Poison Orchids: A darkly compelling psychological thriller

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Gemma let herself focus on the keys. “I don’t know. I don’t know about that or the keys. Please, take them away from me.”

  “The cow skull,” Hayley whispered to herself. “The cold place.”

  Bronwen turned her attention to Hayley, her eyes suddenly razor-sharp.

  “The road to the freezer room—it’s a dirt road. I remember a skull on the front gate,” Hayley breathed. “A cow skull, with the biggest horns I’ve ever seen.”

  Bronwen raised her eyes to Detective Kouros momentarily before resting them on Hayley's face again. She leaned forward in guarded anticipation. “Tell us else what you remember…”

  Hayley folded her arms in tight against her chest, shivering as if a chill wind had blown in through the room. Her eyes were distant before they closed. “Nothing. I can’t…”

  “Can you see a sign, Hayley?” Bronwen prompted. “A street sign? Or any kind of signs on the house—anything at all?”

  Hayley exhaled slowly. “I… no.” Her eyes snapped open, and she gaped at Gemma. “You… you took me there once. You opened the door to the cold place…”

  Gemma was unable to look away, trapped in that gaze that was icy beneath the layer of confusion. “What are you saying? Hayley, don't do this. Don't—”

  Megan and the detectives watched on with a new intent in their expressions, the air in the room suddenly seeming sharp, like it could cut you to pieces if you moved even just a fraction.

  Gemma made herself stop. She couldn't tell the truth without telling everything. And if she told, maybe Hayley would be triggered to remember the terrible things she’d inflicted on Gemma. Yes, there had been a freezer room. God, she’d almost succeeded in pushing the memory of that place away. A place so terrible, it was almost easy to make herself believe that it wasn’t real. It was better that no one ever knew about it. Because if people knew about it, then she’d have to admit to herself that it existed. And she’d have to remember the times that Hayley had forced Gemma into the freezer room. And worse, if Hayley suddenly remembered it all, that would put Gemma in direct danger. Through Rodney, Hayley had made connections with bad people—people who wouldn't think twice about murdering you. Even Hayley herself was capable of hurting Gemma. She'd already tried. Thank God that truck driver had crashed his tanker on the road that night. He'd stopped Rodney and Hayley from carrying out what they intended to do. Maybe she could still stop this—stop the detectives from looking for Hayley’s cold place.

  She swallowed, her throat as parched as old carpet left out in the sun. “You're remembering it wrong, Hayley. I was there, but I was forced to be there. I was forced to open that door.”

  A pucker formed on Hayley's brow. “He made you do that?”

  “Yes,” Gemma answered quickly. “Of course he did.”

  “So, the freezer room,” said Detective McKay to Gemma, a quiet tone masking the urgency in her eyes. “You do know about it? Tell us where it is.”

  Gemma gathered her breath before she answered. “Yes, of course I know about it. No one asked me about it.”

  Detective McKay frowned. “We asked you about a cold place that Rodney took you to.”

  “I didn’t understand. This was just a freezer room. Not somewhere that he kept us. I don’t know what was in there. Dead kangaroos or livestock maybe. He always kept the lights off. He took us in there to scare us. He liked scaring us.”

  “Who is he?” asked McKay carefully. “Just to be certain.”

  “Rodney.” The name felt like sawdust Gemma's mouth, almost making her gag.

  “Thank you,” said McKay. “Gemma, can you tell us where to find this freezer room?”

  She shook her head. “I—I can’t tell you that. He always blindfolded us. He never let us see.”

  McKay shot a glance at Hayley.

  Hayley gave a nod of confirmation. “Except once, when I pulled the blindfold off. That’s when I saw the skull. And the farmhouse. There was a blue house, I think.”

  “Hmmm,” said McKay. “Well, if we’re talking about a skull with massive horns, that’s a bull skull.” She turned to Kouros. “Buffalo?”

