Detective Kouros’s eyes grew large, and he breathed out a whistle. “Jesus.”
The other detective had a different reaction. She tilted her head, her eyes sharpening. As sharp as the blade that Rodney had come at her with. “You say you got the knife? But your wrists were tied?”
Gemma put her wrists together then rotated them in opposite directions, like a bird’s wings outstretched. She made a grasping motion with her right hand. “Like this.”
Detective McKay made an affirmative sound under her breath. “Thank you. That makes it clearer. What was the next thing that happened, after Rodney was stabbed?”
“He was shocked,” Gemma answered. “He went away, swearing his head off. Maybe to check how bad the wound was. I don’t know. I cut the string around Hayley’s wrists with the knife, and then she cut mine off.”
“You’re doing well,” said Megan in a tone that was as persuasive as it was gentle. Megan was on the same side as the detectives. This was just a job to them. None of them would ever know what it was like. To them, it would only ever just be a story.
Gemma still had her hands in the shape of a bird in flight. She wished she could fly out of there. Instead, she twisted her fingers around and threaded them together, locking them tight.
“Hayley opened her door, and we got out that way,” Gemma said. She could picture Hayley’s terrified face, darkly illuminated by the faint glow coming from the headlights. “Rodney must have heard the car door. He came out of nowhere. We ran off. He chased us onto the road. A tanker came over the hill. We thought we were saved. But then the guy crashed the tanker, and it went boom.” She could taste the acrid smoke and feel the burning sting in her eyes. “The driver was able to crawl out. Rodney attacked him. They wrestled for a few minutes, and then Rodney ended up getting too close to the flames.”
Closing her eyes, Gemma breathed easier now. That was the best part of the story. The part where Rodney got what he deserved.
The psychologist and detectives sat in silence for a time. They already knew parts of the story, but it was obvious to Gemma they hadn’t heard all the things she'd told them right now. She wondered what Hayley had said.
Megan nodded at Gemma, her eyes wet. “Are you okay?”
A shudder passed through Gemma’s body. “I… can’t… talk anymore. I don’t—”
Detective McKay held up the palm of her hand, a warm smile briefly altering her serious expression. “That’s okay, Gemma. We can stop there with the details of that night. I just have a couple more questions on a different matter. I know that we already asked you these things, but we need to go over them again, just to be sure. Okay, so Hayley seems to think that you were both kept in a very cold place. Are you certain that you were never kept anywhere like that?”
Gemma shook her head. “I don’t know what she means. It was hot in the cage. It only cooled down during the night, but it was never cold.” She poured herself another drink of water from the jug on her bed stand. Rodney had never given them enough water—making them beg for the little he let them have each day. “Wait, he used to take Hayley away sometimes, into the house. Maybe he had an air-conditioned room in there. I don’t know. He never took me into the house.”
“Hmmm, okay,” said Detective McKay. “My second question is, are you certain about the time frame? Hayley thinks you were only kept at Rodney’s house for about a fortnight. But you told us that Rodney kept you and Hayley in the aviary cage for two-and-a-half months?”
“Yes. Give or take a few days,” Gemma told her.
“Can I ask how you knew that?” she said.
“Every morning when I would see sunlight coming through the gaps of the shed roof, I'd count off another day,” Gemma answered. “And I tried to keep track of the time—and days of the week—to see if there was some kind of pattern to when Rodney would come in and out. Because if he ever got sloppy and left the key somewhere we could reach it, I wanted to be ready. I wanted to know if he'd be out for the day and we could get away.”
Detective McKay studied her face for a moment before speaking again. She had an unnerving habit of doing that. “Thank you for telling us those things. It helps us understand things a bit better. Well, we’ll probably need to have one more chat before we reunite you with Hayley. You can see her sometime later today.”
Gemma tipped the glass of water on its side as she replaced it on the tray, her fingers fumbling as she grabbed it and stood it straight again. “Sure, that would be nice.”
Megan frowned. “Gemma? Is everything okay?”
