Saving Rose

by Kate Genet

  The next door swung open onto a small bathroom, a shower head over the tub, loo tucked behind the door. It sparkled with the gleam of determined cleaning but there was no sign of the missing Jeanette. Not even a wet towel on the floor.

  The last room was clearly Jeanette’s although a suitcase was open on the floor in the corner and a neatly-folded nightgown was tucked under the pillow closest to the door. A pink dressing gown was draped across the bedspread along with a bedraggled pair of pyjamas, their cheerful bumblebees out of place in the silent air.

  But there was no sign of a struggle. No sign of any foul play at all. Backing out of the room, Claire retraced her steps down the short hallway to the living room and heard Zoe’s name.

  ‘She was here yesterday. Just before the earthquake. Her and Jeanette got into a real state over a photograph.’

  ‘Can you walk me through Zoe Fry’s visit, Margaret?’

  Jeanette’s mother stared at Moana and for a moment Claire didn’t know if she was going to answer. ‘You’ll help find my daughter if I do?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes,’ Claire said. ‘We will.’

  Moana didn’t even glance at her, but Claire could feel the determination in the way she held herself and knew the answer would have been the same from her.

  ‘Tell me what happened when Zoe came over,’ Moana said, her voice sympathetic, warm, with only the barest trace of urgency.

  Claire couldn’t bring herself to sit down. Her muscles were humming like they did at the beginning of a race and every part of her focused on what was coming, ready to move, to do everything necessary. She leaned against the tiny breakfast counter and stilled, listening, taking it all in.

  ‘Well,’ Margaret said. ‘She came around in the morning. Maybe about ten thirty?’

  Moana simply nodded, and Jeanette’s mother carried on. ‘I let her in, I think. I’ve been trying to help out Jeanette in every way I can. We both doted on Sahara – she was such a beautiful child. So happy, and so kind.’ The tea was swapped for the kneaded ball of tissue. ‘The funeral is supposed to be this afternoon. It’s a cremation. What am I going to do?’ The wide gaze went from Moana across the room to Claire, rested there like a doe caught in headlights.

  ‘Jeanette would never miss Sahara’s funeral. That’s how I know something’s wrong.’ Now Margaret Woolsley looked about wildly. ‘We can’t just sit here,’ she said. ‘We have to go looking for her! Something’s wrong, I know it is!’

  ‘It’s all right, Margaret,’ Moana soothed. ‘We will find Jeanette. It’s more than likely she just popped out to have a chat with a friend or neighbour. But if not, it will help us if you can tell us what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Do you think it has something to do with it?’ The woman was hanging on by a quickly-fraying thread. Claire tamped down her frustration and channelled calm instead. ‘Do you think that awful man did something to her?’

  ‘What awful man is that, Mrs Woolsley?’ Moana asked. ‘Is this about what happened yesterday?’

  A furious nodding. ‘It was her husband. The woman you were asking about. Zoe. I couldn’t follow all of what they were talking about, but apparently this man…’

  ‘Zoe’s husband,’ Claire said.

  ‘Yes, him. But I can’t remember his name. Something boyish.’

  ‘Danny?’

  Margaret leaned back a little from her perch on the edge of the sofa. ‘Yes, that sounds like it. Danny.’

  ‘What about him?’ Moana led her back on track.

  ‘He was in one of the photos. That’s what it was. That’s what your girl got so upset about and then when Jeanette saw it, she took it into her head that he must have had something to do with poor Sahara, because he was standing right there in the bushes where she would have passed to go hide.’ The woman faltered and stared down at her tea. ‘That’s where she went into the river. Just behind those trees.’ When she lifted her head her eyes were bloodshot with the effort of keeping the tears stemmed. ‘They oughtn’t to have trees like that in a kiddie’s park. Anything can happen among all those hiding places.’

  ‘And that’s what Jeanette thought had happened? The man in the photograph had done something to Sahara?’

