The Recipient

  Lesia lowered her head and wept softly. Casey was too moved to speak, to notice anything other than the frail woman sitting before her, recounting her grief. She failed to notice Raelene, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, shaking Casey out of her reverential quiet.

  Raelene held her arms out and placed them around Lesia’s shoulders while fixing Casey with a malevolent glower.

  “Come on, Lesia, you need to rest, my love. There’ll be no more talk of this for you today.”

  “It’s all right. It’s all right,” Lesia protested, as she struggled to her feet and submitted to Raelene’s gentle corralling out of the room.

  Casey stood, took a moment before she placed the photo frame back on the desk, then followed after them.

  No sooner had she closed the door and made sure it was secure behind her, she turned to find herself confronted by Raelene, who stood, her arms folded mere inches from her face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, keeping her voice low.

  Casey blinked and opened her mouth to respond, but Raelene whipped her hand up to silence her.

  “I don’t know who you are, but I’ve never heard of any student doing a kind of research that involves pumping a poor, defenceless woman for information about her granddaughter’s death. Where are you from, really? The media? The police?”

  Casey steeled herself against the woman’s interrogation.

  “Neither,” she said, clutching her folder to her chest.

  “Well, have you got any identification then?”

  “Not with me, but you can check with the university. They’ll confirm my credentials.”

  Raelene stared at Casey, considering her bluff.

  “I think you had better leave,” she said in a low and threatening voice. “I might just make that call.”

  Standing aside to allow Casey to pass, Raelene then followed closely as she walked through the house toward the front door. As she approached it, Casey hesitated and looked through an open door into Lesia’s bedroom. She saw the old lady sitting on the edge of her bed, staring back at her. Their eyes met one last time as Raelene brusquely ushered her out of the house. What Casey saw in Lesia’s grief-stricken face chilled her.

  She opened the door and stepped out onto the garden path, not looking back as the door was shut loudly behind her. Instead, she kept her eyes forward, realising that Scott’s van was nowhere to be seen.

  “Shit!” she cursed, her breath quickening. She scanned the street, unable to find the van anywhere nearby.

  Suddenly, she heard two quick bursts from a vehicle’s horn and Casey whipped her head to her right to see the van turn into the street from the intersection. Kicking off her shoes and grabbing them up with a free hand, she ran toward it as Scott leaned across from inside and opened the passenger door for her.

  “Jesus, Sasquatch, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” she snapped breathlessly as she climbed in and fastened her seatbelt.

  “I thought it would be a good idea if I didn’t draw attention by waiting out front,” he replied defensively. “I had a feeling. You know?”

  Casey flashed him a sideways glower, which was quickly replaced by relief and she rubbed her brow. Scott pulled away from the kerb and motored away from the cottage.

  “You were right. There was a nurse and I don’t think she bought my act for a second.”

  Scott winced. “Are we screwed?”

  “She threatened to make a call, but I don’t think she was serious. In any case, it doesn’t matter too much for now. I think I’ve got something to go on.”

  Reaching into her bag, Casey lifted out her smartphone and thumbed to the gallery. Tapping a thumbnail, she brought up the full image. It was a snap of the photograph in Saskia’s bedroom. Thankfully, it was a clear shot. Holding the phone up, Scott glanced across at the photo and frowned.

  Casey’s eye was drawn, not to the face of Saskia, but to the face of the girl beside her.

  “Shelley,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER 20.

  Waving to Scott as the van pulled away, Casey dashed up the oil-stained path to the warehouse. She could feel anxiety creeping in the minute she stepped out into broad daylight, but she made it to the comforting shelter of the garage before it could overwhelm her.

  Sidestepping around the Volkswagen, she paused to catch her breath beside the stairs. She reached out for the rail and was about to climb them when she heard a male voice grunting and cursing through an open doorway that led from the garage to the rear of the warehouse. Cocking her head with both curiosity and concern, Casey regarded the doorway and gulped.

