Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Mark called late last night. Tommy didn’t come home from school. Mark rang Tommy’s friends, to see if he’d gone home with someone, then went looking for him in the park. Mark looked everywhere. He called the police at six o’clock.’

  ‘Do the police think Tommy’s been abducted or run away?’ I asked.

  ‘Mark said the police are questioning him as though he has something to do with Tommy’s disappearance. Don’t forget that Mark also reported Tildy missing three months ago.’

  ‘Yes, but they found Tildy. Does Mark think he’s run away?’

  ‘Yes. Some clothes are missing, and his toy rabbit. The cash Mark kept in a kitchen jar has gone as well.’

  ‘Does Tommy know where his mother is?’

  ‘He knows she’s on the Gold Coast. Melbourne police have alerted Gold Coast who went out to the Bacchus Rising commune to see if he’d turned up there. He hadn’t. The police indicated to Mark that there weren’t any children there at all, and Tildy wasn’t interested that Tommy was missing. Apparently she told them Tommy was no longer part of her family.’

  ‘Tommy wouldn’t know where Bacchus Rising is,’ I reasoned. ‘The police know its location, but none of us do.’

  ‘I know. Mark didn’t want to panic me so he waited before ­calling, to see if Tommy turned up. Then he thought Tommy might try to come to me here in Burleigh Heads, so he called.’

  ‘Has he ever run away before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Marcia,’ I said, ‘do you remember when I asked you who Tommy’s father was and you said you didn’t know? Is it possible that Tommy knows and he’s gone there?’

  ‘No. I don’t know who Tommy’s father is, and I suspect Tildy doesn’t know either. There’s no way Tommy knows. Oh, Scout, he’s only nine. Even if he’s run away, what if some lunatic’s picked him up?’

  ‘Hold it together, Marcia,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll be there in two hours.’

  ‘No, don’t come yet. Mark’s asked me to fly down to Melbourne and collect Christopher and bring him back here. Mark’s worried the police may take him in for more questioning and his mother’s too ill to look after the baby. He wants Christopher settled with me. I’m on the 7.35 am flight. I should be back with Christopher by 5 pm Queensland time. Come then. Can you stay the night?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Before you go, leave a photo of Tommy with the receptionist in the lobby. If he turns up while you’re out, tell them to keep him there and contact police.’

  ‘What if it’s Tracey?’ Marcia said.

  ‘Then don’t leave the photo. I’ll be there at 5 pm your time.’

  I looked up. Rafe was standing in the doorway holding two mugs of tea. He came over and sat on the bed, handing me a mug. As succinctly as possible, I relayed my conversation with Marcia.

  ‘Parents are usually the first port of call when a child goes missing,’ Rafe said, ‘but in this case, I think the little tike planned it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The rabbit. Kids of nine who run away always take their favourite toy. He probably took it to school with him and left from there. My bet is that he’s looking for his mum. The first twenty-four hours are crucial. His photo will be on the news, in the papers. Someone will see him.’

  ‘How would he get from Melbourne to the Gold Coast?’ I asked.

  ‘A resourceful kid could take buses, trains. I doubt he’d fly. A train’s the most obvious, as nine-year-old boys love trains. They’d be looking into all that,’ Rafe said.

  The tea was surprisingly good.

  ‘How did you learn to make decent tea, Rafe?’

  ‘My mother’s English,’ he said. ‘You know, Tommy could have found out where Bacchus Rising is. Nine year olds are way savvier than we are on the internet. He could have befriended someone through the Bacchus Rising website.’

  ‘You mean someone’s groomed him? An adult? Oh, Rafe!’

  ‘More like the other way round. Tommy probably pretended to be an adult and groomed the other person. It can work both ways, you know. If he’s smart he could have wormed the address out of them. He may have done it from school too, or a friend’s computer, so it won’t be on the one at home. The police would be checking that anyway.’

  We sat for a while thinking and drinking tea.

  ‘What would you have done if that had been Toby?’ I said.

  Rafe put down his tea. He took the mug from my hand and put it on the bedside table. Cradling my face in his hands, he kissed me passionately and deeply.

  ‘Well?’ I said breathlessly.

