Sharp Edge

  Sharp Edge

  Tara Sharp, Book 4

  Marianne Delacourt

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Also by Marianne Delacourt

  Also from Deadlines

  Copyright

  Dedication

  To my clan: Helen Smith (the real Smitty), Debbie Phillips, Jo Pierce, Pam Haling, Michelle Fischer, Kath Holliday, Linda Curtin, Isobelle Carmody, Kaylen Jorgensen, Tania Heyblom, Ju Landéesse, Tracy Wilson, Joelene Pynnonen, Gabrielle Rogers, Amber Gwynne, Rachel Loffler, Robyn Smith and Nicola Scott.

  * * *

  Thank you for your love through the darkest of dark nights.

  1

  You are what you’ve been. I heard or read that somewhere.

  It popped into my head as I lay on my bed, contemplating the mess on the floor. Strewn clothes, gnarly pizza crusts and a half-eaten packet of Tim Tams were definitely where I’d been.

  And what did that say about me?

  It said my life was in disarray, and I had no one to blame but myself. I mean, I’d chosen to become a psychic investigator. And because of that, I’d crossed John Viaspa, the drug lord who was set on fitting me with a pair of concrete boots. But worst of all… I’d chosen not to marry some nice well-to-do boy and condemned my mother to eternal despair.

  The latter problem was my current vexation since recently, two presentable and divine (and I mean divine) men had indicated that they’d like to court me. The world had turned inside out. The sky had fallen. White was black. Blue was pink.

  I reached for the Tim Tams. Chocolate for breakfast—clearly the only solution.

  As I sucked the chocolate coating off the biscuity goodness, my phone rang. It was one of my best friends, Bok the Beautiful, aka Martin Longbok, fashion magazine publisher.

  ‘’Lo,’ I glugged through my chocolate.

  ‘Tara! Are you sucking on a Tim Tam? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Sheesh, the guy had superpowers!

  ‘Tara!’

  ‘Alright … it’s just … I mean … oh everything’s wrong!’

  Bok took a long slow breath, as if he might be about to meditate. ‘OK, I have a Skype meeting with Sydney soon. So, give me the quick version.’

  I rolled over on my back and noticed there was the beginning of a prettily patterned mould stain on the ceiling.

  ‘Tar-ah!’ he said impatiently.

  ‘I broke Henry’s nose.’

  ‘You broke Henry’s nose?’

  ‘I did it because I thought he was cheating on Smitts?’

  Smitts was our other best friend. The three of us were tighter than a plate of unopened oysters.

  ‘But he wasn’t?’ asked Bok.

  ‘No,’ I said mournfully.

  ‘Awkward,’ said Bok. (I just knew he was biting the inside of his cheeks to stop laughing.) ‘He’s always one to hold a grudge too.’

  ‘That’s not all. I agreed to … you know … go out with Ed.’

  ‘Out … like be his girlfriend? You? Thought you’d sworn off that kind of thing since the last one stole your furniture.’

  ‘Ed was in Brisbane on a job while I was there. And we … hooked up. Like … properly hooked up.’

  ‘The old boom chikka, eh. But that’s good news? Right?’

  ‘Well it might have been, but something else happened.’

  ‘There’s a third thing?’ asked Bok.

  ‘Tozzi’s left Antonia … for me.’

  ‘Oh my fucking cheeseburger! You mean rich, rugged, man-mountain, Tozzi?’

  ‘You know exactly who I mean,’ I said miserably. ‘Bok, what the hell am I going to do? I’m never the girl who gets to choose.’

  ‘Time to convene the tribunal.’

  ‘But Henry won’t let Smits talk to me on account—’

  ‘—of the broken nose?’

  ‘Yeah. That.’

  Smitty, aka Jane Smith, was petite and perfect in every way, and married to a guy we’d known all our lives. Henry’d always been pretty tolerant of our close relationship and some of my more dubious pastimes. But punching him in the nose for thinking he’d cheated on her kinda crossed a line. Smitts had texted me to say she’d had to hose him down from pressing charges.

