Her hand moved over the table top and rested on his.
The touch sparked a resurgence of excitement, causing him to feel exposed and embarrassed. Cheeks glowed hot, and ears began to burn. "Er - yes, I'm good, really I am. I didn't mean to be rude. I was listening. I was trying to find an argument stronger than yours, but you seem to have covered all the obvious moves." In particular the one with your hand, he thought.
Withdrawing his own from beneath hers, he dipped into a pocket for a handkerchief to mop at the droplets of rain on his brow. It was a poor excuse for breaking contact, but uncertainty precluded the invention of anything better. Then something leapt to mind and the hand dived inside his jacket and came out with a wallet.
Removing a business card, he turned it over, slid a pen from his top pocket and began scribbling. He heard Estelle ask him what he was doing. Instead of replying, he simply raised a hand begging continued patience, then wrote faster. Once finished, he glanced over the card briefly before passing it to her. "Those are numbers where I can be contacted in Kalbarri. The first one is the caravan park where we're staying, and this -," the ball-point indicated the second number, "Is the Ranger's residence. He'll know where we are on any given day - I always notify him when I take a party into the gorges, just in case."
Sitting back, he leaned heavily into the chair, methodically replacing his wallet and pen to their respective pockets. It was a way of returning to business as usual, disappointing in many respects, but all he could handle at the moment. "I'm setting off early tomorrow morning, but I'll ring you first and again as soon as I arrive at Kalbarri. After that, you won't hear from me until Saturday night. All being well, Michael Ventura alias George Truscott should be out of your life by then. I'll be expecting you to tell me what time you're leaving Sunday morning."
"Leaving?" She sounded bewildered. "Where am I going?"
"To join us in Kalbarri," he stated positively. "You said you would and I'm holding you to that." He sat forward again. "If I get no reply, or Michael answers, or you sound the slightest bit anxious, then I'll be straight in the car and heading South before you even get a chance to hang up."
"That's silly. I'll be okay__"
"I'm sorry, Estelle, but I want your word on this. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, phone me - day or night, it doesn't matter. I need to know that you're alright. Will you do that for me?"
"Well...." Her head rocked from side to side as if calculating the odds. Not that she needed to. Finally she said: "If it means that much to you."
"It does." You do.
She nodded. "If anything happens, I'll call." She waved the business card at him.
"And I'll ring you as arranged."
"I'll be expecting you." I'll be sitting right by the phone.
~o~o~o~o~
She let herself in through the side door from the garage as usual and went straight to the kitchen. Although she had been unable to eat a thing all day, there was nothing appealing in the fridge, so she carried on into the lounge and switched on the television. A minute later she got straight up and switched it off.
She wandered, stopping occasionally, abruptly, to dart the odd glance, or listen attentively. What was to see, to hear – nothing, surely? So, why the jumping nerves? This ought to have been a time to savour – no Michael, home alone, nothing to fear. Or was there?
The coffee table looked unusually large, bare. Why was that? Memory clicked in - there was no mail cluttering the glass top because she had omitted to clear the box. It had completely slipped her mind.
She walked directly to the front door without thinking, not realising until her hand was on the knob and turning it that she would have to go back and find the key in order to undo the dead-lock. Letting the knob spring back, she was about to turn away when her eyes happened to stray to the gap between the door and the frame, that part where both locking bolts could be seen silver and glinting in the light. There were two bolts - one for the ordinary door latch, and one above which was the dead-lock.
Only one was visible. The top bolt had been unlocked!
Her pulse was suddenly racing and breath was coming in short, sharp pants. She was positive she'd locked it before going out. It was habit born of dire necessity because Michael had a phobia about burglars, and to ignore any ‘royal’ command was a punishable offence. A hasty re-cap of the morning’s events brought back Estelle’s anxiety over the woman's voice on Jason's phone. That must have been it – reason enough for forgetting to lock up properly.
Temporarily convinced of it, she opened the door and started out onto the porch. The rain had eased and was now little more than a light shower. She jogged down the path to the mailbox, took out the small bundle of envelopes and advertising circulars, then trotted back.
In the process of closing the door, she managed to drop the mail. Sinking to one knee, she began to gather it up, then froze. Rising just enough, she was able to see a large wet patch on her jeans. A hand went to the area of carpet beneath. It was sodden. Surely not her doing? A hand went to the sole of a shoe – barely moist. A glance up at the ceiling detected no evidence of a leak from the roof. How, then?
There seemed only one explanation: someone had come in earlier when it was raining hard. Estelle hadn’t forgotten to lock the door. Someone had unlocked it after she’d left! Muscles were tightening, hands trembling. Who? Who had been in the house? Who might still be inside?
Unlikely though it was, there seemed to be only one possible answer and she spoke the name as a hoarse, bewildered gasp:
"MICHAEL?!!"
CHAPTER TWO
When a woman is at home alone and suspects an intruder is on the premises, there are a number of options open to her: she can beat a hasty retreat to seek help from a neighbour; she can call the Police, always assuming there is a telephone handy; she can pick up the closest weapon and parade around the house shouting, "I know you're there and if you don't leave right now, you'll be sorry!" - or she can freeze.
Immediate problem solved, Estelle froze. Calling the Police only remained an option because it was a conditioned reflex and was instantly dismissed as inadvisable, perhaps dangerous. An investigation at this time could draw attention to Michael, maybe hinder his getaway. If, however, the intruder was Michael, it required little imagination to guess how he would react after the Police had apologised to him and left. He would be less than understanding.
But it couldn't be Michael, could it? He was in Bangkok and not due to return until Friday evening. Why would he change his plans and not say anything?
On second thoughts, he might do just that. Michael, it seemed, was going out on his own, leaving his wife, his country, skipping out on his business partner, maybe even the syndicate he worked for or with, assuming that such an organisation did exist which was more than a possibility. Knowing Michael, he was probably hopping off with a good slice of their loot. If all of this, or even a part of it, was true, he wouldn't be able to trust anyone but himself. No wonder the need for a false identity!
Estelle knew she was only guessing, but these things had to be considered. She wanted him out of her life, quickly, painlessly. Any action of hers which jeopardised that ambition was tantamount to suicide. So, no Police. No outsiders.
Neither did she see herself as the local Neighbourhood Watch Champion - aerobics with Jane Fonda might
