Hours later, Hartley called and said the Sarge had tracked down the registration of the ute that had run her and Toby off the road. It had been reported stolen from a local farmer, Jacinta Buchanan, earlier in the week, and was still missing. A dead end. Erika clenched her jaw as she bit back a sound of frustration. ‘We need to find that ute.’ They had a good amount of evidence, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. The ute could be the solid lead they were missing. There could be evidence there that would lead them directly to the murderers.
‘We’ll do our best,’ Hartley said, before hanging up.
Erika took a deep, steadying breath and then turned back to her work. She’d been about to look at the hair they’d found in the ambulance. She put it under the microscope. It was short, dark brown at the root, the majority of the strand bleached a white-blond. It was the same as the hair she and Toby had collected at the explosion site the day before. She’d been thrilled to see the root as they could get DNA off that, but she didn’t have the equipment here for that, so she’d have to send it to Melbourne. However, she could type the blood and do some analysis on the sand while Ben was going through the database looking for similar treads to match to the boot print. If it was something unusual to the area, then it might help them pinpoint the owner.
The hair was probably their best lead so far. None of the ambulance officers had dyed blond hair—she’d met them all the day before when they took shifts to help clean up the morgue—so this was possibly their killer.
There couldn’t be many men around with short, white-blond hair. Surely Hartley and the other police could identify a suspect from that. Until DNA was done on the strand, it wouldn’t be enough to take to court, but it certainly was enough to bring someone in for questioning. She made a note and continued going through the evidence collected so far.
She finished jotting down her final notes, saved them and her findings on her computer and then copied all of it to two memory sticks, before taking care of packing away the evidence slides and bagged items in a new locked safe. The items that needed refrigeration were more of an issue, but they’d bought a sturdy lock for the cool-room door, which would have to be enough for now, especially given Superintendent Stuart had posted a police guard outside the morgue to stop any further incidents of burglary and vandalism. And to keep Erika safe. She hadn’t missed the pointed look between Constable Smith and Hartley when they’d arrived earlier. She was one of their best chances to track down the murderers, and so the police weren’t taking any chances. Or maybe it was Hartley who wasn’t taking a chance that she’d run off again with no warning.
She bit her lip. Damn it. She wished she still had more work to do. It had stopped her from thinking of all the thing she didn’t want to think about in any depth right now—Hartley, Peter, Hartley, her grandmother, Hartley, this town.
Hartley.
Damn it! She shook her head. No. She couldn’t think about him. Thinking about him hurt too much in too many ways. His words kept circling in her mind now she had nothing to do. Words she thought might actually be true, no matter how much she might deny it.
She was a coward. She had been running and was about to run again. From this town. From him. From her feelings for him. The only problem was, she didn’t think she could ever run far enough to get away from that. She had a horrible feeling her love for Hartley would follow her wherever she went. She’d tried to shield her heart for so long from this very thing happening, but it had happened anyway. She’d known the possibility of it when she’d been sixteen and had run away from here, from what he might come to be to her. It wasn’t the only reason she’d run, but it was part of it. Nothing good ever came from loving people.
And yet, she loved him.
She leaned her head against the cool-room door. What the hell was she going to do about it?
She turned her face, pressing her cheek against the cool surface. She could reason this through. That’s what she did. She turned further until she was leaning against the door, staring at the empty morgue. So, reason through it. Reason through what he said and why it hurt so much.
The two things that hurt the most were that he said she was a coward and that he deserved more.
He was right. She didn’t deserve him. Probably never would. And that hurt more than she ever thought it would. She was strange and saw the world through a kind of clinical lens. She was also broken. She knew that about herself. Even Jenny’s help hadn’t fixed her. There was just too much about her that had shattered the night her parents died and there wasn’t any way of putting those pieces back together. She’d kept going, kept pushing on, because that seemed like the only thing to do, but she remained broken.
Even though Jenny was a psychologist herself, she’d taken Erika to see a colleague of hers to talk through her issues in a private, safe space. There, she had discovered that she’d closed herself off from her emotions, relying on the cold clarity of reason and logic and facts to give her a touchstone with the world and the people around her. She might not have done this if her grandmother had been loving and gentle and got her the help she needed, but then again, her personality type was one that felt more comfortable taking care of herself.
The psychologist had made it seem like this was something Erika should change, or should want to change. She hadn’t. It worked for her. Protected her. Look how far she’d come. She’d finished her VCE in one year, entered university as an early entrant and had two science degrees under her belt and a PhD by the age of twenty-two, before deciding to turn to medicine and forensic pathology where she’d fast-tracked her studies once again, so much of the work being easy for someone with her high IQ and eidetic memory. She’d turned all that into a successful career, one that challenged and inspired her, and she had Jenny and her work colleagues to socialise with. What reason was there to change?
What about love?