  In my defence, Smitts had wound me up a bit on the whole thing. She’d got green-eyed about a woman from their past and asked me to spy on her husband. It hadn’t looked too good for Henny after we’d done some surveillance, and I kind of flipped my wig when I next saw him. I mean, she is my bestie.

  ‘For crap’s sake, doesn’t he realise you were defending her honour? He should be pleased you popped him. It shows you care,’ said Bok.

  I perked up a bit. ‘You think?’

  ‘I do. Not. You broke his nose Tara. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I’d do the same for you,’ I said, my mood deflating quickly again.

  Bok sighed in a way that told me he was about to do me a big favour. ‘Let me talk to him. I’ll smooth things over and set up a time with Smitts. What’s good for you?’

  ‘Sooner the better. After dinner, tonight.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get back to you. And T…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t do anything until we’ve talked.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  I hung up and continued wall-staring for a bit. That didn’t make me feel any better at all. Perhaps I should go for a run, or hit the gym? Exercise was my default mood-changer. It was a habit leftover from having played so much sport when I was younger. But somehow, I still couldn’t get my butt moving.

  If only Cass was here. She’d want to go to the bakery for breakfast. But my runaway sixteen-year-old flatmate had left early for her part-time job at the deli. She wouldn’t be back ’til late afternoon.

  My phone beeped incoming messages and rescued me from my paralysis.

  Call me ASAP!

  It was from Garth Wilmot, my ex-fiancé and current accountant. Garth was a supercilious, uptight, know-it-all guy whom I loved to hate. He was also dependable—above and beyond—and honest.

  I was immediately intrigued. I’d known Garth for more than ten years and he’d never, ever sent me a message like that.

  I rolled back onto my stomach, and hit his name in my contacts list.

  He answered in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. ‘Tar-ah?’

  ‘What’s up, Garth? Sock go missing? Coat hanger round the wrong way?’ My standard dig at his habits didn’t elicit the response I was expecting.

  ‘Can you come over right now?’

  ‘Sure. I guess.’

  ‘No ... wait … they might be watching. Meet me at Sable’s as soon as you can.’

  ‘Who might be watching?’

  ‘Just meet me, okay?’ He sounded downright panicky.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ I asked him.

  ‘4pm.’

  ‘Give me twenty minutes,’ I said crisply. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The relief in his voice was so out of character, I got goosebumps.

  I sprang up, suddenly energised, and grabbed clean knickers, a t-shirt
and shorts from my sorting bench, aka the couch, on the way to the shower. Confusing and unwelcome love-life dilemmas melted away under the drill of the hot water, and were replaced by investigative curiosity. What did Garth want? Was he in trouble? He had to be in trouble. It’d be the only reason he’d need me.

  I thought back to our relationship and brief engagement. JoBob—Joanna and Bob, my parents—had been thrilled to bits with Garth being both an accountant and a Wilmot. The Wilmot’s were a large well-to-do family name with roots in Canberra politics. Garth had two uncles well-placed in the Liberal party and several cousins working at Parliament House. This brought him seemingly unending respectability as far as my mother was concerned, no matter how much I argued that I didn’t vote Liberal and that politics was as dirty as organised crime. Or, in fact, maybe it was just organised crime in spectacles.

  But Joanna had grown up with an old-fashioned awe for local two-party politics and the monarchy, and had been devastated when I broke off the engagement.

  Why Tara? Why? Rang in my ears for weeks.

  In fact, the Wilmots and the Sharps had taken it far worse than either Garth or I. By then we’d worked out we drove each other crazy.

  Funny thing, though, was I trusted him nearly as much as I trusted Bok and Smitts. Garth still did my tax for free, and I was his date when he had to go to work soirées and boring accountants’ balls. We had the rules worked out these days. We were friends who couldn’t see too much of each other on account of the fact we got quickly annoyed by each other’s irritating habits.

