Six Minutes

by Petronella McGovern

  In the afternoon, Detective Sergeant Caruso arrived with four police cars.

  This is it. He has come to tell me that Bella is dead.

  ‘Mrs Parker, can you please ask everyone in the house to come into your lounge room?’

  ‘It’s just Marty and I here.’ My voice cracked. ‘Imogen left earlier.’

  The coldness at my core made my muscles slow to move. I dragged my body to the couch.

  He wants to tell us at the same time. Tinker Bell’s light has gone out. Breathe. Count to ten and breathe.

  Marty sat beside me and I squeezed his hand hard. He pulled my other hand on top. A pact. A sign of unity. Or drowning together in fear.

  ‘We’d like to have another look around the house and gardens, please,’ the detective announced sombrely. ‘Will you give us your informed consent for another search?’

  The air whooshed out of me and I collapsed against the back of the couch.

  ‘Bella’s not here,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t waste your time.’

  Caruso grimaced and stared straight at me. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’ Marty demanded, jumping to his feet. ‘Have you found something? Tell us.’

  ‘We have to cover every possibility, Dr Parker. If you give us your informed consent to search the house, you are free to withdraw it at any time.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’ Marty squared up to Caruso. ‘Will you get a search warrant and do it anyway?’

  The detective nodded in reply.

  From the beginning, I had placed my faith in this man. He had a no-nonsense air of professionalism. And now he had turned on me.

  ‘Do you honestly think I’ve done something to Bella?’ I threw the words at him. ‘You believe all those lies in the media?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Parker. It’s a difficult time. We’re trying to cover off every possibility.’

  ‘I love my child. You’re supposed to be finding her not attacking us.’

  ‘Just get it over and done with,’ Marty bellowed at the policeman. ‘Quickly. Then get on with finding our daughter.’

  Caruso left the room, our anger trailing after him. She’s not here! I wanted to scream it over and over. Stop wasting time. She’s out there somewhere in the big bad world. Please find her for me. Please.

  Marty put his arm around me but I couldn’t sit still. I leapt up and paced behind the couch, the anger and fear rocketing through my body. How long was this search going to take?

  After twenty minutes, Caruso was back.

  ‘Dr Parker, can you please give me the key to the locked door on this floor?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Marty said. ‘We don’t have any locked doors.’

  ‘A downstairs study perhaps?’ Caruso guessed.

  ‘It’s not locked. Just push harder.’

  So Marty hadn’t noticed. I guess he had no reason to go into that room. Five weeks ago, before Victoria came, I’d organised the locksmith. The thought of those teenage girls—or anyone else—in my special place had made me feel sick.

  ‘There’s definitely a lock on it, Dr Parker,’ Caruso said. ‘Recently installed by the look of it.’

  35

  CARUSO

  AFTER THE CALL ABOUT THE SHOE THAT MORNING, ADRENALINE HAD fired through him. Caruso had been certain it would lead them to Bella’s whereabouts. Instead, it led to more questions. Police had used cadaver dogs around the church. Nothing. The persons of interest list had reached twenty-nine—some were paedophiles who didn’t have alibis. The one who lived in Acacia Drive, Johnno James, swore he’d been working on a building site in Mitchell that day, but his boss couldn’t verify it. Apparently, Johnno didn’t always turn up to work. And they’d found no electronic records for him on that side of town. But Caruso had to tread carefully with Johnno; the convicted paedophile had lodged a complaint about ‘police harassment’ before.

  Suze had wanted to tell the parents about the water bottle and the shoe straight away to gauge their reaction, but Caruso convinced her to wait. After three hours with the reverend, going over movements around the church on Saturday and doorknocking the nearby residences, Caruso was wondering if the items had been dropped by mistake or left there deliberately for the police to find. But why? And by who? Imogen Lawrence had been photocopying posters in the church office on Friday. Dr Parker’s older daughter had been at a house in that suburb weeks ago. As far as they knew, Bella and her family had never been to the church. Was the mortuary thing another coincidence or a message from a sick perp? One shoe. Implied she didn’t need the pair.