  Claire frowned. It was all a bit of a stretch. There had to be something more, something that would have convinced Zoe. The Zoe she knew wouldn’t just jump to the conclusion that her husband was a child molester and murderer. After all, when Zoe was here, she hadn’t yet found the photos of Danny’s sister. Claire was sure she hadn’t.

  But the dead girl’s grandmother was nodding her head. ‘Your lady, she went out to her car and got her computer, brought it back inside and they looked at the photograph Jeanette had taken with her camera phone all blown up and big.

  Claire took Zoe’s phone from her jacket pocket and thumbed through the photos on it. She passed it to Moana.

  ‘Is this the photograph you’re talking about?’

  Margaret took the phone and looked at the screen. She nodded again. ‘Yes, that’s the one. Jeanette took it just before the kiddies started playing hide and seek.’ She looked at the photograph a moment longer, then handed it back with a small moue of distress.

  ‘Did any of you notice this man standing there?’

  That got a negative. ‘There was me and Jeanette and two of her cousins and a couple of her friends. Plus their kids. Jeanette called round them all after Zoe left yesterday and asked them if they’d seen him.’ Her eyes were scared now. ‘None of them had. None of us noticed him. I wish we had. If we had we would have confronted him, asked what he was doing in a kiddie park, watching the little ones.’ She nodded towards the phone back in Claire’s hand. ‘You can see he has a camera with him. You can’t expect us to trust a man with a camera when he’s hanging around a children’s playground. And he definitely didn’t have his little girl with him, because your Zoe had her at a birthday party.’

  They were all silent for a moment, letting that sink in. Claire found herself looking around the room again. Her gaze fell on a mobile phone in a red case on the table.

  ‘Is this yours?’ she asked Margaret, pointing to it.

  ‘No! That’s Jeanette’s and believe me, she wouldn’t go anywhere without it.’ The tissue was back in her hand again. ‘I used to tease her that her earphones were like an umbilical cord attaching her to that thing.’

  All three of them stared at it.

  ‘She never went anywhere without it,’ Margaret repeated.

  Claire nodded and picked it up. ‘You said your daughter used this phone to take the photograph that showed Danny Fry?’

  Margaret nodded, and Claire opened up the camera roll and thumbed through the pictures there. Lots of Sahara at the park on the day of her party, her face wreathed in gap-toothed smiles.

  ‘Two things,’ Claire said at last.

  ‘There is no photograph anywhere on here that shows Danny Fry.’ She turned toward Moana.

  ‘And Sahara looked remarkably like Rachel Fry.’

  53

  The sun was peering down over the hills when Danny finally made the long drop down the pass and back into the city. Running a hand over his face he listened to the sandpaper grind of stubble against skin and shrugged. His shaving gear was burnt with the rest of his house.

  His mind drifted to thoughts of insurance money and wove themselves into a nice little daydream. When they hit Australia again, he and Rose would find a sweet little house, somewhere with a nice yard for her to play in, and a school just across the street. The dusty rear vision mirror reflected a smile back at him.

  He’d go get Rachel too. She would be pleased to leave the hospital, and everyone would be pleased for her. They’d all agree she wasn’t coping well without him. Living as a family with him and Rose, well it would be just what she needed. Rose would have a mother, and Rachel would look after her, and he’d look after them both.

  Christchurch unrolled below him, and he yawned, wondering if there was a MacDonald’s open somew
here that he could pull in for a quarter pounder and fries and maybe an apple pie to finish.

  But it could wait. The hunger was sharpening his instincts anyway. And he had important business to attend to.

  The house he’d shared with Zoe was a pile of twisted, blackened twigs. His grin was a triumphant snarl as he cruised past. It didn’t look like the fire service had arrived in anything like a hurry. There would be nothing left in there. He felt a fierce pleasure that everything Zoe had worked so hard for was now nothing but a damp pile of ashes. It was what she deserved.

  His eyes flicked to the backpack containing his laptop. It contained the only legacy he wanted from his wife. Names and details of men, mostly men, she’d discovered were involved in child pornography. Some of them were in jail, thanks to the stupid bitch, but they’d get out, and he kept their details in the knowledge that one day they might be valuable contacts. And he’d done it all without really thinking about it.

