Hindsight (9781921997211)

by Casey, Melanie

  For someone with a gift like mine it’s a reasonably safe place to live. As I grew up I got to know the hotspots where deaths had occurred. Some I discovered by accident but most I researched in the local records. By the time I was a teenager I’d developed a very detailed map in my head of all the places I could and couldn’t go. In some ways that gave me a false sense of security.

  The crunch came when I was nineteen on a trip into town with Mum. She’d tried to talk me into staying at home, she said she had a bad feeling about it but I’d carried on like a pork chop until she finally gave in. At that age my mum’s gift for seeing into the future tended to infuriate me. I thought it was a gross invasion of my privacy. Even though I had developed the knack of blocking her attempts to read me, when something affected all of us, as it often did, she could usually get a pretty good take on it.

  Things were going fine until we walked into the new pharmacy. The store had only opened a few months before and we both assumed it would be a fairly safe bet, ‘phantom free’ as I liked to call it. Nothing in the local history told us any different. An abandoned building had stood on the site before it was redeveloped.

  I took about three steps into the crowded store before a wave of searing pain and despair hit me. I was seeing through the eyes of a young woman — my mouth, hands and feet were taped and I could hardly breathe because my nose was swollen and blocked with blood.

  A man came into view. He had grey eyes and hair so pale it was almost white. He stood in front of me and showed me a long thin blade. Slowly, savouring every moment, he started to make a series of cuts along my arms and chest. Each cut was like fire, the cold steel sent pain shooting along my nerves. I tried to scream but couldn’t.

  Finally, everything went black and I lost consciousness. I woke up in hospital. My head throbbed and swam as I looked around me. Gran and Mum were sitting by my bed. Gran had bags under her eyes and Mum had been crying.

  What followed was a series of tests to see if I had epilepsy or any other abnormalities of the brain. Mum told me I’d collapsed in the pharmacy and had what they thought was some kind of fit. I’d banged my head as I’d fallen, too, and given myself concussion.

  Gran and Mum understood what had really happened, of course, but knew better than to try to explain it to a group of doctors, who would more than likely want to book them in for tests if they started giving paranormal explanations.

  After a few days I was sent home with a bunch of pills I knew I didn’t need. I wallowed around feeling sorry for myself. I hardly left my room. I had nightmares all night and slept all day, exhausted and depressed. In my dreams the man with the white hair and grey eyes was always there, waiting, his knife glinting in the light.

  Mum and Gran were at a loss and decided the best way to deal with things was to let me come to terms with it in my own way. They brought me trays of food and hot cups of tea. One day Gran came into my room and put some copies of old newspaper clippings in front of me. Twenty-three years earlier a girl had gone missing after a party. They found her body abandoned in a park near the site of the new pharmacy. Her hands, feet and mouth were tied and she’d died slowly, losing blood from a series of cuts her murderer had made over her arms and torso. He’d killed her slowly and painfully, torturing her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cass. I knew about this one but it never occurred to me that the site of the pharmacy might be where she died.’ Tears glistened in her eyes.

  I reached out and gave her a hug. ‘Don’t be silly, Gran. I knew about this case too. There was no way you could’ve known she died there. Even the police assumed she died in the park.’

  ‘Well, at least you know who she was now.’

  ‘Yes, and I can stop avoiding the park.’ I gave her a watery smile. ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Not really, she was a lot younger than me. Her family had only just moved to Jewel Bay. I met them a couple of times but they were a bit suspicious of your mother and me.’

  ‘Ah — the two witches on the hill.’

  Gran smiled. ‘It’s three witches now, dear, and yes, some people prefer to keep their distance.’

  She was being polite. The townsfolk fell into three categories. Some people were happy to know us and make use of Mum’s and Gran’s special talents. Others didn’t want to believe in anything except for what their five senses told them and preferred to keep away from us. They wouldn’t cross the road to avoid us; they took a polite but distant approach.

  The last category covered the people who would probably have fitted right into Salem in the witch-hunt days. They didn’t bother to disguise their contempt or animosity. They thought we danced naked under the moonlight, sacrificing small children and worshipping Satan. Thankfully there weren’t very many of them.

  I looked down at the photocopies Gran had placed on top of my rumpled bedspread, then reached over and switched on the bedside light. The face of a pretty young woman looked back at me. She was probably in her mid-twenties. She looked like she had fair hair and light-coloured eyes. Her name was Kerry Sampson. She was laughing.

  I scanned the text. The police had questioned some local men and rounded up the regular shady customers for questioning but none of their enquiries yielded any solid leads. In the end it was assumed the killer was from out of town. Kerry was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a comforting spin from the local police. People could start getting on with their lives without looking askance at every person they met in the street.

