No More Secrets No More Lies Page 5

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  Kevin’s studio, attached to the back of his house, was built when he realised he needed extra space after his bedroom and lounge-room disappeared beneath the clutter of his life. He spent most of his waking hours there and when he closed the door behind him, he tuned into his favourite classical radio station and turned the volume up loud.

  Rose Phillips didn’t say anything of course about the studio when it was built without Council approval. She wasn’t the type of woman to complain about anything. The studio, unlike the rest of his house, was uncluttered and organised. A scrubbed oak table was pushed up against a wall and on it stood a large, empty, juice tin filled with cheap brushes. The assortment consisted of brushes of different sizes and thicknesses. Pencils and crayons were also on the table and were neatly placed, side-by-side, sorted by colour and size. A cheap timber A-framed easel stood in the middle of the room and a shaft of light streamed through a permanently opened window. The floor was covered with timber patterned linoleum; it was cheap, serviceable and easy to clean. The windows were bare; Kevin didn’t see the need for curtains.

  Kevin Taggart found comfort and pleasure in his painting. It stilled his mind. He began attending art classes after his mother died because of the depression which had descended upon him after her departure from his life. He realised he needed something apart from prescription drugs to calm his shattered nerves. The walls of Kevin's house were covered with his paintings. His artistic style had changed recently from landscape painting and he was excited about the direction in which his creativity was taking him. He was experimenting, looking for ways he could bring more depth to his work. One of his completed works sat proudly on the easel in the middle of the studio. Satisfied with the result, he stood back from it now, admiring it from different angles according to the light. It was different from his usual landscapes, it was dark and menacing. Distorted faces of crone-like women emerged from behind grotesque figures, and unidentifiable shapes sprung from the dark shadows. Tufts of cat hair glued to the canvas were painted over with oxblood paint. A large red cross dominated the foreground.

  Kevin’s studio was oriented towards Ashleigh Taylor’s backyard and from his window the side gate to her house was in full view. The back door slammed. Ashleigh was dressed in a black tracksuit with white stripes running down the side of the legs and runners which were too white not to be brand new. She wore a bright yellow ribbon which held her hair off her neck. Kevin squeezed two blobs of red paint onto his palette and as he mixed the paint, his mind began to wander. He imagined that Ashleigh must observe a lot on her walks, people coming and going, small children being called inside by their mothers after playing, people going about their daily lives, middle aged women hoping to shed weight delivering shopping catalogues, tradesmen fixing things, watching, silently observing. Similar to what he enjoyed doing. He liked to observe people, to feel as if he was part of their lives.

  He was aware of Ashleigh’s movements and knew that she walked every day, but not always at the same time. He spied her at the shops, often at the patisserie in the arcade next to the news agency and wondered what type of pastries she liked. Perhaps he would surprise her one day and invite her in for afternoon tea.

  Kevin’s thoughts turned to Rose Phillips. He knew that she had been someone who had a lot on her mind and far too much spare time to think. He had known of her pain and he wanted to help her deal with it. On occasions he spoke to her across the side fence hoping to bring some happiness to her life. He knew elderly people enjoyed a cup of tea and a friendly chat and he had invited her in for tea on more than one occasion, but she had declined his offers. There had been a falling out between Rose and her son, over some family matter. He never asked her the details, it was none of his business. Her daughter-in-law visited occasionally, he knew because he recognised her car, a shiny black Porsche. She looked a tough nut that one, Kevin thought. He’d met that sort before, done up to the nines in smart clothes with a slick hairdo. Thought the world owed her something.

  Kevin saw much of what went on in Eden Street. He visited the Blake sisters regularly and enjoyed friendly conversations and cheap sherry which they served in crystal glasses. He carried out small handyman jobs for them. Last winter, he nailed their front window shut because Edi had complained of a draught. Kevin thought it was a good thing when you helped your neighbours and he knew that if you helped them often enough, something good would come from it. Edi and Rhoda bought one of Kevin’s watercolours to hang on their lounge-room wall. They were impressed by the painting and made a fuss of him when he showed it to them. They told him they thought he was talented and Kevin had been deeply flattered by their words of encouragement. The painting reminded them of when they were girls growing up on the far North Coast. They offered to pay him and at first he said it wasn’t necessary, it was meant as a gift, but when Rhoda went to her black purse she kept in the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out five, crisp, one hundred dollar notes, what could he say? Not wishing to offend them, he gratefully accepted the money and went straight out and bought a supply of paint and two sable paint brushes.

