The Girl Remains (Detective Corban)

by Katherine Firkin

  ‘Who knows?’ Flynn brushed the concern off. ‘The point is that he did keep it on him. Dumb mistake on his part.’

  Lanh shook his head. ‘This is the same guy who’s managed to avoid prosecution for more than two decades? Despite being under constant surveillance? That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Everyone slips up at one point or another. It had to happen eventually. Anyway, there’s something else.’ Flynn flipped his notepad open.

  Emmett was grateful for his colleague’s steady hand. The detective had clearly been busy the last couple of days, while he and Bianca had been knee-deep in small town drama and Lanh had been running around reading meters. It was comforting to know things hadn’t been left to fall through the gaps.

  ‘The death of Daphne Innisberg . . .’

  Oh yeah, that.

  In the fallout of Warren’s sudden arrest, and now the bizarre attack on Tobias Haigh, Emmett had almost forgotten about the disturbing death of the late-Reverend’s wife.

  ‘You won’t believe who made the initial call to emergency services,’ Flynn teased, a wry smile on his lips.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Leicester Reyes.’

  ‘What?’ Emmett looked to Bianca, but his colleague was staring forward vacantly in bewilderment.

  ‘Yep. He was the one who found her and put in the call to triple zero. What are the chances?’

  Emmett frowned. What were the chances indeed? There was something increasingly unsettling about this case, as though everyone was tangled together, their relationships more entwined than any of them liked to admit.

  ‘Can we get him in?’

  ‘Already sorted. He’ll pop by sometime this afternoon. From our brief phone conversation, he was simply going for a walk along the dunes when he came across the body – not much to it. But it can’t hurt to get an official report on file. Then of course we’ll need to wait on the autopsy results, but at this stage it’s still looking like suicide.

  ‘Alright.’ Emmett opened to a blank page and began scribbling. ‘And what about the attack on Tobias Haigh? Connected to our case, or not?’

  Bianca shifted forward. ‘That’s what I keep asking myself, too. But it can’t be directly connected, can it? The constable wasn’t even working on the investigation, and Warren was already in police custody.’

  ‘Haigh did seem keen to be involved.’ Emmett scribbled a giant question mark on the page. ‘Let’s get a full background check on the officer, make sure there’s nothing obvious we’re missing. What we really need is for him to wake up and tell us what happened.’

  ‘How’s he looking?’ Bianca twisted her face, as though dreading the answer.

  ‘Fifty-fifty was the last I heard from Brabham. Poor kid.’

  His colleagues murmured in agreement.

  ‘But what else could it have been?’ Flynn jumped in again. ‘It couldn’t have been a straight-up robbery. The police were all over that place, and anyone watching the house wouldn’t have been dumb enough to take the risk. And what would they have stolen, anyway? Most of his stuff had just been lugged out in paper bags.’

  ‘Unless it was the person who planted the sock in Warren’s laundry,’ Lanh snarled, bitterly. ‘They could have been returning to check their item had been spotted by police? Or maybe leaving more evidence?’

  Emmett watched the outburst with interest. His partner had been particularly snippy since taking on the undercover operation. And quiet. Very quiet.

  ‘All okay?’ he asked once the others had returned to chatting among themselves.

  Lanh frowned. ‘I think we’re on the wrong track.’

  ‘Wrong track? In what way?’

  ‘With Warren Turton. I don’t think he’s a killer.’

  Emmett hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. It wasn’t uncommon for undercover agents to become sympathetic towards their targets, but Lanh had only been tagging him for such a short time – he couldn’t have had time to get to know him that well. ‘He’s a very good liar. You have to remember that. He’s had years of justifying his own behaviour to himself; it’s not surprising he’s a master at convincing others of his innocence, too.’

  Lanh looked exasperated. ‘Or maybe the answer is simpler than that. Maybe the reason nobody’s been able to pin this crime on him is because he didn’t do it? Even now, the only way you can get a case against him is by lining up a whole lot of tenuous claims and presenting it as one big file. Doesn’t it bother you that none of the evidence stacks up on its own?’

