'd only glanced just once at her rear-view mirror instead of gawping at the money, she'd have seen him, perhaps with enough time to drive out of there.

Too late now.

The truck stop was hidden from the road by trees. No one driving past would see to help. And no one knew where she was. Llewellyn had the gun down by his side and held loosely in his hand, casually, as if he didn't particularly need it. This frightened Jayne more than if he'd been pointing the gun at her. He studied her face for a time. Then he lifted a corner of his mouth in a half-smile, wagged a finger.

'Jayne, right?' he said. 'Yeah: the cleaner from Trilliant Manor.'

She didn't reply.

'I almost couldn't recognise you in that stupid hat.' He scratched at his ear, studied the ground. 'Jayne, I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm sharper than most. Right now, though, I'm confused. I can't figure out what the bejesus you're even doing here in this situation.'

The sound of cars kept going back and forth on the road beyond the trees. If she made a run for it, would he shoot her? She glanced at his legs, at the muscles that stood out against the fabric of his track pants. Her heart quailed. Forget running. He wouldn't have to shoot her: he would be fit enough, fast enough, to chase her down and stop her within seconds.

'The last time I saw you,' he continued, 'I handed you a thousand bucks to keep your mouth shut about me and the old buzzard. And now somehow you're here. It doesn't make sense. What gives?'

'Nothing. I was out for a drive in the country.'

'Oh yeah? And on the way happened to trade a shitload of diamonds for a shitload of cash?' He laughed. 'Girl, we are way past that point. I saw you, okay? In the car park back there with that red-headed bastard, I saw you.'

'I didn't see you.'

'Exactly.'

'So where's your MG Roadster?'

'Home. You think I'm dumb enough take my own car to a surveillance job?'

Jayne swallowed. 'I thought you wanted to stay away from the rendezvous point. That's why you were paying Millie to do it.'

'Okay, look, this is what I don't get: the whole bloody thing. So let's cut to the chase.' Llewellyn rubbed his forehead. 'Where's Millie?'

'Millie's dead.'

He dropped his hand. For a moment, he looked drawn, staggered. 'Bullshit.'

'It's true.'

'No, it can't be.'

'The Overlords killed her last night to stop her from testifying against them.'

'Oh man, I kept calling her this morning. She didn't answer. I turned up to make sure everything went okay.' His face collapsed in grief, and just as rapidly, became withdrawn, cautious. 'How do you know all of this?'

Jayne pressed her unexpected advantage. 'Because I'm a detective working undercover. Let me go or you're in big trouble.'

She held his gaze, kept her chin up. No, he wasn't buying it. Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm and pinned her against the car. Crippling pain lanced through her shoulder joint.

'Stop,' she begged. 'Please stop.'

Unexpectedly, he let her go and stepped back. Now he had the gun levelled at her stomach. Her bowels turned to ice.

'Explain yourself,' he said. 'Last chance.'

And she believed him. 'The police thought I'd taken the diamonds,' she said. 'I lost my rental place, my job. The day you gave me the thousand dollars, I followed you and saw you with Millie. That's when I knew you were the thieves. I wanted compensation, so I convinced Millie that you meant to rip her off; that she ought to partner up with me. Then she got killed.' Tears stood in Jayne's eyes. 'That's the whole story, I swear it.'

Llewellyn stared at her. At last, he whispered, 'Is she really dead?'

Jayne nodded.

He frowned at the dirt and drew in a long breath.

'I'm sorry,' Jayne said. 'I tried to save her. She wouldn't leave the apartment.'

'You were there?'

'When she got the warning call; yes. She wanted to pack her shoes.'

Llewellyn shook his head. 'Millie and those bloody shoes.'

'I tried to get her out of there. I'm so sorry. Did you love her?'

'Near enough.'

He ran the back of his hand under his nose, turned as if inspecting the trees that lined the road, wiped at his eyes. Jayne braced. Should she run? The gun was by his side, pointed at the ground. Before she could decide, he looked back at her and let out a tired sigh.

'Where do we go from here?' Jayne said.

'Our separate ways.' He smiled without humour. 'Give me the money first.'

She took the airline bag from her car. But rather than hand it over, she clasped the bag to her chest and said, 'I want five per cent. Twenty thousand dollars, the same cut you were planning to give Millie.'

'No.'

'Yes. I did the exchange, I got you the money. I deserve payment.'

'Hah, dream on.'

He snatched the bag from her. Instead of opening it to inspect the cash, however, he put the bag down. In a kind of speculative way that made her blood freeze, he began looking at the thick scrub and bushes that lay behind her, as if trying to decide on the right spot. Her teeth started to chatter. She hugged herself tightly.

'All right,' she said. 'I don't get a cent.'