  Chapter Eight

  It was Saturday morning, the autumn air was crisp and clean. Ashleigh Taylor licked the tips of her fingers before flicking through the travel and leisure section of the weekend newspaper. She was mildly interested in an article on wine and cycling tours of Tuscany but didn’t read past the first paragraph. Her life was too busy to even consider a holiday. Her work load was horrendous and staff shortages were a fact of life. A cafetière of coffee sat on the outdoor table in front of her and after she emptied her third cup, she decided against pouring herself another and folded the newspaper in half and put it to one side. The morning air filled her lungs and her face began to soften, her body relaxed as she took in a deep breath.

  Ashleigh preferred the cooler months of autumn and winter to the sticky, claustrophobic heat of summer. She welcomed the promise of frosty mornings and blue Wedgewood skies, of cosy winter evenings at home devouring crumpets, licking up the sticky, buttery droplets of honey as they dribbled down the sides of her hands. Ashleigh ran her fingers through her thick, unruly locks and massaged her scalp. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. It had been a late night last night; a drunken brawl outside a city hotel had resulted in a teenager’s death. She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a yawn then reached down and pulled off her sheepskin boots. She padded down the timber steps into the backyard. The wet grass caressed the soles of her feet as she dug her toes into the lawn.

  The backyard and the garden beds were overgrown. Pruning and a dose of ‘blood and bone’ could be the answer, even though she knew nothing at all about gardening. Another job to add to her list of things to do and she made a mental note to google ‘garden landscaping contractors’ when she went back inside. Order needed to be brought back into the rambling yard and if there was anything Ashleigh Taylor craved, it was order. Without it, her life was a mess. An unruly row of unidentifiable bushes pushed up against the neighbour’s fence. She imagined that they had once been part of a neatly, trimmed hedge, the result of a keen gardener’s eye for detail. Now, it was nothing more than a sprawling, shapeless mass. It had been neglected for too long; holes yawned giving the hedge a vulnerable and hapless appearance.

  A lemon tree with a gnarled trunk stood a few metres away from where she was standing. With the palms of her hands resting on her hips, Ashleigh studied the tree, wondering if its strength and vigor lay in its neglect. People, like gardens, needed to be tended and nurtured, some more than others. Buttery-coloured lemons lay at her feet and as she bent over and gathered them up she pulled at the bottom edge of her jumper, stretching it out as far as it would go before placing the lemons into the woollen pouch. The fruits were bruised and the heat from her body aroused a heady aroma of lemon oil, reawakening memories of winter afternoons in her mother's garden and the sickly sweet taste of homemade lemonade.

  The low grumble of a lawn mower starti
ng up caused her to forget the lemons for a moment and she looked across at her neighbour’s backyard. Kevin Taggart was standing by his rusty tin shed. The mower came to an abrupt stop. With his body bent and his back towards her, Ashleigh watched her neighbour as he began to clean the mower with a dirty rag. The T-shirt he was wearing had a large rip under the left armpit and his faded, navy track suit pants were splattered with flecks of white and yellow paint, reminding her of an artist's palette. His back was weak and flabby and as he leaned backwards on his haunches, she caught sight of a small bald patch on the crown of his head. Thin wispy strands of dull, grey hair lay flat against the shiny patch which was smooth and moist from his exertion. He must have sensed her watching him because he turned and gave her an easy smile.

  ‘Damn mower, she starts then conks out. Probably a bit of dirt in the carburetor.’

