by Anna Willett
Brock went left and Damon moved to the right, both men peering in the windows that flanked the door. Thick curtains covered the window, leaving only a few centimetres on one side where a slice of the room beyond was visible. Damon cupped his hands and leaned in, seeing what looked like a patch of flooring and the leg of a coffee table.
He turned from the window and gave Brock a questioning look. Brock responded with a shake of his head, so Damon made a circle with his finger and pointed to the back of the house, indicating they should circle the building and meet at the rear.
As Damon made his way around the house, he noticed the sound of birds in the surrounding trees. Not the happy birdsong of his home at Lake Clifton but a coarse squawking accompanied by the rustling of branches. It was a furtive sound that put him in mind of the murder of crows swarming the forest.
Along the side of the house, he stopped at what might have been a bedroom window. Set higher in the wall than the front windows, Damon had to wedge his boot into a hole left by a chunk of missing mortar and pull himself up to get a look inside.
Like the other windows, this one had heavy curtains in the same faded yellow paisley pattern. Only here the drapes were partially open, revealing an unmade double bed and an ancient wardrobe hanging open. Holding his weight on one foot and his grip on the narrow window frame, he studied the empty room and listened for any sounds of movement from within the house. A child’s cry rang out, sharp and urgent, and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. But with a second similar cry he quickly recognised the sound as nothing more than the squall of a wattlebird from the nearby bush.
After a few seconds he stepped down and continued towards the back of the property. There had been a part of him that wanted to believe it would be as easy as that. The woman from the fête would be holed up in her former foster mother’s house, holding the kidnapped boy. But he reminded himself that this wasn’t a runaway husband shacked up with a stripper. Or someone that could be tracked and eliminated.
He paused, scanning the trees. His old life, the one he tried to put aside, threatened to take hold and drag him into shadowy memories – the ones that always waited on the dark edges of his consciousness but now were mostly relegated to nightmare territory. Cold Valley terrain was a million miles from the coarse sand and blasts of searing heat of the desert. Yet, there was something to the feel of the property that put him back in those life or death moments where the very landscape was somehow a sinister third party, playing its role in the brutality of war.
“Damon?” Brock appeared at the far end of the building. “You need to see this.” His partner’s voice was calm, but Damon recognised the urgency.
He followed Brock past the rear entrance to the house and across a stretch of bush grass where a well-worn path had been created. Buzzing sounds, at first faint and then frantic, grew louder as they drew closer. The outbuilding stood no more than twenty metres from the main house, but appeared to be older – a structure built of uneven stones and mortar with a heavy flat roof.
“Could be a storage shed,” Damon said as they approached the building. But no sooner than he opened his mouth, the smell hit him. Fetid and thick, the stench of human waste.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea what was being stored in here.” Brock spoke without a trace of humour as he used his elbow to push the door open. “Someone’s been living in here, if you could call it living.”
Damon stepped around his partner and peered into the stone shed. The floor was a rough slab of concrete laid unevenly over the dirt. A yellow plastic bucket lay on the floor, turned on its side with something muddy spilling onto the concrete. Damon used the crook of his elbow to cover his nose and mouth against the unbearable smell.
The walls were jagged and cracked in some areas and worn smooth in others. Without windows Damon had to pull out his phone and use the light to get a better look.
“Careful.” Brock raised an arm, blocking his partner from setting foot in the shadowy cell. “This looks like a crime scene.”
He pointed to the far wall and as he spoke a blur of flies rose from the area around the bucket.
Damon followed Brock’s gaze, shining his phone across the small room to light up the area. Something dark and sticky clung to the stone above a dark mass that Damon quickly recognised as hair – long dark hair.
Fighting back the urge to vomit, he stepped away from the stone structure and placed his hands on his knees, but it was no good. The air was still laden with the reek of waste and the flies were a buzzing frenzy of black that filled the air.
Damon straightened and walked towards the house, bile threatening to clog his throat. He’d seen many things in his life, inhuman things, but the smell and sounds from the outbuilding came close to eclipsing all but the worst memories.
“Looks like we’re calling the cops again.” Brock was beside him when Damon held up a finger, motioning for him to give him a second as he took deep breaths, trying to flush the smell out of his nose and mouth.
After a moment, Damon turned to his partner, noticing his breathing seemed unhampered by what they’d just encountered. If not for the sudden pallor of Brock’s skin, Doman would have thought him unaffected by the stench.
“We still don’t know if there’s anyone inside the house.” Damon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’ll still be cops on the fire road. If we call this in, they’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Brock glanced back towards the stone building and then at the house. “Do you think they had the little boy in that shed?” His voice was hoarse, almost choked.
Damon had been thinking the same thing and the idea of a four year old in that hellish place made his skin crawl. “The hair on the wall was long and dark and Clem’s is short and blonde, so let’s hope not.” They both knew that didn’t mean Clem hadn’t been in the shed, only that he may not have been the first.
“It’s your call.” Brock pulled out his phone. “We can contact the police or wait until we’ve checked the house.” He met Damon’s gaze.
“Five more minutes won’t make a difference.”
