looked a handful she was bound to be one. “She has to know.”
“I dare say the old man remembered her?” Bradfield gave Damon one of his guileless stares.
“He did that.” Damon kept his face neutral. “She was his granddaughter.”
“He paid her no attention at all!” Condemnation was in Bradfield’s blue eyes. Marcus was a staunch family man with three daughters of marriageable age.
“As far as you know.”
Marcus gave him a long, searching look. “Damon, you know as well as I do, the family as good as abandoned her and her mother. Now, there’s a swinger, that Roxanne! A real glamour girl, though no one seems to like her. You should hear my wife! Another thing, my boy—”
“I’m not your boy, Marcus.”
“Another thing, my man, Maurice wants this kept quiet until morning when the press will be informed. Selwyn Chancellor was an important man. The premier could even want a state funeral.”
“Against Selwyn Chancellor’s wishes?” Damon shook his head. “He stipulated a quiet funeral, family and a few chosen friends only. He is to be buried in the garden of his country home, Beaumont, where I assume he died. Carol is to be invited.”
“Not Jeff and Roxanne?” Bradfield asked as though that violated some set of rules.
“No way. Jeff Emmett might be one of your ‘good ole boys,’ but he and Roxanne are specifically excluded.”
“So bygones won’t be bygones? We all know Selwyn and his wife—what was her name again?”
“Elaine,” Damon supplied.
“Blamed Roxanne for the death of their son Adam, the heir apparent. It was a bit suspicious you have to admit—all set to go through the Heads for a good day’s sailing, only Adam takes a wallop on the head from the boom on the mainsail before pitching into the harbour. Roxanne tries to chuck in a lifebuoy, finds it unfastened but still attached, so she throws in every cushion to hand, anything that would float. Meanwhile the boat is moving on at around eight knots.”
“She couldn’t swim. That much was true.”
“I’ve always said, men don’t teach their wives enough about boats and light aircraft. They rely on always being there.”
“I agree. Roxanne was believed.”
“Not by everybody.” Bradfield sighed. “Even to mention the case to my darling wife is to get into a heated argument. Old Selwyn didn’t believe her; the mother was the more vehement of the two. She never accepted the coroner’s finding. We’re both yachtsmen so we know what can happen. But Adam Chancellor’s parents continued to hold their daughter-in-law guilty of some crime.”
“Maybe she was,” Damon suggested. “She certainly acted strangely in the days that followed—not a sign of a tear, always dressed up to the nines. Not that that makes her guilty of anything. But the whole thing was a bit strange; I’ve read up on it all. The tragedy damn near split the city in two. But, whatever story Roxanne Chancellor told, it worked. As far as I’m concerned, more questions were asked than there were answers for.”
Bradfield stared down at his locked hands, as though they might hold the answer. “Speculation won’t get us anywhere. It was years ago. Just about everyone has forgotten.”
“Not true, Marcus.”
“Why so judgemental?” Bradfield asked, not wanting to take the issue further. “The verdict is what counts. Jeff Em-mett did the right thing—he adopted Roxanne’s little daughter not long after they were married.”
“I’m sure Roxanne forced him into it. No love lost between her and the Chancellor family.” Damon gathered up his briefcase. “Look, I’m out of here. It’s been a long day.” For some time now he had been the first to arrive and often the last to leave.
Marcus cranked to his feet. He had put on a good deal of weight in the past few years, with his tailor gamely keeping pace. “Me, too. They mightn’t have slung Roxanne into jail, as some in the family no doubt wanted, but she copped plenty of torture. You’ll want to tell your client as soon as possible.”
Damon started to the door. “I intend to.”
Bradfield stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming Saturday night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Damon managed to sound enthusiastic when he didn’t really want to go to Julie Bradfield’s just-the-right-side-of-thirty birthday party.
“Every night I go down on my knees and pray my Julie finds a good husband,” Marcus confided. One prayer stuck in the groove; Damon knew Marcus had his eye on him.
“And I’m sure she’ll find one.” Damon gave his boss a reassuring smile.
As long as it’s not me.
He knew her address; one of the inner suburbs. She had moved out of the Emmett house as soon as she’d started university. He knew she was studying law, a good student who could do so much better if she put her mind to it. He had his sources at the university where he had graduated top of his class. Carol Emmett wasn’t known as a party girl precisely, but the word was she was “wildly popular.” She was certainly social. There was hardly a venue she visited where she wasn’t photographed by what passed for the paparazzi. He knew her by her press coverage. She was ravishingly pretty, if pint-sized, with a mop of lustrous red curls, porcelain skin and brilliant blue eyes.
It was his job to find her and as soon as possible.
The unit Carol Emmett and two of her girlfriends were renting was part of a block of twenty. Most of the units were rented out to the better-heeled university students who knew they had to stick to certain rules or they’d be out the door. The block was in a good, mainly residential area with a small park nearby. There was security; that was good. He went up to the door and was about to press the button for apartment eight when two young women emerged from the lift. Their outfits—one of them was wearing a mega-short skirt exposing more than just her plump knees—indicated they were having a night out on the town. They gave him a giggling, comprehensive once-over. They would definitely know him again. He was a guy who stood out, not only for his height—six-two—his chiselled good looks, but his aura of success.
“Who are you looking for, handsome?” The cheekier of the two, the one with the plump knees, spoke, a bright, inquisitive expression on her face.
“Carol Emmett.” He answered in a relaxed way, but it came out with in-built authority.
“Well, you can’t be the cops!” Cheeky eyed his beautifully tailored Italian business-suit, the shirt, the tie, even the shoes on his feet.
“Certainly not. I come as a friend.”
“Ooh, lucky Caro!” she whistled, continuing to study him, her head tipped to one side. “Bit old for her, though, aren’t you? Like, the guys Caro dates are our age.”
Was thirty old these days? How depressing. “So you do know her?”
“Course we do,” the other girl chimed in. She was plain, with an extraordinary hot-pink streak in her dark spiked hairdo, no doubt to shift focus from an over-long nose. “She’s our flatmate. You won’t find her at home. She’s out looking for Trace.”
“And Trace would be?”
“One of our mates,” the cheeky one supplied, still eyeing him over. “Trace is always getting herself into trouble. Caro likes to keep an eye on her.”
“Any idea where she might have headed? I need to discuss a business matter with her. It’s urgent.”
The two girls looked at each other, before deciding on giving him the information he sought. Evidently he had passed muster. “I’d say Trace’s little hidey-hole,” Cheeky said. “She doesn’t live here; can’t afford it. We