  In all the interviews with the playgroup mums, no-one had mentioned Bella having a water bottle. What kid decides to go exploring beyond the fence and remembers to take a water bottle with them?

  Someone had access to that water bottle, before or after taking Bella.

  Caruso checked Bella’s wardrobe himself, as well as under the bed and in the toy box. After just four days, the room felt empty, missing its young occupant. The fairy doona was perfectly straight on the bed, no wrinkles or creases. The clothes were folded in the drawers, the toys put away. No sign that a child had played here recently. He tried not to picture his niece’s bedroom with the same fairy doona; emotion would only cloud his thinking. Bella’s collection of shoes and boots were lined up in matching pairs. No single shoe to be found. Nothing in the parents’ bedroom, the spare room, the lounge room. Another officer searched the garage, the garden shed and the laundry, which had a wooden box of winter boots.

  Taking the key from Mrs Parker, Caruso wondered what she’d locked away in the downstairs room. Something she was keeping from her husband, clearly. Pushing open the door, it took a moment for Caruso to process what he was seeing. Shelves and shelves of stuffed toys and teddy bears. Blue and fluffy. Folded baby blankets and wraps. White wooden boxes filled to the top with baby clothes. Little socks, woollen beanies, striped bibs, tiny shoes, hats and caps.

  In between the piles of clothing were photos in frames decorated with captions like It’s a Boy and I love Mummy. The photos showed the baby by himself at birth attached to monitors and oxygen tubes, then with Lexie and Marty together. The newborn floating in a baby bath, tubes snaking off to medical equipment in the background. In a baby swing. With his extended family. In the lap of his half-sister, a young Victoria. Another shelf held a photo album with baby bears on the front cover.

  So many photos for such a short life, chronicling every moment. As though they’d known that their son was going to die …

  In the back garden, a senior constable was working with his cadaver dog. Caruso watched the English springer spaniel nosing about under the trampoline and then running into the nearby bushes. Three other officers were checking the flowerbeds and garden area for any recent digging. But they turned up nothing. No matching shoe, no bloodstains, no Bella.

  Caruso had decided to let Suze tell the Parkers about the items found at the church. He was supposed to be their main point of contact but today they were angry with him. For good reason. Treating the victim’s family as suspects was one of the hardest parts of the job.

  When Caruso walked into the lounge room, Suze was showing a photo of the shoe to the Parkers.

  ‘Yes, those were the shoes she was wearing,’ Lexie said softly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ her husband demanded. ‘Have you found her shoes?’

  As Suze explained, the mother crumpled sideways onto the couch, her head in her hands, howling. Dr Parker moved to put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ Lexie wailed.

  Neither he nor Suze answered the question. Glancing at each other, they nodded in agreement, assessing the woman. She was obviously distraught, in real pain; could she really have arranged the disappearance? Or were they witnessing a different kind of pain—the fear of being caught?

  ‘We’re doing all we can to find your daughter. We’re following a number of lines of inquiry.’

&
nbsp; Finally, the howling became a whimper as her husband stroked her back and whispered in her ear.

  ‘What about the water bottle?’ Suze asked gently. ‘It had Dora the Explorer on it. Was it the one you’d taken to playgroup that day?’

  ‘Dora the Explorer,’ the mother repeated and began whimpering again.

  Caruso recalled the two shapes in their evidence bags. He ran through a scenario in his head. Lexie had handed Bella over to Brendan Parrish behind the playgroup. Parrish had taken Bella to the church and changed the girl into new clothes and shoes to avoid detection. The shoe and water bottle had been dropped in their rush to flee. Bella was then passed onwards to a trusted friend who took her to Sydney or Newcastle. Lexie would join them when she could. Escaping a violent husband. But could the teacher have been away from school for that long?

  Dr Parker stood up and corralled the detectives away from his wife, towards the door.

  ‘No more questions. She’s too upset. Leave our house right now.’