  Ashleigh wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t know anything about lawnmowers. When she thought about it, she had never even owned one, never mind trying to start one. To break the awkward silence between them, Ashleigh grabbed a lemon from her jumper. She felt a little foolish now, standing there in front of him with her outstretched jumper spilling over with lemons. ‘Would you like some Kevin? There are too many here for me.’ Ashleigh looked down at her jumper straining from the weight of the thick-skinned fruit. She lowered it and wondered what she would do with them if he declined her offer. Perhaps she would make lemon butter. She was sure she had a recipe somewhere.

  ‘Thanks, that’s kind of you,’ Kevin said. ‘I like lemon in my tea.’

  Ashleigh passed half of the lemons over the fence and dropped the remainder on the ground in front of her. He looked at her uncomfortably as if he had something important he needed to say. As they stood together enjoying the warmth of the early morning sunshine and the banter of light hearted conversation, Kevin suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and turned the conversation around to the tragic death of their neighbour. They had been in the middle of discussing who made the best coffee in the village when he asked had she known that their neighbour was found dead in her kitchen yesterday morning. He went on to tell her that a young real estate agent had found her body and how she had gone out of her way to introduce herself to him when they met on the footpath outside Rose’s house. She had described to him in detail, the miserable circumstances in which their neighbour had been living and the appalling way in which she had died.

  Ashleigh was surprised to learn of Rose’s death and as Kevin delivered a detailed description of her decomposed body, she wondered what his relationship to the elderly recluse had been. He followed on with a description of the inside of the house, telling her how it smelt of cat piss, and large patches of flaking paint were peeling from the ceilings and walls, a missing glass window pane had been replaced with a clump of brown, waxy wrapping paper and sticky tape. Ashleigh looked past him and across to Rose’s backyard.

  ‘I can’t imagine what life was like for her, can you Kevin? What a terrible way to live and a lonely way to die.’ Ashleigh’s lips parted slightly; she realised she was speaking more to herself than to Kevin.

  During her work when she was a key player in the tragedies of other people’s lives, Ashleigh Taylor knew that it was almost impossible to control the circumstances under which a person lived or died. A person’s life could easily become stuck, like a stylus on a record player trapped in a groove on a vinyl record, playing over and over and over again, spinning around with no means of escape. At least not until someone or something stopped the music. Ashleigh wondered if life had simply become too much for Rose Phillips.

  As Kevin and Ashleigh stood by the dividing fence a black crow squawked and swooped down in front of them. The crow looked at them with glassy-yellow eyes and raised its head before it flew off to the north. Kevin didn’t look up as Ashleigh had done to see what had caused the bird to take flight, he was looking down at the ground, concentrating on his scuffed, paint stained joggers. Without warning, he jerked his head upwards, just as the crow had done, his troubled eyes met Ashleigh's and he looked at her as if he had just remembered something which he felt he should share with her. He didn’t speak, but she saw the expression on his face and the bright tears which had sprung up in his eyes. A solitary tear fell softly and quickly became trapped in one of the deep crevasses of his face. He wiped the tear away roughly with his thumb and whispered in a soft, almost inaudible voice.

  ‘Pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction.’

  ‘What was that you said Kevin?’ Ashleigh asked, not too unkindly.

  Kevin coughed and cleared his throat, embarrassed by his sudden outburst. ‘Perhaps I should have done more for Mrs Phillips,’ he said. ‘But she was such a proud, stubborn woman, she never asked anyone for help, not even me, someone I always hoped she would come to consider as a friend.’

  ‘How were you to know if she needed help Kevin? She was obviously a very private person. When does anyone know when to intrude into someone’s life? There’s a fine line between caring and interfering Kevin, everyone knows that.’ Having said that, the saddest thing, Ashleigh realised was that Rose Phillips didn’t appear to have anybody in her life who really cared about her, even a little. Ashleigh said she must have been lonely living in the house by herself but Kevin replied that she did have a cat. They both wondered what had happened to it.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll go and make myself some lemon tea.’ Kevin performed a juggling act with the lemons, threw them into the air, caught them one by one, placed them in the side pockets of his tracksuit pants and slowly backed away from the fence.

