Laughing, she hopped out and hoisted her backpack full of camera gear onto one shoulder. Not quite the stealth operation she’d been expecting, but a success nonetheless.
As she crossed the road and joined the group, she noticed Stacey throw a hand on one hip, looking her up and down. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Cindy.’
‘Cool. So this is my photographer Cindy, and Cindy . . .’ Stacey turned back to the elderly couple standing in the doorway, ‘this is Angus and Ebony May.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The psychological report on Warren Turton was as worrying as it was depressing, and Emmett felt almost sorry for the insipid man, who’d been assessed as suffering from social anxiety and low self-esteem. He reports regular feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, complicated by extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation.
There was also his reported obsession with a need to be understood, and an unwillingness to consider his actions and desires as being outside of acceptable norms.
Emmett scanned through the document, which was the result of several meetings between a clinical psychologist and Mr Turton, conducted sometime after his arrest in 1998.
What made him kill? He read and re-read lines.
It wasn’t unusual for sex offenders to escalate their predatory behaviour, but what had happened between him and Cecilia May? Had she threatened to report him? Rejected his advances?
A thump on his office window interrupted his thoughts.
Not now. Emmett felt himself sink as the door swung open.
‘Got a moment?’ Calvin barged in, a huge grin across his face. ‘I have news.’
‘You got onto forensics?’
‘Sure did. And a good thing too – Marie had just finished her report, so I asked her to send it over straight away.’
‘And?’
Calvin dragged a chair from the side of the room and joined him at his desk. ‘The bones are Cecilia May – the DNA results are conclusive.’
Thank heavens. Emmett breathed out. At least he hadn’t been wrong about that.
‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing to indicate how she died – no obvious trauma patterns or damage that gives us any clues. The skeletal analysis suggests the bones have weathered due to environmental factors only. But here comes the fun part—’
Emmett felt his stomach knot.
‘Marie says she was surprised there were no rodent markings on the bones – nothing to suggest an animal had discovered the remains, which was odd, given the location of the gravesite.’ Calvin’s cheeks rounded. ‘So she went back through the forensic photos from the day of the excavation, and that’s when she noticed the arrangement of the bones wasn’t right.’
‘What?’
‘The bones were out of order – so to speak.’
‘Someone’s moved them,’ Emmett whispered.
‘Bingo. They were jumbled together in a way that wouldn’t have happened during natural decomposition. Her only conclusion was that the bones had been recently relocated from another site.’
‘Jesus.’
‘And there’s more . . . Testing of the bones found soil samples and confirmed trace evidence of a foreign substance – ammonium nitrate, to be precise.’
‘Commonly used in fertiliser,’ Emmett murmured, shifting back in his seat and closing his eyes briefly as he let the information soak in. ‘Let me get this straight.’ He sat back upright. ‘Someone knew where Cecilia’s body was being kept this entire time, and for some bizarre reason, they’ve suddenly decided to move her remains to a gravesite by the beach.’
‘Seems that way.’
‘Why on earth would anyone bother? Presuming it’s the killer who’s moved the bones, why not just let things be? The case had gone cold.’
‘Beats me. Maybe they were worried the bones were about to be discovered? Perhaps the original hiding spot might have become exposed? Or they wanted to clear their conscience?’
Emmett looked down at the psychological report.
. . . difficulty forming healthy adult relationships . . . misplaced sense of entitlement . . .
His mouth turned dry. ‘Or they panicked because their only alibi had just died.’
The ocean was relatively still that afternoon, and Leicester stood on the top of a cluster of limestone rocks, watching as wave after wave rolled in to the shore. What he wouldn’t give to be taking the tinnie out that evening, a couple of stubbies in the Esky and nothing but the occasional tug of a fishing line to signal company. Heaven.
But he couldn’t rest, not now, now that there was a chance to close this case once and for all. He turned and stepped back down to the moist sand below.
To the right, Koonya Ocean Beach weaved around to meet the formation of rocks known as Dogs Head – a formidable cliff face that was inaccessible from the sand. That’s where they’d found Cecilia.
He stared at the tip of the jagged point, which plunged straight down into the ocean. Whoever had left her body there must have known the area well – known how little foot traffic there was, and how unlikely the chance of someone stumbling across the gruesome find. Bastard. Warren appeared in his mind, the weak smile that so often smarmed across his stupid face.
Leicester puffed his chest out, marching back up the wooden staircase to meet the foreshore walk, the only trail that provided access along the dunes. Further ahead, a team of parks workers were surveying the area, buzzing about collecting soil and plant samples.
‘Nice day for it.’ He forced himself to smile at the group.
There was nothing worse than sanctimonious environmentalists, but there was no denying the erosion he’d witnessed along the coast over the years, the once wide beaches of the peninsula often little more than a sliver of sand during high tide. Hopefully they were putting their efforts towards fixing that, and not wasting time campaigning for an endangered soil worm or something equally useless.
‘Actually,’ he stopped, turning back to one of the men, ‘have you seen much activity around Dogs Head recently? I’m hoping someone might have seen this man?’ He enlarged the photo on his phone, allowing the handset to be passed around the dazed and seemingly uninspired team.