  “Right on the money.” Detective Kouros began browsing the internet on his phone. “There’s a couple of different types around here. Hayley, do you remember if the horns were curled or kind of straight?” Turning his phone around, he showed her a couple of buffalo pictures.

  Hayley frowned in concentration. “Straight. Huge and straight. Scary.”

  “Good work,” he said. “Okay, so that’s a swamp buffalo. The water buffalo have curly horns.” He sighed, eyeing the female detective. “We’re still looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s the Wild West around this area. Feral buffalo horns are plastered everywhere.”

  McKay bent her head, silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice sounded tight with frustration. “If we put all the fuzzy bits together, do we have anything? Swamp buffalo, big property, farmhouse painted blue, freezer room, street name ending in on?”

  Kouros kept flicking through screens on his phone. He gave a small yelp of victory. “We might have found it. A freezer room could mean a farm with a slaughterhouse on-site.” He stood, turning the screen around to McKay. “Here’s a property that used to farm swamp buffalo. They had facilities for slaughter. And the road checks out—it ends in on. Denton Road.”

  Detective McKay whistled. “That’s it.”

  9

  Bronwen

  Bronwen had never been fond of pessimistic people, but she couldn't control the creeping feeling of negativity as she drove the police car down half a mile of dirt track. The tyres kicked up clouds of red dust as she followed the narrow drive to the property.

  In the passenger seat, Joe appeared completely oblivious to her worries as he tapped along to the music on the radio, driving Bronwen mad with his nails against the dashboard. Her mind continued to dwell on the words spoken to her by the superintendent at the station. Finish this case up, McKay. We've got a media circus about to erupt, and the press want blood. Give them the fucking blood.

  There'd been enough blood recently, what with the increase in violent crimes spreading through the area. Superintendent Jones didn't want any more eyeballs on his department than there already were, which put her and Joe under pressure.

  They already knew Rodney White was the perpetrator. He had to be. The girls had identified him, and forensics had found their DNA evidence all over Rodney's aviary and the disgusting cage he kept them in. So why did she feel like this case was going to turn out far more unpredictable than anyone else seemed to think? Why was this feeling of negativity weighing down on her, as though she was waiting for the kick in the teeth to come along and knock her over?

  There was the strangeness at the mango farm too. Sure, everything seemed normal on the surface. Llewellyn’s assistant Sophie was willing to cooperate, and the computer system matched up with Gemma’s story. But why had that spaced-out kid made her so suspicious of the entire set up? Bronwen had met a drugged-out teenager a time or two, but she’d never known one high enough to forget meeting a couple of girls but sharp enough to know their names. It was certainly unusual. If only Llewellyn hadn’t been watching them, they might have been able to poke around the farm some more. Perhaps if there was enough evidence of illegal drugs, they could get a warrant to search the place.

  Never make assumptions, she thought. A good police officer had to know when to stand back and view the case as though from the outside. That was what she had to do today, which included forgetting all about Superintendent Jones and his warnings.

  Could she do that? And more importantly, would she be allowed to do that? With the super breathing down her neck, the case could be pulled from her at any time.

  “Looks like this is it,” Bronwen noted as the property came into view. Her blood ran cold when she caught sight of the bull skull that was wired to the gate and when she realised that the farmhouse was blue, just like Hayley described.

  Joe nodded, whistlin
g softly.

  Bronwen clenched her jaw as she regarded the scrapped trucks, old tyres, discarded petrol drums, and tethered dogs around the yard of the house. If these were the people they needed to deal with, she had to approach with caution. She knew the type, and she knew these isolated people were wary of police, preferring to live by their own laws.

  After Joe had figured out the name of the road, they'd done some digging, and come up with a property owned by a woman called Wendy Williams.

  The dogs growled at them as they exited the vehicle, stretching chains as they snapped their teeth. Bronwen pulled at her tight ponytail before letting her fingers brush the holster of her standard issue firearm, reminding herself that she was the one in the position of power here.

  Joe walked beside her as they sidestepped the remains of a bonfire to get to the front porch. Bronwen rapped on the door and waited. Inside, the house erupted into more barking.