  She’d had enough of being outdoors for one day.

  Nonetheless, she peered around the paint-chipped door frame and spied Lionel standing before a pile of timber that was leaning up against the warehouse wall in the far corner of the paved courtyard. Across from him, a dump bin had been positioned outside a large gate.

  Casey blinked and noted that the bin was half-filled already. She turned back to appraise her grandfather. He was sporting grubby overalls, a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of canvas gardening gloves. A wheelbarrow sat beside him, partly filled with refuse.

  Lionel stepped back from the discarded timber pallets and other refuse and wiped his dripping brow. His expression hinted at exhaustion but his demeanour remained determined.

  “Dare I ask?” she ventured, studying him.

  Lionel shook his head. “You can ask,” he responded. He promptly turned his attention back to the timbers.

  Casey smirked, watching as he made a second attempt at hefting a pallet. This time, he succeeded in wheeling it around and dropped it noisily onto the barrow. He staggered back but quickly recovered and smiled with satisfaction.

  He winked at Casey.

  “You don’t have to do this, Pa,” she said.

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Think of it as a belated housewarming gift. You know, you could do quite a lot with this area. A courtyard garden, an outdoor retreat, entertaining space—just like on those nauseating renovation shows.”

  Casey pursed her lips and blew a raspberry at that.

  “Outdoor entertaining? Christ, could you honestly imagine me as the perky hostess? I don’t think so.”

  Lionel chuckled and rested his hands on his hips. He inspected his handiwork.

  Casey had attempted to make something of this area in the past. A rusted barbeque stood in the far corner. She had bought it not long after purchasing the warehouse but had never used it. A similarly rusted and paint-chipped outdoor dining set—three cast iron chairs and a circular table—sat forlornly nearby.

  Aside from the accumulated refuse, the rest of the courtyard area was populated with large stone pots boasting the remnants of Casey’s failed attempts at growing trees and shrubs, an effort to bring some greenery to the otherwise austere industrial building and its grounds. In the time that she had been away, Lionel had achieved much in removing the worst of the rubbish she had been promising herself she would deal with for as long as she had been here.

  Picking up a nearby towel, Lionel took off his gloves and wiped his hands and brow.

  “So,” he said. “How did you fare?”

  Casey leaned against the door frame. She sighed, then tilted her head.

  “Blah,” she began, exasperated. “The whole student ruse started out okay but…”

  Her voice drifted away to nothing as she remembered the morning’s encounter.

  “But?” Lionel pressed.

  “Well,” she continued. “Lesia Andrutsiv was more with it than I expected. She bought my act; was quite talkative actually. But, she had a personal nurse who saw right through me. She threatened to look into my credentials.”

  Lionel raised his brow. The disapproval was unmistakable. Casey looked up at him forlornly.

  “So we can probably expect some blow-back from Whittaker.”

  Casey stood straighter and shifted nervously on the spot.

&n
bsp; Lionel’s features softened a little and he offered a smile. “Let’s not worry just yet. Why don’t we go upstairs,” he said, tapping the wheelbarrow. “I could use a drink.”

  Slinging the towel over one shoulder, he headed for the doorway.

  In the apartment, Lionel took the whistling kettle from the gas flame and turned to fill the cups he had set up on the counter. Immediately, the scent of tea wafted up on the tendrils of steam and into Casey’s nostrils, relaxing her, if just for the moment.

  “Do you think you can handle him?” she asked as Lionel slid a cup to her. “I mean, what exactly did you and Whittaker cook up?”

  “He agreed to give us some breathing room…on the proviso that we don’t do anything stupid,” Lionel answered, setting the kettle back down on the stove. “I suspect that he has his own doubts about what happened to Saskia Andrutsiv. He’ll consider anything we turn up so long as it is fresh. He didn’t specify how much rope he would allow us but I wouldn’t want to push it. I’ll speak to him if it becomes necessary.”

