Bessie felt her eyelids start to droop and her bones ache as her body protested about being awake for so long.
‘Come on old girl, time to get you into bed for a few hours,’ Christine fussed and helped Bessie to her room. ‘I’ll wait up for Ant, and as soon as he gets back I’ll wake you.’
Bessie slept as soon as her head hit the pillow, a temporary escape from the evil that had been taunting her for days, the evil that was telling her something terrible and deadly had happened to Annabelle.
CHAPTER 15
Find Me
Bessie’s worry was infectious. It clawed and scraped at Christine’s conscience. When she wasn’t sitting at Bessie’s kitchen table, smoking like a chimney and drinking strong tea to keep her awake, she was with Ant. Naked, wanting, needing. After a week with no word Bessie talked her into going to the police.
‘Here, take this,’ Bessie urged, pressing a photo from the fridge of Annabelle into Christine’s hand. ‘But make sure you bring it back. It’s the only one I got.’
CHAPTER 16
Butterfly
Ant was on the road to the Blue Mountains, Christine by his side in the back seat. The empty middle seat yawned between them. Detective Sergeant Andy Cassettari was driving, and a young constable, with her hair pulled up in a neat bun, was in the front passenger seat. Nobody spoke. The radio filled the interior with babble every now and then but, apart from that, it was silent.
Christine reached her hand out towards Ant, they met halfway and gripped each other’s fingers tightly.
‘This is the turn off, just up here, on the left,’ Ant said, his first words in thirty minutes.
Andy slowed down, not as much as Rhiannon would have liked, given he was turning onto a dirt road, and they all lurched in their seats as he skidded in a whirl of dust.
‘Bloody city driver, don’t you know how to enter a dirt road?’ Rhiannon said.
‘Wanna take the wheel?’ Andy’s gruff voice had an edge of tease in it.
‘Wouldn’t mind, I’ve driven on more dirt roads than you by the looks of it.’
Ant and Christine stayed silent, the severity of the situation weighing heavily. Christine was only awake because of the hit of speed she’d taken earlier. Since falling off the wagon the night of the party she had no hope of staying clean, the stress of Annabelle’s disappearance making her beg Ant for more.
‘Up here, turn right, that goes into a little carpark,’ Ant instructed. Andy had slowed right down, and was now driving like a nanna, making the entry to the carpark much smoother. He parked and opened his door straight away, filling the car with dust. Rhiannon stayed seated with her door shut, shaking her head. ‘Bloody city slicker,’ she called out. Andy shrugged his shoulders while he waited for the dust to settle.
‘We’ll follow you, Ant,’ Rhiannon said. Ant walked onto a rough track and the others stumbled along behind, sounds of the Australian bush clambering for attention. Twittering birds and the whistle of the wind in the trees. An occasional rustle in the undergrowth as a tiny creature scurried away in fright. Christine caught a glimpse of a kangaroo hopping away, disappearing into the thick shrubs and trees with a loud crash, snapping sticks in its frightened frenzy. Ant could feel Christine trembling as she attempted to hug into him and stay on the path, thwarted by her awkward, crooked walking style.
Ant watched Rhiannon. He could tell she was a country girl, just like Annabelle. She was right at home here, where there were no noisy squealing car wheels or engine fumes. No beeping traffic lights or loud bus brakes. No shouting, loud music or garbage trucks. Ant tried to push his concerns about Annabelle from his mind. He had to stay focused. His job today was to take the police to the party site.
‘Here it is,’ he announced, as they came upon an area of scorched dirt that had obviously been a large bonfire not too long ago.
‘Oh!’ Rhiannon said, obvious surprise in her voice. ‘This is not what I expected.’ Andy gave her a stern look and she shut her mouth.
Christine was geographically lost the minute they left the built up streets of inner Sydney. Now they were here, she looked about with a heavy heart, trying to find something distinctly familiar but the trees, bushes and dirt roads all looked the same. It had been one big buzz of excitement when they arrived at the party. She hadn’t taken notice of her surrounds while they gathered wood for the fire, drank, shared around the bong and laughed at Annabelle’s stories.
