Now, where should she start? She checked the contents page, then let the book fall open by itself to see which page had been read most.
Know your enemy and know yourself.
Well, she definitely knew herself. But she had to admit she didn’t know much about Oliver the Bastard apart from a few key points.
She tapped her finger against her lips. How to fix that?
First, she’d grill Sam and find out everything there was to know. Then anyone else she could contact. Research. She needed someone who knew how to do research.
Augi.
She went back inside. ‘Augi, you’re a freelance researcher, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. As well as librarian, as well as freelance comms.’
‘Variety and all that. Look, I was wondering if you’d take on a job for me? I’ll pay you the going rate, of course. I want to do everything I can to stop this new development.’
‘Of course.’ Augi’s gaze sharpened. ‘I love this community. If a new hotel is built, it could threaten not only your livelihood but those of others in the village. Don’t worry about paying me. I feel I owe the community a debt.’
‘That would be brilliant. Thanks. Between us — your brains, my aggression — I don’t think he stands a chance.’
As Lucy walked away, Augi’s expression replayed in her mind. She’d actually blanched when Lucy had said the word aggression. Lucy had meant it as a joke. Not for the first time, Lucy wondered what secrets the older woman kept so close.
Secrets! They were everywhere. Including her own family. She stepped outside the library and shot a text to Dan. She needed to see him, too.
* * *
Later that night, Lucy sat at her small dining table, laptop open, scrolling through everything she could find about Oliver. There was quite a lot. Just not much about his business.
Her apartment was on the top floor above the florist’s she co-owned. It was a beautiful spot, with the fragrance of flowers drifting up and the ever-present sound of the sea through her open windows. Small, yes. But what more did she need? It was her retreat — above the village, and yet still part of it. Down one flight of stairs and she was back in the thick of the community. Up here she could leave everything behind and feel as if no one could get to her.
Except now they had. He had.
From her window, if she looked straight back up the road from the sea, she saw on one side the community hall with the church perched on the hill behind it, and a line of old-style shops that included her café. Opposite was the Old Colonial Hotel. Built in 1905, it had once been grand, catering to tourists up from Wellington on the newly laid rail tracks. With each decade, it had slumped further. Its character had quietly leached away. She’d hardly noticed it fade. It had simply become part of the backdrop of her days.
But she noticed it now.
She rose and wandered to the window, pushing it wider to let the sea breeze in as she pondered what she’d discovered.
The only part of Oliver’s life he seemed willing to reveal on social media was his party side. And judging by the photos, that must have taken up a considerable amount of time. She flicked through pages of images of him with beautiful women and noted, with a twist of distaste she wasn’t particularly proud of, that the women all looked strangely similar. Same hair, same figure, same blandly perfect faces. She imagined the conversation was probably the same too.
Sex, she supposed. That would be the point.
Her phone chimed, and the little square of her door camera sprang to life. Her brother Dan stood outside.
Good. She’d ask him what to do. She’d always been closest to him.
‘Hey, Lucy-Loo.’ He kissed her cheek before stepping into the apartment and heading straight for the coffee machine.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said facetiously. She liked that he did.
‘Have done already,’ he replied as he ground the beans, and twisted the coffee tray into position. He turned away as the machine filled his cup. ‘I need to keep my wits about me — I’m assuming you haven’t invited me over for a casual chat.’
‘You assume correctly,’ she said, leaning against the kitchen bench. ‘I need your expertise.’
‘And which one would that be?’ He took his coffee and sat down in an armchair, waving a hand airily. ‘I have so many.’
‘Well, it’s not your modesty.’