  36

  MARTY

  MARTY STARED OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THE POLICE CARS PULLING away. Of course, the cameras were still there; they’d filmed the police arriving to search the house. Trial by media again. His thoughts switched to Elissa; she would have heard everything by now. If only he could talk to her; she’d help him make sense of this situation. Or stop his thoughts for a moment, help him step away from this nightmare and lose himself in her sunshine.

  Water bottles. Lexie had always been fastidious about ensuring that Bella was never thirsty. She had about five water bottles constantly on the go. They were interchangeable—Dora the Explorer, the pink fairy one, the transparent purple one, a Mickey Mouse thing that she’d got at a birthday party and the green one with a straw that Bella had trouble flicking up and down. No dehydration for their daughter.

  What did it mean? Bella must have been taken. By someone from the church … the reverend, a member of the clergy, a parishioner? He’d never been to that church, never heard of it. Marty had patients from all over Canberra—presumably some of them went there. How could he find out which ones?

  A water bottle.

  One shoe.

  Where was the other?

  Marty brought a cup of tea to Lexie, who was still motionless on the couch. His wife waved the mug away and muttered in a low voice, ‘I have to show you something.’

  Without speaking, he followed Lexie down the hallway. The door to the study had been left wide open, exposing his wife’s secret. An overwhelming vision of baby blue. Marty drifted from shelf to shelf, touching a tiny jumper, the soft material of a sheepskin jacket, a silver rattle. He pushed a wooden toy car along the top of the bookcase. Photos, albums, Archie’s whole life encased in one room.

  He knew she’d kept some of it when they moved but not all of this. She’d set it up as an exhibit, just like the ones she used to create at the museum. But instead of showcasing copper coins from 1815 or a traditional headdress, the room showcased their son. Had this display given her comfort? It made Marty feel even worse. He stepped in front of Lexie and cupped his hands around her cheeks, forcing her to look him in the eyes.

  ‘Why were you in this shrine instead of playing with our daughter?’

  Lexie jerked away from him. Picking up a photo album, she held it against her chest, warding him off.

  ‘He was such a beautiful baby.’

  Marty kicked at a soft striped soccer ball. A ball that Archie could never have played with.

  ‘You do understand that Archie was not going to get better.’

  ‘Yes … no,’ she whimpered. ‘He might have been the miracle baby.’

  ‘There are no miracles, Lexie.’ Marty gritted his teeth. ‘Only misdiagnoses.’

  ‘Maybe he could have been the misdiagnosed miracle.’

  ‘No, Lexie, there was never going to be a miracle for our son. He would’ve needed full-time care for the rest of his life. His brain didn’t work, his organs didn’t work. He was never going to walk or talk or feed himself.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t, Lexie. You’ve got no fucking idea.’ Marty’s spittle hit her forehead. ‘He’d be kept alive by feeding tubes and medication. He’d have seizures, spasticity, leg contractures. Infections from the lack of movement. He’d be incontinent. Unable to understand what was happening around him. Unable to communicate. And in constant fucking pain.’

  Still holding the photo album, Lexie reached out for a stuffed toy—a bunny rabbit one of their oldest friends had given them just after the birth, when they’d known Archie’s prognosis wasn’t good, but they hadn’t realised how bad.

  ‘Do you understand that our baby was in pain all the fucking time?’ Marty shouted.

  And he, the paediatrician, hadn’t been able to do anything for his own son.

  Marty should have been able to treat him.

  Help him.

  Stop the pain.

  Bestow on him the miracle that Lexie wished for.

  Marty glowered at the bunny rabbit. He wanted to rip its head off, tear it in two, stomp on it until the black thread of smile had disintegrated and the stuffing had shredded. Spinning around, he knocked a pile of baby clothes to the floor, reached the door in three strides and slammed it shut on his way out. Marty grabbed his keys and wallet and shot out of the house, racing to the car before the photographers could even lift their cameras.

  FACEBOOK

  Help find Bella Parker Facebook page

  Sweet Bella is still missing. We will be holding a prayer vigil tonight at 8 pm at St Paul’s. Everyone is welcome. Many of us will be joining the night search later on.

  1023 people liked this.

  View 42 more comments.

