Sharp Turn - Marianne Delacourt [52]
I slowed down as I passed Viaspa’s wrought-iron gates. The ambient street light and my speed afforded me only a quick glimpse down the long driveway to his house, but I managed to identify two of the three cars parked there. One was the jumped-up limo Viaspa liked to be driven around the city in; the other one, tucked down the side, looked identical to the sedan that had been tailing me.
All sense of caution flew out the window into the night. Taking a right-hand turn at the next intersecting street, I parked around the corner and slipped my self-defence spray into my pocket. I couldn’t afford pepper spray so I was making do with good old-fashioned olive oil. It only stung a little but it made everything damn hard to see.
Walking back down the road towards Viaspa’s house, I realised I probably looked like I’d just escaped from an institution: bare feet, pyjamas barely disguised by crumpled jeans, and a track top with a hole in one elbow. I pulled the hood around my face and hugged the shadows.
One pass of the front gate revealed a blinking security system and a wall that was over three metres high. Luckily there was a side gate in line with the sedan. I’d have to trespass onto next-door’s property to peek through it. From what I could see, the neighbour didn’t have garden alarms. I didn’t give myself more than a second to think about whether it was a good idea or not before I was over the neighbour’s low front fence and feeling my way along their side wall.
Oww. Something spiky jabbed my butt through my jeans. Cactus. I moved back to avoid it and stepped into another plant. Jeesus, what was this? The Arizona desert?
I flashed my phone light and realised the whole garden was devoted to spiky succulents and tacky garden ornaments – namely gnomes and fat toads. Money clearly did not buy taste.
Using my phone to guide me, I practised my best minefield walk, but by the time I reached the gate in the wall, I was scratched all over. To make matters worse, though the gate was wrought iron, this side of it was patched over with timber. Johnny Viaspa’s neighbours clearly didn’t like having a view into his yard.
Flashing my phone light around to try to find an easier path back, I noticed a large empty plastic water container lying on its side next to the house’s air-conditioning unit. If I stood on it, I might be able to see over the wall to check the sedan’s licence plate. I had to know if it was the same car that had been following me. If it was, I’d call Fiona Bligh. I still had her mobile number from the last time a crazy was stalking me.
Getting the container over near the wall quietly was one thing, getting up on it was another. On its side, it was too uneven to balance on; on its end, it was too tall for me to climb up. I circled around a cactus and picked up one of the toads. It was damn heavy, but just big enough to get me up onto the container. Once there, I was able to touch the top of the brick wall but not see over it.
So close.
I wiggled a bit. The container seemed steady enough so I jumped, managing to get my torso over the edge of the wall. I balanced there for a second before I heard a soft clunk. Crap! That couldn’t be good. The container had fallen over when I kicked off it.
I managed to get my knee up, and levered myself around until I was lying along the top of the wall like a lizard on a rock. In the soft driveway light I could just make out the licence plate: UBE 610. I committed it to memory and squinted harder.
Now what?
I surveyed my options. Jumping down into the neighbour’s garden meant a high probability of landing in a cactus or on a gnome. That left jumping down on Johnny Viaspa’s side. The voice of reason agreed that was not a smart idea.
Instead, I began crawling along the top of the wall towards the front gate. The wall was only half as wide as me, so each forward movement was a feat of balance.
When