  One thing Garth NEVER did was ring me in a panic demanding to see me. Also, he’d picked Sable’s, my cousin’s bar in North Fremantle, to meet. It was a little out of the way for both of us, and not a place he’d normally go. When Garth did go out, he liked the after-work bars in the city where the women could afford to buy him drinks.

  Adrenalin shivered me alive. Something was wrong. And now, it wasn’t just my love-life.

  I cut short the shower, donned my clothes, grabbed a bag and car keys and scooted down the driveway of my parents’ house out to my car.

  My dad was in the front garden leaning over an azalea bush with a pair of secateurs in his hand.

  I waved and pulled a face at him.

  He pulled an equally tragic face back.

  Dad hated gardening. That’s why they had a gardener who came in once a fortnight to weed and prune. These days, he only picked up the pruning shears when he was doing penance for something, or if Joanna was planning a soirée.

  I hoped to hell it was the former. Joanna’s soirées were impossible to dodge and usually involved her trying to set me up with an alcohol-soaked investment banker. Bok sometimes ran interference for me, pretending to be my boyfriend—until JoBob cottoned on to my ploy and had banned him.

  ‘Soirée?’ I mouthed at him.

  His nod was curt.

  I unlocked my car door and leapt in. It was official—I couldn’t go home for at least a week.

  2

  Garth was nursing a drink and a morose stare as I entered Sable’s. His aura was a duller version of its usual bright tan, his blond hair had thinned a little since I last saw him and he’d put on weight.

  The bar was quiet, just a few at the pool table and some late-lunchers slouched over plates of wedges and sour cream.

  I took a second to appreciate the granite benches and acid-washed walls. Sable’s always looked way too clean for a drinking establishment—no grimy carpet and butt-burned wood. That was because of my cousin Crack’s girlfriend—who the bar was named after.

  Right now, I could see her behind the bar towelling a glass within an inch of its life. I gave her a wave and sidled over to Garth’s table.

  ‘You want another one?’ I asked him.

  He glanced up, surprised. ‘You’re offering to buy me a drink?’

  I shrugged. ‘Looks like you need one.’

  No smart comeback just a resigned nod. ‘Beer, thanks.’

  ‘Boutique?’

  ‘Tap,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ I said, heading over to Sable.

  ‘Hello, Tara,’ she said crisply. Her red aura flashed around her in little lightning bolts. When the colour was this bright, she was usually thinking about money.

  ‘Hi Sable, two lagers thanks. How’s business? Crack?’

  ‘Crack’s at work. He’ll be here after five.’

  I raised an eyebrow. Since when had my little cousin got a job? Crack was allergic to work unless it involved tyre rubber, an engine, and two-stroke petrol. ‘And that work would be…?’

  ‘With a visiting racing team. They needed an extra wrench.’

  ‘Bikes?’

  She nodded and made a funny little movement with her mouth that seemed to be caught between disapproval and pleasure. Her aura seemed equally mixed up too, pleasantly bright on one hand, but racing with agitation as well. I guess that just about summed Sable up.

  ‘That’s great news. Not Bolo Ignatius, I hope.’ Bolo was an ex-client of mine who turned out to be crooked. He’d offered Crack some work back before I knew his deal.

  ‘Team Suzuki.’ She pulled the drinks like she was milking a cow with a quick, strong and efficient grip and sat them down on the beer mat. ‘No cheap drinks for family anymore. I’m trying to run a business.’

  I handed her a twenty and waited silently for my change. My small-talk limit with Sable had expired.

  Garth hadn’t moved a muscle while I was away, drilling a hole in the wall with his stare, tapping his foot against the table leg.

  ‘Drink,’ I said, plonking it in front of him.