'No shit.'

'Let me drive away. You'll never hear from me again.'

'Oh, you bet I'll never hear from you again.' He gestured his gun at the bushes. 'Go over there. This is as good as anywhere else. Hurry up.'

'There's no reason to hurt me,' she whispered.

'Don't worry. It won't hurt.'

The sound of tyres crunching gravel made them both look around. A four-wheel drive was pulling into the truck stop.

'Aw, crap,' Llewellyn said. He put his back to the oncoming vehicle, slipped his hand with the gun inside the pocket of his tracksuit pants. 'Keep your mouth shut. Don't say one word.'

He must think the four-wheel drive belongs to a random citizen, Jayne thought. He mustn't recognise it from the exchange at Lillydale Lake.

The four-wheel drive stopped behind Llewellyn's car. The engine cut. The driver's door opened and Hugh got out. As he approached, he held a gun on them. At the sound of footsteps, Llewellyn finally glanced back, goggled, and paled.

Hugh said, 'How did you two losers ever think you could get away with it?'

'Get away with what?' Llewellyn said. 'You have the diamonds.'

Hugh smiled coldly. 'And you must be Christopher Llewellyn.'

'That's me.'

'I'm Hugh, the broker for this deal.'

'There's nothing about you that looks South American.'

Hugh grinned at Jayne, and said, 'Perhaps he wants a DNA test as well.'

She tried her best to laugh along with him but the sound that came out of her throat was choked, strained.

Llewellyn glanced suspiciously from one to the other. 'All right, Hugh the Broker, private jokes aside, put that gun away before somebody gets hurt.'

'Nobody gets hurt if you hand over the money.'

'You're going to rob me?' Llewellyn put a hand on his hip. 'I thought you bastards were supposed to be professionals.'

'The same could be said about you.'

'Mate, don't insult me. I'm as professional as all shit. What's your problem?'

Hugh's mouth compressed to a thin white line. 'The diamonds are fakes.'

'Fakes? Bullshit. Says who?'

'Says my appraiser. I had him stashed away at Lillydale Lake as insurance. Also as insurance, there's a GPS tracker in the money bag. From experience, I find it best not to trust anyone. Hand over the money.'

Llewellyn sneered, spat into the gravel. 'Nice try, dickhead. Those diamonds are the real deal. Either you're lying or your appraiser's lying.'

Nostrils flaring, Hugh bunched his narrow shoulders about his ears as if getting ready to spring. Then he angled the gun slightly so that it favoured Jayne. 'What do you know about this, Millie?' he said.

As she opened her mouth, Llewellyn cut in.

'That's not Millie,' he said. 'Millie's dead.'

'Dead?'

'Yeah, dead.'

'You should have told us. So who's this woman? Your ring-in?'

'No, it's Jayne something-or-other, the cleaner from Trilliant Manor. She's got zip to do with me. Look, I don't know how she got mixed up in this either.'

Hugh frowned. 'You've got a lot of answers I don't like.'

'So lump them, I couldn't give a rat's arse. If the diamonds are fakes, who knows, maybe she swapped them.'

'Did you, Jayne? Did you swap the diamonds?'

She looked at Hugh with as much appeal, sweetness and honesty as she could muster, and said, 'My name is Millie. Don't lie to the man, Christopher. It's time for you to stop double-dealing, please, for once in your life.'

Llewellyn gaped at her. 'What are you doing?'

Hugh put the gun back on him. 'To be honest, I couldn't give a toss either way. Hand over the money.'

'You're not robbing me.'

'It's not robbery if we reverse the transaction,' Hugh said. 'You return the money, I'll return the diamonds. Fair enough? They're in the car.'

Llewellyn's face darkened with blood. 'I don't want the diamonds.'

'Me neither.'

'So chuck them away. The money stays with me.'

Hugh made a small gesture with the gun. 'Sorry, I have to take the cash.'

'Oh yeah?' Llewellyn said. 'Look down.'

'What?'

'Look down for a second.'

Hugh did. Llewellyn had his own gun held low at the hip and pointing straight at the other man's crotch. Hugh gasped. So did Jayne. Involuntarily, she pressed her hands to her ears and held her breath.

Llewellyn said, 'Get in your car and piss off.'

'As soon as I have the money.'

The men were intent on each other, unblinking. They both backed up a few steps, widening the space between them.

'Put the gun down,' Hugh said at last.

'You first.'

'I'm warning you. I'll shoot.'

'You think I won't?'

Hugh bared his teeth. 'I've killed before.'

'Yeah, ditto.'

In a mirror image, the men slowly raised their guns and held them at arm's length towards each other, their sweaty faces reflecting the same grim determination.

'This is your final warning,' Hugh said.