Gemma swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. I’m okay.” She didn’t want to admit to them that she didn’t want to see Hayley—ever again. She wouldn’t tell that part of her story. Maybe Hayley did what she did just to get through. And if Hayley had forgotten everything, maybe that was a good thing for her sake. And for Gemma's sake. Because a Hayley who remembered everything could be dangerous.
5
Bronwen
Bronwen chewed on her lip in the hospital cafeteria. The pressing question of the moment wasn’t whether to go for the tuna or egg sandwich—neither of which appeared particularly appetising—but whether she could trust anything the two victims were telling her. The psych had managed to get more out of both of them than either her or Joe had, but their stories were still muddled, and she wasn’t sure she could put it all down to concussion and pain killers; some of it had to be manipulation and lies. But why? Why would either of these girls lie? What did they have to gain?
Rodney White fit the profile down to his pants size. They’d found the chains and the ropes in his car and at his dirty little house in Bowman’s Creek. Theoretically, this case should piece together perfectly, but these two girls were screwing everything up. She wasn’t even sure the girls had been with Rodney for the summer. Gemma claimed they were while Hayley claimed they were living the dream on a mango farm. If the girls couldn’t get their stories straight, she couldn’t close this case and sleep at night. What if there was more to it? What if there was an accomplice out there? She had to discover the truth.
There was definitely something not right about either girl’s story. Hayley was a fair-headed girl from England. How likely was it that a girl like that would have a bronzed tan after spending the summer kept in a cage by a psychopath? But at the same time, Hayley didn’t have any of the telltale signs of manual labour—like calluses on her hands—and her recollections were hazy at best. The truth had to be somewhere in between Hayley’s romantic summer on the farm, and Gemma’s torturous months in captivity.
She grabbed the tuna, took a coke, and carried her tray to the table where Megan and Joe already sat. The doctors were with Hayley and Gemma, and they had an officer watching the rooms. It was time for a much-needed lunch break, but Bronwen knew they wouldn’t be able to stop talking about the case.
“So, Hayley mentioned this ‘cold place’, which seemed a bit odd,” Megan started the conversation, jumping right in, just as Bronwen had thought.
Bronwen sighed. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to make of the two stories. You’ve spent some time with the girls. What do you reckon?”
Megan rubbed her temples and stared at the coffee cup on the table. “It’s not unusual for victims to remember things differently to how they really happened, due to the trauma of everything. And sometimes victims don’t tell the whole story because they feel shame. I mean, sometimes rape victims won’t talk about all of the things that are done to them because of that. Gemma was able to give us more detail about what happened at White’s, even though she seemed to be holding back some details. Whereas Hayley still seems to be suffering with memory loss. It’s possible that she’s created this happy summer at the farm as a way of blocking out what really happened to her. She certainly seems the less traumatised of the two, which could be some sort of defence mechanism. And if that is the case, it could be possible that this memory of the cold place really is some sort of nightmare. Perhaps it’s the buried trauma trying to
force its way out of her subconscious.”
That was an interesting take on the two stories. Bronwen hadn’t thought of the idea of Hayley’s idyllic mango farm being a way to psychologically cover up the shock of what she went through. “If it is because of the trauma, how long until Hayley starts to remember what really happened?” Bronwen asked, pulling the crust off her sandwich. It was soggy anyway.
“You can never tell with psychological issues,” Megan replied. “Some people never repair the broken aspect of their mind.”
“Shit,” Bronwen said.
“We can’t discount Hayley’s story about the cold place completely, though, right?” Joe added. “Because there really isn’t much else to go on.” He shrugged.
Bronwen had to agree. Rodney, their main suspect, was dead. The trucker was in a coma. The two main witnesses had wildly varying stories. They had to jump on whatever information they could get, and right now that meant checking out the mango farm, and actually putting some thought into the cold place. What could she mean by cold?
“What about an air-conditioned room of some sort?” Bronwen said.