  Emmett considered this. ‘Would you say you formed a good bond with him during your operation?’

  ‘Pretty good, but I would have liked longer.’

  ‘Alright then,’ Emmett nodded. ‘When we resume the interview after lunch, I want you to come back in there with me.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  She’d spent the morning in the house on her own, declining Leicester’s offer to join him in his rickety old tinnie at the pier.

  ‘You’ll be here when I get back, though?’ His eyes had been hopeful. ‘With any luck, I’ll cook us a snapper for lunch.’

  Scarlett had feigned excitement at the prospect of picking over the dead carcass of an animal, not having the heart to tell him she was actually a vegetarian, and that the very idea of going out to hunt animals for fun made her physically ill.

  Still, it was the first Saturday she could remember in a long time that she wasn’t stuck at an auction, or at least an open house, and she’d indulged in lounging about, welcoming the change of pace. But now she was restless. And anxious.

  I need to get out.

  She found the spare keys on the hook by the back door, taking just a jumper with her in case the weather turned.

  Her intention was to take a brisk walk around the block, but the first thing she saw was the police car on the hill and intrigue got the better of her. Scarlett headed right, up the steep slope, to the house she remembered stalking past as a kid.

  She was surprised to find quite a bit of activity at the decrepit house: two patrol cars in the driveway, plain-clothes officers milling about, and what appeared to be some type of forensic analyst taking photographs. She watched a while, before moving on.

  How sickening to think that it had been him all along. She meandered to the other end of Koonya Avenue, the crunch of gravel under her feet surprisingly comforting.

  It might offer some closure for her parents, too. The cold words of Gina Harper rang in her ears.

  Scarlett felt a flush of embarrassment, thinking of how she’d charged into the doctor’s office, demanding to know why Gina had spoken to police. But didn’t she have a right to be worried? She squeezed her fists as her pace increased.

  Her former friend was the only person who knew of her guilt on that night – knew it was her who’d supplied the drugs, and her who Cecilia had argued with . . .

  She stopped. Aware of something nagging at her.

  It wasn’t like Gina wasn’t without secrets, she realised, her feet finding their rhythm again. For all these years, they’d been telling the same story: that the girls had become lost and had re-met at Koonya Avenue, spending the next hours frantically searching for their missing friend. But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? Scarlett tried searching the depths of her memory, seeking a spark of certainty in the hazy night that had been rehashed again and again.

  No. She came to the end of the road, lifting an overhanging branch and venturing off into the bushes – the path the girls had so often walked. In truth, she’d been alone when she’d phoned her dad for help, and she’d been alone with him in those first terrifying minutes, as the seriousness of the situation had taken hold. In fact, it’d only been after her dad had torn off in his car, to look for Cecilia, that Gypsy had appeared at the house.

  So where had she been during those crucial missing minutes?

  Scarlett frowned, wishing she could think more clearly. Was it the drugs and alcohol that made her memories of that night so blurry? Or
was it the trauma? Had she subconsciously blocked parts out, parts that were too difficult to process?

  The path became harder to navigate, the ground a mixture of sand and stones and leaves, and Scarlett had to concentrate on her footing, the experience oddly cathartic as she retraced the steps she’d taken all those years ago.

  For most of the trail, she was swallowed up by walls of tea-tree, but every so often a gap in the shrubbery provided glimpses of rolling dunes, jagged rocks and ocean. It was in one of these moments that she paused, staring out to the horizon beyond.

  She pictured Cecilia’s final moments, how terrified her friend must have been as she’d charged along this path.

  A violent queasiness took hold, and Scarlett moved to higher ground, ignoring the small sign that directed hikers to the Koonya Ocean Beach lookout, and finding a forked tree to lean on. The forked tree. She ran her fingers over the white trunk, peeling at a papery layer of its bark and holding the tissue up to the sky. Translucent.