  I put the papers down and looked up at Gran, who must have been anticipating the question that was already forming on my lips.

  ‘So what should I do, Gran? You know I saw him. I can’t stop seeing him. I’ll never forget what he looks like. The police were right you know, I’ve never seen him around here.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  I sighed. Gran never gave people straight answers. She should have been a psychiatrist, or a politician.

  ‘I think I should let the police know what he looks like, but will they still be interested?’

  ‘The police are always interested in closing unsolved murder cases. Plus, if her family is still alive I am sure they would want to see the murderer caught.’

  ‘So they don’t live around here any more?’

  ‘No, they couldn’t stand it here after Kerry died. Everyone’s well-meaning sympathy was too much to take. They needed a fresh start. I think they moved back to the city.’

  ‘So how do I do it? I can’t just front up to the police station and ask to see the sketch artist.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Come downstairs and we’ll talk to Anita about it. She’s made your favourite biscuits and we’ll take tea in the garden and try to work out what to do.’

  ‘Mum’s baking? Things must be bad. OK, I’ll be down in five, I just want to wash my face and clean the week’s worth of fur off my teeth.’

  We spent the afternoon talking things through and in the end we decided an anonymous tip was the best solution — the local police weren’t ready to deal with the reality of my gift just yet. Mum posted them a letter with a full description of the murderer. For weeks we scanned the local papers hoping to see an article about fresh leads in the Kerry Sampson case. Nothing ever appeared.

  The episode left me feeling like I’d failed. I had a niggling doubt that I should have done more. Over time I thought less about it but I never forgot and I never really got over it. The one thing I knew for sure was that I never wanted to experience another death as brutal as Kerry Sampson’s.

  That was nine years ago. I’m twenty-eight now and I’ve been living like a recluse ever since.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Ed Dyson felt like he’d been beaten about the head with a blunt object. His eyes were stuck together with sleep and his tongue had grown its own shag pile rug.

  He’d spent the night before with a bottle of the best I
rish his limited resources could afford and Jeff Buckley to keep him company. When the phone screamed into his consciousness it was like surfacing from a deep, black pool. He looked blearily at the clock for long enough to register that it had just gone 5 AM. He took the call with a deep sense of dread.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dyson, we got a DB. I’ll pick you up in ten.’ And with that his partner, Phil Steiner, rang off.

  Ed hauled himself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. The harsh glare of the fluorescent light sent fresh needles of pain through his eyeballs into what was left of his grey matter. He sniffed under one arm and decided that he couldn’t go without a shower. No way would Phil put up with him smelling that bad. He turned the shower on and grabbed for his toothbrush — might as well deal with the shag pile at the same time. Standing under the steady stream of hot water he battled the urge to retch and began brushing.

  The drive over from Jewel Bay took Ed and Phil less than twenty minutes. When they arrived on the scene there was only one uniform there. He was from the small station in town and Ed hadn’t come across him before. He was so new his uniform looked like it was just out of the packet.

  ‘So what is the story here, Constable …?’

  ‘Forsyth, sir.’

  ‘Tell me what you found, Constable Forsyth.’

  ‘I was on call last night when the emergency operator put one through. It was a man saying that there’d been a murder. He was really hard to understand and I wasn’t sure if it was someone winding me up or not.’

  He swallowed a couple of times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Ed twitched impatiently.

  ‘Anyway, he told me there was a body in a crate in Johns Lane. He said the killer wasn’t there any more but he couldn’t wait, he had to go. Then he hung up. I got here about twenty minutes later. I just had a quick look, found the crate with the body and called it through to you.’

  Phil looked up from taking notes. ‘Did he actually say the body was in Johns Lane?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I mean ma’am.’

  ‘Isn’t this Stuart Lane?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but the older locals still call it Johns Lane. John’s was a pub that used to be on the corner over there.’

  ‘So he must have been a local?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, sir.’

  Ed stood there for a few seconds digesting this. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘I was born here.’

  ‘Do you know many of the locals?’

  ‘I know a lot, sir, but not everyone. We have over five thousand people if you include the outlying properties.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. Do you have any idea who phoned it in?’

  The young officer fidgeted and dropped his glance to the ground. ‘I’m not sure but it might have been Old Mick.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Phil asked.

  ‘A homeless man who wanders in and out of town.’

  ‘A homeless man?’ Ed rolled his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I suppose he’s a drunk as well?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that, sir.’

  ‘So our only witness is a homeless drunk?’

  ‘Witness, sir?’

  ‘Yes, witness, Constable Forsyth. He did tell you the killer was gone, didn’t he?’ Ed snapped.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Did he or did he not say that the killer was gone? What were his exact words?’

  A deep flush started to creep up the young man’s neck. Dark patches of sweat had appeared under his arms despite the chill of the morning. He sucked in a breath.