Megan chewed on her bottom lip. “That could work, but it would need to be powerful. She seemed to actually grow colder just thinking about this place. She said it got into her bones and made her freezing.”
“Well, she’s a Brit,” Joe said. “Not used to an Australian summer. Going from the hot air outside into an air-conditioned room might be a shock.”
“That’s true,” Megan admitted. “Was there anywhere at White’s like this?”
Bronwen leaned back in her seat. She’d briefly been up to Rodney’s place to check the place over for more victims, and it hadn’t been somewhere she’d want to visit twice. It certainly hadn’t been air-conditioned. The place stank of stale odour, stifling and disgusting. The kind of smell you can taste. But had she missed something? “We’d have to check again.”
“A hidden room, you reckon?” Joe added.
“Stranger things have happened,” Bronwen admitted.
“I guess we're going back to White's then,” Joe said.
“Sounds good to me,” Bronwen replied, pushing away the half-finished sandwich and turning back to Megan. “We’ll be back to the hospital later.”
“What, now?” Joe complained. “I haven’t finished my burger yet.”
“Bring it with you.” Bronwen shook her head and walked away from the table with her coke.
On the way to White’s house of horrors, Bronwen watched with dismay as Joe dropped lettuce on the passenger seat of their unmarked police car, regretting her suggestion that he bring the burger with them. They’d been partners for three years, and during that time, she’d watched him drop bits out of any and every food item you could think of, from burgers and fries, to kebabs, to pastries, to ice cream; the man was a walking rubbish bin. It must take 3000 calories to fill him up. If he wasn’t working out every hour not on duty, he’d be bursting out of his clothes.
White’s place, on a small acreage about fifteen minutes out of Katherine, was dotted with junk, tree stumps, and broken, rusting vehicles.
Bronwen heard the raucous chatter of the birds before she even parked the car. So much for this being some sort of aviary—most of them were flapping around the place, completely free to roam wherever they felt like it. During the time it took her to get out of the car, one of them had already shit on the windscreen.
“Would you look at that?” she exclaimed gesturing at the white gloop spreading over the glass.
“The little bastard,” Joe said. “Hey, is anyone looking after these birds? Reckon we ought to find them new homes?”
“Never mind the birds, what about my car?” But as Bronwen locked up, her anger faded. “We’ll get one of the officers to find an animal shelter nearby.”
As Bronwen strode towards the run-down shithole of a house White lived in, Joe took his last bite of burger and followed her. Forensics was just finishing up on the place, packing their equipment into a van and removing their white cover suits. She hoped they’d found enough evidence to clear this case up, but Bronwen had a sneaking suspicion that there was more going on than what happened to the two girls. This was only the surface, and the more they scratched at it, the more dirt they’d find. And besides, they had a duty to keep scratching. This case had so many holes it could go in any direction, and she couldn’t stop wondering if White had an accomplice somewhere doing God knows what. If another girl out there ended up hurt because she hadn’t followed through on a lead, she wasn’t sure she could live with herself.
Bronwen nodded at the forensic team as she and Joe ducked beneath the police tape and made their way into the house. There was no need to go into the aviary again. Forensics had already been through, and there was little else in the outbuilding than bird shit. But if the house search proved fruitless, she would need to go back. Even the thought of it made her blood run cold. She remembered the sight of the cages, the smell of the place, the straw floor the girls slept on. She pulled on disposable gloves before touching anything. Even if forensics had finished for now, she didn’t want to leave any prints here.
Stepping into the dim light after suffering the bright, dry sun outside made Bronwen disorientated as she gingerly made her way through the entryway. White had lived in filth. Every window was painted over to block out the sun, and every pane was covered in grime. There was no high-powered air-conditioning here. The air was stale and hot. She made her way through the corridor, trying to ignore the stacks of old porno magazines and boxes of crap. Every time she moved another cloud of dust caught the back of her throat, and the place smelled of must and rot.
“Where are we even going to start?” Joe asked. “And what are we looking for?”
