Tash was waiting for her back at the Judas door. ‘There’s no getting around the side of the Chateau, unless you want to swim for it,’ she whispered.
Stevie explained that the garden side was similarly inaccessible while she pushed against the Judas door, then the larger door in which it was situated, finding both locked. She tipped her head toward the wall, cupping her hands as a step for Tash. Then with a couple of heaves and a jump she was on the other side of the wall herself, standing in the courtyard next to her.
The dying light caught the shine of waterfalls and ornamental ponds, birdbaths and the umbrella shapes of palms. An eccentric set of stone steps spiralled their way up a tower almost as tall as a lighthouse, looming on her right hand side. Through its small windows she saw the shadowy shapes of more Mexican gargoyles.
Light shone from under the front door; two small windows on either side of it were heavily curtained. They moved silently across the moss covered paving, following a small, unfenced path along the side of the building, the only margin between the rough walled chateau and the lake.
A floating jetty fingered its way from the path. Stevie could just make out the shape of a diving board at its end and a tethered rowboat. A fish jumped and broke the stillness of the dark water, sending out ripples of silver bangles. From across the lake, she heard the low muttering of roosting chooks. Perhaps the boat was used to row to the island to gather eggs. This place would be a paradise for kids. No wonder Emma used it as her home base for Katy Enigma.
They crept towards the back of the Chateau and came across a small paved barbecue area accessed by some partially closed French doors through which a sheet of light flooded. Water lapped at some semi-submerged steps leading from the paving into the lake. Under the surface, the shadows of great fish glided like submarines.
The detectives stood on either side of the French doors and watched Stoppard move about the room, walking between a stereo system and a large oak table on which several cardboard boxes had been placed. The delicate strains of Pachelbel’s Canon floated past them, tripping over the golden light before disappearing into the darkness of the lake beyond, while the deep bass steps of the cello lingered on.
The ceilings of the room were as high as a medieval banquet hall, but instead of shields and weapons, the walls were covered with hanging masks: gargoyle heads with horns and pointy beards, bared fangs and mouths shaped in silent screams. Price tags dangled from the masks. A huge carved wooden throne with a red and white ‘special’ sign sat in a corner.
Stevie shivered.
Tash gripped her arm. ‘You ready?’ she mouthed.
Stevie straightened from her crouch, counted to ten, then opened the French doors with a flourish.
‘Bloody hell!’ Stoppard dropped the box he’d just lifted from the table.
‘Good evening Mr Stoppard,’ she said, shutting the doors behind them.
Tash moved to the stereo and turned the music off. She took a moment to gaze around the room, her eyes settling on the table covered in boxes. ‘What’ve you got here, thinking about moving house?’ Tash delved into a box and pulled out a fistful of CDs and DVDs. Another box clearly contained photographic equipment, a tripod leaning against the table next to it.
Stoppard’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, wait, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘We have reason to believe Emma Breightling’s here somewhere in this house,’ Stevie said.
‘Well I can assure you she’s not. I’d appreciate it if you took your sticky paws off of my things; some of my equipment is very delicate. You can’t just barge into a man’s house like this and start rummaging around with his things.’ His mother tongue became more emphasised as his diction sped up, Stevie noticed; he was saying wiv, not with, and fings.
‘We can if we have reason to believe a life might be in danger.’
‘Crap!’
Stevie pointed to the table. ‘What’s all this stuff for, anyway?’
Stoppard managed to call back some of his composure, reverting once more to an Australian rhythm of speech. He dismissed her question with a casual wave. ‘It’s a corporate video I’m having filmed here. Some footage has already been taken. The crew are coming back next weekend to finish it off.’
‘For the showroom? Interesting.’ Stevie looked at the numbered covers of the DVDs. ‘Not much on the labels, but I guess you must have some kind of an index of what’s what.’ She gazed around the room, seeing no sign of a TV. It would have been interesting to see what was on those DVDs.
‘There’s an index somewhere around. Maybe one of the crew has it.’ He smiled, fingered the curl behind his ear and looked her in the eyes. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is all about.’
Stevie tilted her head to Tash. ‘Carry on.’
Tash climbed some wooden stairs leading up out of the hall. They heard a thump on the floor above their heads, the sound of a door creaking open.
‘Sit down, Mr Stoppard,’ Stevie pointed to a heavy backed chair at the table. ‘We need to question you further about the disappearance of Emma Breightling.’
Stoppard dropped into the chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. His white pants were streaked with what appeared to be mud.
‘What’s that from?’ Stevie indicated the dirt.
‘Burying bodies, what do you think?’ When Stevie didn’t return his smile, he sighed. ‘A bit of impromptu gardening—c’mon officer, I’ve already told you what I know.’
‘You were told by the officers that we might need to contact you again. You gave them a mobile phone number that you have not been answering. You said you would either be at your city office or your apartment, but you weren’t at either of those places when they called around.’
‘I asked if I could go home, they said yes. This is my home too.’
‘You gave me your card, but you never mentioned this place to anyone else. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself now about giving it to me. A bit over confident, weren’t you?’
Stoppard pursed his lips. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve been abusing Emma Breightling.’
He threw his eyes to the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, where did you get that from, her father? Nothing but the ranting of a desperate man whose child is missing. I’ve never touched Emma and I’ll sue anyone for slander who says I did. You’ve no bloody proof.’
He was right: other than the mysterious circumstances surrounding Emma’s disappearance, all Stevie had was an ambiguous poem on a web page which she couldn’t even prove was written by Emma.
‘The officer at the Breightlings’ house said you and Mr Breightling had words, that he hit you.’ Stevie indicated the bruise on Stoppard’s cheek.
‘And I told your officer that Breightling’s action was of no concern to me. I told him to put the outburst down to anxiety over his missing daughter. I won’t press charges.’
‘How very compassionate of you. But I understood it had more to do with the affair you’ve been having with his wife, to whom you’ve also been supplying cocaine.’
Stoppard moistened his lips. ‘He’s not the first man to have been cuckolded. Maybe if he’d given her a bit more attention it wouldn’t have happened. He’s no one but himself to blame.
As for the coke, well...’ he spread his palms to indicate its insignificance.
‘Did Emma come here, Stoppard, is she hidden somewhere in the Chateau?’