Ant was ahead of her, gesturing and pointing out things while Andy quizzed him. Occasionally Andy would crouch down, Ant standing awkwardly by his side. Rhiannon walked silently, also in front, and Christine watched a butterfly land on her shoulder. It was bright yellow with small dark spots on its wings. It was a Eurema smilax or small grass yellow butterfly. Quite common, but something Christine had never noticed in the city. She watched it cling onto Rhiannon’s white cotton shirt with its tiny sticky feet, a slight breeze making its wings move ever so gently. Christine focused on the butterfly to calm her mind. She became transfixed, wondering in her foggy drug-induced mind, if it was a sign from Annabelle. Annabelle loved yellow. The butterfly was yellow. Annabelle was here! She was trying to tell her something. A strong gust of wind dislodged the butterfly and Christine watched with panic as it flew away. She raced after it, convinced it would lead them to Annabelle. Nobody noticed at first, until Andy called Rhiannon over to show him something and Ant looked back to see Christine running in the opposite direction.
‘Hey, Christine! Where you going?’ Ant called.
Christine didn’t answer, it was taking all her energy to not lose sight of the butterfly which was leading her deeper and deeper into the bush. She pushed through shrubs, she was off the path now, panting heavily from the exertion. She rolled her ankle as she scrambled through the dense undergrowth and pain shot up her leg, but she kept running.
Ant tore after her. ‘Christine, what is it?’
Rhiannon and Andy started jogging after Ant, while Christine dashed and darted after the speeding yellow butterfly, pushing through branches and around trees.
‘Show me Annabelle, show me where you are,’ she whispered hoarsely.
Finally the butterfly stopped. It settled on the flower of a Christmas Bush, its yellow standing out strongly against the white. Christine hunched over, trying to catch her breath.
Within minutes Ant was behind her. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’
Rhiannon arrived next; a few minutes later Andy crashed through the forest.
‘Shhh,’ Christine hushed him. ‘Quiet! Don’t come any closer.’ Her eyes remained firmly fixed on the butterfly. Ant leant in close, clearly annoyed. ‘What. Are. We. Doing. Here?’
Once Andy stopped the loud puffing of a detective who was unfit, overweight and spent far too much time at his desk, Christine spoke.
‘See that yellow butterfly there?’
They all peered amongst the mass of flowers on the bush, eventually making out the tiny yellow shape.
‘Yes,’ they said in unison.
‘It’s a sign from Annabelle! It landed on your shirt when we first arrived, and now it’s brought me here. To this spot.’
Silence.
‘Well? Don’t you get it? Yellow is her favourite colour. The butterfly is yellow. The butterfly has led us to Annabelle. The butterfly is Annabelle! This is where you need to look. Don’t you understand, this is the spot. She’s here, somewhere! Start looking!’
She was crying and shaking, clearly distressed. ‘She’s here, I know she’s here. Have a look, you’ll find her. I’m sure of it.’
Ant stepped in close and wrapped his arms around her. Andy walked away first, then Rhiannon. Ant stayed and hugged Christine tightly. Through her tears, she stared at the tiny yellow butterfly, before it lifted gracefully off its flower and disappeared deep into the forest, never to be seen again.
CHAPTER 17
Fresh eyes
2015
; ‘Hello, I’m looking for Rhiannon McVee, she’s a detective,’ Christine said, a quiver in her voice after the brisk greeting from the receptionist at Kings Cross Police station.
‘No Rhiannon McVee here.’
‘Oh, do you know where she might be? She used to be there.’
‘Sorry, no idea. I’ve only been here a year. Anything before that, I’ve got no clues.’
‘I see. Um, what about Andy Cossary? Or something like that?’
‘Cassettari?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s it. Can I speak to him?’
‘Please hold.’
She’s all fucking business, this one. Christine sighed as the piercing loud on-hold music insulted her ear drums.
‘Kings Cross Detectives, Louise Whadary speaking.’