  ‘Darjeeling?’ he said.

  I glared at him. I wanted an answer.

  ‘I wouldn’t have cared if it had been Toby on the phone,’ Rafe admitted finally. ‘All’s fair in love and war, especially when you’re the prize.’

  ‘Then why did you look so concerned?’

  ‘Scout, I thought something might have happened to him. You know, one of those “regret to inform you” calls. I’m glad it wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Are you feeling guilty?’ Rafe asked, and I detected a note of anxiety in his tone.

  The question needed thought and I didn’t answer straight­away. Not for one second did I regret making love to Rafe, but did I feel guilty? Hmmm. I’m not naive. Toby is away for months at a time and exists in a world of life and death situations. He’s a good-­looking man. I know about the doctor at the aid station in Somalia. And I know about the glamorous reporter in Angola. Toby had felt the need to assuage his guilt and had told me about them. In retrospect I was more furious that he’d felt better after having told me. There may have been others since, but he wouldn’t be game to tell me again.

  But this wasn’t about getting even with Toby, or petty retribution. It was about being with this beautiful man, about Rafe and me. I reflected on the wise words of Susie Cameron; in five years’ time, when I looked back on the occasion, would I wish I hadn’t made love to Rafe? It was a no-brainer.

  I put my hand up, stroked the side of Rafe’s face and gently kissed his mouth.

  ‘No, I don’t feel guilty,’ I told him. ‘I feel wonderful. You?’

  Rafe nodded.

  ‘Wonderful and knackered,’ he said. He grinned wickedly, grabbed my arms and pulled me to him.

  ‘Are you going to this cult retreat tomorrow?’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh, it’s all weekend. I’ll go up to Marcia’s this afternoon and stay the night with her.’

  I waited for Rafe to make the usual manly comments about being careful, not to believe anything I’m told and did I need help, but he didn’t make any of those typical annoying platitudes.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about me going?’ I said, slightly peeved that he hadn’t expressed concern. Oh, the perversity of woman!

  ‘Why would I be worried?’ he said. ‘It’s Serene Cloud who should be worried.’

  ‘What if there’s an orgy?’ I said.

  ‘Then take notes. We may have forgotten something.’

  Chapter 50

  After Rafe left I switched on the television and flicked through the news channels. Images of missing nine-year-old Thomas Wilding filled the screen. A search of the area where Thomas lived in Melbourne was continuing. The child had not turned up at his school yesterday morning; teachers and neighbours were being interviewed and computers and mobile phones had been seized from his father’s home. Descriptions of Tommy abounded. There was no mention of Tildy.

  I hopped online to the Sydney Morning Herald website and looked at the photograph of Tommy. He was cute, the kid next door. A healthy-looking fair-haired boy with apple cheeks and freckles across his nose, he looked like half the nine-year-old boys in Australia. I tried not to contemplate what might have happened to him.

  There was plenty to do before leaving for Marcia’s apartment in Burleigh Heads. I called Bruce and organised to keep the Lexus until Monday. Then I took a bottle of Scotch downstairs to Miles and asked if he could look after Chairman Meow until Sunda
y night. He said he’d be delighted to, and the Scotch wasn’t necessary. And did I know that I was positively glowing today? Embarrassed, I mumbled something about having slept well, and to think of the Scotch as a gift for putting me in contact with his daughter, Susie.

  Outside, it was a beautiful autumn day. Not too hot and with less humidity than yesterday. That, I knew, could change in a heartbeat at this time of year. I walked up to Woolworths, weaving my way along Jonson Street and dodging knots of chattering tourists and foreign backpackers who had just disembarked from an interstate coach. It looked like a Crocs and Birkenstock convention was in town.

  Woolies was busy. I purchased nappies, baby food, six-packs of juices, infant analgesia, formula, the doings for a spaghetti bolognaise and a large plastic tube of toothpaste. On the way home I stopped at an Asian import store and bought two tie-dye T-shirts and a rainbow-coloured hat to add to my Fantasia Jonson wardrobe. I could have gone to the op shop and bought similar items at a cheaper price but I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat with Beryl and Doreen. Besides, they’d be sure to register my ‘glowing’ look and by this afternoon they’d know why, and by tomorrow morning it would be on the noticeboard at the tennis club.