The words whispered in her mind. Hartley said he loved her. In fact, he’d thrown the words at her, like an angry javelin straight through the heart. He loved her. She loved him. It should work, and yet it couldn’t. It wouldn’t. He was just too good and kind and understanding for someone like her. He wanted to live here, in the town she’d always hated, near the woman who was her nemesis, whose hatred and bitterness had helped to keep her broken. How could it work if he was here and she was in the city? She couldn’t leave the city. She had a house there, a job, people who were her friends. And what was here for her? They didn’t know where Peter was. Their family home had gone. Only Hartley remained.
Was he enough?
She had a horrible feeling maybe he was. He was worth a lot of sacrifice. The only problem was, she didn’t know if she could be strong enough to stick it out. He deserved someone who stuck. She’d never stuck.
Why? She’d been happy here when her parents were alive. She remembered that with perfect clarity in the same way she remembered everything. She had still been strange and too mature and way too intelligent for any adult’s comfort. She’d been the object of bullying at school. And yet, she hadn’t really minded. Her father and mother had always ensured she was engaged in her learning. They talked to her. They understood her. She’d never been in trouble with the law or a problem child before they’d died.
Perhaps their caring made all the difference. She hadn’t had a problem getting along with Daphne and Pip, with Mac and Toby just recently. They’d all accepted her. Were glad of her presence. Mac and Toby could even become her friends. Perhaps even Katherine Stuart. The superintendent was someone who could keep her on her toes intellectually. It didn’t have to be like it was before.
Yet…
She shivered, old fear clawing inside her. The memory of faces looking at her like she was some alien being that could never be understood, never belong. She’d never minded that before her parents died, but afterwards, without their love and support and understanding, those looks hurt. The memory of words said to her face, and the ones she heard whispered behind her back, had hurt. And there was M
abel.
Even though she hadn’t gone to visit Mabel, hadn’t seen her for sixteen years, it was as if she was always there, her words, spittle in her ear, the cane coming down on her back where no one ever saw the bruises, how she screamed at Erika as she pushed her into her room and locked the door. She remembered every single moment of abuse, verbal and physical, and each memory brought the crawl of fear shuddering up her spine, making her breath stutter in her lungs, her heart pound hard and fast in her chest, the scream she could never let out filling her ears. Why? Why couldn’t Mabel love her? Why had Peter been loved and cared for while she had experienced the opposite? Was she such a monstrous creature that she couldn’t be loved?
She’d been so frightened of the answer that she’d run. And in running, she’d let Mabel have power over her for so many years. Both Jenny and the psychologist said she’d never repair herself until she faced Mabel and took her to account for what she’d done. Both of them had suggested she come back here and confront her grandmother with adult eyes, adult perception. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
She’d been the coward Hartley had accused her of being.
Mabel Hanson shouldn’t have that kind of control over her anymore. She was a sick old woman, locked away in a nursing home, dying. She should be left to rot. It struck Erika suddenly that letting nature take its course was just another kind of running.
She had to face Mabel.
No, she didn’t want to. Yet she’d tried to fill her life with science and facts and logic and reason, and ultimately none of it had helped. Maybe facing Mabel would finally give her what she’d been missing all these years—a reason why she was so hard to love.
The morgue was tidy. She had nothing left to do except courier the samples to Melbourne. It was time. She was going to do it.
She was going to face Mabel Hanson.
She reported her findings on the hair they’d found then organised the samples to be flown to Melbourne, waiting there until they were picked up and were safely away. After that, she called a taxi. Hartley had told her to call Constable Mayne to take her back to the hotel when she was done, but, even though Erika knew the young woman would take her to the nursing home if she asked, she didn’t want anyone knowing she was going there. It could end up being a total disaster, but it was her disaster and she had to deal with the consequences herself. She told Constable Smith she was going to the toilet and then, once around the corner, took the freight lift up and walked out the front to hop in the waiting taxi.
She had to wait for a while when she arrived—it was dinner time. Then she was ushered down a hallway by a casually dressed nurse. ‘My, you don’t look like your grandmother at all. Not like Peter does,’ the nurse—her name tag announced she was Sarah—said as they walked.
‘I take after my mother’s side of the family.’
‘Mabel doesn’t have photos of her daughter-in-law, so I wouldn’t know.’
‘That’s not surprising. She and my mother never got along.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ They walked a few more steps in silence and then stopped outside the door to a private room. ‘I just want to let you know she’s had a bit of a day. But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you after all this time.’
‘I don’t know about that. I imagine seeing me will make her have more than a “bit of a day”.’ Sarah’s dimples disappeared in confusion at Erika’s cold tone.
Even so, she managed to smile again as she asked Erika to wait while she went in and prepared Mabel for her visitor.
She could hear the brunette’s low, soft tones as she told Mabel that Erika was here.
‘Erika?’ It was the strident, cultured voice she remembered so horribly well.
‘Your granddaughter.’
‘I don’t have a granddaughter. Not anymore. She ran away. Ungrateful bitch. After everything I did for her, taking her in after her mother killed my son. My beautiful boy. His life was ruined the day he met that Eastern European slut. She came from nothing, from a nothing family who couldn’t even stay in their own country, but had to come and contaminate ours with their accents and their smelly food and religion that was so much more important than mine. Do you know, my son would have converted for her if I hadn’t put my foot down?’