  Casey sipped from her cup.

  “I’m more interested in hearing what this Mrs. Andrutsiv had to say,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you learn anything of value?”

  Casey shrugged. “Not much. A little about Saskia’s background. She was here in Australia on a student visa, was studying art history and linguistics at Melbourne University. She had dreams of furthering her studies abroad.”

  She paused and closed her eyes, revelling in the warmth and comfort of the tea.

  “She filled me in on some of the detail about the weekend she went away to the Pleasant Festival. She had a friend at uni who drove them both down to Queenscliff.”

  Lionel paused as he was about to close his lips around the edge of his cup.

  “A friend?”

  Casey reached into her bag, shuffling through it until she found her phone and the photo she’d taken from Lesia Andrutsiv’s house. She handed it to Lionel.

  “A good friend actually,” Casey pointed over the top of the smartphone screen as Lionel took it and slid his glasses into place. “Her name’s Shelley.”

  “Shelley?” Lionel echoed questioningly. “Shelley Agutter?”

  Casey raised her head. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “She was mentioned in the case file,” Lionel answered. “The police questioned her following the accident.”

  “What did she say?”

  Lionel shrugged. “Not a great deal as it turns out. Understandably, she was in shock. According to the transcript of the interview, Shelley Agutter told the police that they’d travelled down to the festival and met up with a group of friends. They’d pitched tents at a camping ground, just a short walk to the festival itself. It seems they spent a lot of time drinking and partaking in a healthy amount of drugs.”

  Lionel retrieved a leather-bound notebook from the sofa.

  “Shelley vaguely remembers that the group were together at the festival on the Saturday night,” he continued, thumbing through the pages. “Saskia had decided to leave early and walk back to the campsite. Neither Shelley or the others had any idea how Saskia came to be on Lasterby Road. They were in the party mood, as it were.”

  Casey tilted her head from side to side, recalling the conversation with Lesia Andrutsiv. “Shelley blamed herself for what happened. She promised Lesia that she would look out for Saskia. Lesia said they were like sisters. Inseparable.”

  “Seems odd then, that if they were supposed to be inseparable, Saskia would choose to leave the group and walk back to their campsite alone?” Lionel mused, his eyes drifting.

  “Especially since she was terrified of being outdoors, in open spaces,” Casey added. “She didn’t feel comfortable on her own.”

  Lionel regarded Casey with surprise. “Agoraphobia?”

  Casey nodded.

  “Did Mrs. Andrutsiv say anything else? Was there anything going on in Saskia’s life at the time of the accident?”

  Again Casey shrugged.

  “Only that Lesia was battling cancer. She was undergoing chemotherapy. Saskia did pretty much everything for her grandmother and she still managed to keep up with her studies. She was a loner. She didn’t go out much or mix with anyone outside of her small group of friends.”

  Lionel looked up. An awkward smile creased his lips but Casey diverted her eyes away, feeling embarrassed. She lifted a finger, remembering something else.

  “Lesia did mention something about Saskia’s papers. Some sort of trouble with her papers.”

  Lionel glanced up from the photograph. “Her papers?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Andrutsiv seemed vague about it but I guessed it might have had something to do with her student visa. She wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, elaborate much on it but she did say that Saskia had to sort it out on her own.”

  “Hmmm,” Lionel ventured, his mind working. “There was no mention of that in the case file.”

  “If it were something to do with her student visa, there would have to be something on file somewhere, right?”

  “Perhaps,” Lionel replied, making a note in his book on a blank page. “It would be good to talk to this Shelley Agutter. Get a feel for who she is and whether she might be willing to talk more about what happened that night.”

  “That might be a little difficult,” Casey said, her expression faltering. “I pulled her details on the drive back from Mrs. Andrutsiv’s home. She’s not living in Melbourne anymore.”

  Picking up her smartphone, Casey navigated to the information she’d gathered.

