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      'When I was running for the bathroom yesterday I heard you speaking Spanish.'

      The suspicion deepened. 'You understood? You knew what I was saying?' Conor thought back over what he'd said to Pascual, anxious that he hadn't given anything away.

      Libby half smiled. 'If you recall, trying not to throw up in your hallway was higher on my priority list than trying to translate what you were saying.'

      'Where did you learn Spanish?'

      'In the States. I worked with Mexican immigrants in isolated farming communities. It's not quite the same as your Spanish, but I get by,' she shrugged self-deprecatingly. She felt it wouldn't be wise to tell him that she had achieved honours in Spanish, French and German at university, and, for a while, had been tempted to pursue a career in the foreign service. 'Do you have brothers and sisters?' she asked, hoping to change the subject.

      'No.'

      'You're an only child then, like me.'

      Conor looked at her intently, dark eyes assessing. 'Libby, why did you pretend to have amnesia?'

      The question, so direct and demanding of an answer, shook her. Libby had always found it difficult to lie, realising in childhood that omission was as close to a lie as she could get. Perhaps telling Conor some of the truth would placate him. 'Because I was afraid.'

      'Afraid? Of what? Of me?'

      She nodded.

      'Why?'

      'When I was searching for my grandfather's house the night before I knocked on your door, a man knocked me unconscious and stole my handbag.'

      'Dr Recio said your injuries indicated that you had been punched, but why wouldn't you tell us this?'

      'On the phone, you told the doctor you didn't want him coming here, that it was too much of a risk, and that an ambulance would attract too much attention. I thought ...' she hesitated, reluctant to continue and perhaps offend him, 'I thought you might have been involved with whoever hit me.'

      Conor's smile surprised her. 'My concern for Dr Recio had nothing to do with you, Libby. I tend to be a little over protective of my friends.' Then he grew serious. 'Could you recognise who hit you? Could you give the police a description?'

      'No, it was too dark.'

      'But surely you want to get your handbag back?'

      'There was nothing in it of value to me, Conor.' She wasn't lying. In contrast with the loss of her mother, the handbag meant little.

      'So why were you searching for your grandfather?'

      Libby hesitated, the urge to share her nightmare so strong she had to bite her tongue to stop it from bursting out. Just then, the ferry nosed into a jetty, the ticket-seller announced the name of the stop, and passengers hurried to the front of the vessel to disembark. The ordinariness of the scene struck Libby forcefully, and she knew that, without proof, it would be impossible for anyone to take her haphazard snatches of memory seriously. And, for some reason she was just beginning to understand, she wanted Conor to believe her.

      'It doesn't matter now, Conor, he can't help me.'

      'Can I?' he asked, but she shook her head.

      'What about other family? Or friends?'

      Again she shook her head. 'Not here. Back in the States ...' the people I considered my friends were dirt-poor farmers with elementary English.

      'A boyfriend?'

      She almost laughed. 'No. There is no significant other in my life.' The emptiness she'd felt since coming back to Australia and discovering how badly she'd misjudged her father returned with savage force. She'd denied herself so much in life, and now she felt a sudden desperate need to know what she'd missed. And she had to admit that her attraction to Conor was definitely a factor in that longing.

      'What about you? Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere?'

      'At the moment,' Conor spoke solemnly but Libby could see a twinkle in his eyes, 'the only significant other in my life is Thomas.'

      For the first time in four days, Libby laughed.

      When his mobile phone rang late that afternoon, Wesley pounced on it like a starving cat on a mouse.

      'We're driving to Brisbane this evening. Pack an overnight bag just in case.' Mal's voice crackled and dipped, and Wesley knew he must be on his mobile, probably in an obscure corner of the police building where the signal was low.

      'You've found her?' Wesley couldn't hide his relief.

      'The grandfather's address matches that of Conor Martin, the person whose phone number was left on your answering machine. So the house was either left to him or he bought it. Either way, we're going to check it out. Pick me up on the corner of my street at nine tonight.'

      'Why can't we catch a plane and hire a car up there?'

      'Because I don't want our movements traced, and I can take another gun if we drive. And we're using your car so mine is still in my carport when I phone in sick tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm going to find out everything I can about Conor Martin.'

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