  She moved further into the bushes, pushing her way through overgrown banksia, until she found it. Incredible. She shivered. She’d almost decided that this place didn’t exist, that it was a shared story they’d imagined and held onto. But here she was, back at The Devil’s Landing.

  Stepping forward, she remembered where their ring of rocks had been, now just an unremarkable patch of dirt. She looked to the trees, but there was nothing left of the pentagons they’d tied from the lower branches, or the carvings so carefully etched into each trunk.

  All erased now.

  She sighed, becoming calm. Why was she still tormenting herself? A nervous laugh escaped her lips.

  As her dad had said, it was over.

  The look on Warren Turton’s face could not have been less welcoming as Emmett returned to the interview room, but the sneer dropped the instant his eyes landed on Lanh.

  ‘Weasel,’ he mumbled.

  The young detective didn’t respond, sitting himself down and then putting his hands flat on the table.

  Emmett noticed that he hadn’t brought notes, or even a pen.

  ‘Think you’re pretty smart, hey?’ The former teacher tried again, his tongue licking unattractively at a corner of his mouth.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ Emmett leant back in his chair, glancing to the one-sided mirror behind which he knew Bianca and Flynn to be watching, ‘this man’s your best bet at getting out of here. For some reason, unbeknownst to the rest of us, he seems to think you’re innocent.’

  ‘I see. So now you’re playing the old “good cop, bad cop” routine?’ Warren shook his head. ‘You lot clearly think I’m a moron.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Lanh’s plummy voice caused their suspect to startle. ‘The one thing I think we all agree on is that you’re not an idiot – far from it, in fact. What we can’t decide, is whether you’re the conniving criminal the town locals think you are, or an unlucky, slightly pathetic former teacher.’

  Warren’s hands clenched. His nostrils flared.

  ‘That hurts you, doesn’t it?’ Lanh continued. ‘Having lost your career, your reputation in the community?’

  ‘My reputation?’ Warren snorted. ‘I’m the town pariah. And I don’t give a flying fuck.’

  ‘I think you do.’ Lanh smiled sympathetically. ‘I think you can’t stand the way people look at you, hate the distance you have to keep, the isolation. Do you know I was in contact with Jessie recently and he said he missed you? He actually asked if I could put you two back in touch?’

  Emmett shifted forward, anxious. His colleague was walking a dangerous line, almost inciting a known sex predator to reconnect with his victim.

  Warren wiggled in his seat, but said nothing.

  ‘That must tear you apart – knowing that the boy you loved – the man, now – wants the same thing as you.’

  The fists on the table unfurled, fingernails scratching into the lacquered surface.

  Lanh continued. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Mr Turton. I think you’re telling the truth. Well, bits of truth. Cecilia’s clothes weren’t left at Dogs Head by you, were they? But someone wanted to leave a trail that would lead back to your house. How does that sound? Am I getting close?’

  Emmett watched with interest as the man’s chest heaved, his lips parting and then closing again.

  ‘But what confuses me is the witness sighting of you at Dogs Head. Were you there, moving a dead girl’s remains around? Or did she mistake you for someone else? And why was Cecilia May in your car the morning of the day she vanished? What exactly was your relationship with her?’

  Warren stared at Lanh; his eyes were cutting through him, but his head was shaking side-to-side, almost involuntarily.

  Emmett was impressed. For all his flaws, his junior partner was getting to this man.

  ‘You know, I really do find this whole case incredibly sad. Whoever attacked Cecilia May that night, on the 22nd of September, all the way back in 1998, didn’t just take her life, did they? They also, perhaps inadvertently, took yours.’

  A sharp scratching sounded, as Warren moved back in his chair. He crossed and then uncrossed his legs. Flustered. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m almost there, though, aren’t I?’ Lanh insisted. ‘And you want to know the saddest part? Now another victim’s life has been taken. Have you heard?’

  Warren’s expression was blank. ‘Another victim? Who?’

  Lanh paused. ‘I’m talking about Robert’s wife.’

  ‘Daphne?’ He lurched forward with a jolt.