Christine rattled off her introduction, trying to condense her reason for calling but with total silence on the other end of the line she found herself divulging a long, convoluted story, about looking for Rhiannon who was looking for Annabelle Brown who she had reported missing in 1988 sometime. Although she couldn’t remember the exact date, she’d called Rhiannon a few times for updates, then her friend Bessie had kept in touch with Rhiannon for a few years after that, but now they had both lost touch and were wondering if she was still there so they could pick up from where they left off, and her friend was still missing and she was hoping Rhiannon could look into it again and give her an update, and if Rhiannon McVee wasn’t there then perhaps she could speak to Andy Cassettari who was Rhiannon’s partner or boss or something…
Louise listened to the complicated confusing ramble while knowing full well who Annabelle Brown, Rhiannon McVee and Andy Cassettari were. Who didn’t? The degrees of separation in the cops had to be experienced to be believed. Every single police officer knew every single other copper, who knew every single copper’s unsolved case. If they didn’t serve together, then one supervised another, or they worked on security duty together at some stage.
Eventually Christine stopped speaking.
‘I’m sorry, Andy Cassettari is not available.’
‘He’s busy? On holidays?’
‘Not available,’ Louise spoke briskly, but not without kindness.
‘When will he be back? Can you leave a message for him? A message to call me? Or can you get a message to Rhiannon McVee? Do you know where she is working now?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know where she is.’
Christine felt like her head had hit a brick wall. That’s because it had.
‘Okay, well, can you tell me when to call back for Andy? Doesn’t have to be an exact date, just a rough timeframe.’ Now Christine felt like she was drowning, her legs dog paddling at a million miles an hour while her head kept going under, her mouth filling with water.
‘Sorry. You won’t be able to get a message to him. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’ Louise hung up the phone, quickly. She couldn’t tell this woman that Andy had died. She couldn’t tell this woman that Rhiannon McVee was on extended leave and nobody knew when she’d be back.
She couldn’t tell this woman diddly squat in this closed shop.
Christine sat for several minutes, listening to silence on the other end of the line. She didn’t understand what had just happened. She didn’t know if she had made progress or not. Judging by the quick exit from Louise, probably not. As it sunk in that the phone call was a dead end, she felt like shouting, screaming and crying. All at once. What could she do now?
Danny walked into the small private room which served as their home office and doubled as a secluded reading room, complete with a glass enclosed bookcase along one wall and their favourite reading chair in the corner. It had to come on a ship from the UK, at excessive expense. Its exclusive jacquard pattern in deep green and porcelain blue brought the plain timber and white decor in this little room to life. Turned front legs with bronze-finished casters made it easy to roll out to the cozy fireplace in the lounge in the winter, and its wide seat and padded back made it a favourite seat to sink into when they had their heads in a good book.
‘You right?’
Christine looked up, her face ashen. ‘No, I’ve just come face to face with a brick wall. And I’ve run right into it.’
‘I see, no luck finding that copper?’
‘No. Bessie knew she wasn’t at Kings Cross, hasn’t been for a long time, but we didn’t know where else to start. I thought someone might be able to tell me where she was, or if not, I was hoping to get onto the other bloke she used to work with, his name is Andy. But he’s not there either. I don’t know who is looking after things now, and from the phone conversation I had with the girl in the detectives, nobody is going to rush to tell me. Why would they? I’m nobody unless I can find Rhiannon. Without Rhiannon Bessie and I have got no hope of finding out anything other than what Bessie has already found online and Facebook. Which is pretty much nothing. So it’s a brick wall. End of the line.’
‘Not giving up are you? Doesn’t sound like my Christine,’ Danny put his hand on her shoulder and gave her an encouraging squeeze.
‘Surely there’s a way to find out some information? Why not put out a call on Facebook to get people to come forward?’
Christine felt a surge of energy. ‘Yes, great idea! I could set up a page, come up with something catchy. Where is Annabelle Brown?’
‘No, you need something more active. Like Find Annabelle Brown,’ Danny got out a notepad and started scribbling.