  He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and drew out the blue ribbon. It was soft, and he rubbed it between his fingers, enjoying the soft satin against his sensitive skin. Lifting it to his lips, he pressed a kiss against it then tucked it back safely in his pocket. His upper arm itched where the little minx had bitten him, and he gave that a rub too, but still couldn’t help the pleased smile on his face.

  So many good things awaited him.

  If he could find Jeanette Woolsley, that was. Unsure yet what he was going to do with her, still he wasn’t bothered. He’d always been good at thinking on his feet.

  He waved at his neighbour as he cruised on past the house, but she didn’t see him. Probably a good thing; the woman was a nosy old bat and her cat was called something ridiculous. Once, he’d taken a photo of the beast and sold the stupid bitch a print at a ridiculous price. It had made him feel good to get one up on her. Poodles. That was it, the name of the cat.

  When Danny got to the end of the road, he realised he didn’t know which way to turn. The brake to the floor, he pondered that for a moment, perturbed that he hadn’t thought of this already.

  But he did know she lived somewhere close and he was nothing if not resourceful. Swapping brake for accelerator, he turned the car around the corner and pulled into an empty spot in front of the local dairy, hoping it would be open.

  There were several people in the shop, milling around exclaiming over the earthquake and exchanging miseries. A television set up on a shelf was broadcasting images of the horror going on in the city centre. They were calling it a Red Zone, as though it was war damage. People were coming together, strangers saving lives, risking their own – maggots, the lot of them.

  But none of that was his concern. He plucked out a steak pie from the warmer, a bottle of Coke from the fridge, and chose a chocolate bar from a gaudy display and took them to the woman at the counter who was, unfortunately, not one he recognised.

  But there in front of him was the perfect way to find out what he needed to know. Fortune was smiling on him.

  A newspaper lay on the counter, having just been used to wrap up a bag of half-thawed corn cobs. Danny pointed at the picture on the front page and made his face suitably sombre.

  ‘Poor Sahara,’ he said.

  ‘You knew the little girl?’ The woman behind the counter rang up his purchases.

  ‘My daughter Rose used to play with her at the park all the time,’ he said, leaning towards the paper as though to read the caption beneath the picture. ‘My wife Zoe is visiting Jeanette right at the moment. I'm supposed to meet her there.’ He lifted his eyes and sighed. ‘Do you know what street number Jeanette is? I don’t remember what Zoe said.’ Eyes dropped back to the paper. ‘It’s a real tragedy,’ he said. ‘She was a super kid.’

  The woman regarded him with steady eyes he met but couldn’t read. He smiled at her.

  ‘Why don’t you call your wife and ask her?’

  Another sigh. ‘Phone was destroyed yesterday. Chimney fell through the roof. Huge mess.’ He turned and gestured with a vague arm. ‘We live just down the road.’

  ‘Lots of chimneys down around here. Seems the worst of the damage though, for most of us in this neighbourhood anyway.’

  He nodded along as though fascinated while his fingers twitched, wanting to delve back into his pocket and stroke the ribbon again. The smile on his face made his muscles ache.

  ‘So do you know which street number she is?’ He made a show of checking his watch. ‘I'm supposed to pick Zoe up in five minutes.’

  Behind him the door opened and closed, the bell above it rattling. But the woman just stared at him, then turned, stuck her head through the door behind her and yelled.

  ‘Pat, you know this fella?’

  The muscles in Danny’s neck and shoulders loosened, just like that. Pat, he knew. Chewed the fat with her many times as she slipped Rose a lollypop or piece of liquorice.

  Pat rolled through the doorway, blinked at him, then gave him a wide smile.

  ‘You’re looking a bit rough around the edges, Danny,’ she said.

  ‘It’s been that sort of couple days, Pat.’ He gathered up his pie and Coke and chocolate.

  ‘Your family come through all right?’

