Sleight Malice Read Online Free

rosy-cheeked,
freckle-faced blonde sergeant did the same. They then followed her down the
short hall, to where Fergus was in the throes of untangling cables and
unpacking his laptop onto the kitchen’s granite benchtop.
    She continued
on, coming to an abrupt standstill half a step into the living room. The sight
of the two abandoned wineglasses, one with Laura’s ruby-red lipstick imprints
clearly visible on the rim, and the empty wine bottles jolted her. Could it
have been only last night that they had talked, laughed and with the help of a
good bottle of Yarra Valley Sauvignon Blanc or two, solved all the world’s
problems?
    She spun back
to the two detectives in tow, hoping to divert them before they could see last
night’s remnants. They hadn’t noticed.
    Instead, Fergus
had caught their attention.
    “Fergus,” said
the detective inspector with a nod in his direction.
    “Grant.”
Another nod.
    The two men
eyed each other off, both undoubtedly wondering why the other was there.
Although they were both tall, that was where the similarities ended. Fergus
with his mop of loose, dark curls, slim build and finer features looked almost
bohemian beside the shorn DI Buchanan, the detective’s fair hair cropped so
close more pink scalp than hair was visible.
    Detective
Inspector Buchanan's gaze strayed to Fergus. “It’s probably best we speak in
private,” he said to Desley.
    “Perhaps I
should go.” Fergus closed his laptop.
    “No. I have
nothing to hide.” As it was, Desley felt unnerved by Grant Buchanan’s physical
presence. With his burly front-row forward physique, she was glad he was one of
the good guys. At least if Fergus stayed, she wouldn’t be outnumbered.
    Kim Mitchell
perhaps sensing that intimidation, and who to that stage had not uttered a
word, stepped forward. Chubby with masses of frizzy blonde shoulder-length
hair, the detective sergeant was at odds with the stereotypical image in
Desley’s head of what a police officer should look like.
    “Ms James – or
can I call you Desley?” One eyebrow cocked.
    Desley nodded.
    “If we could
all sit down, we’ll get to the reason for our visit. We won’t take much of your
time, I promise. Fergus, is it?” she asked, turning her attention to him, but
not waiting for his answer. “Why don’t you put the kettle on for a cup of tea?”
    From the
bewildered expression on Fergus’s face, anyone could be mistaken for thinking
he had been asked to whip up a five-course meal. Of course, DS Mitchell wasn’t
to know it was the first time Fergus had set foot inside the townhouse, let
alone its kitchen.
    “I’ll do it,”
Desley said, squeezing past Fergus to fill the kettle, irritated that the
detective thought the old time-honored panacea would help in this situation.
She hated tea.
    Waving a hand
in the direction of the dining room, she dispatched first the two detectives
and then Fergus. She opened the refrigerator. No fresh milk. She scoured the
cupboards. No tea, stale or otherwise. Hoping black coffee would suffice
instead, she switched on the small espresso machine on the bench next to the
microwave, checking the water-level before leaving it to heat and joined the
others.
    Seated on the
far side of the large solid-jarrah dining table in the centre of the room, DI
Buchanan stared wide-eyed at the violet painted walls, seemingly transfixed by
Desley’s collection of brightly-colored Joan Miró surrealist art prints.
Directly opposite him on the other side of the table, Fergus appeared to be
willing the mobile phone in his hand to ring. The townhouse’s heating finally
working, DS Mitchell was shedding her long navy coat. Desley followed suit and
instantly felt less like a visitor in her own home.
    “Coffee
machine’s heating. Sorry but I'm all out of tea,” she said, not feeling in the
least hospitable as she sat down in the chair next to Fergus. “Please just tell
me what’s happened to Laura. Do you know where she is? And Ryan, has he