‘Mmm,’ Christine sat back in her chair. ‘It’s okay, I know what you’re saying. But it needs to be catchier. What about Come Home Annabelle Brown?’
‘Come Home Annabelle?’ Danny suggested, still scribbling.
‘Annabelle Come Home?’
‘That sounds good, yeah, I think we’re on the right track.’ Danny hesitated. ‘But I’ve just had a thought. What about her family? Her friends? Can you just go out like the Lone Ranger without trying to include them, involve them? You might put in all this effort and because you’re not family, and you only knew her a short time, everything might just sit there idle. People might not take it seriously either, um…’
Christine finished his sentence for him. ‘…if they find out I was a prostitute and Bessie our pimp.’
Danny flushed. He’d lived in the shallow world of television and media long enough to know more people would be interested in the story of Annabelle’s life on the streets than the fact she’d disappeared without a trace. He could see the headlines, the social media crucifixion of Annabelle’s reputation.
Christine’s shoulders sagged again. ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right. She’ll be paraded around like a character from the latest Underbelly television series. And also, who am I to Annabelle? Just because I was one of the last people to see her alive, the fact we’d only known each other for a short time doesn’t exactly give me an insight into who she really was. Where she grew up. What her favourite childhood book was. The television shows she watched, the games she played, the people she loved, her school life.’ Despair washed over her. ‘I’m pushing shit up a hill, aren’t I, Danny? I’m living in fairyland if I think I’ve got any hope of reinvigorating this investigation. I’ve got no idea what’s in her file, what’s been done, what hasn’t been done. What if it’s already case closed? Fuck, once you scrape the surface, Bessie and I are just two women off the streets who have engaged in highly illegal activities, who led Annabelle down this path as well…’ Christine couldn’t finish the thought in her mind, let alone speak it out loud.
‘What you really need,’ Danny tried to remain positive, ‘is some new information. Something the cops don’t know. Something they can follow up. You need to do a little digging of your own, behind the scenes. And then take that information to them.’
Christine shrugged. ‘Maybe. But what? I’ve told them everything I know. Rhiannon has followed up on every little thing, and from what Bessie said, if anything new ever came her way she’d follow that up too. I don’t know, maybe I need to
forget all about it. Forget this crazy quest. Not try and turn my chance meeting with Ant into something it isn’t. Not give myself a total head fuck just because I’ve got a few demons from my past rising to the surface and haunting me.’
Danny stayed silent. What could he say? More than anything he wanted his old Christine back. The calm, organised, funny, fun-loving, stress free Christine. Not this girl with cracks in her corners, someone he’d glimpsed briefly in their years together, but not to this extent.
With her swinging from one side of the pendulum to the other, he didn’t know how the day would end. So he stayed silent a bit longer, ticking clocks reminding him that time stopped for nobody.
Quietly, so quietly that Danny almost didn’t decipher the words, Christine spoke. ‘Or maybe it’s time I get in contact with her Mum?’
CHAPTER 18
We shouldn’t have left her
1988
‘Do you think Annabelle’s mother might speak to me?’ Bessie was sitting at her kitchen table across from Kings Cross Sergeant Andy Cassettari. Young, fresh-faced police Constable, Rhiannon McVee and Christine were there too. Bessie spoke again, over the top of the awkward silence. ‘I could maybe tell her, you know, that Annabelle had some happy times here, I looked after her. She was part of a family, we had lots of laughs. She might want to know, you know, what Annabelle got up to in that time she was missing from them. Know that she’d landed on her feet, was happy. Had a roof over her head and…’
‘…and was selling her body on the streets of Kings Cross,’ Andy couldn’t prevent the sarcasm from creeping into his voice. Rhiannon kicked him under the table, silencing him with her icy glare.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, starting to backtrack. ‘Don’t mean to offend, Bessie, but I’m not sure Annabelle’s family would want to meet you.’
Bessie arked up. ‘I am fucking offended, you fat pimple on a fat copper’s arse.’
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