  – Little Bella is on our prayer list this morning in Berlin. xxxxxx

  – My psychic said she could see a light-coloured ute.

  – Has that schoolgirl Fox taught her about running away? That delinquent steals peaches and nectarines from my front garden.

  – Hope she’s safe from the wild dogs—we’ve got a pack of them killing sheep at our place.

  – I heard a schoolteacher is involved—anyone know about that?

  – Shut up, all you keyboard detectives. Let the police do their job.

  – I feel sick for the parents. Imagine waiting each night.

  Dickhead—the parents did it.

  Is he a doctor? I don’t want him touching my child.

  Why won’t the parents speak to the media?

  – There’s a story about the parents on the Weekend Wrap tonight.

  37

  TARA

  TARA TRIED JOSH’S MOBILE AGAIN. STILL NO ANSWER. She’d spoken to him yesterday afternoon when he’d arrived in Adelaide but hadn’t been able to catch him today. Bloody talkfests. Why did they start them with a Saturday conference dinner and opening discussions on a Sunday? Josh should get paid more for that. She’d remind him to ask about flexi-time.

  Alone in the house with the children fast asleep, Tara checked and rechecked the locks. Tara hadn’t wanted him to go away at all. A car revved out on the dark street and she jumped. On her mobile, she googled the website for the hotel in Adelaide and rang the front desk.

  ‘Can you please put me through to one of your guests, Josh Murphy?’

  ‘Please wait while I check.’ Tara could hear the clicking of keys on a keyboard then: ‘I’m sorry, we have no guest registered under that name.’

  ‘Um, maybe it’s in a group booking. It’s the trade policy group from the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade in Canberra.’

  Fuck, hotel receptions were so incompetent these days. Now that everyone had mobile phones, people didn’t ring the switchboard anymore and the staff could barely use the telephone system. She’d cross this hotel chain off her list when booking events next year.

  ‘Right, yes, I can see the group booking. I’m sorry, there’s still no-one by that name.’

  ‘Really? Josh Murphy?’

  �
��I’m sorry. Can I put you through to someone else, madam?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Tara hung up and frowned at the hotel picture on her screen. Where the fuck was Josh? He’d definitely said he was staying at this hotel. Scrolling through her emails, she found the e-ticket. A return flight to Adelaide. He’d forwarded it to her so she and the girls could pick him up from the airport on Thursday. But no email about the hotel reservation.

  That sick feeling from Bella’s disappearance had combined with the sick feeling from the interview and she’d been shitting diarrhoea all day. And now this. Why would he stay somewhere separate to the rest of the delegation? Josh didn’t know anyone in Adelaide. Was he having an affair?

  Maybe peppermint tea would settle her stomach. Tara switched on the kettle, fumbled with the teabags and sent them scattering across the floor. Shame she was still breastfeeding; she could do with a large slug of Baileys to settle her nerves. Perhaps she could have a small one. Tara reached up to the cupboard above the fridge, quickly uncapped the lid and took a swig directly from the bottle.

  She needed to talk to Josh; she’d decided to tell him about the interview after all. Tara had gone over and over it in her head. She was happy to give her opinion on her blog but, fuck-a-duck, she hadn’t meant to implicate Lexie nationally, on prime-time TV. It was the reporter’s fault; she’d tricked Tara into it by being so friendly. She’d coerced her.

  Tara knelt down on the floor and picked up the teabags, shaking each one slightly to dislodge the dust. The floor was a fucking disgrace. What was Daisy was putting into her mouth when she was crawling around here? A wrinkled pea, a plastic bread tag, a muesli bar wrapper, some old lump of food spilt from above. I’m a fucking disgrace of a housewife. Can’t even keep the kitchen clean.

  How embarrassing. Had her mother-in-law noticed yesterday when she’d been minding the kids? When Tara was working, she’d have even less time for this domestic shit. Being at Rydges yesterday, Tara had felt like a grown-up again, someone important—not a slave to small human beings, not a slave to housework. Josh would have to ask his mother to clean the house while Pam was babysitting next year.