  ‘Great juggling, Kevin,’ Ashleigh said. She bent over to pick up the lemons at her feet and as she raised her head she said as an afterthought, ‘enjoy your lemon tea.’ But Kevin had already retreated inside. Despite his outburst and display of emotion, Ashleigh couldn’t shake off the feeling that Kevin was insincere when they were discussing Rose’s death. What was it anyway with those verses about pride and stubbornness? Ashleigh’s curiosity was aroused and she began to wonder if Rose had been neglectful in paying her bills or if she was financially unable. Was this the reason the electricity had been disconnected? Were there wads of money stashed away in a rusty biscuit tin somewhere in the back of a kitchen cupboard, lost and long forgotten or was she too proud, as Kevin had suggested, and unable to ask for help?

  Ashleigh sat down on the back steps of the verandah and realised it must have been Rose Phillips who had smiled at her only a few days before when she pulled into her driveway after a long night. She remembered her shy, curious smile, a smile from someone who was not used to smiling at strangers. She conjured up Rose’s image in her mind, concentrating hard, she tried to recall every detail about her. The woman was petite. Her hair was grey and wiry and a few strands strayed from under the bright yellow, woollen beret she was wearing. The beret was perched high on the top of her head with two matching woollen pompoms dangling from the crown. They had looked ridiculous Ashleigh remembered thinking at the time. They stood out like beacons and were the only sign of colour in her drab appearance. They bounced and swayed in time to her small steps. Her stick like, stockinged legs poked out from beneath a thick coat which hung loosely from her shoulders and was splashed with flecks which looked like flakes of snow. The coat material had been popular once. Ashleigh regretted that she’d not acknowledged her, that she didn’t push down the automatic window button and call out after her, a ‘good morning’.

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  Doctor Ashleigh Taylor was a senior forensic pathologist with the New South Wales Coroner’s office. From the beginning of her professional life she had been on a journey of discovery. Intelligent and astute, she had been trained in the art of observation and while searching for signs and clues left on the lifeless bodies laid out before her on the metallic examination tables, she felt responsible for every one of them and for the friends and families left behind who had loved them. Loved ones looking for answers, left confused by sud
den, unexpected deaths, not knowing how to deal with their grief. It was more than a job to Ashleigh Taylor, for her it was about taking in the evidence, doing the work and knowing at the end of the day she would come up with the right answer.

  Two days after Rose Phillips’s body was discovered in her kitchen, a small red van packed with ‘For Sale’ and ‘For Lease’ signs pulled away from the curb in front of 15 Eden Street. Left behind and planted firmly in the front yard stood a large ‘For Sale’ sign with a photograph of the house and a large red ‘Deceased Estate’ sticker slammed across the face of it.

  ‘Didn’t take them long,’ Ashleigh mumbled to herself as she peered into her letter box expecting to find a fistful of bills, but found instead two fat, slimy snails and a half eaten Pizza Hut brochure. She removed the snails and hurled them onto the road and tucked the Pizza Hut brochure into her pocket. She walked along the footpath and stopped in front of the ‘For Sale’ sign outside Rose’s house. The Californian bungalow was in a terrible state. The ramshackle garden was overgrown, an outdated shade of green paint was peeling from the timber bargeboards and window casements and a number of terracotta tiles were missing from the roof. The house was below street level and Ashleigh imagined it would be cold in winter. A section of the brick fence, according to Kevin, had collapsed into the front yard and fallen onto the row of rose bushes with a whimper during the middle of the night years before. They managed to survive for a short time before they eventually withered and died. The bricks and the roses lay dormant now, buried and long forgotten.

  Ashleigh crossed to the other side of the street and noticed not for the first time that a number of the houses, including her own, desperately needed renovation. The houses, neglected, unkempt and unloved, were much like the people who lived in them. Many of the elderly residents in Eden Street peered out through their thin, white polyester curtains, stubbornly holding on to their independence, worried that their well-meaning children would ship them off to a nursing home or retirement village at the first sign of forgetfulness or personal neglect.