The vacant expressions indicated he was out of luck.
‘This is our first day at this site; we spent the last week working in Rye,’ a young guy explained.
Leicester snatched his phone back. Useless bloody greenies.
At the bend, a sign told him to continue on to St Paul’s Lookout, a popular spot that offered views over the Bay of Islands. Instead, he stepped off the path, moving slowly forward as the rocky ground became increasingly perilous.
Here we are. He recognised the landscape from the photos Greg had shown him – his mate from the Sorrento station only too happy to talk shop when they’d met up on Saturday night.
Can’t be far off. He prodded around, poking his toe into various gaps between rocks. This looks like it.
With his eyes glued to the ground, he didn’t notice the slim figure clambering over limestone towards him, until it was too late.
‘Ow!’ the high-pitched voice squealed.
Leicester instinctively reached out a hand, steadying the young woman as she fell forward.
‘Sorry, sweetie. You right?’ He stopped, watching her brush dark hair away from her soulful brown eyes. His breath caught. A ghost.
‘I got lost,’ the woman stammered, alternating between rubbing a knee and fiddling at locks of wavy hair. ‘Thought you could get to the beach from here.’
Leicester breathed out, his pulse slowing. He didn’t know this woman after all; she just looked very, very familiar. ‘An easy mistake to make,’ he smiled. ‘But you should be careful ’round these parts. I wouldn’t be wandering this area on my own if I were you. Bit of a nasty business happened here not too long ago.’
The woman blinked several times. ‘I had no idea. Thanks for warning me.’
She took off, leaving Leicester to watch her silhouette disappear u
p and over the dunes. He twisted his mouth as he looked to the now empty trail above him. It was crazy how much she reminded him of the young woman that he used to know.
Not important, he decided, as he returned to the crevice he’d just found, big enough to conceal a human skeleton. Leicester opened his phone, comparing the photos of the scene to his own vista. He was in the right place.
‘Now to see what the bigwigs missed,’ he muttered, standing back and surveying the site.
With the gravesite located, his next tedious job involved searching the surrounding area, looking for anything that might put Warren Turton at the scene.
Years of tracking the slimy creep gave him the confidence to know he would have been back there on more than one occasion – unable to resist a sticky beak at his handiwork.
Come on, you bastard. Leicester paced ten steps to the left, measuring out a small search area to begin with. I know you’ve been here. What have you left for me?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I appreciate your fast work on this.’ Emmett nodded to his team, who were back in the boardroom, at least partly enticed by the lure of afternoon tea. ‘Now that we have a confirmed ID, we’ll need to make a public appeal – first thing tomorrow morning. So let’s go over the new information.’
He opened a folder on his laptop, the image of a long white bone appearing large on the screen behind him.
‘This is the left tibia. As you’ll notice, there’s a shallow groove about midway along. It’s impossible to say what caused the damage, but the forensic anthropologist believes it’s a new injury, produced by some sort of blunt instrument – perhaps used during the relocation of the bones. Aside from the orthopaedic implant in the right knee, which we knew about, this is the only other notable mark on the skeleton that she could find.’
‘The remains seem generally well preserved,’ Bianca noted, flipping the stapled handout in front of her. ‘Where do we think they were being kept?’
‘The ammonium nitrate would suggest somewhere outdoors, buried in a garden or somewhere with direct contact to fertiliser – but our killer hasn’t left many clues.’
‘The soil samples that were found on the remains – they were foreign to the area?’ Bianca asked.
‘Yes, there were foreign samples detected. Now, if we presume the remains were recently relocated, there’s a good chance someone has seen our killer around the area over the past few weeks. I’d like to get a team out door-knocking this evening – I’ll coordinate that through the local station.’
‘There are no security cameras we can try?’ Lanh asked.
‘I suppose some of the newer homes might have cameras installed, but it’s unlikely they’ve managed to capture anything. As you’ve seen for yourselves, the entire back beach area is isolated, and set well away from any streets. There’s no reason our killer would have needed to traipse in front of properties to get there – especially if they knew what they were doing.’
‘So if we think the skeleton was recently moved to the cliff site, what about the bones that were found down on the sand?’ Lanh frowned. ‘How do we think they got there? Deliberately planted?’
‘Not sure.’ Emmett stopped himself from taking another pastry from the plate in front of him. His stomach growled in displeasure. ‘There was a huge storm the night before the discovery on the beach, so my guess is that they were dislodged by the weather. But I suppose someone could have wanted us to find them – seems a risky way to do it though.’
‘The tide would have swallowed them up if those kids hadn’t found them,’ Bianca murmured in agreement.
‘And what else?’ Emmett clapped his hands, looking around at the slowly fading faces. ‘Ambers?’
‘Those four calls made to Cecilia’s parents have been extensively probed during previous investigations,’ Flynn answered, looking somewhat disheartened. ‘The calls were made at 6.02, 6.03, 6.06 and 6.10, and all were made from the landline at the Koonya Avenue address belonging to Leicester Reyes. When questioned, neither Scarlett nor Gypsy – sorry, Gina – remembered making the calls or seeing Cecilia make them. Leicester himself has also given statements in which he’s adamant he knew nothing about them. Where that leaves us, I’m not entirely sure. But from all accounts, no one else, aside from the three girls and the sergeant, were in the property at the time, so for now we can presume it was Cecilia who rang home.’