“Well,” Bronwen said, trying to think through what she knew so far. “We need air-conditioning units. We need to check the wall and roof cavities. Hey, Stevie, where you going, mate?”
The crime scene officer stood frozen in his white coveralls, between the cramped hall space and the door. “We’re just finishing up here—”
“Yeah, yeah. So, what have you got for us, Stevie? Any hidden rooms? Bodies in the walls?”
He shifted from one foot to the other, clearly impatient to finish up his job and get out. Bronwen couldn’t blame him for it. She wanted to get out, too, and she’d only just arrived. “Nothing like that.”
“You checked everywhere?” Bronwen never quite trusted anyone else’s ability to do the job. She knew it was annoying and that they all thought of her as a bit of a jobsworth, but she needed to know everything was aboveboard, nothing had been missed, and everyone had done everything they were supposed to, especially on a case like this. “Nothing in the walls? What about air-conditioning?”
“The unit in the living room doesn’t work,” he said. “We were fucking roasting in this place. Tried to turn it on and nothing happened. It’s dusty too. I think it’s been out of action for a while. As for hidden rooms… Well, we’ve checked for any hidden doors and so on. The cadaver dogs have been in. Nothing. Just junk.”
Bronwen slowly nodded her head. “Cheers, Stevie. We’re going to do one last sweep. Not that I don’t trust you guys.” She winked.
Stevie just rolled his eyes. “There’ll be reports soon, you know. And we’ve bagged enough shit to fill the van.”
“I’ll take upstairs, you start with the lounge,” Bronwen said to Joe. “If there aren’t any hidden rooms or working air-conditioning units it could be that Rodney was hiring a place elsewhere. Not sure where or what, but…”
“You know, that girl is probably just in such a state that she’s mixed up or… making stuff up. I dunno.”
“Yeah,” Bronwen admitted. “I know. But, look, what if there is another place out there? What if he’s hurt other girls?”
Joe’s eyes fell to the floor. “Yeah, yeah.” Then he looked up and wagged his finger at Bronwen. “Don’t you come breathing down my neck again. I can perform a search
just as good as you.”
Bronwen held up her hands. “Oh, I know, Kouros.”
As Bronwen made her way up the stairs towards the bedrooms, it occurred to her that she’d always taken charge with Joe as her partner. He was a good detective. He always had a good read on people, and the man was an intimidating interrogator, but she was the one who organised them at crime scenes. She suddenly felt pretty good about this case and getting to the bottom of what the hell was going on.
The upstairs stank as badly as downstairs, forcing Bronwen to cover her nose as she passed the bathroom. Dead bodies didn’t stink half as bad as Rodney White’s uncleaned shitter. The place gave her the creeps like no other, and she’d been to countless murder scenes. This man was a whole new level of disgusting, and now it was her job to search through his filth.
Get on with it, Bron.
She started by the door of White’s bedroom and searched systematically towards the bed. He had an old TV resting on a chest of drawers, layered with dust. It was so old an antenna poked out of the back and it had a built-in VHS tape player. She pressed the eject button and examined the tape inside. Anal Sluts 3. Nice.
She opened the top drawer to find it filled with dirty underpants and socks. Did the man ever clean anything? The next drawer was just as fruitless, filled with stained vests and shirts. The bottom drawer rattled with dozens of used batteries.
The room had nothing on the walls, no pictures or paintings. The wallpaper was faded, but the pattern had once shown tacky green palm trees. There was only one photo in the entire room, placed on the bedside table. The photo was old and grainy, but it showed a chubby toddler holding hands with a dead-eyed teenage girl. Was that White’s mum? If it was, she could only have been eighteen, maybe even younger, and the kid was perhaps three years old judging on the size. She couldn’t quite make out the facial features, so she didn’t know for sure that it really was Rodney. Bronwen lifted the photograph and examined it. The young girl was skinny, with two thin chicken legs poking out of her dress.
Poison Orchids: A darkly compelling psychological thriller Page 3