  Back home, Chairman Meow watched me from the doorway as I packed the esky and basket. He hadn’t been too happy about spending the night on the verandah and possibly thought, looking at the esky, that we were off on another picnic. I picked him up, gave him a cuddle and made him promise not to tell Miles about our visitor. You can’t always trust cats.

  Opening the linen cupboard, I folded a selection of baby sheets, blankets and wraps that I keep for visitors into a plastic bag. Then I packed a backpack for the retreat and replenished my diabetic pack, fitting it into the zip-up pouch that clips around my waist.

  One of my biggest fears when I’m away from home is to have my diabetic pack taken from me and be left without an emergency glucagon shot to reverse a hypoglycaemic attack, so I always carry an emergency back-up diabetic kit when going into potentially risky situations.

  Carefully, I slit open the base of the plastic toothpaste tube with a razor and squeezed out the contents. After washing out the tube with a toothbrush and warm running water, I then dried the inside with a hairdryer and carefully inserted two syringes, insulin, glucagon and alcohol wipes into it. Then I glued the base back together. Satisfied that it looked like a normal tube of toothpaste, I put it in my toiletries bag. Hopefully I wouldn’t need it.

  Pulling out my desk drawer, I took out an empty talcum powder container, the base of which had been refashioned to open and close like a lid. I switched off the fully charged emergency mobile phone, wrapped it in tissues and pushed it into the talcum powder container, closed the lid and put it in the backpack.

  Then I called Marcia at Mark’s house in Melbourne. The police were there, but there was no news on Tommy. Mark’s mother had been hospitalised with a suspected heart attack and Mark was beside himself. Marcia was getting ready to leave for Tullamarine airport with Christopher. She’d left a swipe card and a key to the deadlock in an envelope for me at reception.

  After lunch I made a pot of tea—half Orange Pekoe and half Earl Grey—and took it to the bedroom and lay on the bed for a rest. Chairman Meow hopped up beside me, sniffed the pillows and the sheets and then looked at me with what I took to be mild disapproval. He prowled, still sniffing, down the bed, back up again and across the pillows, then jumped off the bed and ran out of the room. He’d probably gone to tell Miles.

  It was 4 pm Queensland time when I arrived at Marcia’s apartment block. As I got out of the car, I looked around, hoping to see a nine-year-old boy sitting waiting, but no such luck.

  The lobby was quiet and cool and a middle-aged woman I hadn’t seen before was working behind the reception desk. She wasn’t wearing a pine-cone pendant and her badge said Bronwyn, so I decided that she was one of the good guys and introduced myself. Bronwyn smiled sweetly and handed me the envelope containing the swipe card and key. Someone had taped a photo of Tommy to the key cupboard. Bronwyn saw me staring at it and said that unfortunately Tommy hadn’t turned up, and wasn’t it a terrible thing to happen.

  Using the swipe card to open the gate, I drove my car down into the underground garage, and then took the lift up to Marcia’s apartment. After unpacking the groceries, I checked my watch. There was time for a swim before Marcia arrived home.

  The outdoor pool was pleasantly landscaped with palm trees, sun loungers and large market umbrellas. A spa was bubbling away at one end of the pool and children were zipping down a slide at the other. I selected a lounger in the shade next to a young boy who was playing a hand-held computer game. He looked up and smiled at me as I sat down.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Are you having a nice holiday?’

  He nodded.

  I wondered what the game was. Maybe I could buy Fergus one for the Easter holidays, to take his mind off tattoos and hard drugs.

  ‘Is that a good game?’ I asked. ‘I want to buy my seven-year-old nephew a new one.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I bought this from the lady at reception. She’s got a big box and they’re cheap too. My brother got two games and some DVDs.’

  I processed the information.

  ‘Which lady?’ I said casually, although I’d already guessed.

  ‘Tracey. But you can’t tell anyone that she’s selling them. It’s a favour to guests,’ he said. ‘You can’t tell my mum or nothing. Tracey’s got other stuff too. Ipods, cameras, phones.’

  I bet she has, I thought. I bet she has a whole box of things that fit neatly into pockets of long blue dresses.