'Ditto,' Llewellyn said.

Hugh's finger tightened on the trigger. 'I'm not fooling around.'

Llewellyn cocked the hammer. 'Ditto again.'

A truck wheezed along the road beyond the trees. A flock of crimson rosellas streaked overhead: squawking, chirruping, shrieking. Jayne squeezed her eyes shut. The twin gunshots, almost simultaneous, roared loud enough to stop her heart. The rosellas retreated into the distance. Finally, when the only noise was the swish of tyres from the occasional car, she opened her eyes.

Llewellyn and Hugh lay sprawled untidily on their backs, unmoving.

She edged closer.

They both had a flower of blood on the breast; both had eyes gazing sightlessly towards the sky. Who had shot first, she'd never know. Nausea took the strength from her knees. Stumbling back against her car, she worked hard to stop herself from retching, from hyperventilating. Minutes passed. At last, she realised that she had to get out of there before someone else pulled into the truck stop.

Panicking, she opened her car door. Then she thought of the airline bag full of money: four-hundred thousand in used bills. It sat on the ground by Llewellyn's body. She approached the bag obliquely, cautiously, as if Llewellyn might leap up and grab her. He didn't, of course. How could he? She picked up the bag and hurried to her car.

As soon as she had the bag on the driver's seat, she remembered the GPS tracker. It wasn't hard to find, nestled in a corner of the bag, about the size and shape of a cigarette lighter. She dropped it to the gravel and stamped on it, over and over, until it was reduced to shards of dark grey plastic and broken electronics. Then she gathered up the pieces with trembling fingers and shoved them into her pocket. She would dispose of the pieces later. Slinging the bag onto the passenger seat, she hopped in, started the engine, and drove out from the truck stop.

Traffic on the road was light. Her hands felt wet and clammy on the steering wheel and she swiped them along her jeans, one at a time. She decided to drive to Adelaide and leave the worrying for later, but the sight of every car in her rear-view mirror filled her with a cotton-mouthed dread. Each time, however, nothing happened.

Nothing continued to happen.

As the hours passed, she understood, finally, that no one was following her.

9.

Saturday night. The hotel lobby opened onto a chic bar decorated in red tones and mahogany, and beyond that, a staircase leading to a restaurant on the mezzanine floor. Jayne had asked for a restaurant table next to the balcony. As she sipped her glass of merlot, she watched the people downstairs chat, laugh and drink at the bar. Each time the double-doors to the street opened up, she thought it might be Ted and her heart flitted into her throat. Was she excited at the idea of seeing him again? Or scared?

Perhaps a little of both.

She patted her hair that was gathered into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, touched at a drop earring. Whenever Ted had seen her back in Melbourne, she'd been dressed casually. Tonight, she had on a silky wrap-dress in a rich dark raspberry and a pair of high strappy sandals; an outfit designed to make an impression. Men seated in the restaurant kept glancing over at her appreciatively. To hell with risking a broken heart, Ted was worth it. And he had feelings for her too, didn't he? Just the fact that he'd agreed to drive to Adelaide was certainly an encouraging sign.

Unless he'd come to arrest her.

Did insurance investigators have the power to make arrests? She didn't know. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things about Ted Shepherd that she didn't know. She took a mouthful of wine. Ringing him may have been a dumb move. She checked her watch: 9 p.m.

The lobby doors opened. This time it was Ted. Jayne's heart turned over.

Propping a couple of metres inside the lobby, he rested his weight on one leg while he looked around for her. She appreciated having a few covert seconds to simply admire him. He looked so handsome in his dark blue suit. When he looked up and spotted her, his face broke into a grin. She felt almost breathless. He crossed the lobby floor and took the stairs two at a time.

At the table, he touched her lightly on her back, leaned down to kiss her cheek.

'How was the drive?' she said.

He sat down opposite her. 'Eight hours long. Next time I'll fly.' Gesturing towards a waiter, he ordered a beer. His eyes were greener than she remembered. He gazed about the restaurant, gave a low whistle at the chandeliers, and said, 'Is this where you're staying?'

'No, I'm in a motel.'

'Nearby?'

She blushed. 'Near enough. I won't be staying there for long. A real estate agent has found a little place that'll be perfect for me. As soon as I'm settled, I'll be looking for a job in the recruitment industry. I don't want to clean another house as long as I live – unless it's mine.'

'That's great news. Are you looking to rent or buy?'

'Buy.'

He smiled. 'I thought you were broke.'

'Well, I came into some money. I won it, actually.'

'You're a gambler?'

'Under the right circumstances, yes.'

Nodding, he tapped on the tabletop, staring off as if mulling something over. Then he said, 'Speaking of money, the insurance company doesn't have to pay out on the Georgiou diamonds.'