  “She’s living up in Ballarat. Apparently, she deferred her studies after Saskia’s death and left the city. She’s pouring coffee at a cafe there and studying part-time at a private college.”

  Casey held up the smartphone. “I’ve got her class and shift schedule for the next two weeks.”

  Lionel’s eyes twinkled. “Well, we can work with that. Ballarat isn’t more than an hour’s drive from here.”

  Casey shivered. “Pa…there’s at least a hundred kilometres of open freeway between Melbourne and Ballarat. I haven’t driven that sort of distance in years. You saw what I was like in Scott’s van.”

  Lionel’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to do it alone. I can still, quite capably, drive a car.”

  Casey regarded her grandfather thoughtfully. She turned and lifted her smartphone and called up some notes she’d made on the drive back from Lesia Andrutsiv’s house.

  “It would be good to see if I can talk to her.”

  Casey considered Lionel for a long moment. She nodded hesitantly. “You’re happy to do this? You don’t think this is crazy?”

  “A drive in the countryside would do us both good, don’t you think? I think it would be rather fun.”

  A wry smile turned Casey’s lips. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Lionel pointed out through the industrial door.

  “I’ll be downstairs. You can come help if you’d like.”

  Casey wrinkled her nose and brushed him away.

  “No, no. I’m gonna put the machine on and have a run. Then I’m gonna have a shower. A long one.”

  ___

  After a two hour session on the treadmill, Casey emerged from the shower, enclosed herself in a thick robe and twirled a towel around her head. As she slid the bathroom door aside, she listened for her grandfather, ensuring that he wouldn’t suddenly appear while she was changing. Thankfully, the apartment was empty.

  Changing into a pair of briefs and throwing on a light cotton T-shirt, Casey tossed the robe back through the bathroom door where it landed perfectly on its hook. She gave a cursory glance at the collage of car images.

  Tiredness taunted, beckoning her towards slumber, but it clashed with her fear of sleep and the dream world that lay there. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she pushed her weariness away and tried to focus.

  She turned and paused. A dark cloud coalesced in her mind: a nagging memory from within the nightmare that she could not cl
arify.

  She had washed away the frustration from earlier in the day and she was in no mood to revisit it now. Looking again at the wall, she snarled at the magazine images.

  Saskia’s face flickered before her eyes and she felt herself lurch sideways. With a sharp intake of breath, she quickly felt for the bed and sat down. Emotional echoes raced from within as the nightmare flashed across her conscious field of view. She couldn’t stop it.

  Casey saw Saskia’s face and she blinked, trying to understand its presence.

  Terror…Desperation…Pleading…

  What was it? Was she trying to say something?

  The memory reached its zenith, then it tumbled away from her.

  The moment had passed.

  Casey gripped the towel turban in both hands. She closed her eyes and began rubbing her hair vigorously.

  She felt a renewed pull, an urge to turn around.

  Something had caught her attention in the images on the wall. It was taunting her, silently coaxing her to look. Casey gripped the towel harder.

  Casey relented and turned around.

  Her eyes went straight to the images at eye level on the door. A navy blue convertible coupe, its soft-top pulled up, drew her attention first. Casey studied it, going straight to the lines at the front and the arrangement of its headlights and grille. She closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to go into her memories of the car in her nightmare. The same lines. Same headlights.

  But…

  Something wasn’t quite right. Opening her eyes, Casey stepped up to the door and pulled the magazine image of the coupe from it. She regarded it again for a long moment. Then, she screwed up the picture and let it fall to the floor at her feet. She then chose another. She took it from the door and studied it before screwing it up and dropping it.

  Another.

  And another.

  The mosaic before her had begun to resemble a giant slice of Swiss cheese. A growing pile of paper balls grew around her feet.

  “Fuck,” she cursed to herself.

  CHAPTER 21.

  Closing the door to her office, Kirkwood turned and picked up a folder from her desk. Casey was pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, hands on hips.