  He nodded. ‘We’ve been over in Lyttelton with Zoe’s family. Rose is still there. I'm going to pick Zoe up from Jeanette Woolsley’s house and then we’re going to take a look at what sort of state our place is in.’ He shook his head as though at the seriousness of the task ahead. ‘But I’ve forgotten the address Zoe gave me. For Jeanette.’

  ‘It’s a bad thing, that.’ Pat’s head wobbled on its thick neck. ‘Everything’s turned very dark in our city.’

  ‘It certainly has,’ Danny said, not having to feign the sigh.

  ‘Your Zoe know Jeanette?’

  ‘We both do. The kids used to play together. We’re all really cut up about it.’

  Pat picked up a strip of raspberry liquorice and folded it into a small paper bag. ‘For wee Rose,’ she said. ‘Jeanette’s in the block of flats on Larkspur Street. Number 21, I think but I'm not entirely sure of that.’

  Danny took the bag of liquorice and nodded, flicking the other woman a glance. ‘Thanks a bunch, Pat. Glad to see you made it through the quake yesterday.’

  He got a nod in reply. ‘And may God rest the poor souls of those who didn’t.’

  Lifting a hand in acknowledgement, he kept his eyes sad until he was out on the footpath again, staring around for a street sign.

  It would only take a minute to find Larkspur Street and then he’d pay Jeanette a visit. Maybe they’d even take a ride together. That might be just the ticket.

  Mentally, he thanked the big Scottish woman and took a bite of the liquorice, sauntering back to the car.

  Things were turning out just fine.

  54

  It was the dude from the photograph, Tracey recognised him as soon as she saw him. Squinting from the corner of her eye, she watched him open the door to the big refrigerator and take out a bottle of Coke. Just one of the small ones, which cost almost twice as much as the 1.5 litre bottles, which was something that Tracey never understood. Why would you buy a small one that cost twice as much when you could have it the other way around?

  But anyway, that was beside the point and may in fact have something to do with why she’d been feeling so bad before he came in. Glancing back at the magazine cover she’d been staring at, she scowled, and one hand went surreptitiously to her waist to pinch at the fold of fat there. She’d not managed to get rid of the baby weight, not all of it, even though by all rights she should have, pushing the kid all around the city the way she did. Walking and taking the bus, that should have kept her fit, some compensation for not being able to afford a car, but nope, it sure as heck hadn’t worked out that way.

  George reached out from his seat in his pushchair and tried to grab one of the colourful kid’s mags they kept on the bottom shelf so just that sort of thing would happen. She snatched his hand away before he could s
mear his sticky fingers over the cover and force her to shell out good money for something the little bugger couldn’t even read. She picked up Bert, his monkey, and gave him that instead.

  Then went back to watching the man who had killed her best friend’s little girl.

  It had been an awful thing that, and she wished like hell there was something she could do. The police weren’t really doing the job properly, was the problem. Though, she decided, credit where credit was due, they did now have their hands full right at the moment since the city had decided to fall down around everyone’s ears. She’d been pretty lucky, the block of council flats where she and Jeanette each had a place hadn’t suffered much more than a good shaking. Stuff all over the kitchen floor and all her DVD’s fallen off the shelves where she kept them, but lucky for her she’d been to the hardware shop when she bought the new TV and got one of those gadgets to bolt it to the wall. It made it through without a scratch.

  She should make a citizen’s arrest, that was what she should do. Except then what? She couldn’t stick him in the pushchair with George and drag him down to the police station, his hands tied with clothesline or something. She was being stupid.

  And she wasn’t stupid. Standing straighter, she left the magazines without another glance and gripped the pushchair handles so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  Looking as casual as she could, she followed the guy the length of the shop, watched him pick out a steak pie from the oven then she pretended to be debating over whether to buy a Snickers bar or Cadbury’s Caramello, so he wouldn’t be suspicious. Although it wasn’t a debate really, the Caramello was the best. She could make one of the small bars last almost a whole episode of The Walking Dead, letting it melt in her mouth, the sweetness slipping down her throat like something from some song they played on the radio.