  ‘That’s right. Daphne Innisberg. It’s awful, really. So tragic.’

  ‘You’re lying. What do you mean?’ Warren darted a look between the detectives. ‘What’s happened to her? Has someone hurt her?’

  Emmett resisted the urge to clap. His colleague had done a stellar job, the man on the other side of the table utterly flummoxed. ‘She’s dead, Mr Turton.’ He answered on Lanh’s behalf.

  The silence was intense. Heavy. Almost unbearable.

  Warren’s chin wobbled. His hands returned to their clenched state.

  ‘Dead? Someone got to her, too?’

  ‘We think she may have taken her own life,’ Lanh said softly.

  Warren shook his head. ‘No. That’s not my fault. I didn’t do it, alright? I never touched that girl.’

  ‘So tell us what really happened.’ Lanh paused. ‘Everything’s coming out now, anyway – there’s nothing left to hide. Tell us what actually happened on the night of the 22nd. If not for yourself, then for Robert.’

  A sharp inhale. A glare towards Emmett.

  ‘I never had Cecilia’s clothes, okay? But I know who did,’ he stopped, licking his lips. ‘Robert had a box of them in his study.’

  What? Emmett forced himself to keep quiet.

  ‘It started with the letters, you see. Threatening letters. They came to my place after Cecilia’s disappearance. They were like you see in the movies, with words cut out of magazines and stuck to a page. They said I was guilty, and that I had to confess to the crime or else the people I loved would get hurt.’ Warren hesitated, scratching at his left arm aggressively. ‘I ignored them at first, but then the box turned up at the church and I knew I had to confess.’

  ‘A box with Cecilia’s clothes in it?’ Lanh asked, gently.

  ‘Yep. They were in a cardboard box with Robert’s name scribbled on top, and one of those letters inside. Rob rang me in such a state. He was hysterical. It wasn’t his fault, any of what had happened, and I wanted to keep him out of it, so I confessed.’

  ‘When you say it wasn’t his fault . . .?’ Emmett pressed, hesitant to interrupt Warren’s stream of consciousness.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Warren’s face, and for a moment it looked like he was set to withdraw again. Instead, he sighed, waving his hands as though what he was about to say could happen to anyone. ‘She ended up in my boot. That’s why I burnt the car.’

  ‘Cecilia was in your boot?’ L
anh was unable to keep the shock from his voice. ‘Dead? Or alive?’

  ‘Dead, of course. I told you, I didn’t kill her.’

  Neither detective spoke.

  Eventually, Warren shrugged. ‘It was on the Saturday, a few days after she disappeared. I was driving along St Johns Wood Road with a coffee and this novel Rob had recommended to me. I’d planned on spending the morning reading at one of the lookouts, but then I hit this bump and the boot sprang open.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ Lanh asked.

  Warren shook his head, as though still in disbelief. ‘I pulled over straight away, of course, and walked around to check why it had opened like that. And then . . . there she was.’ He placed a hand over his mouth, his body hunching forward like he was about to vomit. ‘Naked and all curled up. This young girl. Dead. In my car.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It had been easy to psych herself up in the safety of her own space, but Pippa’s confidence wavered the moment she stepped outside. What if the police were looking for her? What if someone had seen her leaving Warren Turton’s place?

  Her fears increased with every step towards the base of the hill. Just keep going. Don’t look too far ahead. Act normal.

  She moved quickly to the house she knew as Leicester’s, disappointed to see the fancy car she’d noticed yesterday still partly blocking access to the driveway. Her eyes landed on the metal gate, left open, just a little. Perhaps the visitor had left?

  Crossing her fingers, she tiptoed forward, scanning the front window for any clues. She desperately hoped the woman she’d seen there yesterday had gone.

  Front door? Back door? Neither?

  Pippa took the side path, poking her head into the rear garden as she’d done the day before. No one was around.

  ‘Hello?’ she called timidly, still entirely unsure how to announce herself.

  A rattle from somewhere inside. She forced herself forward.