The ancient turn-catch on the back screen door was easily opened using a screwdriver Damon retrieved from the tool kit stored with the spare tyre in the back of his Jeep. Sliding the thin tool between the screen door and the frame, it was only a matter of flicking upwards to disengage the catch.
Holding the screen open with his arm and taking care not to leave any prints, Damon stashed the screwdriver in his back pocket and tried the back door. It was almost midday, but the sun was still partially draped in clouds and the air carried a chill, yet as the dented knob turned and the door swung open, a layer of sweat built on the back of Damon’s neck.
Before entering, Damon nodded to Brock, who removed a length of metal pipe from the waistband of his jeans. This wasn’t the first time their job called for breaking and entering, and as they’d done more than half a dozen times since their partnership began, the two men split up and began a silent search of the home.
Marina Plick’s home smelled of stale cigarettes, fried food and musty clothing. The silence was cut by the buzz of blowflies. There was however another smell, something that hit him when he entered the hallway and walked towards the room at the front of the house. The combination of rusting metal and rotten meat told him what he’d find before he entered the sitting room.
Dancing dust particles illuminated by the narrow shaft of light at one side of the heavy curtains drew his eyes to the stain on the wall. Unmistakably blood, and plenty of it. The stuff had hit the wall and then dripped down and formed congealed puddles on the cheap linoleum flooring he’d first spotted when trying to peer in the front window.
Without moving further into the room, Damon noted the circular marks in the stain. Someone had tried to clean the mess up, rubbing and swiping at it until the blood became a series of swirls. He swallowed and wiped the back of his neck, wondering if he’d ever be able to get the smells and sounds of Marina Plick’s house o
ut of his nose and ears.
“Jesus.” Brock’s voice in the silence startled him. “This joint just gets weirder.”
Damon jerked his chin at the wall. “What the fuck happened here?” He didn’t expect an answer, but Brock gave him one.
“It wasn’t the kid.” Brock’s voice was dry, but steady. “The sprays too high up to be from a child. The volume indicates a fatal injury.”
Damon turned from the gruesome stain to stare at his partner. Despite everything that was going through Damon’s mind, he still found himself impressed by Brock’s composure and professionalism.
“How old would you say the blood is?”
Brock tipped his head to the right and appeared to be studying the marks. “A month, maybe longer. But that’s just a guess. I’m not a blood spatter expert.”
“All right.” Damon almost took a deep breath, but because of the stench he settled for a shallow one. “Let’s get out of here and call the cops.”
As they exited through the back of the house, something caught Damon’s attention. A gas stove set into an alcove dominated one end of the kitchen. Above the cooker was a mantle cluttered with photographs, old snaps taken back in the days when people actually used cameras and not just phones. Only a handful were in frames, the rest left to curl and discolour with age and what smelt like a layer of nicotine.
“Look at this.” Damon stopped and pointed to the row of photographs.
Brock was at the door that led to the lean-to room and the back exit. “A lot of kids.”
Damon leaned closer, studying the images. All appeared to be teenagers. Some solo shots of sullen looking kids, but most included an older woman with short dark hair and large meaty arms.
“Marina Plick and her foster children.” Staring at the faded grimy pictures, Damon felt a sense of disquiet. The foster mother looked relaxed and confident as she leaned close to each of her charges, yet he had the impression that there was something proprietary about the way the woman’s thick arm circled the young people’s shoulders. A sense that they belonged to her, and judging by the look on each teen’s face, they knew it.
“There’s two photos missing.” Damon pointed to two slots on the mantle. The paint work around the gaps showed a clear yellow outline where the photos had once sat. Judging by the paleness of the now exposed paint, the missing photos had been in place a long time.
Chapter Twenty-one
Damon’s voice sounded distant and weary as it came through the speakers and filled the Saab.
“The cops are here. They’ve got us waiting. My guess is the detectives handling the bodies in the forest are on their way. We’ve reported two possible crimes in two days. I reckon they’ll have plenty of questions.”
Lucy’s mind was still playing catch up, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. Marina Plick’s home was a crime scene. Maybe even a murder scene.
Lucy almost missed the turn she’d been looking for but miraculously managed to check her mirror and apply the brakes without causing havoc on the street.
“What about Marina? Any sign of her?” she asked.
“No, nothing. But something nasty has gone down in that house. Whether Marina is a victim or not is still anyone’s guess.”
Something nasty. The words made her shiver. It was no use trying to keep driving, not while she was struggling to get her brain around the grim news, so she decided to pull over on Janice’s quiet street.
The next question was the hardest. “And Clem, do you think… Is he…?”
There was a second’s silence before Damon answered and in that short time, Lucy’s imagination threw up a horrific image: Clem’s clear blue eyes clouded and milky in death. “No. No indication that anything happened to him here. No sign that he was ever in the house either.”
Lucy released her grip on the steering wheel and let her hands fall into her lap.
“Lucy?” Damon’s voice sounded worried. “Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” Her throat was dry, but she managed to get the words out. “Sorry, just thinking.”
“Are you okay?”
This time when she answered she made an effort to keep her tone relaxed, “I’m fine, really.”