‘Mabel, maybe this isn’t the best time…’
‘And the airs she put on, as if she was too good for us. I know she thought she was too smart to stay in a country town, her flitting all over the country—reknowned heart surgeon my arse! They were leaving. Did you know that? They were leaving me. They were going to take my beautiful grandson away from me and leave me to rot in this town.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. You have Peter and now your granddaughter is here…’
‘Her? Ha! Exactly like her mother, she was. She should have died in that car with her mother, not my son.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say, Mabel. She can hear you, you know.’
‘Good. Tell her to come in. There’s some things I’d like to say to her.’
Sarah came out the door, face a picture of apology. ‘I’m so sorry about that. She’s not in a good mood today. The tumour—it’s changed her personality. She’s not like she was at all.’
Erika was shaking, tears burning her eyes. ‘She sounds exactly like she always was.’
‘Oh…I…’ Sarah looked uncertainly around her. ‘Even so, perhaps another day would be better. When you’re both not so upset.’
Erika laughed. ‘I’m not upset because of what she just said. She’s said far worse things to me over the years.’ No, she was upset because it was becoming clear she’d let this woman have far too much sway over her life all these years. She swallowed hard. ‘I need to see her.’ She pushed past the nurse and into the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Her grandmother’s gaze burned through Erika as she came to a stop a few metres from the chair the old woman was sitting in. The last sixteen years hadn’t been kind to Mabel Hanson. She’d always been a handsome woman. Tall, with rich dark-brown hair done up in a forties style, and vivid blue eyes that stood out in her face. She’d never been pretty, her features were too square cut, jaw a little too pronounced, nose a little too long, lips a little too big. But those startling eyes—her dad’s eyes, Peter’s eyes—and the way she held herself had always made her seem more than she was.
Now that was all gone. The hair was a dull grey, her skin sallow, her nose had grown so it resembled a hawk’s beak and her lips had crinkled up into something akin to a prune. It was pursed now, as if she’d eaten something distasteful as she looked Erika up and down. She looked rather like the evil witch she’d always been, the outsides finally reflecting the insides.
Neither of them said anything; they just stared at each other.
‘Ahh, well, shall I get some tea and cake?’ Sarah asked nervously.
‘No thank you,’ Erika said. ‘I won’t be staying long.’
‘Pfft. That figures! Sixteen years and not a word and then you just show up out of the blue, probably to ask for money, and you can’t even be bothered to sit and have tea with your sick grandmother?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d say you were a disappointment, but then that would mean I’d have to have thought better of you at some point.’
‘Mabel!’
Erika held up her hand, and smiled. ‘It’s okay. As I said, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I wouldn’t mind a word alone with my gran.’
‘Gran! You know I hate you calling me that.’
Sarah flinched, her expression filled with concern—not for Mabel, but for Erika. She smiled at the nurse. ‘You can go. I’ll be okay.’
‘If you’re sure. I’ll just be down the hall though. If you need anything, just call.’
Erika nodded her agreement and the nurse turned, leaving the room quietly. She closed the door, but didn’t completely shut it. She was probably listening outside, but Erika didn’t really care if she heard every word. It seemed abou
t time that the secret she’d been holding onto so tightly for so long was finally unleashed.
‘Well!’
Erika turned to face her grandmother. ‘Hello Mabel.’
‘Mabel?’ Her grandmother’s mouth worked for a moment, spittle at the corners, nostrils flaring. Erika knew if Mabel Hanson could have got up and hit her, she would have.
‘What else would you like me to call you? You’ve made it clear I’m not your granddaughter.’
‘You’ve not changed.’
‘You have. And not for the better.’
‘Still rude. Exactly like your mother, you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t mean it as a compliment.’
‘I know. But thank you anyway.’ Her mother had been a brilliant doctor and an amazing humanitarian. Her memories, memories she’d too long suppressed but had come back to her over the last few days, were of a kind, generous and funny woman who loved her family and always had time for anyone who needed her. She’d been brought up in Israel, her parents’ families having settled there after the war, but she’d come out here to study and stayed after meeting Peter Hanson Snr at university. Despite what her grandmother had said, she knew her mother never asked her father to convert to Judaism, because, as she’d told Erika when she’d asked one day, religion was a personal thing and should never get in the way of loving someone. Her mother had always been so open minded. The woman Mabel described with such vehemence was nothing like the mother in her memories. Memories that were true and good and precious. She spoke one of them now.
‘I remember dad saying that the day he met Timnah Finklestein was the best day of his life. He told everyone who would listen that she was the best woman he had ever known. So if I am like her even in the smallest way, that is the best compliment I could ever receive.’
‘Hmph.’ Mabel tried to hold her gaze, but after a moment she looked away, her mouth twisting. ‘Your father was besotted with her from the first. He could never see sense after she got her claws into him.’
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