  ‘He said the killer was gone now.’

  ‘Which suggests he might have seen him and possibly even witnessed the murder?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you think to look for him once you’d secured the scene?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Ed’s eyes bored into the young man. ‘Did you recognise the victim?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you touch anything?’ Phil asked.

  Forsyth looked put out. ‘No, well that is, I touched the lid of the crate to open it and check for the body but then I secured the area and called for assistance.’

  ‘Good lad. So the lid was closed?’

  ‘Well no, not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean not exactly? It was either open or closed, which was it?’ Ed barked, losing his patience.

  The young officer’s Adam’s apple went into a frenzied dance. Phil shot Ed a look.

  ‘You’re doing great, Constable, just tell us exactly what you saw when you found the crate.’ She flashed him a thousand-watt smile, patting his arm reassuringly.

  ‘It was pretty dark so I was using my flashlight. I saw the crate and the lid was half on, half off. I moved it slightly so I could shine my torch inside and see what was in there. When I saw her, I reached in and checked for a pulse.’

  ‘So you touched the lid and the body?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll finish up here with Constable Forsyth if you like?’ Phil said, giving Ed a very pointed look.

  Ed thought about arguing but decided Phil was probably right. He wasn’t in the mood for dealing with a rookie. Phil’s bedside manner was better suited for the conversation with the wet-behind-the-ears Constable Forsyth.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘So back to what you did when you discovered the body …’

  Ed wandered off and left them to it.

  An hour and a half later he was by the side of the road freezing his balls off. The sun was struggling over the horizon and a wind straight from Antarctica was whistling around the collection of vehicles gathered to witness the unravelling of another tragedy. Police tape fluttered and cops in uniform stood around, shifting from foot to foot. They were waiting for the final scene; the crew who would take the corpse to the morgue.

  Phil was standing next to him but they hadn’t spoken much. They’d worked together for more than ten years. Phil was his closest friend and partner and there was no need for words. She’d sent Constable Forsyth off to write his official report instructing him to be back by 9 AM when the local businesses opened, to check whether any of them had CCTV cameras turned on the street outside their shops. It was unlikely in a sleepy town like this, but it was worth a shot.

  Ed felt Phil’s eyes boring into the side of his head for about the tenth time in as many minutes. She’d been shooting him concerned glances on and off all morning. He was doing his best to ignore it. He didn’t have the energy to get into it.

  When she’d picked him up her only comment was, ‘You look like shit.’ It was both a reprimand and a statement of fact. Phil knew about the drinking; she knew about the all-consuming depression that Ed had fallen into after his wife, Susan, disappeared two years ago. Susan had been four months pregnant and they were planning for their new baby, renovating their 100-year-old house and looking forward to a long, happy future together.

  In an instant, that had all vanished. Susan went to work as usual one day and just never came home. Over and over again he’d replayed that final morning in his mind. He was tired and grumpy. A triple fatality on one of the most notorious stretches of the local roads had kept him up until the wee hours of the morning. He was angry at yet another senseless waste of life caused by testosterone mixed with alcohol.

  He and Susan had talked briefly about it. Then she mentioned going shopping for baby things and he upset her by saying he thought it was too soon. She accused him of always being pessimistic. It was true enough, but after two miscarriages he was afraid to get his hopes up. Then she’d disappeared and he’d felt his pessimism was somehow the cause of it.

  In the first two weeks after she’d gone missing, he was frantic. He phoned hospitals, checked
with every friend and distant relative he could think of and pestered colleagues from neighbouring towns and Adelaide every few days.

  Once his initial panic abated it was replaced with a burning anger — anger at himself; anger that she was still missing; anger at the people he worked with. Then the whispers started, the sideways looks. Some people were saying she’d left him because of the job. Others were hinting that there was another man. The most malicious gossipers were convinced he was responsible.

  The humiliation of having to be questioned about her disappearance was the final straw. It sent him into a rage so violent that the Chief had been forced to send him home for the day.

  After that he’d walked around in a daze. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t cry, couldn’t accept what had happened. He was on autopilot.

  Eventually the storm broke. It happened suddenly, when he was at the supermarket. He caught a glimpse of a woman who looked so much like Susan from behind that he almost called out her name. She turned around, sensing his eyes drilling into her back and it was then that he saw she was holding a baby, not more than a few months old. She returned his intense gaze with a puzzled frown, wondering why this stranger was staring at her.

  He’d dropped what he was holding and ran out of the shop. He ran until the pain in his lungs forced him to stop. He threw himself down on a bench in a park and cried, deep, gut-wrenching sobs. He didn’t give a damn about who might see him. All he cared about was the agony that was ripping his insides apart. He’d cried until he was drained. After he’d sat there for hours, he called Phil.