  He drained the glass in his hand, and then took several deep gulps of the new one, while I sipped mine and watched him closely. A sheen of moisture covered his face and there were perspiration stains under his arms. Garth was not a sweater. It didn’t fit with his OCD tendencies.

  ‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘Spit it out.’

  He looked around making sure no one could overhear us. ‘What’s your situation with John Viaspa?’ he asked.

  My stomach lurched. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I mean, I know there’s been some problems, and that Nick Tozzi pulled you out of a villa in Scarborough where some guy had you tied up. I know Viaspa has had you on a-a … hit list. I want to know where things are at now.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot, Garth.’

  ‘People talk. And they can’t hide things from their accountants.’

  ‘You mean you all talk to each other … like a Bean Counters Chin Wag Society.’

  He shrugged, too preoccupied to take offense.

  ‘Why does my situation with Viaspa concern you?’ I asked.

  He took a deep breath before answering. ‘I’ve been looking over the accounts of a … friend … who co-owns a boutique in Claremont.’

  Garth did not have friends in boutiques. The barber was the closest he got to retail. One of my pet peeves with him when we were dating was that he bought all his clothes from an online discount store. They often didn’t fit, but he wouldn’t pay the postage to return them. ‘Which boutique? What friend?’

  ‘A … woman …’ he began.

  ‘You’ve been seeing a woman who works in a clothes boutique?’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my tone.

  ‘Can we please focus on the important thing,’ he said lifting his chin.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’ll tell you if you’d stop interrupting.’

  ‘Then stop distracting me with talk of “a woman” and get to it,’ I said.

  He folded his arms and leant back in his chair, jaw falling into a stubborn set. ‘I can always rely on you to irritate me, can’t I, Tara.’

  I breathed in through my nose and tried to start again. ‘OK. Tell me what’s going on and I won’t say another word until you’ve finished.’

  He gave that infuriating little nod he always used when he got his own way. ‘I’ve been helping out my friend with her accounts. I’ve had
to be discrete, as her partner and she already have an accountant.’

  ‘So you’re checking her accountant’s work?’

  He gave me a look, and I buttoned my lip.

  ‘My friend noticed some discrepancies, but she wasn’t sure. So I checked for her. The business is being billed for transport costs that are nothing to do with clothes. There are invoices from a trucking company bringing stock in from Sydney and Melbourne, but no record of the inventory arriving or where it’s unloaded.’

  ‘That’s crappy for your friend, but what’s it got to do with me? Can’t she just go to her partner, or the police?’

  ‘Her partner is Grazia Santoro.’

  I stared at him blankly. The name meant nothing.

  He made an impatient noise. ‘She was Grazia Viaspa.’

  ‘John Viaspa’s sister?’

  The colour drained from his face as he spoke. ‘Younger sister. She married one of the Santoro boys. They own vineyards in Margaret River.’

  I swallowed a couple of times before I spoke. ‘Look Garth, I’d like to help your friend out, but she needs to go to the police. There’s nothing I can do for her other than get myself dead.’

  He nodded. ‘So things aren’t resolved between you and Viaspa?’

  Resolved? That was a quaint word in the circumstances. Why was it that my cases always led me back to John Viaspa, the big piranha in a very, very tiny fish pond? ‘There’s only one way you resolve issues with a man like that, Garth. He goes to jail, or his quarry takes a bullet. I’m trying not to be his quarry. After Brisbane, I need to keep a low profile. I’m sorry … I feel for her … but getting into a partnership with Viaspa’s sister … it’s like letting a death adder nest in your bedroom.’

  He sucked in his bottom lip, and chewed it for a bit. ‘That’s OK, Tara. I don’t want to put you at risk.’

  At risk. That was funny too, really. I’d been at risk from Viaspa for so long now that I couldn’t remember what it was like before. ‘Honestly, Garth, she should think about getting out of the business. Anything tied to Viaspa is dangerous and bound to be illegal. And you want to be careful too. You don’t want him hearing you’ve been snooping.’