  “Sure this isn't a kennel?” Joe raised his eyebrows.

  “More like a dump,” Bronwen said quietly. Her boots were already covered in the red soil of the area.

  Inside the house, she heard heavy footsteps followed by the sound of jangling keys and a female voice yelling at the dogs to be quiet. When the door was yanked open, she caught her first glimpse of the owner. The woman was short and wide. Her face was hard, lined, and dust-white. The only colour on her face came from the broken blood vessels around her nose.

  “What do you want?” croaked the woman.

  When the door opened a further inch, Bronwen noticed she had curly, grey hair that was red at the ends, a hair dye that had grown out months ago, and wore cheap polyester clothing covered in faded flowers. Her large breasts hung low beneath the dress.

  “Good morning, ma'am. My name is Detective Bronwen McKay, and this is Detective Joe Kouros. We'd like to talk to you about Rodney White. Are you Mrs Wendy Williams?”

  “I am,” she answered.

  “Can we come in for a few minutes?”

  As the woman opened the door a little wider, one of the dogs tried to escape, which led to a scuffle of fur, a wagging tail, hoarse shouting, and a yelp.

  “Rodney White, you say?” Mrs Williams narrowed her eyes at Bronwen. “What about him?” She didn't offer to allow them into the house, which raised Bronwen's suspicion, but didn't surprise her.

  “That's right. How do you know him?”

  “Well, he rents from me,” Wendy replied. “A few outbuildings out by the top field. My son used to live in the cabin up there until he passed five years ago. Got it all kitted out with internet and whatnot.”

  Bronwen took out her notebook and scribbled down her description of the outbuilding. “Was Rodney White living in the cabin?”

  “Living?” She laughed. “I have no idea what he was doing in the damn thing. I barely saw the man. Oh, his truck would be parked out in the yard blocking me in every now and then, and he had a habit of waking the dogs up at all hours of the night with his coming and going, but whether he was living there or not, I couldn't tell you.”

  “You sure we can't come in for minute, ma'am?” Joe flashed her his most charming smile, the one he thought women over a certain age turned to melted butter for. “It's hot out here, and we'd kill for a glass of lemonade.”

  “Well, all right then,” she said. “But you'll have to watch the dogs.”

  Joe turned his triumphant grin to Bronwen as Wendy waddled through the door into the kitchen. Bronwen only rolled her eyes as they stepped into the house, at the same time trying not to step on a paw or a tail. It was hard to count how many dogs there were, as none of them wanted to be still for even a second. The kitchen floor was lined with dog bowls. Even the counter was stacked with bags of dog food, one bag almost spilling out to eager dogs ready to pounce on a stray bit of kibble. Bronwen grimaced at the stench as they made their way through the kitchen into the living room.

  “I'll get the lemonade,” she said.

  “Reckon she's lying about Rodney?” Joe whispered. “An isolated old farm like this sounds like a pretty good spot for raping women. But do you really think this old bird didn't hear anything?”

  “She knows he was dodgy,” Bronwen admitted. “But I don't think she knew anything about any attacks. She needed the money, so she kept her mouth shut and rolled over at night when Rodney's truck set off the dogs.”

  “Do you live here alone, Mrs Williams?” Joe asked, raising his voice over the sound of barking dogs and heavy feet shuffling around the kitchen.

  “Yes, it's just me now,” Wendy slowly entered the living room carrying a tray of lemonades. “My old man passed seven years ago now. Cancer. My son went the same way five years ago.”

  “This is a big property for a woman on her own,” Bronwen said. “Do you have any help with the dogs?” Or the cleaning, she thought, though the answer to that was an obvious no.

  Wendy shook her head as she passed around the lemonades. “That was one of the reasons why I rented out the place to Rodney. He was a tall guy, not too old for odd jobs. I thought he might help out around this place. But I hardly ever saw him.”

  “How long have you been renting the property to him?” Bronwen asked.