'No? How come?'

'Because Valma Georgiou had them the whole time.'

'Seriously?' Jayne laughed. 'God, what a crafty sneak she turned out to be.'

Ted leaned on his elbows and sat forward, warming to the story. 'On the day of the theft, Valma Georgiou took the diamonds herself from the den, and gave a batch of copies to Llewellyn. He thought he'd charmed her, but in actual fact, she was setting him up to be the fall guy. She wanted to collect on the insurance money and receive her half of the South American money. Later, she planned to sell the real diamonds herself.' He sat back. 'All up, it would have been a tidy sum, too.'

'That's genius. But how did you find out?'

'Valma confessed once she knew Llewellyn was killed.'

Jayne looked away. The waiter came over with the beer. Ted took a long drink. She could feel Ted's eyes on her. Finally, she met his gaze. He was studying her closely. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

'Don't you want to know what happened to Llewellyn?' he said.

'Sure.'

'He and another criminal fatally shot each other. The diamonds were at the scene, but not the cash. Pam Thorpe figures the criminal was trying to steal the diamonds from Llewellyn rather than pay for them.'

The memory of the two dead men made Jayne feel ill. She pushed the image aside. Finally, she said, 'So that's it?'

'That's it.'

'The Georgiou case is closed?'

'And tied up with a bow. You must be relieved.'

'Of course.' She tried to smile. 'Being a suspect was an awful experience. I don't suppose I'll be getting an apology from Pam or Nigel any time soon.'

'Hah.' He made a dismissive gesture. 'Just be thankful you got away clean.'

She didn't know how to reply. Blood warmed her cheeks. A waiter gave them each a menu. Grateful for the distraction, Jayne nonetheless couldn't focus on the pages. Ted's hand closed over hers. Startled, she looked up.

'Don't be scared,' he said. 'There's no evidence you did anything wrong. It's over, Jayne. Things worked out in your favour for once.'

She moved her hand beneath his to entwine fingers.

He continued, 'Do you remember the first words you ever spoke to me? In that backyard when you were packing up your things from the granny flat?'

'No. What did I say?'

His grin broadened. 'You told me to piss off.'

She gasped, laughed. 'Really? I told you to piss off? In those exact words?'

'You thought I was a police officer.' After a moment, he added, 'And I thought you were beautiful.'

'Are you kidding? I looked a wreck that day.'

'Not to me.'

'So I could've worn a potato sack tonight and got the same effect?'

His hand tightened around hers. 'I'll show you later how good you look.'

The waiter came by, asked if they were ready to order. Ted brushed him away.

Jayne said, 'Listen, before this goes any further... If I'm living in Adelaide and you're in Melbourne, this is never going to work.'

'It'll work if we want it bad enough.'

'How? By driving eight hours every Saturday?'

'Not necessarily. There's a company office right in the heart of Adelaide city.'

She stared at him. 'Do you mean that?'

He shrugged, offered a shy smile. An overwhelming sensation of relief, of gratitude, flooded through Jayne's body. A week ago, she'd had nothing and nobody.

'Come here,' she said, standing up from her chair.

Ted stood up too. People were watching, but Jayne didn't care and clearly neither did Ted. Putting their arms around each other, they kissed, and kept on kissing, until the waiter had to ask them to stop.

'300 Degree Days and other stories' [cover]

Sometimes, the ties that bind are sharp enough to cut. In these eleven stories, set in contemporary Australian suburbia, Deborah Sheldon examines the darker side of family relationships. Unsettling and incisively written, each story of betrayal, envy, loss or bad blood resonates for a long time after reading.

Originally published by the award-winning Ginninderra Press, '300 Degree Days and other stories' is literary fiction at its most accessible.

Praise for Deborah Sheldon:

'Sheldon has the ability to make you sit up with her insight... I enjoyed 300 Degree Days for its authentic portrayal of how people behave and respond to challenges in their relationships. It's not always pretty, but it's real, and that made it a winner for me.'

\- Whispering Gums / Australian Women's Writers Challenge

'...a wonderful collection.'

\- Sandra James, editor 'Positive Words'

'...insightful: with the kind of imagery that stays with the reader long after putting the book down.'

\- Tiggy Johnson, founding editor of 'Page Seventeen' magazine

Get your free copy of '300 Degree Days and other stories' when you sign up to the author's Newsletter Mailing List.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Sheldon lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her fiction credits include short stories, crime-noir novellas and short story collections, with a couple of novels due for publication over the next few years. Other writing credits include various TV shows, stage plays, feature articles, award-winning medical writing, and non-fiction books for Reed Books and Random House.

Visit her at: http://deborahsheldon.wordpress.com

