car?"
"No way," Estelle retorted with certainty. "Lord and Mighty Emilio Michael Ventura wouldn't dream of putting his custom-made, genuine Italian leather suitcase in the boot - might scratch the rolled-gold monogram!"
"Did you say Emilio?"
"Michael's first name. He doesn't particularly like it - says it sounds too ethnic - so he only uses it when officialdom dictates."
Jason snorted derisively. "Except when he goes under the name of George Truscott."
"Yes," said Estelle quietly as the thought brought her back down to earth, "Except then."
There was a voice in the background, female, then the phone went quiet as the mouthpiece was muffled. In a second or two, he was back. "Sorry, Estelle - visitors. Fran says it's someone wanting to join the field trip."
"Fran?" Estelle's jealousy stirred unpleasantly.
"My Sister."
"Oh, yes, of course." Kicking herself inwardly, she relaxed again.
"I'm sorry, Estelle," he repeated apologetically, "But I'll have to go. You're sure you'll be alright?"
"I'm going straight off to pack," she assured him, "Then I'll put the case in the boot of the car, and after that I'll probably go to bed." Alone, she thought dismally. Still, at least it wouldn't be with Michael.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then." The disappointment was plainly obvious.
"Look forward to it. 'Bye, Jason." She waited for his farewell and for the line to click before adding softly: "Darling." Then she hung up.
One last circuit confirmed that there was not a hair out of place which, in turn, suggested that defences had not been breached, not since she'd locked up, anyway. This was cold comfort since the mystery intruder had a key, maybe even a set of them, and could come and go as he pleased.
It could be a she, Estelle reminded herself. It seemed unlikely, probably because she was still convinced that Michael had, for some reason, returned home early from Bangkok. But until this could be confirmed absolutely, and to preserve a sense of fairness which the bastard in no way deserved, she decided to think of him, or her, as the spectre.
If it existed at all, it had been very careful. Nothing in the place, with the exception of the front door lock, had been disturbed. Not that could be seen, anyway, and this posed another problem - what had it been doing there? The burning question was finally answered in the bedroom.
She went there to pack. Her case was in the back of the walk-in robe where it usually was - where it had been since their honeymoon two years previously, because that was the last time she'd been further than Serpentine Falls where Michael had taken her on their first wedding anniversary in a moment of weakness. The valise was tan, Italian leather like his, but had no monogram, presumably for the same reason that it was smaller - a spouse ought not to be encouraged to have ideas above her station. There was just a chance that he might have been considerate of the weight-factor, but it was unlikely. Not that it mattered at that point in time because it was empty.
Having taken it out, the back of the wardrobe looked conspicuously bare. It took a moment or two of puzzled gazing to realise why. Then she remembered Michael's second case. He'd bought it six months previously and his explanation that he wanted it so that he could save having to use his good one all the time seemed logical. Since that day, however, it had sat alongside hers, unused. Now it had gone!
I'm sure it was there the other day, she thought, I know it was because it fell over against my leg while I was trying to get my dress disentangled from the hanger. When was that exactly - last week before Michael left? No, Estelle, she warned and the spectre was suddenly a very real threat once more. It was YESTERDAY. It fell on you yesterday, AFTER Michael had gone. His spare, plastic, K-Mart case which he DIDN'T TAKE WITH HIM when he left for Bangkok was here this morning, but now it's GONE!
There was something else. Pushing it upright, it had felt heavy as if full of clothes. At the time, the discovery hadn't been regarded as significant and she'd been in too much of a rush to worry about it, but now it all seemed to tie in with Michael's plan to become George Truscott and effect a moonlight flit. George wouldn't want to draw attention to himself, certainly not carrying expensive leather luggage bearing the initials E.M.V. He'd use a cheap plastic case, just like the one that was no longer in the back of Estelle's robe!
She stumbled out, pulling her empty case with her. It was looking more and more like Jason was right - staying in the house alone wasn’t a good idea. But there was little choice. She had to turn a blind eye to whatever was going on, the way she had always conveniently passed off all of Michael's strange goings-on. She couldn't afford to concern herself with any of this. It was his game. She was just a pawn and, with this in mind, resolved to stay very quiet, particularly docile, doing everything expected of her and nothing more for the next two days.
Except for packing. That she would do, if for no other reason than to please Jason. About to put the suitcase on the bed, the spectre reared its invisible head again. The bed cover had been disturbed! There were wrinkles around a slight depression where someone might have sat, or maybe placed a heavy object - like a cheap plastic, K-Mart suitcase!
She shivered and turned slowly, inspecting the order of things in the room, trying to ascertain whether anything else had been moved or displaced. A triangle of white linen hanging from a closed drawer caught her eye. The drawer was the bottom one of the small chest on Michael's side of the bed. Stepping up to it, she knelt and pulled out the drawer.
The material was the corner of a handkerchief. That same morning it had been laid neatly on top of the other items - she'd made sure of it herself because she didn't want Michael to know she had been nosing around in his belongings. Because under the neatly-folded handkerchiefs and vests, right in the bottom beneath the paper liner was the passport in the name of George William Truscott.
Holding up the pile of material with one hand, she slid the other down the inside of the drawer, hooked up the paper with her nails, and felt beneath. Despite knowing what to expect, she still caught her breath. The passport was no longer there!
Estelle sank back on her heels. Her heart was pounding once more and beads of moisture were forming on her brow. Her glazed stare saw nothing material, just the spectre growing clearer, taking on the shape of a man she knew only too well. It had to be Michael! It simply had to be. Who else would have come for George Truscott's suitcase and passport? Apart from Estelle, Jason and the department of immigration, Michael was the only one likely to know such a person even existed!
The packing didn’t take long. It was certainly not attended to with her usual care, but then, she was hardly herself at the time. She was a stubborn, independent woman who should have listened to the only man she loved, and ought to be, at that very moment, sitting in his lounge on the sofa with his Sister, talking about the forthcoming trip. Well, that was a stupid mistake which was being rectified. Then, she would be leaving!
Once out of the bedroom and lugging her suitcase, Estelle was into damage control. Lights were left burning, doors ajar. There was no last-minute check of personal appearance. Not intending to be seen, not wishing to be, it was irrelevant. Even the precautionary hair guarding the side exit to the garage was ignored when the door was unlocked. Haste was everything. Oversights could be rued later.
The light was still on in the garage, probably from when she came home. A bit extra on Michael’s power bill – good! By the time she had unlocked the boot, tossed in the case and closed it again, she was breathless and her head was swimming. Now she paused