  “About three years now,” she said.

  “And what about the other outbuildings?” She asked. “You mentioned that there were a few.”

  “Oh yes, well they're pretty close to the cabin so they came as part of the package seeing as I'm not using them. Rodney thought he might park a few cars in the old slaughterhouse.”

  Bronwen exchanged a glance with Joe. “Slaughterhouse?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is there a freezer room in or near the slaughterhouse?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Of course there is. Where else would we store the buffalo meat? This used to be a fully working farm, you know.”

  It certainly seemed they were at the right place. “And are you aware that Rodney White is dead?”

  The woman's jaw dropped. “Dead? No. When did that happen?”

  “About three days ago.” Bronwen noted that Wendy's reaction appeared to be genuine. It didn't surprise her that the woman didn't read any local news.

  “I guess that explains why he was late with the rent payment this month,” she said. “Well, I suppose you'll be wanting to look over the place.” She heaved her weight back on her feet, huffing and puffing with the effort. “I'd better find you the keys. I hope you're not wanting me to come with you. It's quite a walk, and my ankles aren’t up to the strain.”

  “Mrs Williams, may I ask how you buy food, drink, and other supplies for the house?” Joe said.

  “Online shopping of course,” she said, frowning at him. “I'm not a complete idiot you know.”

  Bronwen couldn't help but smile at Joe's red face.

  With Wendy's detailed instructions, Bronwen set off with Joe through the fields at the back of the farmhouse. Slowly, they made their way up another narrow track towards the old outbuildings. If this was indeed a place for Rodney White to commit terrible crimes, he couldn't have found a more isolated area. Bronwen thought of the 'cold place' described by Hayley and wondered what they might find here.

  She had to admit, she hadn't been convinced by the girls' stories. Sometimes she wondered if it made any sense at all. Maybe they were both suffering some sort of hysteria. Maybe the trauma of what they'd been through had caused them to exaggerate everything. But the mention of this slaughterhouse had changed her opinion almost completely.

  “You know, for the first time, I have absolutely no fucking idea what to expect,” Joe said.

  “Me neither,” Bronwen replied.

  Bronwen's hand brushed her gun instinctively at the sight of the outhouses, her senses on high alert. There was something about the atmosphere here that made her think of trouble. Maybe it was some sort of police officer’s intuition, but the place had that feel to it. Beyond a five-bar gate was the small cabin Wendy had described, which seemed normal enough.
A short distance away from the cabin was a large facility. The slaughterhouse.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Bronwen opened the gate and walked through. As they approached the slaughterhouse, her heartbeat quickened.

  “Let's try one of the keys then. See what's in this place.” Bronwen ignored the keys Wendy had given them, and instead reached in her pocket for those retrieved from Rodney White's home. She hadn't checked whether the keys were the same, deciding to wait for the big surprise.

  It was a padlock on a thick chain. Rodney must not have wanted anyone getting into this place. But why?

  The first one fit.

  “Here goes nothing,” Bronwen said, pushing open the door.

  It slid back with a shuddering, metallic scrape, revealing the silent machinery of the once-working farm. Though Bronwen liked to think she had a fairly strong stomach, even she flinched at the thought of the bellowing of dying animals that once must have sounded out from this place.

  They made their way past the still conveyer belts and hooks, towards what appeared to be the freezer room at the back of the facility. It was the only part of the place that had a door, so it had to be it. On the outside of the room, next to the door, she noticed a display panel with a minus temperature displayed.

  “This is it,” she said, exhaling. As the door opened, the smell hit her at the back of her throat. They were in the dark, with only the light from the doorway to show them the way in.

  “Something doesn’t smell right,” she said, as she retrieved the Glock from its holster.

  “Not ripe enough for a body,” Joe observed.

  He was right. She didn’t detect the stench of decomposition. But at the same time, they were in a freezer. Despite the chill, Bronwen felt a trickle of sweat work its way down her spine. “It's still cold in here. If there was a body, it wouldn’t be ripe.”