‘They could be absolutely irrelevant.’ Emmett scratched the back of his head. ‘Or they could signal something darker – that Cecilia wasn’t happy, perhaps she was even scared about something.’
‘I did try to get onto Leicester today, just to see if he had anything further to add on the subject,’ Flynn continued. ‘But he wasn’t answering his home phone, nor his mobile.’
‘That’s okay, we’ll stay on it. Detective Tardio, anything more on Robert Innisberg?’
‘Shit.’ Bianca seemed to have completely missed the question, instead staring at her mobile, her jaw agape.
What now? Emmett’s hands turned clammy. Whatever she’d discovered, it couldn’t be good. It took more than a minor inconvenience to startle the unflappable Bianca Tardio.
‘Shit,’ she muttered again, resting her elbow on the table and lowering her head to her palm. When she finally looked up, her eyes were wide. ‘Did you tell Cecilia’s parents to speak to the media?’
Emmett’s stomach dropped. ‘What? No. Of course not.’
‘Did you tell them not to talk to the media?’
‘Give me that.’ He gestured to her phone, which she sent sliding across the table.
They’ve found our little girl, now we want answers: parents’ desperate plea after beach bones confirmed as missing Blairgowrie teen Cecilia May.
Emmett stared at the headline, scrolling down the news article in disbelief.
‘Why the hell would they do this?’ He continued scanning the words, which were accompanied by photographs of the forlorn parents sitting at the same dining table he’d been at only days earlier.
A breakout quote was attributed to Angus May: The police have done their best, but it’s not enough. We need answers, justice for our little girl. Someone out there knows something. Please. Have some decency and help us end this nightmare.
Emmett shook his head, completely blindsided.
‘I spoke to them just this morning. Why wouldn’t they consult me before something like this?’
‘Well, they’ve screwed up any chance of shocking our killer into action,’ Flynn grumbled. ‘We don’t even have the surveillance in place on Warren Turton yet, do we?’
‘The warrant’s not through. I can probably get an emergency application in tonight, but we might have missed our window now anyway.’
A sharp rap at the door sounded. ‘Detective Corban?’
Emmett motioned for the station secretary to come in. ‘Let me guess, the superintendent?’
‘He’d like to see you.’
Bugger. Emmett flicked Bianca’s phone back across the table and grabbed his notepad.
‘Do you want backup?’ the homicide detective asked gently.
‘No. You stay here.’ Emmett trudged to the doorway, where he stopped and turned back to his team. ‘And maybe use the time to flip a coin or something. One of you will need to run this shit-show once I’ve been given the boot.’
The bicycle screeched to a halt as he pulled up at the edge of the property. Wobbling, Warren used a fence pole to balance, his left leg bearing most of the weight on the ground. Squinting into the slowly setting sun, he assessed the grounds: the wide lawn was not at all ideal for this sort of job; neither were the reflective front windows, which made it impossible to see inside.
He checked his list again. It was definitely the right place.
Leaving the bike, he walked to the driveway. A small utility vehicle was in the carport, but that didn’t necessarily mean anyone was home. He took several cautious steps forward.
‘Good afternoon,’ he called out, a sharp pan
g hitting his chest as he did so. Good afternoon, Mr Turton, the chorus of students chanted back in his mind. He squeezed his fists.
The gas meter wasn’t visible in the front yard, which meant it was probably hidden down the side of the property – odd for a house that looked so new. Warren pulled out his phone and opened his work app, wondering if he should take the easy option and cancel the job. The gas company allowed you to select from several options: dog at property or locked gate, were the easiest ways to skip a house and move on, but then you didn’t get paid.
He hesitated, before deciding to just get on with it.
Walking briskly across the lawn, he avoided his own reflection in the front windows and ducked down the side deck, relieved to see the familiar, ugly shape of the gas meter up against a brick fence. Crouching, he turned the main valve off, disconnecting the supply before opening the tap and inserting a small rubber plug. Done.
He stood up, fiddling with his phone to record the job on the app.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Warren spun around, horrified to find a brawny man charging towards him.
‘Who do you think you are, sneaking around and trespassing on other people’s property? I’ve got a good mind to—’ The man stopped, his eyes narrowing. ‘Hang on . . . I know you.’
‘I’m here on behalf of Momentum Gas. Are you the home owner?’ Warren nervously recited the internalised script, the one he was supposed to use at every job, but rarely did.
‘I know you,’ the man repeated, stepping closer.
Warren finally allowed himself to lift his gaze, up from the man’s heavy work boots, the garden overalls complete with utility belt, to the unshaven, angry face.
‘It appears your gas account hasn’t been paid for quite some time? We have a range of payment plans—’
‘You fucking dog.’ The man lunged at him, grabbing the base of his neck and slamming him into the brick fence.
Warren gagged. Was it possible to suffocate on your own tongue?
‘You’re scum, you know that?’
The Girl Remains (Detective Corban) Page 12