Truscott when he was good and ready. This extremely flimsy hope was based on the premise that many of her former assumptions had been wrong. And it was foreseeably too convenient with more holes than last month's pantyhose.
As if reading her thoughts, he asked whether anyone had called. She gave him a brief run-down of messages people had left, purposely omitting the last call taken. His next question was laced with accusation. "So, Keith didn't get in touch, not once?"
Estelle’s heart skipped a beat. He would find out anyway, so she had to tell him about Dunbar’s call without making it seem that she’d tried to keep it from him. “Yes, sorry. I forgot. He caught me as I was leaving.”
Anger became tangible and built as he took in the details of the brief telephone conversation. He appeared stunned. Estelle hadn’t been looking at him, hadn’t dared, but the prolonged silence was so unexpected that she had to check to see if Michael hadn't, perhaps, passed out - it was too much to ask that he'd had a heart attack and died! He was, unfortunately, very much alive and staring through the windshield with his mouth open. Then his head snapped around and he was glaring at her, eyes wide and glistening. "Nothing else? That was all he asked?"
"He didn't say any more, just hung up."
Michael went quiet again, then hissed: "Bastard!"
My sentiments entirely, thought Estelle, but she was fairly certain that their mutual dislike of Michael's business partner was for very different reasons. Silence filled the car once more, as oppressive as the one between warbles while waiting for the imaginary bomb to explode in the phone. Finally, he broke it with an order. "Pull in there!"
There was no need to ask: "Where?" His arm came across to indicate a tavern on the right. She braked hard and signalled, then had to wait in the centre of the road until the traffic cleared, a delay which Michael blamed entirely on her lack of road sense. Finally, she was able to drive into the car park.
Michael had the door open before they were stationary. He unclipped his seat belt and leered at her. "I only need to go to the dunny, so don't go giving me that puritanical, temperance look!" Climbing out, he added: "I'll be five minutes. Keep the car running!"
The slam of the car door still ringing in her ears, she watched him stagger across the bitumen and in through the door of the public bar. It seemed to confirm that he merely needed to use the toilet – under any other circumstances, Michael wouldn't dream of rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi. She pulled into a marked bay and waited.
He was out in ten minutes, not five, but Estelle had no intention of arguing the point. As he approached, he looked strange and she couldn't think why, then she noticed his waistcoat. There was a bulge of material on the right-hand panel, as if he had missed a button-hole when doing it up. As he came closer, the initial observation proved to be correct. This was puzzling because his dress was relatively neat when he'd arrived at the airport. If he just wanted to go to the loo, why the need to undo his waistcoat? It didn't make sense. So, what was new?
They drove out of the pub car park. Michael said: "Move it!" So she did. Deciding it was time for a cigarette, he fumbled the pack out of his pocket, but managed to drop it on the floor. Only too used to his short fuse, Estelle offered to pull over and pick them up for him. "I can manage!" he snapped, far more aggressively than might have been expected, even for an obnoxious drunk. "You're here to drive, so bloody do it! And keep your flaming eyes on the road! You nearly killed us back there!"
Did not, she thought, but remained silent, keeping a furtive eye on him as she drove. Seemingly far less capable than he had claimed, he rummaged around on the floor for a considerable time, then rose, wheezing and breathless. Instead of lighting a cigarette, he returned the pack to his pocket, then leaned his head against the window and went to sleep. Funny, she thought. Don't knock it, Estelle: asleep is better than abusive.
He was still snoring when they arrived home. Estelle had to nudge him and he awoke with a start. No sooner had he gathered those few senses remaining to him, than he was out of the car and heading for the side door of the house, searching his jacket for keys as he went. He was in so much of a rush that he not only forgot to take his suitcase, but also his duty-free bag. For Michael, to forsake what in the past had been almost a ritual, was tantamount to sacrilege. Drunk, or very drunk, he never forgot his duty-free's, never! “Bugger!” Now he’d dropped his keys.
With Michael becoming more irritated by the second, Estelle’s continuing safety was fragile. The soft light from the street was welcoming. Should she embrace it now while he was grovelling on the floor, run before all hell broke loose? But that would only alert him to something very wrong that he didn’t know about yet. And how far could she get on foot? The decision would have to be made quickly - the roller door would close by itself in less than a minute. Another warning bell rang in Estelle's head. If she didn’t go now, she would need to soon enough. The door had to remain open to preserve any chance of escape. And it would come to that, no doubt of it. Judging by his reaction to Keith Dunbar’s phone call, he still expected his case and passport to be there. And when he found they weren’t...?
“Put the light on damn it!” he snarled. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”
The sudden bark made her jump. Her hand dived for the light switch, flicked it, but nothing happened. She’d forgotten about the dead bulb, something else he’d blame her for. But it did give her an idea. Fingers skipped to the door power switch, flicked it off. Then they were back to the one that operated the light – on, off, on, off... ”It doesn’t seem to work,” she started, then was adding: “Maybe it’s the fuse.”
Michael had somehow managed to retrieve the keys and had worked one into the lock. Ignoring his wife’s words, he jerked the door open and lumbered into the house. “I’ll bring your things, shalI I?” she called after him. No reply. A quick glance at the open roller door seemed to impart a sense of pending freedom, confirmation that her decision to disable it was wise. At least one part of her plan was in place. Much of the rest hadn’t been formulated yet. It all depended on Michael.
She was going for his suitcase and the duty-free's when he bellowed. “Estelle! Bloody get in here!”
The voice was easily loud enough to hear, but there was little doubt that it was from deep within the house. Her hands were outstretched in the direction of the car and had frozen in mid-air as if casting a spell. “ESTELLE!!!” Obviously it wasn’t working. Forget the case and booze - just look after yourself! The street looked even more appealing now. Not yet. Then she was darting into the house.
It was all perfectly scripted, this film noir, too predictably sinister. Where else was there to go but the bedroom? She arrived on cue, breathless, heart pounding and hovered nervously in the doorway. The heavy silence waited for effect. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice which was unexpectedly quiet, knowing. "Where is it, Estelle?” He was beside the walk-in robe, fists clenched at his sides, rage fettered but seething. “Where the bloody hell’s my case?"
Lips flapped and eyes blinked rapidly as she played for time. "Oh, sorry, Michael. It's still in the car.” Worth a try, maybe, if it gave her the second or two she needed. I'll go and fetch it for you." She had psyched herself up to make a dash for it, but he beckoned her with a finger, a demeaning gesture warning of dire consequences if it was ignored. Despite being the worst thing she could do, she felt herself moving into the room towards him.
He was leering, self-satisfied with his power over her. "Quit screwing around with me, Estelle. You know the one I'm talking about. It was in back of the wardrobe next to yours. Now they're both gone. What d'you think you're playing at?"
"I... I d-don't know what you..."
His