She hated making him worry, especially when he was the one at the bloody crime scene. “I should be asking you that after what you’ve just discovered.” She rubbed her hands together and stared over the steering wheel at the burgeoning spring flowers growing wild along the side of the road. “Are you all right? Is Brock okay?”
He gave a short laugh and she could almost see him, whiskey-coloured eyes and crooked smile, keeping his cool and making sure she was okay before worrying about himself. The image helped soothed her nerves.
“We’re good, but I don’t know how long they’ll keep us hanging around. Don’t wait for me. I don’t think we’re getting out of here anytime soon. I’ll meet you back at the motel, okay?”
She agreed and told him she was on her way to talk to Janice. Before disconnecting, Lucy wanted to tell him how much she loved him and how he didn’t need to worry about her because hearing his voice made everything okay, but suddenly it seemed silly. They would see each other in an hour or so. It would be easier to say the words when his arms were around her and her head was pressed to his chest, so she fell back on what she always did and made a joke.
“Play nice with the cops. I don’t want to have to bail you and Brock out of the lock-up.”
Damon chuckled, a deep throaty sound that she loved. “I can’t vouch for my partner, but I’ll do my best.” There was a pause and then Damon’s voice was sombre. “I love you.”
They weren’t a couple who made such declarations every time they said goodbye, and she knew Brock would be nearby if not close enough to hear.
“Me too.” As she disconnected the call, the idea that Damon was so comfortable with his feelings for her made her smile like a schoolgirl.
* * *
Janice’s home was much like its owner: small, but cheery. As the woman led her through to the family room, Lucy noticed a fluffy ginger cat sitting atop a torn-up scratching post near the window.
“Sorry the place is a bit of a tip.” Janice snatched up a patterned throw rug and tossed it over the blue sofa. “I try and keep on top of the cat hair,” she said, nodding towards the feline. “But Snowflake is a bit of a scallywag.”
Lucy bit back a laugh. The last time she’d heard anyone use the term scallywag was when she was in primary school.
“He looks like a scallywag.” Lucy nodded to the cat. “But Snowflake?”
Janice laughed and her short grey bob bounced against her chin as she ran a hand over the cat’s orange fur. Snowflake’s yellow eyes narrowed as he raised his chin, purring and pushing up against Janice’s hand. “I know, but my son was only five when we brought this fella home, and we let him choose the name.”
For a moment, Janice patted the cat and Lucy listened to the soothing purr as it filled the sunny room. She remembered Tim once telling her that experts were still not completely sure how cats produced the purring noise, but that it was something to do with a neural oscillator in the cat’s brain. Whatever the mechanism that allowed cats to make the unique sound, Lucy had always found it luxurious and relaxing. But with Damon stuck talking to the police and the situation in Cold Valley getting stranger by the minute, she felt the need to push the meeting with Janice along.
“You said you have something to show me?”
“Oh, sorry to leave you standing there.” Janice tutted and motioned towards the sofa. “Please, have a seat. Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?”
“No, I’m fine,” Lucy said, settling herself on the sofa and resisting the urge to check her watch.
“Hang on.” Janice held up a finger then dashed from the room. A moment later she returned carrying a book. “The school gives every staff member a free yearbook. I keep mine in a tub in the garage.” She sounded slightly out of breath as she moved across the roo
m. “I have so many, it took me a while to track this one down.”
When Janice sat next to Lucy, she caught the scent of tobacco. Without thinking, Lucy’s hand crept into her pocket and her fingers closed over the green beads.
“I had to go through a few books because I wasn’t completely sure which year I needed.” Still talking, Janice dropped the book onto the coffee table and moved aside a stack of magazines before opening the cover and flipping through the pages.
On the edge of her seat now, Lucy turned the beads, excitement building in her stomach as she watched Janice going through the book.
“Here.” Janice tapped a finger on a page filled with rows of headshots. “Every student in the school is shown in their year groups.” She turned the book so Lucy could get a better look. “That’s her, I’m sure of it.”
She pointed to a photograph.
Lucy read the name aloud. “Mimi Shaw.”
It wasn’t hard to connect the young girl with her dark hair pulled to one side and multiple piercings in her ears with the woman Lucy had watched on the footage from the fête. They shared the same heart-shaped face and pouty lips. The same dark hair and pale skin. Even the tilt of the girl’s head was somehow similar to the way the woman in the footage held herself.
“It’s her.” Lucy had no doubt she was looking at the same person, but still couldn’t resist pulling her phone out of her handbag and clicking on the picture.
She set the phone down on the opposite page and for a few seconds she and Janice studied the two images. The face was thinner, but Lucy was certain the image on the phone showed an older version of the girl.
Lucy turned to Janice. “You found her.” She said the words aloud, almost not quite believing them. “Can I take a photo of this?”
“Yes, of course. You can take it with you if it helps. If you show it to Marina, it might jog her memory.”
Lucy snapped a couple of photos, giving herself time to formulate a response. Janice had been so helpful, lying to her wasn’t something Lucy wanted to do, but she couldn’t tell her what Damon and Brock had discovered at Marina’s house. While they weren’t working for the police, Lucy knew revealing details of a crime scene could endanger a future case against whoever had committed a crime at the Plick address.