Free The Fourth Season by Dorothy Johnston

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    My strongest impression, as I drove across the lake, was that, for a determined liar, Bronwyn was both unskilled and lacking in experience. But why lie about a parliamentary sitting night, when that fact was easily checked?
    Had Bronwyn picked Laila up outside the internet cafe? A darkish car, Rowan had said. Bronwyn drove a dark green Nissan. One thing was clear: Bronwyn was grieving, and her grief was mixed with a large dose of anger, not only towards anyone who happened to come within range, but towards Laila as well.
    I called by Tim’s, but nobody was home. I walked around the back, noting the dry grass and wilting carrot tops, wondering who’d planted the vegetables. Clearly Tim, left on his own, wasn’t doing anything to keep them alive. I wondered how long Phoebe would stay at her cousin’s, if she’d ever come back there to live. Footsteps on a concrete path sounded very loud. I hadn’t noticed how close the houses were on either side. From the laundry, I could have reached my arm out to the fence.
    I’d noticed the open laundry window last time. It was funny how people who were particular about locking doors left a broken catch on a laundry window and didn’t bother to repair it.
    I opened the window wide. There wasn’t any fly screen. The space was just big enough for me to squeeze through.
    Where to start looking? There was a damp smell in the laundry, mixed with dried soap flakes. I was sure that Tim had taken something from Laila’s room, but I had no idea whether or not this something was still in the house. He might have destroyed it. That might have been his reason for taking it in the first place. I recalled Tim’s censorious expression when he’d told me no one was allowed into the room, and the way he’d wanted to get rid of me.
    A cupboard under the laundry sink held rags, soap powder and liquid detergent, two small metal bowls, an old dog lead—all except the powder and detergent covered with a fine coating of dust. I knelt down on all fours and peered into the corners.
    I brushed off my knees and looked at the faint marks they’d left on the floor, then wiped my foot across them, hearing footsteps from next door, followed by laughter, a man and a woman.
    A taller cupboard contained a vacuum cleaner, a broom, smaller brush and squeegee mop, and more dust. The washing machine was about a third full of Tim’s clothes, plus a couple of bath towels. I wondered what had happened to Laila’s dirty clothes, if there’d been any left in the laundry. Perhaps that was what Tim had taken—a bra or pair of underpants. I pictured Ivan with such trophies and felt ashamed again, and angry.
    From where I stood, in the doorway of Laila’s room, everything looked the same as it had the last time I’d seen it. A bed base minus its mattress was still under the window, the desk empty except for a mug holding a few pens. I walked across and opened the door of the clothes cupboard. There was very little inside; three pairs of jeans and a couple of track suits; one pair of denim shorts, a few shirts, two dresses.
    In a drawer I found T-shirts, plain cotton underwear and socks, one woollen jumper and a windcheater with a hood. Laila had got by with very little. She hadn’t needed to dress up in order to attract attention. That made the waistcoat an anomaly. I wondered again who had given it to her.
    At one end of the hanging space was a full length wetsuit, relatively new, and, on the floor of the cupboard underneath the clothes, two pairs of sandals, running shoes, flippers, a snorkel and face mask. The scuba tank was still in its corner.
    As far as I could tell, the book shelves were the same. I doubted if Tim would have used Laila’s room as a hiding place, but I felt around in the narrow spaces under and behind the cupboard, and behind and underneath the book shelf too.
    I checked my watch. It would soon