  Chapter 51

  Back in Marcia’s apartment, I checked my phone messages. So far, there was nothing from Harper about the principal’s meeting, so I sent a text saying that I’d call her after eight—I didn’t want her ringing amidst the chaos of Marcia arriving home with Christopher.

  It didn’t take me long to update my notes with the information I’d learned from the boy by the pool, and it was potentially cracking information. Closing my notebook, I switched on the television and listened to the news while making the spaghetti bolognaise.

  Tommy, as I’d expected, led the bulletin. Police now believed that missing schoolboy Thomas Wilding may be in Queensland. His mother, Matilda Wilding, was thought to be living on the Gold Coast. A door-knock near the boy’s home in Melbourne was unsuccessful. Thomas’s father, Mark Wilding, was helping the police with their enquiries. There was, I noted, no mention of the cult.

  Marcia’s key turned in the door and I rushed over to help her. She was laden with bags and pushing a pram in which Christopher, thankfully, was asleep. She had visibly aged in the short time since I’d last seen her. Taking her bags I gave her a hug. We didn’t speak, as there weren’t really any words that covered the situation. I wheeled Christopher into the second bedroom and carefully closed the door.

  ‘Tea or brandy?’ I asked.

  ‘Tea please, I have to keep my wits about me.’

  I busied myself in the kitchen while Marcia sat on the sofa, staring ahead, numb with grief.

  ‘Has there been any news?’ I said, handing her a cup of tea.

  ‘Mark discovered that the small tent and sleeping bag are missing. Searchers are scouring the woods near the house.’

  So, Rafe was right and Tommy had planned his disappearance.

  ‘How’s Mark’s mother?’ I said.

  ‘She’s in hospital. I’ll call Mark later. She’s had a heart attack, but a mild one.’

  ‘Have there been any . . . sightings?’

  ‘All over the country, but nothing definite.’

  I sat down beside Marcia and, to take her mind off things a ­little, I told her about the boy by the pool and his computer game, but I don’t think any of it sank in.

  At a quarter past eight, after we’d eaten and Christopher had been tucked up in bed, Marcia fell asleep on the sofa and I went into the bedroom, closed the door and c
alled Harper to fill her in on what was happening.

  ‘Marcia must be beside herself,’ Harper said. ‘Are you still going to the retreat tomorrow? You probably shouldn’t leave her.’

  ‘I absolutely have to go and find out what’s going on with Tildy.’ I’d anticipated that Harper might come up with a hundred reasons for me not to go to the retreat and, as I didn’t want to get into an argument with her over it, I added, ‘For Marcia.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Harper asked, surprising me.

  ‘Thanks, but not at this stage. Maybe later,’ I said. ‘How’s Mary? What happened at the meeting with Principal Hathaway? Were you there?’

  ‘Mary’s doing fine and she’s at home. I went to the meeting. Peony, Savannah and Kylie and their mothers were there with their lawyer, Margo Mitchell. She was a nice woman and did most of the talking.’

  ‘And?’ I pressed.

  ‘You were right,’ Harper said. ‘The girls had an attack of conscience after Mary tried to kill herself. They told their mothers what had been going on, how they had pretended to be a friend to Mary online, the threatening texts, the Kill Mary Inc. website, the photo on the loo and how Brianna had told Mary that she would put it on Facebook if Mary didn’t say that she’d seen Robert Arnold touching Brianna. The lot. The mothers called each other and then contacted Margo Mitchell.’

  ‘Was anything said about Mary vandalising their undies?’ I asked.

  ‘No. On a scale of what the others did it’s not even on the radar.’

  ‘Did the girls admit to their mothers that the accusation against Robert was fabricated?’ This was vital and I held my breath waiting for Harper’s response.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Harper sniggered. ‘I thought Hathaway was going to explode.’

  I sighed with relief. ‘Tell me what else the lawyer said?’

  ‘She spoke well. She said the parents acknowledged the seriousness of their daughters’ actions and the devastating consequences to Mary Niles and Robert Arnold. She said the girls were filled with remorse and they were prepared for any charges that might be laid. She expressed hope that alternative punishment and recompense might be discussed.’